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Compiled by David Widger

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table of contents for each of the twelve volumes.

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TABLES OF CONTENTS OF VOLUMES

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

In Prose, Being A Ghost Story Of Christmas

By Charles Dickens

With Illustrations By John Leech

ILLUSTRATIONS

		Artist.
		J. Leech
		,,
		,,
		,,
		,,
		,,
		,,
		,,

A TALE OF TWO CITIES

A Story Of The French Revolution

By Charles Dickens

Book the First—Recalled to Life

The Period

The Mail

The Night Shadows

The Preparation

The Wine-shop

The Shoemaker

Book the Second—the Golden Thread

Five Years Later

A Sight

A Disappointment

Congratulatory

The Jackal

Hundreds of People

Monseigneur in Town

Monseigneur in the Country

The Gorgon's Head

Two Promises

A Companion Picture

The Fellow of Delicacy

The Fellow of No Delicacy

The Honest Tradesman

Knitting

Still Knitting

One Night

Nine Days

An Opinion

A Plea

Echoing Footsteps

The Sea Still Rises

Fire Rises

Drawn to the Loadstone Rock

Book the Third—the Track of a Storm

In Secret

The Grindstone

The Shadow

Calm in Storm

The Wood-Sawyer

Triumph

A Knock at the Door

A Hand at Cards

The Game Made

The Substance of the Shadow

Dusk

Darkness

Fifty-two

The Knitting Done

The Footsteps Die Out For Ever

MASTER HUMPHREY’S CLOCK

By Charles Dickens

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Master Humphrey’s Chamber Master Humphrey's Room	George Cattermole George Cattermole
Friendly Recognitions Friendly Acknowledgments	Phiz Phiz
Gog and Magog Gog and Magog	,, ,,
A Gallant Cavalier A Brave Knight	George Cattermole George Cattermole
Death of Master Graham Death of Master Graham	,, ,,
A Charming Fellow A Charming Guy	Phiz Phiz
The Two Friends The Two Friends	,, ,,
Hunted Down Hunted Down	George Cattermole George Cattermole
Mr. Pickwick introduces himself to Master Humphrey Mr. Pickwick introduces himself to Master Humphrey.	Phiz Phiz
Will Marks reading the News concerning Witches Will is reading the news about witches.	George Cattermole George Cattermole
Will Marks takes up his position for the night Will Marks prepares for his shift tonight.	Phiz Phiz
Will Marks arrives at the Church Will Marks arrives at the church.	George Cattermole George Cattermole
Tony Weller and his Grandson Tony Weller and his grandson	Phiz Phiz
Proceedings of the Club Club Meeting Notes	„ „
The Last Will and Testament of William Blinder The Last Will and Testament of William Blinder	,, ,,
A Rival Club A Competing Club	,, ,,
A Chip of the Old Block A Chip Off the Old Block	,, ,,
Master Humphrey’s Visionary Friends Master Humphrey’s Visionary Friends	,, ,,
The Deserted Chamber The Abandoned Room	George Cattermole George Cattermole

AND PICTURES FROM ITALY

By Charles Dickens

With 8 Illustrations By Marcus Stone

The Reader’s Passport The Reader’s Passport
Going through France Traveling through France
Lyons, the Rhone, and the Goblin of Avignon Lyons, the Rhône, and the Goblin of Avignon
Avignon to Genoa Avignon to Genoa
Genoa and its Neighbourhood Genoa and its Neighborhood
To Parma, Modena, and Bologna To Parma, Modena, and Bologna
Through Bologna and Ferrara Through Bologna and Ferrara
An Italian Dream An Italian Dream
By Verona, Mantua, and Milan, across the Pass of the Simplon into Switzerland By Verona, Mantua, and Milan, through the Simplon Pass into Switzerland
To Rome by Pisa and Siena To Rome via Pisa and Siena
Rome Rome
A Rapid Diorama A Quick Diorama

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Civil and Military Civil and Military	Marcus Stone, R.A. Marcus Stone, R.A.
Italian Peasants Italian Farmers	,, ,, ,, ,, ,, ,,
The Chiffonier The Chiffonier	,, ,, ,, ,, ,, ,,
In the Catacombs In the Catacombs	,, ,, ,, ,, ,, ,,

AMERICAN NOTES FOR GENERAL CIRCULATION

By Charles Dickens

Dedication of “American Notes” Dedication of "American Notes"
Preface to the First Cheap Edition of “American Notes” Preface to the First Affordable Edition of “American Notes”
Preface to the “Charles Dickens” Edition of “American Notes” Preface to the "Charles Dickens" Edition of "American Notes"
AMERICAN NOTES FOR GENERAL CIRCULATION U.S. Notes for General Distribution
CHAPTER I CHAPTER 1
Going Away Leaving
CHAPTER II CHAPTER 2
The Passage out The exit
CHAPTER III CHAPTER 3
Boston Boston
CHAPTER IV CHAPTER 4
An American Railroad. Lowell and its Factory System An American Railroad. Lowell and its Factory System
CHAPTER V CHAPTER 5
Worcester. The Connecticut River. Hartford. New Haven. To New York Worcester. The Connecticut River. Hartford. New Haven. To New York.
CHAPTER VI CHAPTER 6
New York NYC
CHAPTER VII CHAPTER 7
Philadelphia, and its Solitary Prison Philadelphia and its solitary confinement
CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER 8
Washington. The Legislature. And the President’s House Washington. The Legislature. And the President’s House
CHAPTER IX CHAPTER 9
A Night Steamer on the Potomac River. Virginia Road, and a Black Driver. Richmond. Baltimore. The Harrisburg Mail, and a Glimpse of the City. A Canal Boat A Night Steamer on the Potomac River. Virginia Road, and a Black Driver. Richmond. Baltimore. The Harrisburg Mail, and a Glimpse of the City. A Canal Boat
CHAPTER X CHAPTER X
Some further Account of the Canal Boat, its Domestic Economy, and its Passengers. Journey to Pittsburg across the Alleghany Mountains. Pittsburg Some more information about the canal boat, its daily life, and its passengers. Journey to Pittsburgh across the Allegheny Mountains. Pittsburgh
CHAPTER XI CHAPTER 11
From Pittsburg to Cincinnati in a Western Steamboat. Cincinnati From Pittsburgh to Cincinnati on a Western Steamboat. Cincinnati
CHAPTER XII CHAPTER 12
From Cincinnati to Louisville in another Western Steamboat; and from Louisville to St. Louis in another. St. Louis From Cincinnati to Louisville on another Western steamboat; and from Louisville to St. Louis on another. St. Louis
CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER 13
A Jaunt to the Looking-glass Prairie and back A Trip to the Looking-glass Prairie and back
CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER 14
Return to Cincinnati. A Stage-coach Ride from that City to Columbus, and thence to Sandusky. So, by Lake Erie, to the Falls of Niagara Return to Cincinnati. A stagecoach ride from that city to Columbus, and then to Sandusky. So, by Lake Erie, to the Falls of Niagara.
CHAPTER XV CHAPTER 15
In Canada; Toronto; Kingston; Montreal; Quebec; St. John’s. In the United States again; Lebanon; The Shaker Village; West Point In Canada: Toronto, Kingston, Montreal, Quebec, St. John’s. In the United States again: Lebanon, The Shaker Village, West Point
CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER 16
The Passage Home The Way Home
CHAPTER XVII CHAPTER 17
Slavery Human trafficking
CHAPTER XVIII CHAPTER 18
Concluding Remarks Final Thoughts
Postscript P.S.

ILLUSTRATIONS

		PAGE PAGE
Emigrants Emigrants	Marcus Stone, R.A. Marcus Stone, R.A.	Frontispiece Cover page
The Solitary Prisoner The Lonely Inmate
Black and White Black and White
The Little Wife The Little Wife

THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP

By Charles Dickens

DAVID COPPERFIELD

By Charles Dickens

I AM BORN

I OBSERVE

I HAVE A CHANGE

I FALL INTO DISGRACE

I AM SENT AWAY FROM HOME

I ENLARGE MY CIRCLE OF ACQUAINTANCE

MY ‘FIRST HALF’ AT SALEM HOUSE

MY HOLIDAYS. ESPECIALLY ONE HAPPY AFTERNOON

I HAVE A MEMORABLE BIRTHDAY

I BECOME NEGLECTED, AND AM PROVIDED FOR

I BEGIN LIFE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT, AND DON’T LIKE IT

LIKING LIFE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT NO BETTER, I FORM A GREAT RESOLUTION

THE SEQUEL OF MY RESOLUTION

MY AUNT MAKES UP HER MIND ABOUT ME

I MAKE ANOTHER BEGINNING

I AM A NEW BOY IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE

SOMEBODY TURNS UP

A RETROSPECT

I LOOK ABOUT ME, AND MAKE A DISCOVERY

STEERFORTH’S HOME

LITTLE EM’LY

SOME OLD SCENES, AND SOME NEW PEOPLE

I CORROBORATE Mr. DICK, AND CHOOSE A PROFESSION

MY FIRST DISSIPATION

GOOD AND BAD ANGELS

I FALL INTO CAPTIVITY

TOMMY TRADDLES

Mr. MICAWBER’S GAUNTLET

I VISIT STEERFORTH AT HIS HOME, AGAIN

A LOSS

A GREATER LOSS

THE BEGINNING OF A LONG JOURNEY

BLISSFUL

MY AUNT ASTONISHES ME

DEPRESSION

ENTHUSIASM

A LITTLE COLD WATER

A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP

WICKFIELD AND HEEP

THE WANDERER

DORA’S AUNTS

MISCHIEF

ANOTHER RETROSPECT

OUR HOUSEKEEPING

MR. DICK FULFILS MY AUNT’S PREDICTIONS

INTELLIGENCE

MARTHA

DOMESTIC

I AM INVOLVED IN MYSTERY

Mr. PEGGOTTY’S DREAM COMES TRUE

THE BEGINNING OF A LONGER JOURNEY

I ASSIST AT AN EXPLOSION

ANOTHER RETROSPECT

Mr. MICAWBER’S TRANSACTIONS

TEMPEST

THE NEW WOUND, AND THE OLD

THE EMIGRANTS

ABSENCE

RETURN

AGNES

I AM SHOWN TWO INTERESTING PENITENTS

A LIGHT SHINES ON MY WAY

A VISITOR

A LAST RETROSPECT

HARD TIMES

By Charles Dickens

BOOK THE FIRST. SOWING
	PAGE
CHAPTER I CHAPTER 1
The One Thing Needful
CHAPTER II CHAPTER 2
Murdering the Innocents
CHAPTER III Chapter 3
A Loophole
CHAPTER IV Chapter 4
Mr. Bounderby
CHAPTER V CHAPTER 5
The Keynote
CHAPTER VI CHAPTER 6
Sleary’s Horsemanship
CHAPTER VII CHAPTER 7
Mrs. Sparsit
CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER 8
Never Wonder
CHAPTER IX CHAPTER 9
Sissy’s Progress
CHAPTER X CHAPTER 10
Stephen Blackpool
CHAPTER XI CHAPTER 11
No Way Out
CHAPTER XII CHAPTER 12
The Old Woman
CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER 13
Rachael
CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER 14
The Great Manufacturer
CHAPTER XV CHAPTER 15
Father and Daughter
CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER 16
Husband and Wife
BOOK THE SECOND. REAPING BOOK TWO. REAPING
CHAPTER I CHAPTER 1
Effects in the Bank
CHAPTER II CHAPTER 2
Mr. James Harthouse
CHAPTER III Chapter 3
The Whelp
CHAPTER IV CHAPTER 4
Men and Brothers
CHAPTER V Chapter 5
Men and Masters
CHAPTER VI CHAPTER 6
Fading Away
CHAPTER VII Chapter 7
Gunpowder
CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER 8
Explosion
CHAPTER IX Chapter 9
Hearing the Last of it
CHAPTER X CHAPTER X
Mrs. Sparsit’s Staircase
CHAPTER XI CHAPTER 11
Lower and Lower
CHAPTER XII CHAPTER 12
Down
BOOK THE THIRD. GARNERING Book Three. Gathering
CHAPTER I CHAPTER 1
Another Thing Needful
CHAPTER II CHAPTER 2
Very Ridiculous
CHAPTER III CHAPTER 3
Very Decided
CHAPTER IV CHAPTER 4
Lost
CHAPTER V CHAPTER 5
Found
CHAPTER VI CHAPTER 6
The Starlight
CHAPTER VII CHAPTER 7
Whelp-Hunting
CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER 8
Philosophical
CHAPTER IX CHAPTER 9
Final

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

	PAGE PAGE
Stephen and Rachael in the Sick-room
Mr. Harthouse Dining at the Bounderbys’
Mr. Harthouse and Tom Gradgrind in the Garden
Stephen Blackpool recovered from the Old Hell Shaft

DOMBEY AND SON

By Charles Dickens

Dombey and Son

In which Timely Provision is made for an Emergency that will sometimes arise in the best-regulated Families

In which Mr Dombey, as a Man and a Father, is seen at the Head of the Home-Department

In which some more First Appearances are made on the Stage of these Adventures

Paul’s Progress and Christening

Paul’s Second Deprivation

A Bird’s-eye Glimpse of Miss Tox’s Dwelling-place: also of the State of Miss Tox’s Affections

Paul’s Further Progress, Growth and Character

In which the Wooden Midshipman gets into Trouble

Containing the Sequel of the Midshipman’s Disaster

Paul’s Introduction to a New Scene

Paul’s Education

Shipping Intelligence and Office Business

Paul grows more and more Old-fashioned, and goes Home for the Holidays

Amazing Artfulness of Captain Cuttle, and a new Pursuit for Walter Gay

What the Waves were always saying

Captain Cuttle does a little Business for the Young People

Father and Daughter

Walter goes away

Mr Dombey goes upon a Journey

New Faces

A Trifle of Management by Mr Carker the Manager

Florence solitary, and the Midshipman mysterious

The Study of a Loving Heart

Strange News of Uncle Sol

Shadows of the Past and Future

Deeper Shadows

Alterations

The Opening of the Eyes of Mrs Chick

The interval before the Marriage

The Wedding

The Wooden Midshipman goes to Pieces

Contrasts

Another Mother and Daughter

The Happy Pair

Housewarming

More Warnings than One

Miss Tox improves an Old Acquaintance

Further Adventures of Captain Edward Cuttle, Mariner

Domestic Relations

New Voices in the Waves

Confidential and Accidental

The Watches of the Night

A Separation

The Trusty Agent

Recognizant and Reflective

The Thunderbolt

The Flight of Florence

The Midshipman makes a Discovery

Mr Toots’s Complaint

Mr Dombey and the World

Secret Intelligence

More Intelligence

The Fugitives

Rob the Grinder loses his Place

Several People delighted, and the Game Chicken disgusted

Another Wedding

After a Lapse

Retribution

Chiefly Matrimonial

Relenting

Final

REPRINTED PIECES

By Charles Dickens

		PAGE PAGE
The Long Voyage The Long Voyage
The Begging-letter Writer The Panhandler's Letter
A Child’s Dream of a Star A Child’s Dream of a Star
Our English Watering-place Our English Resort
Our French Watering-place Our French Resort
Bill-sticking Postering
“Births. Mrs. Meek, of a Son” “Births. Mrs. Meek, had a son”
Lying Awake Staying Up
The Ghost of Art The Ghost of Art
Out of Town Out of Office
Out of the Season Out of Season
A Poor Man’s Tale of a Patent A Poor Man’s Tale of a Patent
The Noble Savage The Noble Savage
A Flight A Flight
The Detective Police The Detectives
Three “Detective” Anecdotes Three “Detective” Stories
	I.—The Pair of Gloves 1. The Pair of Gloves
	II.—The Artful Touch II.—The Skillful Touch
	III.—The Sofa III.—The Couch
On Duty with Inspector Field Working with Inspector Field
Down with the Tide Against the Current
A Walk in a Workhouse A Stroll in a Workhouse
Prince Bull. A Fairy Tale Prince Bull. A Modern Fairy Tale
A Plated Article A Styled Article
Our Honourable Friend Our Esteemed Friend
Our School Our School
Our Vestry Our Church Board
Our Bore Our Boring
A Monument of French Folly A Monument to French Foolishness

OUR MUTUAL FRIEND

Charles Dickens

THE CUP AND THE LIP

- ON THE LOOK OUT

- THE MAN FROM SOMEWHERE

- ANOTHER MAN

- THE R. WILFER FAMILY

- BOFFIN'S BOWER

- CUT ADRIFT

- MR WEGG LOOKS AFTER HIMSELF

- MR BOFFIN IN CONSULTATION

- MR AND MRS BOFFIN IN CONSULTATION

A MARRIAGE CONTRACT

PODSNAPPERY

THE SWEAT OF AN HONEST MAN'S BROW

TRACKING THE BIRD OF PREY

THE BIRD OF PREY BROUGHT DOWN

TWO NEW SERVANTS

MINDERS AND RE-MINDERS

A DISMAL SWAMP

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

- OF AN EDUCATIONAL CHARACTER

- STILL EDUCATIONAL

- A PIECE OF WORK

- CUPID PROMPTED

- MERCURY PROMPTING

- A RIDDLE WITHOUT AN ANSWER

- IN WHICH A FRIENDLY MOVE IS ORIGINATED

IN WHICH AN INNOCENT ELOPEMENT OCCURS

IN WHICH THE ORPHAN MAKES HIS WILL

A SUCCESSOR

SOME AFFAIRS OF THE HEART

MORE BIRDS OF PREY

A SOLO AND A DUETT

STRONG OF PURPOSE

THE WHOLE CASE SO FAR

AN ANNIVERSARY OCCASION

A LONG LANE

- LODGERS IN QUEER STREET

- A RESPECTED FRIEND IN A NEW ASPECT

- THE SAME RESPECTED FRIEND IN MORE ASPECTS THAN ONE

- A HAPPY RETURN OF THE DAY

- THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN FALLS INTO BAD COMPANY

- THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN FALLS INTO WORSE COMPANY

- THE FRIENDLY MOVE TAKES UP A STRONG POSITION

- THE END OF A LONG JOURNEY

- SOMEBODY BECOMES THE SUBJECT OF A PREDICTION

SCOUTS OUT

IN THE DARK

MEANING MISCHIEF

GIVE A DOG A BAD NAME, AND HANG HIM

MR WEGG PREPARES A GRINDSTONE FOR MR BOFFIN'S NOSE

THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN AT HIS WORST

THE FEAST OF THE THREE HOBGOBLINS

A SOCIAL CHORUS

A TURNING

- SETTING TRAPS

- THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN RISES A LITTLE

- A RUNAWAY MATCH

- CONCERNING THE MENDICANT'S BRIDE

- A CRY FOR HELP

- BETTER TO BE ABEL THAN CAIN

- A FEW GRAINS OF PEPPER

- TWO PLACES VACATED

THE DOLLS' DRESSMAKER DISCOVERS A WORD

EFFECT IS GIVEN TO THE DOLLS' DRESSMAKER'S DISCOVERY

THE PASSING SHADOW

SHOWING HOW THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN HELPED TO SCATTER DUST

CHECKMATE TO THE FRIENDLY MOVE

WHAT WAS CAUGHT IN THE TRAPS THAT WERE SET

PERSONS AND THINGS IN GENERAL

THE VOICE OF SOCIETY

THE MUDFOG AND OTHER SKETCHES

By Charles Dickens

		PAGE PAGE
Public Life of Mr. Tulrumble Mr. Tulrumble's Public Life
Full Report of the First Meeting of the Mudfog Association for the Advancement of Everything Full Report of the First Meeting of the Mudfog Association for the Advancement of Everything
	Section A. Zoology and Botany Section A. Zoology and Botany
	Section B. Anatomy and Medicine Section B. Anatomy and Medicine
	Section C. Statistics Section C. Data Analytics
	Section D. Mechanical Science Section D. Mechanical Engineering
Full Report of the Second Meeting of the Mudfog Association for the Advancement of Everything Full Report of the Second Meeting of the Mudfog Association for the Advancement of Everything
	Section A. Zoology and Botany Section A. Zoology and Botany
	Section B. Display of Models and Mechanical Science Section B. Display of Models and Mechanical Science
	Section C. Anatomy and Medicine Section C. Anatomy and Medicine
	Section D. Statistics Section D. Stats
	Supplementary Section, E. Umbugology and Ditchwaterisics Supplementary Section, E. Umbugology and Ditchwaterisics
The Pantomime of Life The Play of Life
Some Particulars Concerning a Lion Details About a Lion
Mr. Robert Bolton Mr. Robert Bolton
Familiar Epistle from a Parent to a Child Familiar Letter from a Parent to a Child

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER

By Charles Dickens

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER
I I
His General Line of Business His Main Line of Work
II II
The Shipwreck The Shipwreck
III III
Wapping Workhouse Wapping Homeless Shelter
IV IV
Two Views of a Cheap Theatre Two Perspectives on an Affordable Theatre
V V
Poor Mercantile Jack Poor Merchant Jack
VI VI
Refreshments for Travellers Snacks for Travelers
VII VII
Travelling Abroad Traveling Abroad
VIII VIII
The Great Tasmania’s Cargo The Great Tasmania's Cargo
IX IX
City of London Churches London City Churches
X X
Shy Neighbourhoods Quiet Neighborhoods
XI XI
Tramps Homeless people
XII XII
Dullborough Town Dullborough Town
XIII XIII
Night Walks Evening Strolls
XIV XIV
Chambers Chambers
XV XV
Nurse’s Stories Nurse's Tales
XVI XVI
Arcadian London Utopian London
XVII XVII
The Italian Prisoner The Italian Prisoner
XVIII 18
The Calais Night Mail The Calais Night Train
XIX XIX
Some Recollections of Mortality Memories of Mortality
XX XX
Birthday Celebrations Birthday Parties
XXI XXI
The Short-Timers The Short-Timers
XXII XXII
Bound for the Great Salt Lake Bound for the Great Salt Lake
XXIII XXIII
The City of the Absent The City of the Missing
XXIV XXIV
An Old Stage-coaching House An Old Coaching Inn
XXV XXV
The Boiled Beef of New England The Boiled Beef of New England
XXVI XXVI
Chatham Dockyard Chatham Dockyard
XXVII XXVII
In the French-Flemish Country In French-Flemish Territory
XXVIII XXVIII
Medicine Men of Civilisation Medicine People of Civilization
XXIX XXIX
Titbull’s Alms-Houses Titbull's Charity Homes
XXX XXX
The Ruffian The Troublemaker
XXXI XXXI
Aboard Ship Onboard Ship
XXXII XXXII
A Small Star in the East A Small Star in the East
XXXIII XXXIII
A Little Dinner in an Hour A Little Dinner in an Hour
XXXIV XXXIV
Mr. Barlow Mr. Barlow
XXXV XXXV
On an Amateur Beat On an Amateur Music Beat
XXXVI XXXVI
A Fly-Leaf in a Life A Note in a Life
XXXVII XXXVII
A Plea for Total Abstinence A Call for Complete Abstinence

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER
Time and his Wife Time and His Wife	Frontispiece Front cover
A Cheap Theatre An Affordable Theatre
The City Personage The City Character
Titbull’s Alms-Houses Titbull's Charitable Housing

SKETCHES OF YOUNG COUPLES

By Charles Dickens

	PAGE PAGE
An Urgent Remonstrance, &c. An Urgent Protest, etc.
The Young Couple The Young Couple
The Formal Couple The Stylish Couple
The Loving Couple The Loving Couple
The Contradictory Couple The Opposing Couple
The Couple Who Dote Upon Their Children The Couple Who Adore Their Kids
The Cool Couple The Trendy Couple
The Plausible Couple The Likely Couple
The Nice Little Couple The Cute Little Couple
The Egotistical Couple The Self-Absorbed Couple
The Couple Who Coddle Themselves The Couple Who Indulge Themselves
The Old Couple The Elderly Couple
Conclusion Conclusion

BARNABY RUDGE

A Tale Of The Riots Of ‘Eighty

by Charles Dickens

SKETCHES OF YOUNG GENTLEMEN

By By Charles Dickens

	PAGE PAGE
The Bashful Young Gentleman The Shy Young Man
The Out-and-out Young Gentleman The Complete Young Gentleman
The Very Friendly Young Gentleman The Very Friendly Young Guy
The Military Young Gentleman The Military Young Man
The Political Young Gentleman The Political Young Man
The Domestic Young Gentleman The Modern Young Man
The Censorious Young Gentleman The Criticizing Young Man
The Funny Young Gentleman The Funny Young Guy
The Theatrical Young Gentleman The Theater Kid
The Poetical Young Gentleman The Poetic Young Man
The ‘Throwing-off’ Young Gentleman The "Throwing-off" Young Guy
The Young Ladies’ Young Gentleman The Young Ladies' Gentlemen
Conclusion Conclusion

LITTLE DORRIT,

by Charles Dickens

POVERTY

Sun and Shadow

Fellow Travellers

Home

Mrs Flintwinch has a Dream

Family Affairs

The Father of the Marshalsea

The Child of the Marshalsea

The Lock

Little Mother

Containing the whole Science of Government

Let Loose

Bleeding Heart Yard

Patriarchal

Little Dorrit’s Party

Mrs Flintwinch has another Dream

Nobody’s Weakness

Nobody’s Rival

Little Dorrit’s Lover

The Father of the Marshalsea in two or three Relations

Moving in Society

Mr Merdle’s Complaint

A Puzzle

Machinery in Motion

Fortune-Telling

Conspirators and Others

Nobody’s State of Mind

Five-and-Twenty

Nobody’s Disappearance

Mrs Flintwinch goes on Dreaming

The Word of a Gentleman

Spirit

More Fortune-Telling

Mrs Merdle’s Complaint

A Shoal of Barnacles

What was behind Mr Pancks on Little Dorrit’s Hand

The Marshalsea becomes an Orphan

RICHES

Fellow Travellers

Mrs General

On the Road

A Letter from Little Dorrit

Something Wrong Somewhere

Something Right Somewhere

Mostly, Prunes and Prism

The Dowager Mrs Gowan is reminded that ‘It Never Does’

Appearance and Disappearance

The Dreams of Mrs Flintwinch thicken

A Letter from Little Dorrit

In which a Great Patriotic Conference is holden

The Progress of an Epidemic

Taking Advice

No just Cause or Impediment why these Two Persons

Getting on

Missing

A Castle in the Air

The Storming of the Castle in the Air

Introduces the next

The History of a Self-Tormentor

Who passes by this Road so late?

Mistress Affery makes a Conditional Promise,

The Evening of a Long Day

The Chief Butler Resigns the Seals of Office

Reaping the Whirlwind

The Pupil of the Marshalsea

An Appearance in the Marshalsea

A Plea in the Marshalsea

Closing in

Closed

Going

Going!

Gone

THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF NICHOLAS NICKLEBY,

by Charles Dickens



- Introduces all the Rest
- Of Mr. Ralph Nickleby, and his Establishments, and his Undertakings, and of a great Joint Stock Company of vast national Importance
- Mr. Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother, but bears up nobly against the Intelligence communicated to him. The Reader is informed how he liked Nicholas, who is herein introduced, and how kindly he proposed to make his Fortune at once.
- Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait upon Mr. Wackford Squeers, the Yorkshire Schoolmaster
- Nicholas starts for Yorkshire. Of his Leave-taking and his Fellow-Travellers, and what befell them on the Road
- In which the Occurrence of the Accident mentioned in the last Chapter, affords an Opportunity to a couple of Gentlemen to tell Stories against each other
- Mr. and Mrs. Squeers at Home
- Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall
- Of Miss Squeers, Mrs. Squeers, Master Squeers, and Mr. Squeers; and of various Matters and Persons connected no less with the Squeerses than Nicholas Nickleby
How Mr. Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece and Sister-in-Law
Newman Noggs inducts Mrs. and Miss Nickleby into their New Dwelling in the City
Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of Miss Fanny Squeer's Love, and to ascertain whether it ran smooth or otherwise
Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding, which leads to Consequences of some Importance
Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding, which leads to Consequences of some Importance
Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin of the Interruption described in the last Chapter, and with some other Matters necessary to be known
Nicholas seeks to employ himself in a New Capacity, and being unsuccessful, accepts an engagement as Tutor in a Private Family
Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby
Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss Knag to form this Resolution
Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr. Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves, before Dinner, at Dinner, and after Dinner.
Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he expresses his Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.
Madam Mantalini finds herself in a Situation of some Difficulty, and Miss Nickleby finds herself in no Situation at all
Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. He encounters Mr. Vincent Crummles; and who he was, is herein made manifest
Treats of the Company of Mr. Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs, Domestic and Theatrical
Of the Great Bespeak for Miss Snevellicci, and the first Appearance of Nicholas upon any Stage
Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, and an elderly Admirer who follows in her Train; with an affecting Ceremony consequent on their Arrival
Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's Peace of Mind
Mrs. Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck, whose Affection and Interest are beyond all Bounds
Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, and the Complicated Difficulties and Distresses which surround her, appeals, as a last resource, to her Uncle for Protection
Of the Proceedings of Nicholas, and certain Internal Divisions in the Company of Mr. Vincent Crummles
Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, who suddenly withdraws himself from the Society of Mr. Vincent Crummles and his Theatrical Companions
Of Ralph Nickleby and Newman Noggs, and some wise Precautions, the success or failure of which will appear in the Sequel
Relating chiefly to some remarkable Conversation, and some remarkable Proceedings to which it gives rise
In which Mr. Ralph Nickleby is relieved, by a very expeditious Process, from all Commerce with his Relations
Wherein Mr. Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted
Smike becomes known to Mrs. Nickleby and Kate. Nicholas also meets with new Acquaintances. Brighter Days seem to dawn upon the Family
Private and confidential; relating to Family Matters. Showing how Mr Kenwigs underwent violent Agitation, and how Mrs. Kenwigs was as well as could be expected
Nicholas finds further Favour in the Eyes of the brothers Cheeryble and Mr Timothy Linkinwater. The brothers give a Banquet on a great Annual Occasion. Nicholas, on returning Home from it, receives a mysterious and important Disclosure from the Lips of Mrs. Nickleby
Comprises certain Particulars arising out of a Visit of Condolence, which may prove important hereafter. Smike unexpectedly encounters a very old Friend, who invites him to his House, and will take no Denial
In which another old Friend encounters Smike, very opportunely and to some Purpose
In which Nicholas falls in Love. He employs a Mediator, whose Proceedings are crowned with unexpected Success, excepting in one solitary Particular
Containing some Romantic Passages between Mrs. Nickleby and the Gentleman in the Small-clothes next Door
Illustrative of the convivial Sentiment, that the best of Friends must sometimes part
Officiates as a kind of Gentleman Usher, in bringing various People together
Mr. Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. It would also appear from the Contents hereof, that a Joke, even between Husband and Wife, may be sometimes carried too far
Containing Matter of a surprising Kind
Throws some Light upon Nicholas's Love; but whether for Good or Evil the Reader must determine
Mr. Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. They concert between them a Project, which promises well for both
Being for the Benefit of Mr. Vincent Crummles, and positively his last Appearance on this Stage
Chronicles the further Proceedings of the Nickleby Family, and the Sequel of the Adventure of the Gentleman in the Small-clothes
Involves a serious Catastrophe
The Project of Mr. Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful Issue, becomes unexpectedly known to another Party, not admitted into their Confidence
Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, but plucks up his Spirits again, and determines to attempt it. Domestic Intelligence of the Kenwigses and Lillyvicks
Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr. Ralph Nickleby and Mr. Arthur Gride
The Crisis of the Project and its Result
Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments, and Sorrows
Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design, hatches a Scheme of Retaliation which Accident suggests to him, and takes into his Counsels a tried Auxiliary
How Ralph Nickleby's Auxiliary went about his Work, and how he prospered with it
In which one Scene of this History is closed
The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter
The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is Told
Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the good Opinion of all worldly and prudent People
Ralph makes one last Appointment-and keeps it
The Brothers Cheeryble make various Declarations for themselves and others. Tim Linkinwater makes a Declaration for himself
An old Acquaintance is recognised under melancholy Circumstances, and Dotheboys Hall breaks up for ever
Conclusion

LIFE AND ADVENTURES
OF MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT

by Charles Dickens




- INTRODUCTORY, CONCERNING THE PEDIGREE OF THE CHUZZLEWIT FAMILY
- WHEREIN CERTAIN PERSONS ARE PRESENTED TO THE READER, WITH WHOM HE MAY, IF HE PLEASE, BECOME BETTER ACQUAINTED
- IN WHICH CERTAIN OTHER PERSONS ARE INTRODUCED; ON THE SAME TERMS AS IN THE LAST CHAPTER
- FROM WHICH IT WILL APPEAR THAT IF UNION BE STRENGTH, AND FAMILY AFFECTION BE PLEASANT TO CONTEMPLATE, THE CHUZZLEWITS WERE THE STRONGEST AND MOST AGREEABLE FAMILY IN THE WORLD
- CONTAINING A FULL ACCOUNT OF THE INSTALLATION OF MR PECKSNIFF'S NEW PUPIL INTO THE BOSOM OF MR PECKSNIFF'S FAMILY. WITH ALL THE FESTIVITIES HELD ON THAT OCCASION, AND THE GREAT ENJOYMENT OF MR PINCH
- COMPRISES, AMONG OTHER IMPORTANT MATTERS, PECKSNIFFIAN AND ARCHITECTURAL, AND EXACT RELATION OF THE PROGRESS MADE BY MR PINCH IN THE CONFIDENCE AND FRIENDSHIP OF THE NEW PUPIL
- IN WHICH MR CHEVY SLYME ASSERTS THE INDEPENDENCE OF HIS SPIRIT, AND THE BLUE DRAGON LOSES A LIMB
- ACCOMPANIES MR PECKSNIFF AND HIS CHARMING DAUGHTERS TO THE CITY OF LONDON; AND RELATES WHAT FELL OUT UPON THEIR WAY THITHER
- TOWN AND TODGER'S
CONTAINING STRANGE MATTER, ON WHICH MANY EVENTS IN THIS HISTORY MAY, FOR THEIR GOOD OR EVIL INFLUENCE, CHIEFLY DEPEND
WHEREIN A CERTAIN GENTLEMAN BECOMES PARTICULAR IN HIS ATTENTIONS TO A CERTAIN LADY; AND MORE COMING EVENTS THAN ONE, CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE
WILL BE SEEN IN THE LONG RUN, IF NOT IN THE SHORT ONE, TO CONCERN MR PINCH AND OTHERS, NEARLY. MR PECKSNIFF ASSERTS THE DIGNITY OF OUTRAGED VIRTUE. YOUNG MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT FORMS A DESPERATE RESOLUTION
SHOWING WHAT BECAME OF MARTIN AND HIS DESPARATE RESOLVE, AFTER HE LEFT MR PECKSNIFF'S HOUSE; WHAT PERSONS HE ENCOUNTERED; WHAT ANXIETIES HE SUFFERED; AND WHAT NEWS HE HEARD
IN WHICH MARTIN BIDS ADIEU TO THE LADY OF HIS LOVE; AND HONOURS AN OBSCURE INDIVIDUAL WHOSE FORTUNE HE INTENDS TO MAKE BY COMMENDING HER TO HIS PROTECTION
THE BURDEN WHEREOF, IS HAIL COLUMBIA!
MARTIN DISEMBARKS FROM THAT NOBLE AND FAST-SAILING LINE-OF-PACKET SHIP, 'THE SCREW', AT THE PORT OF NEW YORK, IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. HE MAKES SOME ACQUAINTANCES, AND DINES AT A BOARDING-HOUSE. THE PARTICULARS OF THOSE TRANSACTIONS
MARTIN ENLARGES HIS CIRCLE OF AQUAINTANCE; INCREASES HIS STOCK OF WISDOM; AND HAS AN EXCELLENT OPPORTUNITY OF COMPARING HIS OWN EXPERIENCES WITH THOSE OF LUMMY NED OF THE LIGHT SALISBURY, AS RELATED BY HIS FRIEND MR WILLIAM SIMMONS
DOES BUSINESS WITH THE HOUSE OF ANTHONY CHUZZLEWIT AND SON, FROM WHICH ONE OF THE PARTNERS RETIRES UNEXPECTEDLY
THE READER IS BROUGHT INTO COMMUNICATION WITH SOME PROFESSIONAL PERSONS, AND SHEDS A TEAR OVER THE FILIAL PIETY OF GOOD MR JONAS
IS A CHAPTER OF LOVE
MORE AMERICAN EXPERIENCES, MARTIN TAKES A PARTNER, AND MAKES A PURCHASE. SOME ACCOUNT OF EDEN, AS IT APPEARED ON PAPER. ALSO OF THE BRITISH LION. ALSO OF THE KIND OF SYMPATHY PROFESSED AND ENTERTAINED BY THE WATERTOAST ASSOCIATION OF UNITED SYMPATHISERS
FROM WHICH IT WILL BE SEEN THAT MARTIN BECAME A LION OF HIS OWN ACCOUNT. TOGETHER WITH THE REASON WHY
MARTIN AND HIS PARTNER TAKE POSSESSION OF THEIR ESTATE. THE JOYFUL OCCASION INVOLVES SOME FURTHER ACCOUNT OF EDEN
REPORTS PROGRESS IN CERTAIN HOMELY MATTERS OF LOVE, HATRED, JEALOUSY, AND REVENGE
IS IN PART PROFESSIONAL, AND FURNISHES THE READER WITH SOME VALUABLE HINTS IN RELATION TO THE MANAGEMENT OF A SICK CHAMBER
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING, AND A PROMISING PROSPECT
SHOWING THAT OLD FRIENDS MAY NOT ONLY APPEAR WITH NEW FACES, BUT IN FALSE COLOURS. THAT PEOPLE ARE PRONE TO BITE, AND THAT BITERS MAY SOMETIMES BE BITTEN.
MR. MONTAGUE AT HOME. AND MR. JONAS CHUZZLEWIT AT HOME
IN WHICH SOME PEOPLE ARE PRECOCIOUS, OTHERS PROFESSIONAL, AND OTHERS MYSTERIOUS; ALL IN THEIR SEVERAL WAYS
PROVES THAT CHANGES MAY BE RUNG IN THE BEST-REGULATED FAMILIES, AND THAT MR PECKNIFF WAS A SPECIAL HAND AT A TRIPLE-BOB-MAJOR
MR PINCH IS DISCHARGED OF A DUTY WHICH HE NEVER OWED TO ANYBODY, AND MR PECKSNIFF DISCHARGES A DUTY WHICH HE OWES TO SOCIETY
TREATS OF TODGER'S AGAIN; AND OF ANOTHER BLIGHTED PLANT BESIDES THE PLANTS UPON THE LEADS
FURTHER PROCEEDINGS IN EDEN, AND A PROCEEDING OUT OF IT. MARTIN MAKES A DISCOVERY OF SOME IMPORTANCE
IN WHICH THE TRAVELLERS MOVE HOMEWARD, AND ENCOUNTER SOME DISTINGUISHED CHARACTERS UPON THE WAY
ARRIVING IN ENGLAND, MARTIN WITNESSES A CEREMONY, FROM WHICH HE DERIVES THE CHEERING INFORMATION THAT HE HAS NOT BEEN FORGOTTEN IN HIS ABSENCE
TOM PINCH DEPARTS TO SEEK HIS FORTUNE. WHAT HE FINDS AT STARTING
TOM PINCH, GOING ASTRAY, FINDS THAT HE IS NOT THE ONLY PERSON IN THAT PREDICAMENT. HE RETALIATES UPON A FALLEN FOE
SECRET SERVICE
CONTAINING SOME FURTHER PARTICULARS OF THE DOMESTIC ECONOMY OF THE PINCHES; WITH STRANGE NEWS FROM THE CITY, NARROWLY CONCERNING TOM
THE PINCHES MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE, AND HAVE FRESH OCCASION FOR SURPRISE AND WONDER
MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND, ARRIVING AT A PLEASANT UNDERSTANDING, SET FORTH UPON AN ENTERPRISE
CONTINUATION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND
HAS AN INFLUENCE ON THE FORTUNES OF SEVERAL PEOPLE. MR PECKSNIFF IS EXHIBITED IN THE PLENITUDE OF POWER; AND WIELDS THE SAME WITH FORTITUDE AND MAGNANIMITY
FURTHER CONTINUATION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND
IN WHICH TOM PINCH AND HIS SISTER TAKE A LITTLE PLEASURE; BUT QUITE IN A DOMESTIC WAY, AND WITH NO CEREMONY ABOUT IT
IN WHICH MISS PECKSNIFF MAKES LOVE, MR JONAS MAKES WRATH, MRS GAMP MAKES TEA, AND MR CHUFFEY MAKES BUSINESS
CONCLUSION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND
BEARS TIDINGS OF MARTIN AND OF MARK, AS WELL AS OF A THIRD PERSON NOT QUITE UNKNOWN TO THE READER. EXHIBITS FILIAL PIETY IN AN UGLY ASPECT; AND CASTS A DOUBTFUL RAY OF LIGHT UPON A VERY DARK PLACE
IN WHICH MRS HARRIS ASSISTED BY A TEAPOT, IS THE CAUSE OF A DIVISION BETWEEN FRIENDS
SURPRISES TOM PINCH VERY MUCH, AND SHOWS HOW CERTAIN CONFIDENCES PASSED BETWEEN HIM AND HIS SISTER
SHEDS NEW AND BRIGHTER LIGHT UPON THE VERY DARK PLACE; AND CONTAINS THE SEQUEL OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND
IN WHICH THE TABLES ARE TURNED, COMPLETELY UPSIDE DOWN
WHAT JOHN WESTLOCK SAID TO TOM PINCH'S SISTER; WHAT TOM PINCH'S SISTER SAID TO JOHN WESTLOCK; WHAT TOM PINCH SAID TO BOTH OF THEM; AND HOW THEY ALL PASSED THE REMAINDER OF THE DAY
GIVES THE AUTHOR GREAT CONCERN. FOR IT IS THE LAST IN THE BOOK

BLEAK HOUSE

By Charles Dickens

In Chancery

In Fashion

A Progress

Telescopic Philanthropy

A Morning Adventure

Quite at Home

The Ghost's Walk

Covering a Multitude of Sins

Signs and Tokens

The Law-Writer

Our Dear Brother

On the Watch

Esther's Narrative

Deportment

Bell Yard

Tom-all-Alone's

Esther's Narrative

Lady Dedlock

Moving On

A New Lodger

The Smallweed Family

Mr. Bucket

Esther's Narrative

An Appeal Case

Mrs. Snagsby Sees It All

Sharpshooters

More Old Soldiers Than One

The Ironmaster

The Young Man

Esther's Narrative

Nurse and Patient

The Appointed Time

Interlopers

A Turn of the Screw

Esther's Narrative

Chesney Wold

Jarndyce and Jarndyce

A Struggle

Attorney and Client

National and Domestic

In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Room

In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Chambers

Esther's Narrative

The Letter and the Answer

In Trust

Stop Him!

Jo's Will

Closing In

Dutiful Friendship

Esther's Narrative

Enlightened

Obstinacy

The Track

Springing a Mine

Flight

Pursuit

Esther's Narrative

A Wintry Day and Night

Esther's Narrative

Perspective

A Discovery

Another Discovery

Steel and Iron

Esther's Narrative

Beginning the World

Down in Lincolnshire

The Close of Esther's Narrative

THREE GHOST STORIES

By Charles Dickens

The Haunted House The Haunted House
The Trial For Murder The Murder Trial
The Signal-Man The Signalman

GREAT EXPECTATIONS

[1867 Edition]

by Charles Dickens

SOME SHORT CHRISTMAS STORIES

By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS.

	PAGE PAGE
A Christmas Tree A holiday tree
What Christmas is as we Grow Older What Christmas Means as We Get Older
The Poor Relation’s Story The Story of the Poor Relation
The Child’s Story The Kid's Story
The Schoolboy’s Story The Schoolboy's Tale
Nobody’s Story No One's Story

THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH

By Charles Dickens

Illustrated By George Alfred Williams

103

132

165

MUGBY JUNCTION

By Charles Dickens

		page page
Barbox Brothers. Barbox Brothers	By Charles Dickens By Charles Dickens
Barbox Brothers & Co. Barbox Brothers & Co.	By Charles Dickens By Charles Dickens
Main Line: The Boy at Mugby. Main Line: The Boy at Mugby.	By Charles Dickens By Charles Dickens
No. 1 Branch Line: The Signalman. No. 1 Branch Line: The Signalman.	By Charles Dickens By Charles Dickens
No. 2 Branch Line: The Engine Driver. No. 2 Branch Line: The Engine Driver.	By Andrew Halliday By Andrew Halliday
No. 3 Branch Line: The Compensation House. No. 3 Branch Line: The Compensation House.	By Charles Collins By Charles Collins
No. 4 Branch Line: The Travelling Post-Office. No. 4 Branch Line: The Traveling Post Office.	By Hesba Stretton By Hesba Stretton
No. 5 Branch Line: The Engineer. No. 5 Branch Line: The Engineer.	By Amelia B. Edwards By Amelia B. Edwards

POEMS AND VERSES OF CHARLES DICKENS

By Charles Dickens

Collected and Edited, with Bibliographical Notes, by F. G. Kitton

	PAGE
The Village Flirts (1836),
Round. Cheers to the joyful Autumn days,
Lucy’s Song. Love is not a feeling that fades away,
Squire Norton’s Song. That very wise man, old Æsop, said,
George Edmunds’ Song. Fall leaves, fall leaves,
Rose’s Song. Some people who have grown old and bitter,
Duet (Flam and Rose). It’s true I’m embraced by the witty,
Squire Norton’s Song. The child and the old man sat together,
Duet (The Squire and Lucy). In a rich and elevated position, shine,
Sestet and Chorus. Turn him from the farm,
Quartet. Listen to me when I say that the farm belongs to you,
[Pg x] Squire Norton’s Song. There's a charm in spring,
Young Benson’s Song. My lovely home isn’t mine anymore,
Duet (The Squire and Edmunds). Listen, even though I'm not afraid of you,
Lucy’s Song. How beautiful at sunset,
Chorus. Join the dance, with steps that are light,
Quintet. No light is confined to a stag or a timid hare,

The Streetlight Keeper (1838),
Duet (Tom and Betsy). A new moon occurs twelve times a year,

The Pickwick Papers (1837),
The Ivy Green. Oh, a delicate plant is the Ivy green,
A Christmas Carol. I don't care for Spring,
Gabriel Grub’s Song. Brave single accommodations,
Romance (Sam Weller’s Song). Bold Turpin rides, on Hounslow Heath,

The Reviewer (1841),
The Fine Old English Gentleman. I'll sing you a new song,
The Quack Doctor’s Proclamation. An amazing doctor has just arrived in town,
Subjects for Painters. To you, Sir Martin,

[Pg xi] The Patrician’s Daughter (1842),
Prologue. No story of streaming plumes and shining harness,

The Memento (1844),
A Word in Season. There's a superstition in the East,

The Daily News (1846),
The British Lion. Oh, maybe you’ve heard,
The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers. Oh God, who through Your Prophet's hand,

Lines for Mark Lemon (1849),
New Song. Lemon is slightly hipped,

The Lighthouse (1855),
Prologue. A tale about those rocks where doomed ships arrive,
The Song of the Wreck. The wind howled, and the waters roared,

The Frozen Deep (1856),
Prologue. One brutal footprint on the deserted shore,

The Sinking of the Golden Mary (1856),
A Child’s Hymn. Hear my prayer, O Heavenly Father,

THE BATTLE OF LIFE

A LOVE STORY

ILLUSTRATIONS.

Title.	Artist.	Engraver.
D. Maclise, R.A.	Thompson.
D. Maclise, R.A.	Thompson.
R. Doyle.	Dalziel.
C. Stanfield, R.A.	Williams.
C. Stanfield, R.A.	Williams.
J. Leech.	Dalziel.
R. Doyle.	Green.
J. Leech.	Dalziel.
D. Maclise, R.A.	Williams.
J. Leech.	Dalziel.
R. Doyle.	Dalziel.
C. Stanfield, R.A.	Williams.
D. Maclise, R.A.	Williams.

A CHILD’S DREAM OF A STAR

By Charles Dickens

With Illustrations By Hammatt Billings

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Engraved by W. J. Linton

		Page
I.	5
II.	6
III.	7
IV.	8
V.	9
VI.	10
VII.	11
VIII.	12
IX.	13
X.	14
XI.	15

OLIVER TWIST,

Or, The Parish Boy’s Progress

By Charles Dickens

Illustrated by George Cruikshank

TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH

TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST’S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD

RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SINECURE

OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE

OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER’S BUSINESS

OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM

OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY

OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN

CONTAINING FURTHER PARTICULARS CONCERNING THE PLEASANT OLD GENTLEMAN, AND HIS HOPEFUL PUPILS

OLIVER BECOMES BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH THE CHARACTERS OF HIS NEW ASSOCIATES; AND PURCHASES EXPERIENCE AT A HIGH PRICE. BEING A SHORT, BUT VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER, IN THIS HISTORY

TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE

IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. AND IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS.

SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER, CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED, APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY

COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER’S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW’S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND

SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD JEW AND MISS NANCY WERE

RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY

OLIVER’S DESTINY CONTINUING UNPROPITIOUS, BRINGS A GREAT MAN TO LONDON TO INJURE HIS REPUTATION

HOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME IN THE IMPROVING SOCIETY OF HIS REPUTABLE FRIENDS

IN WHICH A NOTABLE PLAN IS DISCUSSED AND DETERMINED ON

WHEREIN OLIVER IS DELIVERED OVER TO MR. WILLIAM SIKES

THE EXPEDITION

THE BURGLARY

WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME POINTS

TREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT. BUT IS A SHORT ONE, AND MAY BE FOUND OF IMPORTANCE IN THIS HISTORY

WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY

IN WHICH A MYSTERIOUS CHARACTER APPEARS UPON THE SCENE; AND MANY THINGS, INSEPARABLE FROM THIS HISTORY, ARE DONE AND PERFORMED

ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED A LADY, MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY

LOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES

HAS AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT OF THE INMATES OF THE HOUSE, TO WHICH OLIVER RESORTED

RELATES WHAT OLIVER’S NEW VISITORS THOUGHT OF HIM

INVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION

OF THE HAPPY LIFE OLIVER BEGAN TO LEAD WITH HIS KIND FRIENDS

WHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF OLIVER AND HIS FRIENDS, EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN CHECK

CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO OLIVER

CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER’S ADVENTURE; AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE

IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS

IN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT UNCOMMON IN MATRIMONIAL CASES

CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MR. AND MRS. BUMBLE, AND MR. MONKS, AT THEIR NOCTURNAL INTERVIEW

INTRODUCES SOME RESPECTABLE CHARACTERS WITH WHOM THE READER IS ALREADY ACQUAINTED, AND SHOWS HOW MONKS AND THE JEW LAID THEIR WORTHY HEADS TOGETHER

A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER

CONTAINING FRESH DISCOVERIES, AND SHOWING THAT SUPRISES, LIKE MISFORTUNES, SELDOM COME ALONE

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF OLIVER’S, EXHIBITING DECIDED MARKS OF GENIUS, BECOMES A PUBLIC CHARACTER IN THE METROPOLIS

WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE

THE TIME ARRIVES FOR NANCY TO REDEEM HER PLEDGE TO ROSE MAYLIE. SHE FAILS.

NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION

THE APPOINTMENT KEPT

FATAL CONSEQUENCES

THE FLIGHT OF SIKES

MONKS AND MR. BROWNLOW AT LENGTH MEET. THEIR CONVERSATION, AND THE INTELLIGENCE THAT INTERRUPTS IT

THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE

AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY

FAGIN’S LAST NIGHT ALIVE

AND LAST

THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE PICKWICK CLUB

By Charles Dickens

Illustrated By Cecil Aldin

VOLUME THE SECOND

CHAPTER I	PAGE
The Story of the Goblins who Stole a Sexton
CHAPTER II
How the Pickwickians made and cultivated the Acquaintance of a couple of Nice Young Men belonging to one of the Liberal Professions; how they Disported themselves on the Ice; and how their First Visit came to a Conclusion
CHAPTER III
Which is all about the Law, and sundry great Authorities learned therein
CHAPTER IV
Describes, far more fully than the Court Newsman ever did, a Bachelor’s Party, given by Mr. Bob Sawyer at his Lodgings in the Borough
CHAPTER V
Mr. Weller the Elder delivers some Critical Sentiments respecting Literary Composition; and, assisted by his son Samuel, pays a small Instalment of Retaliation to the Account of the Reverend Gentleman with the Red Nose
CHAPTER VI
Is wholly devoted to a Full and Faithful Report of the Memorable Trial of Bardell against Pickwick
CHAPTER VII
In which Mr. Pickwick thinks he had better go to Bath; and goes accordingly
CHAPTER VIII
The Chief Features of which, will be found to be an Authentic Version of the Legend of Prince Bladud, and a most extraordinary Calamity that befell Mr. Winkle
CHAPTER IX
Honourably accounts for Mr. Weller’s Absence, by describing a Soiree to which he was Invited and went; also relates how he was entrusted by Mr. Pickwick with a Private Mission of Delicacy and Importance
CHAPTER X
How Mr. Winkle, when he stepped out of the Frying-pan, walked gently and comfortably into the Fire
CHAPTER XI
Mr. Samuel Weller, being entrusted with a Mission of Love, proceeds to Execute it; with what Success will hereinafter appear
CHAPTER XII
Introduces Mr. Pickwick to a New and not uninteresting Scene in the great Drama of Life
CHAPTER XIII
What befell Mr. Pickwick when he got into the Fleet; what Prisoners he Saw there; and how he Passed the Night
CHAPTER XIV
Illustrative, like the preceding one, of the old Proverb, That Adversity brings a Man acquainted with Strange Bed-fellows. Likewise containing Mr. Pickwick’s extraordinary and startling Announcement to Mr. Samuel Weller
CHAPTER XV
Showing how Mr. Samuel Weller got into Difficulties
CHAPTER XVI
Treats of divers little Matters which occurred in the Fleet, and of Mr. Winkle’s Mysterious Behaviour; and shows how the poor Chancery Prisoner obtained his Release at last
CHAPTER XVII
Descriptive of an Affecting Interview between Mr. Samuel Weller and a Family Party. Mr. Pickwick makes a Tour of the Diminutive World he inhabits, and resolves to mix with it, in future, as little as possible
CHAPTER XVIII
Records a touching Act of delicate Feeling, not unmixed With Pleasantry, achieved and performed by Messrs. Dodson and Fogg
CHAPTER XIX
Is chiefly devoted to Matters of Business, and the Temporal Advantage of Dodson and Fogg. Mr. Winkle reappears under Extraordinary Circumstances. Mr. Pickwick’s Benevolence proves stronger than his Obstinacy
CHAPTER XX
Relates how Mr. Pickwick, with the assistance of Samuel Weller, essayed to soften the Heart of Mr. Benjamin Allen, and to mollify the Wrath of Mr. Robert Sawyer
CHAPTER XXI
Containing the Story of the Bagman’s Uncle
CHAPTER XXII
How Mr. Pickwick sped upon his Mission, and how he was Reinforced in the Outset by a most unexpected Auxiliary
CHAPTER XXIII
In which Mr. Pickwick encounters an old Acquaintance, to which fortunate Circumstance the Reader is mainly indebted for Matter of thrilling Interest herein set down, concerning two great Public Men of Might and Power
CHAPTER XXIV
Involving a serious Change in the Weller Family, and the untimely Downfall of the Red-nosed Mr. Stiggins
CHAPTER XXV
Comprising the final Exit of Mr. Jingle and Job Trotter; with a great Morning of Business in Gray’s Inn Square. Concluding with a Double Knock at Mr. Perker’s Door
CHAPTER XXVI
Containing some Particulars relative to the Double Knock, and other Matters: among which certain Interesting Disclosures relative to Mr. Snodgrass and a Young Lady are by no means irrelevant to this History
CHAPTER XXVII
Mr. Solomon Pell, assisted by a Select Committee of Coachmen, arranges the Affairs of the Elder Mr. Weller
CHAPTER XXVIII
An important Conference takes place between Mr. Pickwick and Samuel Weller, at which his Parent assists. An old Gentleman in a Snuff-coloured Suit arrives unexpectedly
CHAPTER XXIX
In which the Pickwick Club is finally Dissolved, and Everything Concluded to the Satisfaction of Everybody

ILLUSTRATIONS

IN COLOUR
“Gentlemen, what does this mean? ‘Chops and Tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick’”
A face, head, and shoulders, emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick
“A what!” asked Mr. Weller, apparently horror-stricken by the word. “A Walentine,” replied Sam	„
Mr. Winkle took to his heels and tore round the Crescent	„
And here, to the great horror of Mr. John Smauker, Sam Weller began to whistle	„
“Lor’, do adun, Mr. Weller!”	„
The cavalcade gave three tremendous cheers	„
“I drove the old piebald”	„
He felled Mr. Benjamin Allen to the ground	„
It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see the red-nosed man writhing in Mr. Weller’s grasp	„
The admiration of numerous elderly ladies of single condition	„

IN TEXT
	PAGE
Heading to Chapter I
Heading to Chapter II
“Now then, sir,” said Sam, “off vith you, and show ’em how to do it”
Went slowly and gravely down the slide
Heading to Chapter III
Heading to Chapter IV
“If you’ll have the kindness to settle that little bill of mine I’ll thank you”
Heading to Chapter V
“Is there anybody here, named Sam?”
Heading to Chapter VI
Heading to Chapter VII
“Do you do anything in this way, sir?” inquired the tall footman
Heading to Chapter VIII
Heading to Chapter IX
Heading to Chapter X
“You’ve been stopping to over all the posts in Bristol”
Heading to Chapter XI
Heading to Chapter XII
“Take your hat off”
Heading to Chapter XIII
“Come on—both of you”
Heading to Chapter XIV
Heading to Chapter XV
After a violent struggle, released his head and face
Heading to Chapter XVI
Heading to Chapter XVII
Heading to Chapter XVIII
A shabby man in black leggings
Heading to Chapter XIX
Heading to Chapter XX
Heading to Chapter XXI
“My uncle gave a loud stamp on the boot in the energy of the moment”
Heading to Chapter XXII
Mr. Winkle senior
Heading to Chapter XXIII
Heading to Chapter XXIV
Heading to Chapter XXV
Heading to Chapter XXVI
His jolly red face shining with smiles and health
Pointed with his thumb over his shoulder
Heading to Chapter XXVII
A cold collation of an Abernethy biscuit and a saveloy
Heading to Chapter XXVIII
A little old gentleman in a suit of snuff-coloured clothes
Dismissed him with a harmless but ceremonious kick
Heading to Chapter XXIX
“The happiness of young people,” said Mr. Pickwick, a little moved, “has ever been the chief pleasure of my life”
Exchanged his old costume for the ordinary dress of Englishmen
Tailpiece to Chapter XXIX

A CHILD’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND

By Charles Dickens

CHAPTER I	ANCIENT ENGLAND AND THE ROMANS
CHAPTER II	ANCIENT ENGLAND UNDER THE EARLY SAXONS
CHAPTER III	ENGLAND UNDER THE GOOD SAXON, ALFRED
CHAPTER IV	ENGLAND UNDER ATHELSTAN AND THE SIX BOY-KINGS
CHAPTER V	ENGLAND UNDER CANUTE THE DANE
CHAPTER VI	ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD HAREFOOT, HARDICANUTE, AND EDWARD THE
CHAPTER VII	ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD THE SECOND, AND CONQUERED BY THE
CHAPTER VIII	ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM THE FIRST, THE NORMAN CONQUEROR
CHAPTER IX	ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM THE SECOND, CALLED RUFUS
CHAPTER X	ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FIRST, CALLED FINE-SCHOLAR
CHAPTER XI	ENGLAND UNDER MATILDA AND STEPHEN
CHAPTER XII	ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SECOND PART THE FIRST
CHAPTER XIII	ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE FIRST, CALLED THE LION-HEART
CHAPTER XIV	ENGLAND UNDER KING JOHN, CALLED LACKLAND
CHAPTER XV	ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE THIRD, CALLED, OF WINCHESTER
CHAPTER XVI	ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FIRST, CALLED LONGSHANKS
CHAPTER XVII	ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SECOND
CHAPTER XVIII	ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE THIRD
CHAPTER XIX	ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE SECOND
CHAPTER XX	ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FOURTH, CALLED BOLINGBROKE
CHAPTER XXI	ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FIFTH FIRST PART
CHAPTER XXII	ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SIXTH PART THE FIRST
CHAPTER XXIII	ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FOURTH
CHAPTER XXIV	ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FIFTH
CHAPTER XXV	ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE THIRD
CHAPTER XXVI	ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SEVENTH
CHAPTER XXVII	ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE EIGHTH, CALLED BLUFF KING HAL AND
CHAPTER XXVIII	ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE EIGHTH PART THE SECOND
CHAPTER XXIX	ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SIXTH
CHAPTER XXX	ENGLAND UNDER MARY
CHAPTER XXXI	ENGLAND UNDER ELIZABETH
CHAPTER XXXII	ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE FIRST
CHAPTER XXXIII	ENGLAND UNDER CHARLES THE FIRST
CHAPTER XXXIV	ENGLAND UNDER OLIVER CROMWELL
CHAPTER XXXV	ENGLAND UNDER CHARLES THE SECOND, CALLED THE MERRY MONARCH
CHAPTER XXXVI	ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE SECOND
CHAPTER XXXVII

SKETCHES BY BOZ

Illustrative of Every-Day Life and Every-Day People

By Charles Dickens

With Illustrations by George Cruickshank and Phiz

PREFACE

OUR PARISH

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

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

CHAPTER III-THE FOUR SISTERS

CHAPTER IV-THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE

CHAPTER V-THE BROKER'S MAN

CHAPTER VI-THE LADIES' SOCIETIES

CHAPTER VII-OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR

SCENES

CHAPTER I-THE STREETS-MORNING

CHAPTER II-THE STREETS-NIGHT

CHAPTER III-SHOPS AND THEIR TENANTS

CHAPTER IV-SCOTLAND-YARD

CHAPTER V-SEVEN DIALS

CHAPTER VI-MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH-STREET

CHAPTER VII-HACKNEY-COACH STANDS

CHAPTER VIII-DOCTORS' COMMONS

CHAPTER IX-LONDON RECREATIONS

CHAPTER X-THE RIVER

CHAPTER XI-ASTLEY'S

CHAPTER XII-GREENWICH FAIR

CHAPTER XIII-PRIVATE THEATRES

CHAPTER XIV-VAUXHALL-GARDENS BY DAY

CHAPTER XV-EARLY COACHES

CHAPTER XVI-OMNIBUSES

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

CHAPTER XVIII-A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH

CHAPTER XIX-PUBLIC DINNERS

CHAPTER XX-THE FIRST OF MAY

CHAPTER XXI-BROKERS' AND MARINE-STORE SHOPS

CHAPTER XXII-GIN-SHOPS

CHAPTER XXIII-THE PAWNBROKER'S SHOP

CHAPTER XXIV-CRIMINAL COURTS

CHAPTER XXV-A VISIT TO NEWGATE

CHARACTERS

CHAPTER I-THOUGHTS ABOUT PEOPLE

CHAPTER II-A CHRISTMAS DINNER

CHAPTER III-THE NEW YEAR

CHAPTER IV-MISS EVANS AND THE EAGLE

CHAPTER V-THE PARLOUR ORATOR

CHAPTER VI-THE HOSPITAL PATIENT

CHAPTER VII-THE MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. JOHN DOUNCE

CHAPTER VIII-THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. A TALE OF AMBITION

CHAPTER IX-THE DANCING ACADEMY

CHAPTER X-SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE

CHAPTER XI-MAKING A NIGHT OF IT

CHAPTER XII-THE PRISONERS' VAN

TALES

CHAPTER I-THE BOARDING-HOUSE

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

CHAPTER II-MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN

CHAPTER III-SENTIMENT

CHAPTER IV-THE TUGGSES AT RAMSGATE

CHAPTER V-HORATIO SPARKINS

CHAPTER VI-THE BLACK VEIL

CHAPTER VII-THE STEAM EXCURSION

CHAPTER VIII-THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL

CHAPTER IX-MRS. JOSEPH PORTER

CHAPTER X-A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF MR. WATKINS TOTTLE

CHAPTER THE FIRST

CHAPTER THE SECOND

CHAPTER XI-THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING

CHAPTER XII-THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH

FOOTNOTES:

A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND

CHAPTER I-ANCIENT ENGLAND AND THE ROMANS

CHAPTER II-ANCIENT ENGLAND UNDER THE EARLY SAXONS

CHAPTER III-ENGLAND UNDER THE GOOD SAXON, ALFRED

CHAPTER IV-ENGLAND UNDER ATHELSTAN AND THE SIX BOY-KINGS

CHAPTER V-ENGLAND UNDER CANUTE THE DANE

CHAPTER VI-ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD HAREFOOT, HARDICANUTE, AND EDWARD THE

CHAPTER VII-ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD THE SECOND, AND CONQUERED BY THE

CHAPTER VIII-ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM THE FIRST, THE NORMAN CONQUEROR

CHAPTER IX-ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM THE SECOND, CALLED RUFUS

CHAPTER X-ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FIRST, CALLED FINE-SCHOLAR

CHAPTER XI-ENGLAND UNDER MATILDA AND STEPHEN

CHAPTER XII-ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SECOND PART THE FIRST

CHAPTER XIII-ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE FIRST, CALLED THE LION-HEART

CHAPTER XIV-ENGLAND UNDER KING JOHN, CALLED LACKLAND

CHAPTER XV-ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE THIRD, CALLED, OF WINCHESTER

CHAPTER XVI-ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FIRST, CALLED LONGSHANKS

CHAPTER XVII-ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SECOND

CHAPTER XVIII-ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE THIRD

CHAPTER XIX-ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE SECOND

CHAPTER XX-ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FOURTH, CALLED BOLINGBROKE

CHAPTER XXI-ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FIFTH FIRST PART

CHAPTER XXII-ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SIXTH PART THE FIRST

CHAPTER XXIII-ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FOURTH

CHAPTER XXIV-ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FIFTH

CHAPTER XXV-ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE THIRD

CHAPTER XXVI-ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SEVENTH

CHAPTER XXVII-ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE EIGHTH, CALLED BLUFF KING HAL AND

CHAPTER XXVIII-ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE EIGHTH PART THE SECOND

CHAPTER XXIX-ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SIXTH

CHAPTER XXX-ENGLAND UNDER MARY

CHAPTER XXXI-ENGLAND UNDER ELIZABETH

CHAPTER XXXII-ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE FIRST

CHAPTER XXXIII-ENGLAND UNDER CHARLES THE FIRST

CHAPTER XXXIV-ENGLAND UNDER OLIVER CROMWELL

CHAPTER XXXV-ENGLAND UNDER CHARLES THE SECOND, CALLED THE MERRY MONARCH

CHAPTER XXXVI-ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE SECOND

CHAPTER XXXVII

A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND

CHAPTER I—ANCIENT ENGLAND AND THE ROMANS

If you look at a Map of the World, you will see, in the left-hand upper corner of the Eastern Hemisphere, two Islands lying in the sea. They are England and Scotland, and Ireland. England and Scotland form the greater part of these Islands. Ireland is the next in size. The little neighbouring islands, which are so small upon the Map as to be mere dots, are chiefly little bits of Scotland,—broken off, I dare say, in the course of a great length of time, by the power of the restless water.

If you look at a world map, you'll see, in the upper left corner of the Eastern Hemisphere, two islands in the sea. They are England and Scotland, along with Ireland. England and Scotland make up most of these islands, while Ireland is the next largest. The nearby small islands, which appear as mere dots on the map, are mostly tiny pieces of Scotland—probably broken off over a long period by the force of the restless water.

In the old days, a long, long while ago, before Our Saviour was born on earth and lay asleep in a manger, these Islands were in the same place, and the stormy sea roared round them, just as it roars now. But the sea was not alive, then, with great ships and brave sailors, sailing to and from all parts of the world. It was very lonely. The Islands lay solitary, in the great expanse of water. The foaming waves dashed against their cliffs, and the bleak winds blew over their forests; but the winds and waves brought no adventurers to land upon the Islands, and the savage Islanders knew nothing of the rest of the world, and the rest of the world knew nothing of them.

In the old days, a long time ago, before Our Saviour was born on earth and slept in a manger, these Islands were still here, with the stormy sea roaring around them just like it does now. But back then, the sea wasn’t filled with big ships and brave sailors traveling to and from all over the world. It was very isolated. The Islands stood alone in the vast expanse of water. The crashing waves hit their cliffs, and the cold winds swept through their forests; but those winds and waves brought no adventurers to the Islands, and the wild Islanders had no knowledge of the outside world, just as the rest of the world knew nothing about them.

It is supposed that the Phœnicians, who were an ancient people, famous for carrying on trade, came in ships to these Islands, and found that they produced tin and lead; both very useful things, as you know, and both produced to this very hour upon the sea-coast. The most celebrated tin mines in Cornwall are, still, close to the sea. One of them, which I have seen, is so close to it that it is hollowed out underneath the ocean; and the miners say, that in stormy weather, when they are at work down in that deep place, they can hear the noise of the waves thundering above their heads. So, the Phœnicians, coasting about the Islands, would come, without much difficulty, to where the tin and lead were.

It's believed that the Phoenicians, an ancient people known for their trade, arrived at these islands by ship and discovered that they had deposits of tin and lead—both very useful materials, as you know, and still found today along the coast. The most famous tin mines in Cornwall are still located close to the sea. One of these mines, which I've seen, is so near that it's actually carved out beneath the ocean; the miners say that during stormy weather, when they're working down in that deep place, they can hear the waves crashing above them. So, the Phoenicians, sailing around the islands, could easily get to the areas where tin and lead were available.

The Phœnicians traded with the Islanders for these metals, and gave the Islanders some other useful things in exchange. The Islanders were, at first, poor savages, going almost naked, or only dressed in the rough skins of beasts, and staining their bodies, as other savages do, with coloured earths and the juices of plants. But the Phœnicians, sailing over to the opposite coasts of France and Belgium, and saying to the people there, ‘We have been to those white cliffs across the water, which you can see in fine weather, and from that country, which is called Britain, we bring this tin and lead,’ tempted some of the French and Belgians to come over also. These people settled themselves on the south coast of England, which is now called Kent; and, although they were a rough people too, they taught the savage Britons some useful arts, and improved that part of the Islands. It is probable that other people came over from Spain to Ireland, and settled there.

The Phoenicians traded with the Islanders for these metals, exchanging them for other useful items. The Islanders were initially poor and uncivilized, often going almost naked or wearing only rough animal skins, and decorating their bodies with colored earth and plant juices, like other primitive groups. However, the Phoenicians, sailing to the coasts of France and Belgium, told the locals, “We’ve been to those white cliffs across the water, which you can see on clear days, and from that land, known as UK, we bring this tin and lead,” which encouraged some of the French and Belgians to come as well. These newcomers settled on the south coast of England, now called Kent; although they were also a rough group, they taught the primitive Britons some useful skills and improved that part of the Islands. It’s likely that other people came from Spain to Ireland and settled there.

Thus, by little and little, strangers became mixed with the Islanders, and the savage Britons grew into a wild, bold people; almost savage, still, especially in the interior of the country away from the sea where the foreign settlers seldom went; but hardy, brave, and strong.

Thus, gradually, outsiders mixed with the Islanders, and the fierce Britons evolved into a wild, daring people; still almost savage, especially in the inland areas far from the sea where the foreign settlers rarely ventured; but tough, courageous, and robust.

The whole country was covered with forests, and swamps. The greater part of it was very misty and cold. There were no roads, no bridges, no streets, no houses that you would think deserving of the name. A town was nothing but a collection of straw-covered huts, hidden in a thick wood, with a ditch all round, and a low wall, made of mud, or the trunks of trees placed one upon another. The people planted little or no corn, but lived upon the flesh of their flocks and cattle. They made no coins, but used metal rings for money. They were clever in basket-work, as savage people often are; and they could make a coarse kind of cloth, and some very bad earthenware. But in building fortresses they were much more clever.

The entire country was covered in forests and swamps. Most of it was very foggy and cold. There were no roads, bridges, streets, or houses that you would consider worthy of the name. A town was just a group of straw-covered huts, hidden deep in the woods, surrounded by a ditch and a low wall made of mud or stacked tree trunks. The people planted little to no crops and survived mainly on the meat from their flocks and cattle. They didn’t mint coins but used metal rings as currency. They were skilled at basket weaving, as many primitive people are; they could also make a rough type of cloth and some quite poor earthenware. However, they were much more adept at building fortresses.

They made boats of basket-work, covered with the skins of animals, but seldom, if ever, ventured far from the shore. They made swords, of copper mixed with tin; but, these swords were of an awkward shape, and so soft that a heavy blow would bend one. They made light shields, short pointed daggers, and spears—which they jerked back after they had thrown them at an enemy, by a long strip of leather fastened to the stem. The butt-end was a rattle, to frighten an enemy’s horse. The ancient Britons, being divided into as many as thirty or forty tribes, each commanded by its own little king, were constantly fighting with one another, as savage people usually do; and they always fought with these weapons.

They created boats from woven reeds and covered them with animal skins, but they rarely, if ever, went far from the shore. They made swords from a mix of copper and tin; however, these swords had an awkward shape and were so soft that a strong blow would bend them. They crafted light shields, short pointed daggers, and spears—which they pulled back after throwing at an enemy using a long strip of leather attached to the shaft. The butt-end made a rattling noise, meant to scare an enemy’s horse. The ancient Britons, divided into as many as thirty or forty tribes, each led by its own small king, were constantly battling each other, as savage peoples often do; and they always used these weapons in their fights.

They were very fond of horses. The standard of Kent was the picture of a white horse. They could break them in and manage them wonderfully well. Indeed, the horses (of which they had an abundance, though they were rather small) were so well taught in those days, that they can scarcely be said to have improved since; though the men are so much wiser. They understood, and obeyed, every word of command; and would stand still by themselves, in all the din and noise of battle, while their masters went to fight on foot. The Britons could not have succeeded in their most remarkable art, without the aid of these sensible and trusty animals. The art I mean, is the construction and management of war-chariots or cars, for which they have ever been celebrated in history. Each of the best sort of these chariots, not quite breast high in front, and open at the back, contained one man to drive, and two or three others to fight—all standing up. The horses who drew them were so well trained, that they would tear, at full gallop, over the most stony ways, and even through the woods; dashing down their masters’ enemies beneath their hoofs, and cutting them to pieces with the blades of swords, or scythes, which were fastened to the wheels, and stretched out beyond the car on each side, for that cruel purpose. In a moment, while at full speed, the horses would stop, at the driver’s command. The men within would leap out, deal blows about them with their swords like hail, leap on the horses, on the pole, spring back into the chariots anyhow; and, as soon as they were safe, the horses tore away again.

They were really into horses. The standard of Kent featured a white horse. They could break them in and handle them really well. In fact, the horses (which they had plenty of, even if they were a bit small) were trained so well back then that they haven't really improved much since, even though the men are a lot smarter. The horses understood and followed every command and could stand still on their own, amidst all the noise of battle, while their owners fought on foot. The Britons couldn't have excelled in their most notable skill without these smart and reliable animals. The skill I'm referring to is the building and handling of war chariots, which they are famously known for in history. Each of the best chariots, about chest high in the front and open at the back, had one person to drive and two or three others to fight—everyone standing up. The horses pulling them were so well trained that they would gallop full speed over rocky roads and even through forests; trampling their owners' enemies underfoot and slicing them apart with the blades of swords or scythes attached to the wheels and sticking out on each side of the chariot, meant for that brutal purpose. In an instant, while at full speed, the horses would stop at the driver's command. The fighters inside would jump out, swing their swords like crazy, jump back onto the horses or the pole, and quickly get back into the chariots. As soon as they were secure, the horses would take off again.

The Britons had a strange and terrible religion, called the Religion of the Druids. It seems to have been brought over, in very early times indeed, from the opposite country of France, anciently called Gaul, and to have mixed up the worship of the Serpent, and of the Sun and Moon, with the worship of some of the Heathen Gods and Goddesses. Most of its ceremonies were kept secret by the priests, the Druids, who pretended to be enchanters, and who carried magicians’ wands, and wore, each of them, about his neck, what he told the ignorant people was a Serpent’s egg in a golden case. But it is certain that the Druidical ceremonies included the sacrifice of human victims, the torture of some suspected criminals, and, on particular occasions, even the burning alive, in immense wicker cages, of a number of men and animals together. The Druid Priests had some kind of veneration for the Oak, and for the mistletoe—the same plant that we hang up in houses at Christmas Time now—when its white berries grew upon the Oak. They met together in dark woods, which they called Sacred Groves; and there they instructed, in their mysterious arts, young men who came to them as pupils, and who sometimes stayed with them as long as twenty years.

The Britons had a strange and terrifying religion called the Religion of the Druids. It seems to have been brought over, in very ancient times, from what is now called France, once known as Gaul, and mixed the worship of the Serpent, the Sun, and the Moon with the worship of various pagan gods and goddesses. Most of its rituals were kept secret by the priests, the Druids, who claimed to be magicians, carrying magic wands and wearing what they told the uninformed was a Serpent’s egg in a golden case around their necks. However, it’s clear that the Druid ceremonies involved the sacrifice of human victims, torture of some accused individuals, and on certain occasions, even the live burning, in huge wicker cages, of a number of men and animals together. The Druid Priests had a sort of reverence for the Oak and for the mistletoe—the same plant we now hang in our homes at Christmas—when its white berries grew on the Oak. They gathered in dark woods, which they referred to as Sacred Groves; there, they taught their mysterious arts to young men who came to them as students, some of whom stayed for as long as twenty years.

These Druids built great Temples and altars, open to the sky, fragments of some of which are yet remaining. Stonehenge, on Salisbury Plain, in Wiltshire, is the most extraordinary of these. Three curious stones, called Kits Coty House, on Bluebell Hill, near Maidstone, in Kent, form another. We know, from examination of the great blocks of which such buildings are made, that they could not have been raised without the aid of some ingenious machines, which are common now, but which the ancient Britons certainly did not use in making their own uncomfortable houses. I should not wonder if the Druids, and their pupils who stayed with them twenty years, knowing more than the rest of the Britons, kept the people out of sight while they made these buildings, and then pretended that they built them by magic. Perhaps they had a hand in the fortresses too; at all events, as they were very powerful, and very much believed in, and as they made and executed the laws, and paid no taxes, I don’t wonder that they liked their trade. And, as they persuaded the people the more Druids there were, the better off the people would be, I don’t wonder that there were a good many of them. But it is pleasant to think that there are no Druids, now, who go on in that way, and pretend to carry Enchanters’ Wands and Serpents’ Eggs—and of course there is nothing of the kind, anywhere.

These Druids built impressive temples and altars, open to the sky, some of which still exist today. Stonehenge, located on Salisbury Plain in Wiltshire, is the most remarkable of these sites. Another example is the three curious stones known as Kits Coty House, found on Bluebell Hill near Maidstone in Kent. From studying the large stones that make up these structures, we know they couldn’t have been raised without some clever machines, which are common now but were certainly not used by the ancient Britons for constructing their own uncomfortable homes. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Druids and their apprentices, who trained with them for twenty years, kept the rest of the Britons hidden while they built these structures and then claimed they did it through magic. They might have also had a role in the fortresses; in any case, since they were very powerful, highly regarded, and responsible for making and enforcing laws while paying no taxes, it’s no wonder they enjoyed their power. And since they convinced people that having more Druids meant better lives for everyone, it’s understandable that there were quite a few of them. But it’s nice to think that there are no Druids, now, who act like that or pretend to wield Enchanters’ Wands and Serpents’ Eggs—and of course, there’s nothing like that anywhere.

Such was the improved condition of the ancient Britons, fifty-five years before the birth of Our Saviour, when the Romans, under their great General, Julius Cæsar, were masters of all the rest of the known world. Julius Cæsar had then just conquered Gaul; and hearing, in Gaul, a good deal about the opposite Island with the white cliffs, and about the bravery of the Britons who inhabited it—some of whom had been fetched over to help the Gauls in the war against him—he resolved, as he was so near, to come and conquer Britain next.

Such was the better situation of the ancient Britons, fifty-five years before the birth of Our Savior, when the Romans, led by their great general, Julius Caesar, controlled almost the entire known world. Julius Caesar had just conquered Gaul and, while in Gaul, had heard a lot about the neighboring island with the white cliffs and the bravery of the Britons living there—some of whom had been brought over to assist the Gauls in their fight against him. He decided, being so close, that he would next conquer Britain.

So, Julius Cæsar came sailing over to this Island of ours, with eighty vessels and twelve thousand men. And he came from the French coast between Calais and Boulogne, ‘because thence was the shortest passage into Britain;’ just for the same reason as our steam-boats now take the same track, every day. He expected to conquer Britain easily: but it was not such easy work as he supposed—for the bold Britons fought most bravely; and, what with not having his horse-soldiers with him (for they had been driven back by a storm), and what with having some of his vessels dashed to pieces by a high tide after they were drawn ashore, he ran great risk of being totally defeated. However, for once that the bold Britons beat him, he beat them twice; though not so soundly but that he was very glad to accept their proposals of peace, and go away.

So, Julius Caesar came sailing over to our island with eighty ships and twelve thousand men. He set off from the French coast between Calais and Boulogne because that was the quickest route to Britain—just like our steamboats take the same path every day. He expected to easily conquer Britain, but it turned out to be much tougher than he thought. The brave Britons fought fiercely, and since he didn't have his cavalry with him (they had been held back by a storm), and some of his ships were wrecked by a high tide after being pulled ashore, he was at great risk of being completely defeated. However, even though the courageous Britons beat him once, he managed to beat them twice; although not decisively enough that he wasn't happy to accept their peace proposals and leave.

But, in the spring of the next year, he came back; this time, with eight hundred vessels and thirty thousand men. The British tribes chose, as their general-in-chief, a Briton, whom the Romans in their Latin language called Cassivellaunus, but whose British name is supposed to have been Caswallon. A brave general he was, and well he and his soldiers fought the Roman army! So well, that whenever in that war the Roman soldiers saw a great cloud of dust, and heard the rattle of the rapid British chariots, they trembled in their hearts. Besides a number of smaller battles, there was a battle fought near Canterbury, in Kent; there was a battle fought near Chertsey, in Surrey; there was a battle fought near a marshy little town in a wood, the capital of that part of Britain which belonged to Cassivellaunus, and which was probably near what is now Saint Albans, in Hertfordshire. However, brave Cassivellaunus had the worst of it, on the whole; though he and his men always fought like lions. As the other British chiefs were jealous of him, and were always quarrelling with him, and with one another, he gave up, and proposed peace. Julius Cæsar was very glad to grant peace easily, and to go away again with all his remaining ships and men. He had expected to find pearls in Britain, and he may have found a few for anything I know; but, at all events, he found delicious oysters, and I am sure he found tough Britons—of whom, I dare say, he made the same complaint as Napoleon Bonaparte the great French General did, eighteen hundred years afterwards, when he said they were such unreasonable fellows that they never knew when they were beaten. They never did know, I believe, and never will.

But in the spring of the next year, he returned; this time with eight hundred ships and thirty thousand men. The British tribes elected a Briton as their general-in-chief, whom the Romans referred to in Latin as Cassivellaunus, but his British name is thought to have been Caswallon. He was a brave general, and he and his soldiers fought the Roman army fiercely! So fiercely that whenever the Roman soldiers noticed a big cloud of dust and heard the noise of the fast British chariots, they felt a chill in their hearts. Besides several smaller battles, a battle was fought near Canterbury in Kent; another near Chertsey in Surrey; and another near a marshy little town in a wood, the capital of the area that belonged to Cassivellaunus, likely close to what is now Saint Albans in Hertfordshire. However, brave Cassivellaunus overall had the worse outcome; yet he and his men always fought like lions. As the other British leaders were jealous of him and constantly fought with him and each other, he gave up and suggested peace. Julius Cæsar was very pleased to grant peace easily and to leave again with all his remaining ships and men. He had expected to find pearls in Britain, and he may have found a few, but in any case, he found delicious oysters, and I'm sure he encountered tough Britons—of whom I imagine he made the same complaint as Napoleon Bonaparte, the great French General, did eighteen hundred years later, when he said they were such unreasonable fellows that they never knew when they were beaten. They never did know, I believe, and never will.

Nearly a hundred years passed on, and all that time, there was peace in Britain. The Britons improved their towns and mode of life: became more civilised, travelled, and learnt a great deal from the Gauls and Romans. At last, the Roman Emperor, Claudius, sent Aulus Plautius, a skilful general, with a mighty force, to subdue the Island, and shortly afterwards arrived himself. They did little; and Ostorius Scapula, another general, came. Some of the British Chiefs of Tribes submitted. Others resolved to fight to the death. Of these brave men, the bravest was Caractacus, or Caradoc, who gave battle to the Romans, with his army, among the mountains of North Wales. ‘This day,’ said he to his soldiers, ‘decides the fate of Britain! Your liberty, or your eternal slavery, dates from this hour. Remember your brave ancestors, who drove the great Cæsar himself across the sea!’ On hearing these words, his men, with a great shout, rushed upon the Romans. But the strong Roman swords and armour were too much for the weaker British weapons in close conflict. The Britons lost the day. The wife and daughter of the brave Caractacus were taken prisoners; his brothers delivered themselves up; he himself was betrayed into the hands of the Romans by his false and base stepmother: and they carried him, and all his family, in triumph to Rome.

Almost a hundred years went by, and during that time, there was peace in Britain. The Britons improved their towns and lifestyles: they became more civilized, traveled, and learned a lot from the Gauls and Romans. Finally, the Roman Emperor, Claudius, sent Aulus Plautius, a skilled general, with a large army to conquer the Island, and shortly afterward, he arrived himself. They didn't do much; then Ostorius Scapula, another general, came. Some British tribal leaders surrendered. Others decided to fight to the death. Among these brave men, the most courageous was Caractacus, or Caradoc, who confronted the Romans with his army in the mountains of North Wales. "Today," he told his soldiers, "decides the fate of Britain! Your freedom or your eternal slavery starts right now. Remember your brave ancestors who drove the great Cæsar himself across the sea!" Upon hearing these words, his men shouted loudly and charged at the Romans. But the strong Roman swords and armor overpowered the weaker British weapons in close combat. The Britons lost the battle. The wife and daughter of the brave Caractacus were captured; his brothers surrendered; he himself was betrayed to the Romans by his treacherous stepmother, and they took him and his entire family in triumph to Rome.

But a great man will be great in misfortune, great in prison, great in chains. His noble air, and dignified endurance of distress, so touched the Roman people who thronged the streets to see him, that he and his family were restored to freedom. No one knows whether his great heart broke, and he died in Rome, or whether he ever returned to his own dear country. English oaks have grown up from acorns, and withered away, when they were hundreds of years old—and other oaks have sprung up in their places, and died too, very aged—since the rest of the history of the brave Caractacus was forgotten.

But a great man will remain great in hard times, great in prison, and great in chains. His noble presence and dignified way of handling suffering resonated with the Roman people who crowded the streets to see him, leading to his and his family’s release. No one knows if his courageous heart broke, causing him to die in Rome, or if he ever returned to his beloved homeland. English oaks have grown from acorns and have withered away after hundreds of years—and others have risen in their place and died as well—since the rest of the story of the brave Caratacus was forgotten.

Still, the Britons would not yield. They rose again and again, and died by thousands, sword in hand. They rose, on every possible occasion. Suetonius, another Roman general, came, and stormed the Island of Anglesey (then called Mona), which was supposed to be sacred, and he burnt the Druids in their own wicker cages, by their own fires. But, even while he was in Britain, with his victorious troops, the Britons rose. Because Boadicea, a British queen, the widow of the King of the Norfolk and Suffolk people, resisted the plundering of her property by the Romans who were settled in England, she was scourged, by order of Catus a Roman officer; and her two daughters were shamefully insulted in her presence, and her husband’s relations were made slaves. To avenge this injury, the Britons rose, with all their might and rage. They drove Catus into Gaul; they laid the Roman possessions waste; they forced the Romans out of London, then a poor little town, but a trading place; they hanged, burnt, crucified, and slew by the sword, seventy thousand Romans in a few days. Suetonius strengthened his army, and advanced to give them battle. They strengthened their army, and desperately attacked his, on the field where it was strongly posted. Before the first charge of the Britons was made, Boadicea, in a war-chariot, with her fair hair streaming in the wind, and her injured daughters lying at her feet, drove among the troops, and cried to them for vengeance on their oppressors, the licentious Romans. The Britons fought to the last; but they were vanquished with great slaughter, and the unhappy queen took poison.

Still, the Britons would not give up. They rose again and again, dying by the thousands, armed with swords. They stood up at every chance they got. Suetonius, another Roman general, arrived and attacked the Island of Anglesey (then known as Mona), believed to be sacred, and he burned the Druids in their own wicker cages, using their own fires. But even while he was in Britain with his victorious troops, the British people fought back. Because Boudica, a British queen and the widow of the King of the Norfolk and Suffolk people, resisted the Romans who occupied England and plundered her property, she was whipped on the orders of Cactus, a Roman officer; her two daughters were disgracefully insulted in front of her, and her husband's family members were enslaved. To avenge this wrong, the Britons rallied with all their strength and fury. They drove Cactus into Gaul; they devastated Roman holdings; they pushed the Romans out of London, which was then a small town but a trading hub; they hanged, burned, crucified, and killed seventy thousand Romans in just a few days. Suetonius reinforced his army and prepared to battle them. They also bolstered their forces and fiercely attacked his well-fortified position. Before the initial charge from the Britons, Boudica, in a war chariot with her flowing hair in the wind and her injured daughters at her feet, rode among the troops, calling for vengeance against their oppressors, the corrupt Romans. The Britons fought to the end; however, they were defeated with heavy losses, and the unfortunate queen took poison.

Still, the spirit of the Britons was not broken. When Suetonius left the country, they fell upon his troops, and retook the Island of Anglesey. Agricola came, fifteen or twenty years afterwards, and retook it once more, and devoted seven years to subduing the country, especially that part of it which is now called Scotland; but, its people, the Caledonians, resisted him at every inch of ground. They fought the bloodiest battles with him; they killed their very wives and children, to prevent his making prisoners of them; they fell, fighting, in such great numbers that certain hills in Scotland are yet supposed to be vast heaps of stones piled up above their graves. Hadrian came, thirty years afterwards, and still they resisted him. Severus came, nearly a hundred years afterwards, and they worried his great army like dogs, and rejoiced to see them die, by thousands, in the bogs and swamps. Caracalla, the son and successor of Severus, did the most to conquer them, for a time; but not by force of arms. He knew how little that would do. He yielded up a quantity of land to the Caledonians, and gave the Britons the same privileges as the Romans possessed. There was peace, after this, for seventy years.

Still, the spirit of the Britons was not broken. When Suetonius left the country, they attacked his troops and took back the Island of Anglesey. Farming arrived fifteen or twenty years later and reclaimed it once more, spending seven years conquering the region, especially what is now called Scotland; however, the Caledonians resisted him every step of the way. They fought fiercely against him, killing their own wives and children to prevent them from being captured; they fell in battle in such great numbers that certain hills in Scotland are still thought to be large piles of stones marking their graves. Hadrian came thirty years later, and they still resisted him. Severus arrived nearly a hundred years later, and they harassed his massive army relentlessly, celebrating as thousands of them died in the bogs and swamps. Caracalla, the son and successor of Severus, did the most to conquer them for a time, but not through military force. He understood how little that would achieve. He gave up a portion of land to the Caledonians and granted the Britons the same rights as the Romans had. There was peace after this for seventy years.

Then new enemies arose. They were the Saxons, a fierce, sea-faring people from the countries to the North of the Rhine, the great river of Germany on the banks of which the best grapes grow to make the German wine. They began to come, in pirate ships, to the sea-coast of Gaul and Britain, and to plunder them. They were repulsed by Carausius, a native either of Belgium or of Britain, who was appointed by the Romans to the command, and under whom the Britons first began to fight upon the sea. But, after this time, they renewed their ravages. A few years more, and the Scots (which was then the name for the people of Ireland), and the Picts, a northern people, began to make frequent plundering incursions into the South of Britain. All these attacks were repeated, at intervals, during two hundred years, and through a long succession of Roman Emperors and chiefs; during all which length of time, the Britons rose against the Romans, over and over again. At last, in the days of the Roman Honorius, when the Roman power all over the world was fast declining, and when Rome wanted all her soldiers at home, the Romans abandoned all hope of conquering Britain, and went away. And still, at last, as at first, the Britons rose against them, in their old brave manner; for, a very little while before, they had turned away the Roman magistrates, and declared themselves an independent people.

Then new enemies appeared. They were the Saxons, a fierce, seafaring people from the regions north of the Rhine, the great river in Germany known for its excellent grapevines that produce German wine. They started coming in pirate ships to the coast of Gaul and Britain to plunder. They were pushed back by Carausius, a native of either Belgium or Britain, who had been appointed by the Romans to lead, under whom the Britons first began fighting at sea. But after some time, they resumed their attacks. A few years later, the Scots (the term then used for the people of Ireland) and the Picts, a northern group, began to make frequent raids into southern Britain. All these assaults occurred repeatedly over two hundred years, through a long succession of Roman emperors and leaders; throughout this period, the Britons repeatedly rebelled against the Romans. Finally, in the days of the Roman Honorius, as Roman power worldwide was rapidly declining and Rome needed all its soldiers at home, the Romans gave up on conquering Britain and withdrew. Yet once again, just as before, the Britons rose up against them in their traditional brave manner; for, not long before, they had dismissed the Roman officials and declared themselves an independent people.

Five hundred years had passed, since Julius Cæsar’s first invasion of the Island, when the Romans departed from it for ever. In the course of that time, although they had been the cause of terrible fighting and bloodshed, they had done much to improve the condition of the Britons. They had made great military roads; they had built forts; they had taught them how to dress, and arm themselves, much better than they had ever known how to do before; they had refined the whole British way of living. Agricola had built a great wall of earth, more than seventy miles long, extending from Newcastle to beyond Carlisle, for the purpose of keeping out the Picts and Scots; Hadrian had strengthened it; Severus, finding it much in want of repair, had built it afresh of stone.

Five hundred years had passed since Julius Caesar's first invasion of the Island when the Romans left it for good. During that time, despite causing terrible fighting and bloodshed, they had done a lot to improve the lives of the Britons. They built major military roads, constructed forts, and taught the locals how to dress and arm themselves much better than they ever had before; they refined the entire British way of life. Farming built a massive earth wall, over seventy miles long, stretching from Newcastle to beyond Carlisle, to keep out the Picts and Scots; Hadrian reinforced it; Severus, seeing it needed repairs, rebuilt it with stone.

Above all, it was in the Roman time, and by means of Roman ships, that the Christian Religion was first brought into Britain, and its people first taught the great lesson that, to be good in the sight of God, they must love their neighbours as themselves, and do unto others as they would be done by. The Druids declared that it was very wicked to believe in any such thing, and cursed all the people who did believe it, very heartily. But, when the people found that they were none the better for the blessings of the Druids, and none the worse for the curses of the Druids, but, that the sun shone and the rain fell without consulting the Druids at all, they just began to think that the Druids were mere men, and that it signified very little whether they cursed or blessed. After which, the pupils of the Druids fell off greatly in numbers, and the Druids took to other trades.

Above all, it was during Roman times, and through Roman ships, that Christianity was first introduced to Britain, teaching its people the important lesson that to be good in the eyes of God, they must love their neighbors as themselves and treat others as they want to be treated. The Druids declared it was very wrong to believe in any such ideas and thoroughly cursed all the people who did. However, when people realized they didn't gain anything from the Druids' blessings and weren't harmed by their curses, and that the sun shone and the rain fell regardless of the Druids, they started to see the Druids as just ordinary men, making their curses or blessings seem insignificant. As a result, the number of Druid followers significantly decreased, and the Druids had to find other jobs.

Thus I have come to the end of the Roman time in England. It is but little that is known of those five hundred years; but some remains of them are still found. Often, when labourers are digging up the ground, to make foundations for houses or churches, they light on rusty money that once belonged to the Romans. Fragments of plates from which they ate, of goblets from which they drank, and of pavement on which they trod, are discovered among the earth that is broken by the plough, or the dust that is crumbled by the gardener’s spade. Wells that the Romans sunk, still yield water; roads that the Romans made, form part of our highways. In some old battle-fields, British spear-heads and Roman armour have been found, mingled together in decay, as they fell in the thick pressure of the fight. Traces of Roman camps overgrown with grass, and of mounds that are the burial-places of heaps of Britons, are to be seen in almost all parts of the country. Across the bleak moors of Northumberland, the wall of Severus, overrun with moss and weeds, still stretches, a strong ruin; and the shepherds and their dogs lie sleeping on it in the summer weather. On Salisbury Plain, Stonehenge yet stands: a monument of the earlier time when the Roman name was unknown in Britain, and when the Druids, with their best magic wands, could not have written it in the sands of the wild sea-shore.

Thus, I've reached the end of the Roman era in England. There's not much known about those five hundred years, but some remnants of that time still exist. Often, when workers are digging to lay the foundations for houses or churches, they come across rusty coins that once belonged to the Romans. Fragments of dishes they ate from, goblets they drank from, and the pavements they walked on are found in the soil disturbed by the plow or the dust turned up by the gardener's spade. Wells that the Romans dug still provide water; roads they built are now part of our highways. In some ancient battlefields, British spearheads and Roman armor have been discovered, decayed together where they fell in the thick of battle. You can see traces of Roman camps overgrown with grass and mounds that are burial sites for many Britons in almost every part of the country. Across the windswept moors of Northumberland, the wall of Severus, covered in moss and weeds, still stands as a strong ruin, and shepherds and their dogs lie sleeping on it during the summer. On Salisbury Plain, Stonehenge still stands: a monument from an earlier time when the Roman name was unknown in Britain, and when the Druids, with their finest magic wands, could not have inscribed it in the sands of the wild seashore.

CHAPTER II—ANCIENT ENGLAND UNDER THE EARLY SAXONS

The Romans had scarcely gone away from Britain, when the Britons began to wish they had never left it. For, the Romans being gone, and the Britons being much reduced in numbers by their long wars, the Picts and Scots came pouring in, over the broken and unguarded wall of Severus, in swarms. They plundered the richest towns, and killed the people; and came back so often for more booty and more slaughter, that the unfortunate Britons lived a life of terror. As if the Picts and Scots were not bad enough on land, the Saxons attacked the islanders by sea; and, as if something more were still wanting to make them miserable, they quarrelled bitterly among themselves as to what prayers they ought to say, and how they ought to say them. The priests, being very angry with one another on these questions, cursed one another in the heartiest manner; and (uncommonly like the old Druids) cursed all the people whom they could not persuade. So, altogether, the Britons were very badly off, you may believe.

The Romans had barely left Britain when the Britons started to regret that they had ever gone. With the Romans gone and the Britons significantly weakened by long wars, the Picts and Scots surged in through the broken and unguarded wall of Severus, in huge numbers. They raided the wealthiest towns and killed the inhabitants, returning repeatedly for more plunder and more bloodshed, which left the unfortunate Britons living in constant fear. As if the Picts and Scots weren't enough of a threat on land, the Saxons attacked the islanders from the sea. To make matters worse, the Britons bickered fiercely among themselves about which prayers to say and how to say them. The priests were extremely angry with each other over these issues, cursing one another with great enthusiasm, and (not unlike the old Druids) cursing all the people they couldn’t convince. So, all in all, the Britons were in a very tough spot, as you can imagine.

They were in such distress, in short, that they sent a letter to Rome entreating help—which they called the Groans of the Britons; and in which they said, ‘The barbarians chase us into the sea, the sea throws us back upon the barbarians, and we have only the hard choice left us of perishing by the sword, or perishing by the waves.’ But, the Romans could not help them, even if they were so inclined; for they had enough to do to defend themselves against their own enemies, who were then very fierce and strong. At last, the Britons, unable to bear their hard condition any longer, resolved to make peace with the Saxons, and to invite the Saxons to come into their country, and help them to keep out the Picts and Scots.

They were in such distress that they sent a letter to Rome asking for help, which they called the Groans of the Britons. In the letter, they said, "The barbarians chase us into the sea, the sea throws us back onto the barbarians, and we’re left with the tough choice of dying by the sword or drowning in the waves." But the Romans couldn’t help them, even if they wanted to; they were too busy defending themselves against their own fierce and powerful enemies. Eventually, the Britons, unable to endure their tough situation any longer, decided to make peace with the Saxons and invite them to come into their land to help fend off the Picts and Scots.

It was a British Prince named Vortigern who took this resolution, and who made a treaty of friendship with Hengist and Horsa, two Saxon chiefs. Both of these names, in the old Saxon language, signify Horse; for the Saxons, like many other nations in a rough state, were fond of giving men the names of animals, as Horse, Wolf, Bear, Hound. The Indians of North America,—a very inferior people to the Saxons, though—do the same to this day.

It was a British prince named Vortigern who made this decision and formed a friendship treaty with Hengist and Horsa, two Saxon leaders. Both of these names, in old Saxon, mean Horse; the Saxons, like many other primitive societies, liked to name people after animals, such as Horse, Wolf, Bear, and Hound. The Native Americans, who are considered a less advanced people than the Saxons, still do this today.

Hengist and Horsa drove out the Picts and Scots; and Vortigern, being grateful to them for that service, made no opposition to their settling themselves in that part of England which is called the Isle of Thanet, or to their inviting over more of their countrymen to join them. But Hengist had a beautiful daughter named Rowena; and when, at a feast, she filled a golden goblet to the brim with wine, and gave it to Vortigern, saying in a sweet voice, ‘Dear King, thy health!’ the King fell in love with her. My opinion is, that the cunning Hengist meant him to do so, in order that the Saxons might have greater influence with him; and that the fair Rowena came to that feast, golden goblet and all, on purpose.

Hengist and Horsa drove out the Picts and Scots, and Vortigern, grateful to them for their help, allowed them to settle in that part of England known as the Isle of Thanet and to invite more of their countrymen to join them. But Hengist had a beautiful daughter named Rowena; and when, at a feast, she filled a golden goblet to the brim with wine and handed it to Vortigern, saying in a sweet voice, ‘Dear King, here's to your health!’ the King fell in love with her. I believe that the clever Hengist intended for this to happen so that the Saxons could have more influence with him, and that the lovely Rowena came to that feast, golden goblet and all, on purpose.

At any rate, they were married; and, long afterwards, whenever the King was angry with the Saxons, or jealous of their encroachments, Rowena would put her beautiful arms round his neck, and softly say, ‘Dear King, they are my people! Be favourable to them, as you loved that Saxon girl who gave you the golden goblet of wine at the feast!’ And, really, I don’t see how the King could help himself.

At any rate, they were married; and, long afterwards, whenever the King was angry with the Saxons or jealous of their encroachments, Rowena would wrap her beautiful arms around his neck and gently say, ‘Dear King, they are my people! Please be kind to them, just like you loved that Saxon girl who gave you the golden goblet of wine at the feast!’ And honestly, I don’t see how the King could resist.

Ah! We must all die! In the course of years, Vortigern died—he was dethroned, and put in prison, first, I am afraid; and Rowena died; and generations of Saxons and Britons died; and events that happened during a long, long time, would have been quite forgotten but for the tales and songs of the old Bards, who used to go about from feast to feast, with their white beards, recounting the deeds of their forefathers. Among the histories of which they sang and talked, there was a famous one, concerning the bravery and virtues of King Arthur, supposed to have been a British Prince in those old times. But, whether such a person really lived, or whether there were several persons whose histories came to be confused together under that one name, or whether all about him was invention, no one knows.

Ah! We all have to die! Over the years, Vortigern died—he was overthrown and imprisoned, I’m afraid; and Rowena died; and generations of Saxons and Britons passed away; and events that occurred over a long, long time would have been completely forgotten if not for the stories and songs of the old Bards, who traveled from feast to feast with their white beards, sharing the deeds of their ancestors. Among the stories they sang and talked about, there was a famous one about the bravery and virtues of King Arthur, believed to have been a British Prince in those ancient times. But whether such a person actually existed, or if there were several people whose stories got mixed up under that one name, or if everything about him was just made up, no one knows.

I will tell you, shortly, what is most interesting in the early Saxon times, as they are described in these songs and stories of the Bards.

I’ll tell you briefly what’s most interesting about the early Saxon times, as described in these songs and stories of the Bards.

In, and long after, the days of Vortigern, fresh bodies of Saxons, under various chiefs, came pouring into Britain. One body, conquering the Britons in the East, and settling there, called their kingdom Essex; another body settled in the West, and called their kingdom Wessex; the Northfolk, or Norfolk people, established themselves in one place; the Southfolk, or Suffolk people, established themselves in another; and gradually seven kingdoms or states arose in England, which were called the Saxon Heptarchy. The poor Britons, falling back before these crowds of fighting men whom they had innocently invited over as friends, retired into Wales and the adjacent country; into Devonshire, and into Cornwall. Those parts of England long remained unconquered. And in Cornwall now—where the sea-coast is very gloomy, steep, and rugged—where, in the dark winter-time, ships have often been wrecked close to the land, and every soul on board has perished—where the winds and waves howl drearily and split the solid rocks into arches and caverns—there are very ancient ruins, which the people call the ruins of King Arthur’s Castle.

In the days of Vortigern and long after, waves of Saxons, led by different chiefs, started arriving in Britain. One group defeated the Britons in the East and settled there, naming their kingdom Essex; another group settled in the West and named their kingdom Wessex. The Northfolk, or Norfolk people, established themselves in one area, while the Southfolk, or Suffolk people, settled in a different one. Gradually, seven kingdoms or states emerged in England, known as the Saxon Heptarchy. The unfortunate Britons, retreating from these hordes of warriors whom they had naively welcomed as allies, withdrew into Wales and nearby regions; into Devonshire, and into Cornwall. These parts of England remained unconquered for a long time. In Cornwall today—where the coastline is quite bleak, steep, and rugged—where, during dark winters, ships have often wrecked close to shore, with everyone aboard perishing—where the winds and waves howl mournfully and carve the solid rocks into arches and caverns—there are very old ruins that people refer to as the ruins of King Arthur's Castle.

Kent is the most famous of the seven Saxon kingdoms, because the Christian religion was preached to the Saxons there (who domineered over the Britons too much, to care for what they said about their religion, or anything else) by Augustine, a monk from Rome. King Ethelbert, of Kent, was soon converted; and the moment he said he was a Christian, his courtiers all said they were Christians; after which, ten thousand of his subjects said they were Christians too. Augustine built a little church, close to this King’s palace, on the ground now occupied by the beautiful cathedral of Canterbury. Sebert, the King’s nephew, built on a muddy marshy place near London, where there had been a temple to Apollo, a church dedicated to Saint Peter, which is now Westminster Abbey. And, in London itself, on the foundation of a temple to Diana, he built another little church which has risen up, since that old time, to be Saint Paul’s.

Kent is the most famous of the seven Saxon kingdoms because the Christian faith was introduced to the Saxons there—who were too dominant over the Britons to care about their opinions on religion or anything else—by Augustine, a monk from Rome. King Ethelbert of Kent was quickly converted; as soon as he declared himself a Christian, all his courtiers claimed they were Christians too, and soon after, ten thousand of his subjects followed suit. Augustine built a small church near the King's palace, on the site that is now the beautiful cathedral of Canterbury. Sebert, the King’s nephew, constructed a church dedicated to Saint Peter on a muddy marshy spot near London, where there used to be a temple to Apollo, and this is now Westminster Abbey. In London itself, he built another small church on the site of a temple to Diana, which has since become known as Saint Paul’s.

After the death of Ethelbert, Edwin, King of Northumbria, who was such a good king that it was said a woman or child might openly carry a purse of gold, in his reign, without fear, allowed his child to be baptised, and held a great council to consider whether he and his people should all be Christians or not. It was decided that they should be. Coifi, the chief priest of the old religion, made a great speech on the occasion. In this discourse, he told the people that he had found out the old gods to be impostors. ‘I am quite satisfied of it,’ he said. ‘Look at me! I have been serving them all my life, and they have done nothing for me; whereas, if they had been really powerful, they could not have decently done less, in return for all I have done for them, than make my fortune. As they have never made my fortune, I am quite convinced they are impostors!’ When this singular priest had finished speaking, he hastily armed himself with sword and lance, mounted a war-horse, rode at a furious gallop in sight of all the people to the temple, and flung his lance against it as an insult. From that time, the Christian religion spread itself among the Saxons, and became their faith.

After the death of Ethelbert, Edwin, King of Northumbria, was such a good king that it was said a woman or child could openly carry a purse of gold during his reign, without fear. He allowed his child to be baptized and held a big council to discuss whether he and his people should all become Christians. It was decided that they would. Coifi, the chief priest of the old religion, gave a powerful speech on the occasion. In his talk, he told the people that he’d discovered the old gods were frauds. “I know this for sure,” he said. “Look at me! I’ve served them my whole life, and they've done nothing for me; if they were truly powerful, they should have done at least enough to make me wealthy, given all I've done for them. Since they haven't made me wealthy, I’m convinced they are frauds!” When this unusual priest finished speaking, he quickly armed himself with a sword and lance, mounted a war-horse, rode at full speed in front of everyone to the temple, and threw his lance at it as an insult. From that point on, Christianity spread among the Saxons and became their faith.

The next very famous prince was Egbert. He lived about a hundred and fifty years afterwards, and claimed to have a better right to the throne of Wessex than Beortric, another Saxon prince who was at the head of that kingdom, and who married Edburga, the daughter of Offa, king of another of the seven kingdoms. This Queen Edburga was a handsome murderess, who poisoned people when they offended her. One day, she mixed a cup of poison for a certain noble belonging to the court; but her husband drank of it too, by mistake, and died. Upon this, the people revolted, in great crowds; and running to the palace, and thundering at the gates, cried, ‘Down with the wicked queen, who poisons men!’ They drove her out of the country, and abolished the title she had disgraced. When years had passed away, some travellers came home from Italy, and said that in the town of Pavia they had seen a ragged beggar-woman, who had once been handsome, but was then shrivelled, bent, and yellow, wandering about the streets, crying for bread; and that this beggar-woman was the poisoning English queen. It was, indeed, Edburga; and so she died, without a shelter for her wretched head.

The next very famous prince was Egbert. He lived about a hundred and fifty years later and claimed to have a stronger claim to the throne of Wessex than Beortric, another Saxon prince who was ruling that kingdom and married Edburga, the daughter of Offa's Dyke, king of one of the other seven kingdoms. This Queen Edburga was a beautiful murderer who poisoned people who upset her. One day, she prepared a cup of poison for a certain noble in the court, but her husband accidentally drank it too and died. After that, the people revolted, storming the palace and banging on the gates, shouting, ‘Down with the wicked queen who poisons men!’ They expelled her from the country and got rid of the title she had tarnished. Years later, some travelers returned from Italy and reported that in the town of Pavia, they had seen a ragged beggar-woman who had once been beautiful but was now shriveled, hunched, and yellow, wandering the streets begging for bread; and that this beggar-woman was the poisoner of the English queen. It was indeed Edburga, and that's how she died, without a place to rest her miserable head.

Egbert, not considering himself safe in England, in consequence of his having claimed the crown of Wessex (for he thought his rival might take him prisoner and put him to death), sought refuge at the court of Charlemagne, King of France. On the death of Beortric, so unhappily poisoned by mistake, Egbert came back to Britain; succeeded to the throne of Wessex; conquered some of the other monarchs of the seven kingdoms; added their territories to his own; and, for the first time, called the country over which he ruled, England.

Egbert, feeling unsafe in England because he had claimed the crown of Wessex (he feared his rival might capture him and have him killed), sought refuge at the court of Charlemagne, King of France. After the unfortunate death of Beortric, who was accidentally poisoned, Egbert returned to Britain; he ascended to the throne of Wessex; defeated some of the other kings of the seven kingdoms; expanded his territories; and, for the first time, called the land he ruled, UK.

And now, new enemies arose, who, for a long time, troubled England sorely. These were the Northmen, the people of Denmark and Norway, whom the English called the Danes. They were a warlike people, quite at home upon the sea; not Christians; very daring and cruel. They came over in ships, and plundered and burned wheresoever they landed. Once, they beat Egbert in battle. Once, Egbert beat them. But, they cared no more for being beaten than the English themselves. In the four following short reigns, of Ethelwulf, and his sons, Ethelbald, Ethelbert, and Ethelred, they came back, over and over again, burning and plundering, and laying England waste. In the last-mentioned reign, they seized Edmund, King of East England, and bound him to a tree. Then, they proposed to him that he should change his religion; but he, being a good Christian, steadily refused. Upon that, they beat him, made cowardly jests upon him, all defenceless as he was, shot arrows at him, and, finally, struck off his head. It is impossible to say whose head they might have struck off next, but for the death of King Ethelred from a wound he had received in fighting against them, and the succession to his throne of the best and wisest king that ever lived in England.

And now, new enemies emerged who troubled England for a long time. These were the Northmen, from Denmark and Norway, whom the English referred to as the Danes. They were a fierce people, very comfortable on the sea; they were not Christians and were known for being bold and brutal. They arrived in ships, plundering and burning wherever they landed. Once, they defeated Egbert in battle. Another time, Egbert defeated them. But they didn’t care any more about being beaten than the English did. During the next four brief reigns of Ethelwulf and his sons, Ethelbald, Ethelbert, and Ethelred, they returned again and again, burning, plundering, and devastating England. In Ethelred's reign, they captured Edmund, King of East England, and tied him to a tree. They then suggested he convert to their religion, but he, being a devout Christian, firmly refused. In response, they beat him, mocked him for being defenseless, shot arrows at him, and finally beheaded him. It’s impossible to say whose head they might have taken next if it weren’t for the death of King Æthelred from a wound he received while fighting against them, which led to the rise of the best and wisest king that ever ruled in England.

CHAPTER III—ENGLAND UNDER THE GOOD SAXON, ALFRED

Alfred the Great was a young man, three-and-twenty years of age, when he became king. Twice in his childhood, he had been taken to Rome, where the Saxon nobles were in the habit of going on journeys which they supposed to be religious; and, once, he had stayed for some time in Paris. Learning, however, was so little cared for, then, that at twelve years old he had not been taught to read; although, of the sons of King Ethelwulf, he, the youngest, was the favourite. But he had—as most men who grow up to be great and good are generally found to have had—an excellent mother; and, one day, this lady, whose name was Osburga, happened, as she was sitting among her sons, to read a book of Saxon poetry. The art of printing was not known until long and long after that period, and the book, which was written, was what is called ‘illuminated,’ with beautiful bright letters, richly painted. The brothers admiring it very much, their mother said, ‘I will give it to that one of you four princes who first learns to read.’ Alfred sought out a tutor that very day, applied himself to learn with great diligence, and soon won the book. He was proud of it, all his life.

Alfred the Great was just 23 years old when he became king. Twice during his childhood, he visited Rome, as was common for Saxon nobles who believed these trips were religious, and he also spent some time in Paris. Back then, education was not prioritized at all, and by the age of 12, he still hadn't learned to read, even though he was the youngest and favorite son of King Ethelwulf. However, like many who grow up to be great and good, he had an incredible mother. One day, this woman, named Osburga, was sitting with her sons, reading a book of Saxon poetry. At that time, printing had not yet been invented, so the book was handwritten and 'illuminated,' featuring beautifully bright letters that were richly painted. The brothers admired it greatly, and their mother said, "I will give it to the one of you four princes who learns to read first." Alfred found a tutor that very day, dedicated himself to learning, and quickly earned the book. He was proud of it for the rest of his life.

This great king, in the first year of his reign, fought nine battles with the Danes. He made some treaties with them too, by which the false Danes swore they would quit the country. They pretended to consider that they had taken a very solemn oath, in swearing this upon the holy bracelets that they wore, and which were always buried with them when they died; but they cared little for it, for they thought nothing of breaking oaths and treaties too, as soon as it suited their purpose, and coming back again to fight, plunder, and burn, as usual. One fatal winter, in the fourth year of King Alfred’s reign, they spread themselves in great numbers over the whole of England; and so dispersed and routed the King’s soldiers that the King was left alone, and was obliged to disguise himself as a common peasant, and to take refuge in the cottage of one of his cowherds who did not know his face.

This great king, in the first year of his reign, fought nine battles with the Danes. He also made some treaties with them, in which the deceitful Danes swore they would leave the country. They pretended to take this very seriously, swearing on the holy bracelets they wore, which were always buried with them when they died. But they cared little for it, as they thought nothing of breaking oaths and treaties whenever it suited their needs, returning to fight, plunder, and burn as usual. One disastrous winter, in the fourth year of King Alfred's reign, they spread out in large numbers across England and routed the King’s soldiers, leaving him alone. He was forced to disguise himself as a common peasant and take refuge in the cottage of one of his cowherds who didn't recognize him.

Here, King Alfred, while the Danes sought him far and near, was left alone one day, by the cowherd’s wife, to watch some cakes which she put to bake upon the hearth. But, being at work upon his bow and arrows, with which he hoped to punish the false Danes when a brighter time should come, and thinking deeply of his poor unhappy subjects whom the Danes chased through the land, his noble mind forgot the cakes, and they were burnt. ‘What!’ said the cowherd’s wife, who scolded him well when she came back, and little thought she was scolding the King, ‘you will be ready enough to eat them by-and-by, and yet you cannot watch them, idle dog?’

Here, King Alfred the Great, while the Danes searched for him everywhere, was left alone one day by the cowherd’s wife to watch some cakes she put on the hearth to bake. However, while working on his bow and arrows, with which he planned to take on the deceitful Danes when the time was right, and deeply concerned about his poor, unfortunate subjects who were being chased by the Danes, he completely forgot about the cakes, and they ended up getting burnt. “What!” exclaimed the cowherd’s wife, who scolded him thoroughly upon her return and had no idea she was reprimanding the King, “You’ll be eager to eat them later, and yet you can’t keep an eye on them, lazy dog?”

At length, the Devonshire men made head against a new host of Danes who landed on their coast; killed their chief, and captured their flag; on which was represented the likeness of a Raven—a very fit bird for a thievish army like that, I think. The loss of their standard troubled the Danes greatly, for they believed it to be enchanted—woven by the three daughters of one father in a single afternoon—and they had a story among themselves that when they were victorious in battle, the Raven stretched his wings and seemed to fly; and that when they were defeated, he would droop. He had good reason to droop, now, if he could have done anything half so sensible; for, King Alfred joined the Devonshire men; made a camp with them on a piece of firm ground in the midst of a bog in Somersetshire; and prepared for a great attempt for vengeance on the Danes, and the deliverance of his oppressed people.

Eventually, the men of Devonshire confronted a new group of Danes who landed on their shores; they killed their leader and captured their flag, which had the image of a Raven on it—a fitting symbol for a sneaky army like that, I think. The loss of their standard upset the Danes greatly because they believed it was enchanted—woven by the three daughters of one father in just one afternoon—and they had a story that when they were winning a battle, the Raven would spread its wings and appear to fly; but when they were losing, it would droop. He certainly had good reason to droop now, if he could have done anything so sensible; for, King Alfred joined the Devonshire men, set up camp with them on solid ground in the middle of a bog in Somersetshire, and got ready for a major effort to take revenge on the Danes and free his oppressed people.

But, first, as it was important to know how numerous those pestilent Danes were, and how they were fortified, King Alfred, being a good musician, disguised himself as a glee-man or minstrel, and went, with his harp, to the Danish camp. He played and sang in the very tent of Guthrum the Danish leader, and entertained the Danes as they caroused. While he seemed to think of nothing but his music, he was watchful of their tents, their arms, their discipline, everything that he desired to know. And right soon did this great king entertain them to a different tune; for, summoning all his true followers to meet him at an appointed place, where they received him with joyful shouts and tears, as the monarch whom many of them had given up for lost or dead, he put himself at their head, marched on the Danish camp, defeated the Danes with great slaughter, and besieged them for fourteen days to prevent their escape. But, being as merciful as he was good and brave, he then, instead of killing them, proposed peace: on condition that they should altogether depart from that Western part of England, and settle in the East; and that Guthrum should become a Christian, in remembrance of the Divine religion which now taught his conqueror, the noble Alfred, to forgive the enemy who had so often injured him. This, Guthrum did. At his baptism, King Alfred was his godfather. And Guthrum was an honourable chief who well deserved that clemency; for, ever afterwards he was loyal and faithful to the king. The Danes under him were faithful too. They plundered and burned no more, but worked like honest men. They ploughed, and sowed, and reaped, and led good honest English lives. And I hope the children of those Danes played, many a time, with Saxon children in the sunny fields; and that Danish young men fell in love with Saxon girls, and married them; and that English travellers, benighted at the doors of Danish cottages, often went in for shelter until morning; and that Danes and Saxons sat by the red fire, friends, talking of King Alfred the Great.

But first, since it was important to find out how many of those troublesome Danes there were and how they were fortified, King Alfred, who was a talented musician, disguised himself as a minstrel and went, with his harp, to the Danish camp. He played and sang right in the tent of Guthrum, the Danish leader, entertaining the Danes as they indulged. While he appeared focused only on his music, he carefully observed their tents, their weapons, their discipline, and everything else he wanted to know. Soon enough, this great king would change the melody; he called all his loyal followers to meet him at a designated spot, where they welcomed him with joyful shouts and tears, seeing him as the monarch many had given up for lost or dead. He led them forward, marched against the Danish camp, defeated the Danes with significant casualties, and besieged them for fourteen days to prevent their escape. However, being as merciful as he was good and courageous, instead of killing them, he offered peace—on the condition that they would entirely leave that western part of England and settle in the east, and that Guthrum would convert to Christianity, in memory of the Divine faith that taught his conqueror, the noble Alfred, to forgive his enemies who had harmed him so often. Guthrum agreed. At his baptism, King Alfred was his godfather. And Guthrum was an honorable chief who truly deserved that kindness; from then on, he remained loyal and faithful to the king. The Danes under him were faithful as well. They no longer plundered or burned but worked like decent people. They plowed, sowed, harvested, and led good, honest English lives. And I hope the children of those Danes often played with Saxon children in the sunny fields; that Danish young men fell in love with Saxon girls and married them; and that English travelers, caught out at night at the doors of Danish homes, frequently sought shelter until morning; and that Danes and Saxons sat by the warm fire, friends, talking about King Alfred the Great.

All the Danes were not like these under Guthrum; for, after some years, more of them came over, in the old plundering and burning way—among them a fierce pirate of the name of Hastings, who had the boldness to sail up the Thames to Gravesend, with eighty ships. For three years, there was a war with these Danes; and there was a famine in the country, too, and a plague, both upon human creatures and beasts. But King Alfred, whose mighty heart never failed him, built large ships nevertheless, with which to pursue the pirates on the sea; and he encouraged his soldiers, by his brave example, to fight valiantly against them on the shore. At last, he drove them all away; and then there was repose in England.

Not all the Danes were like those under Guthrum; after a few years, more of them arrived, continuing the old ways of plundering and burning—among them a fierce pirate named Hastings, who boldly sailed up the Thames to Gravesend with eighty ships. For three years, there was a war with these Danes, along with famine in the country and a plague affecting both people and animals. But King Alfred the Great, whose strong spirit never wavered, built large ships to chase the pirates at sea; he also inspired his soldiers to fight bravely against them on the shore. Eventually, he drove them all away, bringing peace to England.

As great and good in peace, as he was great and good in war, King Alfred never rested from his labours to improve his people. He loved to talk with clever men, and with travellers from foreign countries, and to write down what they told him, for his people to read. He had studied Latin after learning to read English, and now another of his labours was, to translate Latin books into the English-Saxon tongue, that his people might be interested, and improved by their contents. He made just laws, that they might live more happily and freely; he turned away all partial judges, that no wrong might be done them; he was so careful of their property, and punished robbers so severely, that it was a common thing to say that under the great King Alfred, garlands of golden chains and jewels might have hung across the streets, and no man would have touched one. He founded schools; he patiently heard causes himself in his Court of Justice; the great desires of his heart were, to do right to all his subjects, and to leave England better, wiser, happier in all ways, than he found it. His industry in these efforts was quite astonishing. Every day he divided into certain portions, and in each portion devoted himself to a certain pursuit. That he might divide his time exactly, he had wax torches or candles made, which were all of the same size, were notched across at regular distances, and were always kept burning. Thus, as the candles burnt down, he divided the day into notches, almost as accurately as we now divide it into hours upon the clock. But when the candles were first invented, it was found that the wind and draughts of air, blowing into the palace through the doors and windows, and through the chinks in the walls, caused them to gutter and burn unequally. To prevent this, the King had them put into cases formed of wood and white horn. And these were the first lanthorns ever made in England.

As great and good in peace as he was in war, King Alfred the Great never stopped working to improve his people. He enjoyed talking with smart individuals and travelers from other countries, jotting down what they shared so his people could read it. He had studied Latin after learning to read English, and another of his efforts was to translate Latin books into Old English, so his people could find them interesting and beneficial. He created fair laws to help them live more happily and freely; he removed biased judges to ensure no one was wronged; he was so protective of their property and punished thieves so harshly that people commonly said that under King Alfred the Great, garlands of gold chains and jewels could hang across the streets, and no one would dare to touch them. He established schools; he personally listened to cases in his Court of Justice; his main goals were to ensure justice for all his subjects and to leave England better, wiser, and happier in every way than he found it. His dedication to these efforts was truly remarkable. He divided each day into specific parts, dedicating each part to a different task. To keep his time precise, he had wax torches or candles made, all the same size, marked at regular intervals, and always kept lit. As the candles burned down, he divided the day into notches, almost as accurately as we now measure it in hours on a clock. However, when the candles were first created, it turned out that the wind and drafts coming into the palace through doors and windows, as well as cracks in the walls, caused them to drip and burn unevenly. To fix this, the King had them placed inside cases made of wood and white horn. These were the first lanterns ever made in England.

All this time, he was afflicted with a terrible unknown disease, which caused him violent and frequent pain that nothing could relieve. He bore it, as he had borne all the troubles of his life, like a brave good man, until he was fifty-three years old; and then, having reigned thirty years, he died. He died in the year nine hundred and one; but, long ago as that is, his fame, and the love and gratitude with which his subjects regarded him, are freshly remembered to the present hour.

All this time, he was suffering from a terrible unknown illness that caused him constant and intense pain that nothing could ease. He endured it, like he had faced all the hardships in his life, like a brave and good man, until he was fifty-three years old; and then, after reigning for thirty years, he died. He passed away in the year nine hundred and one; but even though that's so long ago, his fame and the love and gratitude his subjects felt for him are still vividly remembered today.

In the next reign, which was the reign of Edward, surnamed The Elder, who was chosen in council to succeed, a nephew of King Alfred troubled the country by trying to obtain the throne. The Danes in the East of England took part with this usurper (perhaps because they had honoured his uncle so much, and honoured him for his uncle’s sake), and there was hard fighting; but, the King, with the assistance of his sister, gained the day, and reigned in peace for four and twenty years. He gradually extended his power over the whole of England, and so the Seven Kingdoms were united into one.

In the next reign, which was that of Edward, known as The Elderly, who was chosen in council to succeed, a nephew of King Alfred troubled the country by trying to take the throne. The Danes in the East of England supported this usurper (possibly because they held his uncle in high regard and respected him for his uncle’s sake), and there was intense fighting; however, the King, with his sister’s help, prevailed and ruled peacefully for twenty-four years. He gradually expanded his influence over all of England, uniting the Seven Kingdoms into one.

When England thus became one kingdom, ruled over by one Saxon king, the Saxons had been settled in the country more than four hundred and fifty years. Great changes had taken place in its customs during that time. The Saxons were still greedy eaters and great drinkers, and their feasts were often of a noisy and drunken kind; but many new comforts and even elegances had become known, and were fast increasing. Hangings for the walls of rooms, where, in these modern days, we paste up paper, are known to have been sometimes made of silk, ornamented with birds and flowers in needlework. Tables and chairs were curiously carved in different woods; were sometimes decorated with gold or silver; sometimes even made of those precious metals. Knives and spoons were used at table; golden ornaments were worn—with silk and cloth, and golden tissues and embroideries; dishes were made of gold and silver, brass and bone. There were varieties of drinking-horns, bedsteads, musical instruments. A harp was passed round, at a feast, like the drinking-bowl, from guest to guest; and each one usually sang or played when his turn came. The weapons of the Saxons were stoutly made, and among them was a terrible iron hammer that gave deadly blows, and was long remembered. The Saxons themselves were a handsome people. The men were proud of their long fair hair, parted on the forehead; their ample beards, their fresh complexions, and clear eyes. The beauty of the Saxon women filled all England with a new delight and grace.

When England became a single kingdom, ruled by one Saxon king, the Saxons had already been settled in the country for over four hundred and fifty years. During that time, significant changes had occurred in their customs. The Saxons remained heavy eaters and drinkers, and their feasts were often loud and rowdy; however, many new comforts and even luxuries were becoming known and were on the rise. Wall hangings, where today we use wallpaper, were sometimes made of silk, decorated with needlework of birds and flowers. Tables and chairs were intricately carved from different woods and were sometimes adorned with gold or silver, or even made from those precious metals. Knives and spoons were used at the table; golden ornaments were worn along with silk and cloth, and there were golden fabrics and embroideries. Dishes came in gold and silver, brass, and bone. There were various types of drinking horns, beds, and musical instruments. A harp was passed around at feasts like a drinking bowl, with each guest typically singing or playing when it was their turn. The Saxons' weapons were sturdily made, including a fearsome iron hammer that delivered deadly blows and was long remembered. The Saxons themselves were an attractive people, with men taking pride in their long fair hair, parted at the forehead, their thick beards, fresh complexions, and bright eyes. The beauty of Saxon women brought a new sense of delight and grace across England.

I have more to tell of the Saxons yet, but I stop to say this now, because under the Great Alfred, all the best points of the English-Saxon character were first encouraged, and in him first shown. It has been the greatest character among the nations of the earth. Wherever the descendants of the Saxon race have gone, have sailed, or otherwise made their way, even to the remotest regions of the world, they have been patient, persevering, never to be broken in spirit, never to be turned aside from enterprises on which they have resolved. In Europe, Asia, Africa, America, the whole world over; in the desert, in the forest, on the sea; scorched by a burning sun, or frozen by ice that never melts; the Saxon blood remains unchanged. Wheresoever that race goes, there, law, and industry, and safety for life and property, and all the great results of steady perseverance, are certain to arise.

I have more to share about the Saxons, but I want to pause here to say that under the Awesome Alfred, the best qualities of the English-Saxon character were first encouraged and demonstrated. It has been the greatest character among the nations of the world. Wherever the descendants of the Saxon race have traveled, whether by sailing or other means, even to the most distant parts of the globe, they have shown patience, perseverance, and an unbreakable spirit, never swaying from their commitments. In Europe, Asia, Africa, America, everywhere; in the desert, in the forest, at sea; under a scorching sun or in freezing ice that never melts; the Saxon blood remains constant. Wherever that race goes, there will be law, industry, safety for life and property, and all the significant outcomes of dedicated perseverance.

I pause to think with admiration, of the noble king who, in his single person, possessed all the Saxon virtues. Whom misfortune could not subdue, whom prosperity could not spoil, whose perseverance nothing could shake. Who was hopeful in defeat, and generous in success. Who loved justice, freedom, truth, and knowledge. Who, in his care to instruct his people, probably did more to preserve the beautiful old Saxon language, than I can imagine. Without whom, the English tongue in which I tell this story might have wanted half its meaning. As it is said that his spirit still inspires some of our best English laws, so, let you and I pray that it may animate our English hearts, at least to this—to resolve, when we see any of our fellow-creatures left in ignorance, that we will do our best, while life is in us, to have them taught; and to tell those rulers whose duty it is to teach them, and who neglect their duty, that they have profited very little by all the years that have rolled away since the year nine hundred and one, and that they are far behind the bright example of King Alfred the Great.

I take a moment to admire the noble king who embodied all the Saxon virtues. Misfortune couldn't break him, and prosperity didn't spoil him. His determination was unshakeable. He remained hopeful in defeat and generous in victory. He valued justice, freedom, truth, and knowledge. In his efforts to educate his people, he probably did more to preserve the beautiful old Saxon language than I can imagine. Without him, the English language in which I tell this story might lack half its meaning. Just as it’s said that his spirit continues to inspire some of our best English laws, let you and I hope it also inspires our English hearts, at least to this: to commit ourselves, when we see any of our fellow human beings left in ignorance, to do our best, while we are alive, to ensure they are educated; and to inform those leaders whose responsibility it is to teach them—yet who neglect that duty—that they have gained very little from all the years that have passed since the year nine hundred and one, and that they are far behind the shining example of King Alfred the Great.

CHAPTER IV—ENGLAND UNDER ATHELSTAN AND THE SIX BOY-KINGS

Athelstan, the son of Edward the Elder, succeeded that king. He reigned only fifteen years; but he remembered the glory of his grandfather, the great Alfred, and governed England well. He reduced the turbulent people of Wales, and obliged them to pay him a tribute in money, and in cattle, and to send him their best hawks and hounds. He was victorious over the Cornish men, who were not yet quite under the Saxon government. He restored such of the old laws as were good, and had fallen into disuse; made some wise new laws, and took care of the poor and weak. A strong alliance, made against him by Anlaf a Danish prince, Constantine King of the Scots, and the people of North Wales, he broke and defeated in one great battle, long famous for the vast numbers slain in it. After that, he had a quiet reign; the lords and ladies about him had leisure to become polite and agreeable; and foreign princes were glad (as they have sometimes been since) to come to England on visits to the English court.

Athelstan, the son of Edward the Elder, took over the throne after his father. He ruled for just fifteen years, but he remembered the greatness of his grandfather, the legendary Alfred, and led England effectively. He subdued the restless people of Wales, making them pay him taxes in money and livestock, and send him their finest hawks and hounds. He defeated the men of Cornwall, who were still not fully under Saxon control. He revived the good old laws that had fallen out of practice, created some wise new laws, and looked after the poor and vulnerable. A powerful alliance formed against him by Anlaf, a Danish prince, Constantine, King of the Scots, and the people of North Wales, was shattered by him in a famous battle known for the high number of casualties. After that, he enjoyed a peaceful reign; the lords and ladies around him had the time to become refined and charming, and foreign princes were pleased to visit England and the English court.

When Athelstan died, at forty-seven years old, his brother Edmund, who was only eighteen, became king. He was the first of six boy-kings, as you will presently know.

When Athelstan died at the age of forty-seven, his brother Edmund, who was just eighteen, became king. He was the first of six young kings, as you will soon find out.

They called him the Magnificent, because he showed a taste for improvement and refinement. But he was beset by the Danes, and had a short and troubled reign, which came to a troubled end. One night, when he was feasting in his hall, and had eaten much and drunk deep, he saw, among the company, a noted robber named Leof, who had been banished from England. Made very angry by the boldness of this man, the King turned to his cup-bearer, and said, ‘There is a robber sitting at the table yonder, who, for his crimes, is an outlaw in the land—a hunted wolf, whose life any man may take, at any time. Command that robber to depart!’ ‘I will not depart!’ said Leof. ‘No?’ cried the King. ‘No, by the Lord!’ said Leof. Upon that the King rose from his seat, and, making passionately at the robber, and seizing him by his long hair, tried to throw him down. But the robber had a dagger underneath his cloak, and, in the scuffle, stabbed the King to death. That done, he set his back against the wall, and fought so desperately, that although he was soon cut to pieces by the King’s armed men, and the wall and pavement were splashed with his blood, yet it was not before he had killed and wounded many of them. You may imagine what rough lives the kings of those times led, when one of them could struggle, half drunk, with a public robber in his own dining-hall, and be stabbed in presence of the company who ate and drank with him.

They called him the Magnificent because he had a taste for improvement and refinement. But he was troubled by the Danes and had a short, difficult reign that ended chaotically. One night, while he was feasting in his hall, eating and drinking heavily, he noticed a notorious outlaw named Leof, who had been banished from England. Infuriated by this man's audacity, the King turned to his cup-bearer and said, “There’s a robber sitting at that table who is an outlaw in the land—a hunted wolf, whose life anyone can take at any moment. Tell that robber to leave!” “I won’t leave!” shouted Leof. “No?” exclaimed the King. “No, I swear!” replied Leof. With that, the King stood up, charged at the robber, and grabbed his long hair in an attempt to throw him down. But Leof had a dagger hidden under his cloak, and during the struggle, he fatally stabbed the King. After that, he braced himself against the wall and fought fiercely, so much so that even though he was quickly cut down by the King’s men and the wall and floor were splattered with his blood, he managed to kill and wound many of them first. You can imagine how dangerous life was for kings back then, when one could end up wrestling with a public robber in his own dining room and be stabbed in front of his guests.

Then succeeded the boy-king Edred, who was weak and sickly in body, but of a strong mind. And his armies fought the Northmen, the Danes, and Norwegians, or the Sea-Kings, as they were called, and beat them for the time. And, in nine years, Edred died, and passed away.

Then came the boy-king Edred, who was physically weak and sickly, but had a strong mind. His armies fought against the Northmen, the Danes, and Norwegians, known as the Sea-Kings, and defeated them for the time being. After nine years, Edred died and passed away.

Then came the boy-king Edwy, fifteen years of age; but the real king, who had the real power, was a monk named Dunstan—a clever priest, a little mad, and not a little proud and cruel.

Then the boy-king Edwy arrived, just fifteen years old; however, the actual king with the true power was a monk named Dunstan—a smart priest, a bit crazy, and somewhat proud and cruel.

Dunstan was then Abbot of Glastonbury Abbey, whither the body of King Edmund the Magnificent was carried, to be buried. While yet a boy, he had got out of his bed one night (being then in a fever), and walked about Glastonbury Church when it was under repair; and, because he did not tumble off some scaffolds that were there, and break his neck, it was reported that he had been shown over the building by an angel. He had also made a harp that was said to play of itself—which it very likely did, as Æolian Harps, which are played by the wind, and are understood now, always do. For these wonders he had been once denounced by his enemies, who were jealous of his favour with the late King Athelstan, as a magician; and he had been waylaid, bound hand and foot, and thrown into a marsh. But he got out again, somehow, to cause a great deal of trouble yet.

Dunstan was then the Abbot of Glastonbury Abbey, where the body of King Edmund the Magnificent was brought to be buried. As a boy, he had once gotten out of his bed one night (while he was running a fever) and wandered around Glastonbury Church while it was being repaired. Since he didn't fall off any of the scaffolding there and break his neck, it was said that an angel had guided him around the building. He also created a harp that was rumored to play by itself—which it probably did, since Æolian harps, which are played by the wind, are well understood nowadays. Because of these wonders, his enemies, who were envious of his relationship with the late King Athelstan, accused him of being a magician; they ambushed him, tied him up, and threw him into a marsh. But somehow, he managed to escape, only to create more trouble later on.

The priests of those days were, generally, the only scholars. They were learned in many things. Having to make their own convents and monasteries on uncultivated grounds that were granted to them by the Crown, it was necessary that they should be good farmers and good gardeners, or their lands would have been too poor to support them. For the decoration of the chapels where they prayed, and for the comfort of the refectories where they ate and drank, it was necessary that there should be good carpenters, good smiths, good painters, among them. For their greater safety in sickness and accident, living alone by themselves in solitary places, it was necessary that they should study the virtues of plants and herbs, and should know how to dress cuts, burns, scalds, and bruises, and how to set broken limbs. Accordingly, they taught themselves, and one another, a great variety of useful arts; and became skilful in agriculture, medicine, surgery, and handicraft. And when they wanted the aid of any little piece of machinery, which would be simple enough now, but was marvellous then, to impose a trick upon the poor peasants, they knew very well how to make it; and did make it many a time and often, I have no doubt.

The priests back then were typically the only scholars. They were knowledgeable in many areas. Since they had to establish their own convents and monasteries on undeveloped land granted to them by the Crown, it was essential for them to be good farmers and gardeners; otherwise, their lands would have been too barren to sustain them. To decorate the chapels where they prayed and to ensure comfort in the dining halls where they ate and drank, they needed skilled carpenters, blacksmiths, and painters among them. For their safety during sickness and accidents, living in isolation, it was important for them to learn about the properties of plants and herbs and to know how to treat cuts, burns, scalds, and bruises, as well as how to mend broken limbs. Thus, they taught themselves and each other a wide range of practical skills and became adept in agriculture, medicine, surgery, and crafts. And whenever they needed a simple machine, which might seem basic now but was extraordinary back then, to trick the poor peasants, they knew exactly how to create it; and they did so many times, I'm sure.

Dunstan, Abbot of Glastonbury Abbey, was one of the most sagacious of these monks. He was an ingenious smith, and worked at a forge in a little cell. This cell was made too short to admit of his lying at full length when he went to sleep—as if that did any good to anybody!—and he used to tell the most extraordinary lies about demons and spirits, who, he said, came there to persecute him. For instance, he related that one day when he was at work, the devil looked in at the little window, and tried to tempt him to lead a life of idle pleasure; whereupon, having his pincers in the fire, red hot, he seized the devil by the nose, and put him to such pain, that his bellowings were heard for miles and miles. Some people are inclined to think this nonsense a part of Dunstan’s madness (for his head never quite recovered the fever), but I think not. I observe that it induced the ignorant people to consider him a holy man, and that it made him very powerful. Which was exactly what he always wanted.

Dunstan, Abbot of Glastonbury Abbey, was one of the wisest of these monks. He was a skilled blacksmith and worked at a forge in a small cell. This cell was too short for him to lie down fully when he slept—as if that did anyone any good!—and he used to tell the most outrageous stories about demons and spirits, claiming they came to torment him. For example, he said that one day while he was working, the devil peeked through the little window and tried to tempt him into a life of lazy pleasure; so, with his red-hot tongs, he grabbed the devil by the nose, causing him so much pain that his screams could be heard for miles. Some people think this nonsense is a sign of Dunstan’s madness (since he never fully recovered from the fever), but I don’t agree. I notice that it made ignorant people see him as a holy man, and that gave him a lot of power. Which is exactly what he always wanted.

On the day of the coronation of the handsome boy-king Edwy, it was remarked by Odo, Archbishop of Canterbury (who was a Dane by birth), that the King quietly left the coronation feast, while all the company were there. Odo, much displeased, sent his friend Dunstan to seek him. Dunstan finding him in the company of his beautiful young wife Elgiva, and her mother Ethelgiva, a good and virtuous lady, not only grossly abused them, but dragged the young King back into the feasting-hall by force. Some, again, think Dunstan did this because the young King’s fair wife was his own cousin, and the monks objected to people marrying their own cousins; but I believe he did it, because he was an imperious, audacious, ill-conditioned priest, who, having loved a young lady himself before he became a sour monk, hated all love now, and everything belonging to it.

On the day of the handsome boy-king Edwy's coronation, Odo, the Archbishop of Canterbury (who was originally from Denmark), noticed that the King quietly left the coronation feast while everyone else was still there. Odo, quite upset, sent his friend Dunstan to find him. When Dunstan discovered him with his beautiful young wife Elgiva and her mother Ethelgive, a good and virtuous woman, he not only insulted them but also forcefully dragged the young King back to the feasting hall. Some believe Dunstan did this because the young King’s lovely wife was his cousin, and the monks disapproved of marrying cousins; but I think he acted this way because he was a bossy, bold, ill-tempered priest who, having loved a young woman himself before becoming a grumpy monk, now despised all love and everything that came with it.

The young King was quite old enough to feel this insult. Dunstan had been Treasurer in the last reign, and he soon charged Dunstan with having taken some of the last king’s money. The Glastonbury Abbot fled to Belgium (very narrowly escaping some pursuers who were sent to put out his eyes, as you will wish they had, when you read what follows), and his abbey was given to priests who were married; whom he always, both before and afterwards, opposed. But he quickly conspired with his friend, Odo the Dane, to set up the King’s young brother, Edgar, as his rival for the throne; and, not content with this revenge, he caused the beautiful queen Elgiva, though a lovely girl of only seventeen or eighteen, to be stolen from one of the Royal Palaces, branded in the cheek with a red-hot iron, and sold into slavery in Ireland. But the Irish people pitied and befriended her; and they said, ‘Let us restore the girl-queen to the boy-king, and make the young lovers happy!’ and they cured her of her cruel wound, and sent her home as beautiful as before. But the villain Dunstan, and that other villain, Odo, caused her to be waylaid at Gloucester as she was joyfully hurrying to join her husband, and to be hacked and hewn with swords, and to be barbarously maimed and lamed, and left to die. When Edwy the Fair (his people called him so, because he was so young and handsome) heard of her dreadful fate, he died of a broken heart; and so the pitiful story of the poor young wife and husband ends! Ah! Better to be two cottagers in these better times, than king and queen of England in those bad days, though never so fair!

The young King was old enough to feel this insult. Dunstan had been Treasurer in the previous reign, and he quickly accused Dunstan of taking some of the last king’s money. The Abbot of Glastonbury fled to Belgium, narrowly escaping some pursuers sent to punish him, as you'll wish they had when you read what's coming next. His abbey was given to married priests, whom he always opposed, both then and after. But he quickly teamed up with his friend, Odo the Dane, to set up the King’s young brother, Edgar, as a rival for the throne. Not satisfied with this revenge, he had the beautiful queen Elgiva, a lovely girl of only seventeen or eighteen, kidnapped from one of the royal palaces, branded on the cheek with a red-hot iron, and sold into slavery in Ireland. However, the Irish people felt sorry for her and took her in; they said, ‘Let’s return the girl-queen to the boy-king and make the young lovers happy!’ They healed her cruel wound and sent her home as beautiful as ever. But the villain Dunstan, along with that other villain, Odo, had her attacked at Gloucester as she was joyfully rushing to reunite with her husband. They hacked and maimed her, leaving her to die. When Edwy the Fair (his people called him that because he was so young and handsome) heard of her terrible fate, he died of a broken heart; and so the tragic story of the poor young wife and husband comes to an end! Ah! Better to be two humble cottage dwellers in these better times than king and queen of England in those terrible days, no matter how beautiful!

Then came the boy-king, Edgar, called the Peaceful, fifteen years old. Dunstan, being still the real king, drove all married priests out of the monasteries and abbeys, and replaced them by solitary monks like himself, of the rigid order called the Benedictines. He made himself Archbishop of Canterbury, for his greater glory; and exercised such power over the neighbouring British princes, and so collected them about the King, that once, when the King held his court at Chester, and went on the river Dee to visit the monastery of St. John, the eight oars of his boat were pulled (as the people used to delight in relating in stories and songs) by eight crowned kings, and steered by the King of England. As Edgar was very obedient to Dunstan and the monks, they took great pains to represent him as the best of kings. But he was really profligate, debauched, and vicious. He once forcibly carried off a young lady from the convent at Wilton; and Dunstan, pretending to be very much shocked, condemned him not to wear his crown upon his head for seven years—no great punishment, I dare say, as it can hardly have been a more comfortable ornament to wear, than a stewpan without a handle. His marriage with his second wife, Elfrida, is one of the worst events of his reign. Hearing of the beauty of this lady, he despatched his favourite courtier, Athelwold, to her father’s castle in Devonshire, to see if she were really as charming as fame reported. Now, she was so exceedingly beautiful that Athelwold fell in love with her himself, and married her; but he told the King that she was only rich—not handsome. The King, suspecting the truth when they came home, resolved to pay the newly-married couple a visit; and, suddenly, told Athelwold to prepare for his immediate coming. Athelwold, terrified, confessed to his young wife what he had said and done, and implored her to disguise her beauty by some ugly dress or silly manner, that he might be safe from the King’s anger. She promised that she would; but she was a proud woman, who would far rather have been a queen than the wife of a courtier. She dressed herself in her best dress, and adorned herself with her richest jewels; and when the King came, presently, he discovered the cheat. So, he caused his false friend, Athelwold, to be murdered in a wood, and married his widow, this bad Elfrida. Six or seven years afterwards, he died; and was buried, as if he had been all that the monks said he was, in the abbey of Glastonbury, which he—or Dunstan for him—had much enriched.

Then the boy-king, Edgar, known as the Peaceful, was just fifteen. Dunstan, still the actual ruler, expelled all married priests from the monasteries and abbeys, replacing them with solitary monks like himself, from the strict Benedictine order. He made himself the Archbishop of Canterbury for his own glory and held significant influence over the nearby British princes, gathering them around the King. Once, when the King held court in Chester and traveled on the river Dee to visit the monastery of St. John, people used to delight in telling stories and singing songs about how eight crowned kings rowed his boat, while the King of England steered it. As Edgar was very obedient to Dunstan and the monks, they worked hard to portray him as the best of kings. However, he was actually wasteful, corrupt, and immoral. He once forcibly took a young woman from the convent at Wilton, and Dunstan, pretending to be very shocked, punished him by forbidding him to wear his crown for seven years—a minor punishment, I would say, since it might have been no more uncomfortable than wearing a handle-less stewpan. His marriage to his second wife, Elfrida, is one of the worst events of his reign. Hearing about this lady's beauty, he sent his favorite courtier, Athelwold, to her father's castle in Devonshire to see if she was really as lovely as the rumors said. She was so extraordinarily beautiful that Athelwold fell in love with her himself and married her, but he told the King that she was only wealthy—not attractive. The King, suspecting the truth when they returned, decided to pay the newlyweds a visit and quickly told Athelwold to get ready for his immediate arrival. Terrified, Athelwold confessed to his young wife what he had done and begged her to disguise her beauty with an ugly outfit or foolish demeanor to protect him from the King's wrath. She promised she would, but she was a proud woman who would much rather be a queen than the wife of a courtier. So, she dressed in her finest clothes and adorned herself with her most extravagant jewels; when the King arrived, he quickly discovered the deception. He had his treacherous friend, Athelwold, murdered in a woods and then married his widow, this treacherous Elfrida. Six or seven years later, he died and was buried, as if he were everything the monks claimed he was, in the abbey of Glastonbury, which he—or Dunstan acting on his behalf—had greatly enriched.

England, in one part of this reign, was so troubled by wolves, which, driven out of the open country, hid themselves in the mountains of Wales when they were not attacking travellers and animals, that the tribute payable by the Welsh people was forgiven them, on condition of their producing, every year, three hundred wolves’ heads. And the Welshmen were so sharp upon the wolves, to save their money, that in four years there was not a wolf left.

England, during part of this reign, was so plagued by wolves, which, driven out of the open countryside, hid in the mountains of Wales when they weren't attacking travelers and livestock, that the tribute owed by the Welsh people was waived, on the condition that they provided three hundred wolf heads every year. And the Welsh were so keen on hunting the wolves to save their money that in four years not a single wolf was left.

Then came the boy-king, Edward, called the Martyr, from the manner of his death. Elfrida had a son, named Ethelred, for whom she claimed the throne; but Dunstan did not choose to favour him, and he made Edward king. The boy was hunting, one day, down in Dorsetshire, when he rode near to Corfe Castle, where Elfrida and Ethelred lived. Wishing to see them kindly, he rode away from his attendants and galloped to the castle gate, where he arrived at twilight, and blew his hunting-horn. ‘You are welcome, dear King,’ said Elfrida, coming out, with her brightest smiles. ‘Pray you dismount and enter.’ ‘Not so, dear madam,’ said the King. ‘My company will miss me, and fear that I have met with some harm. Please you to give me a cup of wine, that I may drink here, in the saddle, to you and to my little brother, and so ride away with the good speed I have made in riding here.’ Elfrida, going in to bring the wine, whispered an armed servant, one of her attendants, who stole out of the darkening gateway, and crept round behind the King’s horse. As the King raised the cup to his lips, saying, ‘Health!’ to the wicked woman who was smiling on him, and to his innocent brother whose hand she held in hers, and who was only ten years old, this armed man made a spring and stabbed him in the back. He dropped the cup and spurred his horse away; but, soon fainting with loss of blood, dropped from the saddle, and, in his fall, entangled one of his feet in the stirrup. The frightened horse dashed on; trailing his rider’s curls upon the ground; dragging his smooth young face through ruts, and stones, and briers, and fallen leaves, and mud; until the hunters, tracking the animal’s course by the King’s blood, caught his bridle, and released the disfigured body.

Then came the boy-king, Edward, known as the Martyr because of the way he died. Elfrida had a son named Ethelred, whom she wanted on the throne; but Dunstan chose not to support him, and instead made Edward king. One day, while hunting in Dorsetshire, Edward rode close to Corfe Castle, where Elfrida and Ethelred lived. Wanting to see them warmly, he left his attendants and raced to the castle gate, arriving at twilight, and blew his hunting horn. “You are welcome, dear King,” Elfrida said, coming out with her brightest smiles. “Please dismount and come inside.” “Not so, dear madam,” replied the King. “My companions will worry about me and fear I've run into trouble. Please give me a cup of wine so I can drink here in the saddle, to you and to my little brother, and then I’ll ride away quickly.” Elfrida went inside to get the wine and quietly signaled an armed servant, one of her attendants, who slipped out from the darkening doorway and crept around behind the King’s horse. As the King raised the cup to his lips, saying “Cheers!” to the wicked woman smiling at him and to his innocent brother, who was only ten years old, this armed man suddenly leaped forward and stabbed him in the back. Edward dropped the cup and kicked his horse into a gallop, but soon weakened from blood loss, fell from the saddle, getting one foot caught in the stirrup. The frightened horse took off, dragging his rider’s curls along the ground and pulling his smooth young face through ruts, stones, thorns, fallen leaves, and mud, until the hunters, following the trail of the King’s blood, caught the horse’s bridle and freed the disfigured body.

Then came the sixth and last of the boy-kings, Ethelred, whom Elfrida, when he cried out at the sight of his murdered brother riding away from the castle gate, unmercifully beat with a torch which she snatched from one of the attendants. The people so disliked this boy, on account of his cruel mother and the murder she had done to promote him, that Dunstan would not have had him for king, but would have made Edgitha, the daughter of the dead King Edgar, and of the lady whom he stole out of the convent at Wilton, Queen of England, if she would have consented. But she knew the stories of the youthful kings too well, and would not be persuaded from the convent where she lived in peace; so, Dunstan put Ethelred on the throne, having no one else to put there, and gave him the nickname of The Unready—knowing that he wanted resolution and firmness.

Then came the sixth and last of the boy-kings, Ethelred, whom Elfrida beat mercilessly with a torch she grabbed from one of the attendants when he cried out at the sight of his murdered brother riding away from the castle gate. The people disliked this boy because of his cruel mother and the murder she committed to elevate him, so Dunstan wouldn’t have made him king. Instead, he would have crowned Edgitha, the daughter of the deceased King Edgar and the lady he stole from the convent at Wilton, as Queen of England, if she had agreed. But she was too aware of the tales surrounding youthful kings and wouldn’t be convinced to leave the convent where she lived in peace. Therefore, Dunstan placed Ethelred on the throne, having no one else to choose, and gave him the nickname The Unprepared, knowing he lacked the resolve and strength needed.

At first, Elfrida possessed great influence over the young King, but, as he grew older and came of age, her influence declined. The infamous woman, not having it in her power to do any more evil, then retired from court, and, according, to the fashion of the time, built churches and monasteries, to expiate her guilt. As if a church, with a steeple reaching to the very stars, would have been any sign of true repentance for the blood of the poor boy, whose murdered form was trailed at his horse’s heels! As if she could have buried her wickedness beneath the senseless stones of the whole world, piled up one upon another, for the monks to live in!

At first, Elfrida had a lot of influence over the young King, but as he got older and came into his own, her power faded. The notorious woman, unable to do any more harm, then stepped back from the court and, following the customs of the time, built churches and monasteries to atone for her sins. As if a church with a steeple reaching to the stars could ever be a sign of real remorse for the blood of the poor boy, whose lifeless body was dragged behind his horse! As if she could bury her wickedness under meaningless stones from around the world, stacked one on top of another for the monks to inhabit!

About the ninth or tenth year of this reign, Dunstan died. He was growing old then, but was as stern and artful as ever. Two circumstances that happened in connexion with him, in this reign of Ethelred, made a great noise. Once, he was present at a meeting of the Church, when the question was discussed whether priests should have permission to marry; and, as he sat with his head hung down, apparently thinking about it, a voice seemed to come out of a crucifix in the room, and warn the meeting to be of his opinion. This was some juggling of Dunstan’s, and was probably his own voice disguised. But he played off a worse juggle than that, soon afterwards; for, another meeting being held on the same subject, and he and his supporters being seated on one side of a great room, and their opponents on the other, he rose and said, ‘To Christ himself, as judge, do I commit this cause!’ Immediately on these words being spoken, the floor where the opposite party sat gave way, and some were killed and many wounded. You may be pretty sure that it had been weakened under Dunstan’s direction, and that it fell at Dunstan’s signal. His part of the floor did not go down. No, no. He was too good a workman for that.

About the ninth or tenth year of this reign, Dunstan died. He was getting old, but was as stern and clever as ever. Two events involving him during Ethelred's reign caused quite a stir. Once, he attended a Church meeting where they discussed whether priests should be allowed to marry. As he sat there with his head down, seemingly deep in thought, a voice seemed to come from a crucifix in the room, urging everyone to agree with him. This was likely a trick of Dunstan’s, probably his own voice disguised. But he pulled off an even bigger trick soon after; during another meeting on the same topic, with him and his supporters on one side of a large room and their opponents on the other, he stood up and declared, "To Christ himself, as judge, I commit this cause!" As soon as he said this, the floor beneath the opposing party collapsed, injuring many and killing some. It's safe to say that it had been weakened under Dunstan’s direction and fell at his signal. His part of the floor didn’t give way, of course. No, he was too good a craftsman for that.

When he died, the monks settled that he was a Saint, and called him Saint Dunstan ever afterwards. They might just as well have settled that he was a coach-horse, and could just as easily have called him one.

When he died, the monks decided he was a Saint and called him Saint Dunstan from then on. They might as well have decided he was a workhorse and could have just as easily called him that.

Ethelred the Unready was glad enough, I dare say, to be rid of this holy saint; but, left to himself, he was a poor weak king, and his reign was a reign of defeat and shame. The restless Danes, led by Sweyn, a son of the King of Denmark who had quarrelled with his father and had been banished from home, again came into England, and, year after year, attacked and despoiled large towns. To coax these sea-kings away, the weak Ethelred paid them money; but, the more money he paid, the more money the Danes wanted. At first, he gave them ten thousand pounds; on their next invasion, sixteen thousand pounds; on their next invasion, four and twenty thousand pounds: to pay which large sums, the unfortunate English people were heavily taxed. But, as the Danes still came back and wanted more, he thought it would be a good plan to marry into some powerful foreign family that would help him with soldiers. So, in the year one thousand and two, he courted and married Emma, the sister of Richard Duke of Normandy; a lady who was called the Flower of Normandy.

Ethelred the Unready was probably relieved to be rid of this holy saint; however, left on his own, he was a weak king, and his reign was marked by defeat and shame. The restless Danes, led by Sweyn, the son of the King of Denmark who had a falling out with his father and was exiled, came back to England and attacked and looted large towns year after year. To try to drive these sea-kings away, the ineffective Ethelred paid them off, but the more he paid, the more they demanded. At first, he gave them ten thousand pounds; during their next invasion, he offered sixteen thousand pounds; then, for the next invasion, he paid twenty-four thousand pounds. These huge sums put heavy taxes on the unfortunate English people. Since the Danes kept coming back for more, he thought it would be wise to marry into a powerful foreign family that could help him with soldiers. So, in the year 1002, he sought out and married Emma, the sister of Richard Duke of Normandy, known as the Flower of Normandy.

And now, a terrible deed was done in England, the like of which was never done on English ground before or since. On the thirteenth of November, in pursuance of secret instructions sent by the King over the whole country, the inhabitants of every town and city armed, and murdered all the Danes who were their neighbours.

And now, a terrible act was committed in England, unlike anything that had ever happened on English soil before or after. On November 13th, following secret orders from the King sent throughout the entire country, the people of every town and city took up arms and killed all the Danes who lived nearby.

Young and old, babies and soldiers, men and women, every Dane was killed. No doubt there were among them many ferocious men who had done the English great wrong, and whose pride and insolence, in swaggering in the houses of the English and insulting their wives and daughters, had become unbearable; but no doubt there were also among them many peaceful Christian Danes who had married English women and become like English men. They were all slain, even to Gunhilda, the sister of the King of Denmark, married to an English lord; who was first obliged to see the murder of her husband and her child, and then was killed herself.

Every Dane—young and old, babies and soldiers, men and women—was killed. No doubt, among them were many brutal men who had done great harm to the English, whose pride and arrogance in flaunting their presence in English homes and insulting their wives and daughters had become intolerable. But there were also many peaceful Christian Danes among them who had married English women and had become like English men. All were slaughtered, including Gunhilda, the sister of the King of Denmark, who was married to an English lord. She was forced to witness the murder of her husband and child before she was killed herself.

When the King of the sea-kings heard of this deed of blood, he swore that he would have a great revenge. He raised an army, and a mightier fleet of ships than ever yet had sailed to England; and in all his army there was not a slave or an old man, but every soldier was a free man, and the son of a free man, and in the prime of life, and sworn to be revenged upon the English nation, for the massacre of that dread thirteenth of November, when his countrymen and countrywomen, and the little children whom they loved, were killed with fire and sword. And so, the sea-kings came to England in many great ships, each bearing the flag of its own commander. Golden eagles, ravens, dragons, dolphins, beasts of prey, threatened England from the prows of those ships, as they came onward through the water; and were reflected in the shining shields that hung upon their sides. The ship that bore the standard of the King of the sea-kings was carved and painted like a mighty serpent; and the King in his anger prayed that the Gods in whom he trusted might all desert him, if his serpent did not strike its fangs into England’s heart.

When the King of the sea-kings heard about this bloody act, he vowed to take great revenge. He raised an army and a larger fleet of ships than ever had sailed to England before; there was not a single slave or old man in his army—each soldier was a free man, the son of a free man, in the prime of life, sworn to seek vengeance on the English nation for the massacre of that terrible thirteenth of November, when his countrymen, countrywomen, and the little children they loved were killed by fire and sword. And so, the sea-kings arrived in England on many great ships, each flying the flag of its commander. Golden eagles, ravens, dragons, dolphins, and beasts of prey threatened England from the prows of those ships as they moved through the water; their images were reflected in the shining shields that hung from their sides. The ship that carried the standard of the King of the sea-kings was carved and painted like a mighty serpent, and in his anger, the King prayed that the gods he trusted would abandon him if his serpent did not sink its fangs into England's heart.

And indeed it did. For, the great army landing from the great fleet, near Exeter, went forward, laying England waste, and striking their lances in the earth as they advanced, or throwing them into rivers, in token of their making all the island theirs. In remembrance of the black November night when the Danes were murdered, wheresoever the invaders came, they made the Saxons prepare and spread for them great feasts; and when they had eaten those feasts, and had drunk a curse to England with wild rejoicings, they drew their swords, and killed their Saxon entertainers, and marched on. For six long years they carried on this war: burning the crops, farmhouses, barns, mills, granaries; killing the labourers in the fields; preventing the seed from being sown in the ground; causing famine and starvation; leaving only heaps of ruin and smoking ashes, where they had found rich towns. To crown this misery, English officers and men deserted, and even the favourites of Ethelred the Unready, becoming traitors, seized many of the English ships, turned pirates against their own country, and aided by a storm occasioned the loss of nearly the whole English navy.

And it really did. The huge army landing from the massive fleet near Exeter moved forward, destroying England and plunging their lances into the ground as they marched, or tossing them into rivers as a sign that they were claiming the whole island. In memory of the dark November night when the Danes were killed, wherever the invaders went, they made the Saxons prepare and lay out grand feasts for them; and after they enjoyed those feasts and raised a toast to England with raucous celebrations, they unsheathed their swords, killed their Saxon hosts, and continued their march. For six long years they waged this war: burning crops, farmhouses, barns, mills, and granaries; killing laborers in the fields; preventing seeds from being sown in the soil; causing famine and starvation, leaving only piles of destruction and smoldering ashes where they had once found prosperous towns. To top off this misery, English officers and soldiers deserted, and even the favorites of Ethelred the Unready turned traitor, seizing many English ships, becoming pirates against their own country, and a storm aided in the near-total loss of the English navy.

There was but one man of note, at this miserable pass, who was true to his country and the feeble King. He was a priest, and a brave one. For twenty days, the Archbishop of Canterbury defended that city against its Danish besiegers; and when a traitor in the town threw the gates open and admitted them, he said, in chains, ‘I will not buy my life with money that must be extorted from the suffering people. Do with me what you please!’ Again and again, he steadily refused to purchase his release with gold wrung from the poor.

There was only one man of importance in this terrible situation who remained loyal to his country and the weak King. He was a brave priest. For twenty days, the Archbishop of Canterbury defended the city against the Danish attackers. When a traitor in the town opened the gates to let them in, he, in chains, said, “I won't buy my life with money that has to be taken from the suffering people. Do whatever you want with me!” Again and again, he firmly refused to buy his freedom with gold taken from the poor.

At last, the Danes being tired of this, and being assembled at a drunken merry-making, had him brought into the feasting-hall.

At last, the Danes, tired of this, gathered together at a drunken celebration and had him brought into the feast hall.

‘Now, bishop,’ they said, ‘we want gold!’

He looked round on the crowd of angry faces; from the shaggy beards close to him, to the shaggy beards against the walls, where men were mounted on tables and forms to see him over the heads of others: and he knew that his time was come.

He looked around at the crowd of angry faces; from the messy beards close to him to the messy beards against the walls, where men stood on tables and benches to see over the heads of others: and he knew that his time had come.

‘I have no gold,’ he said.

‘I don’t have any gold,’ he said.

‘Get it, bishop!’ they all thundered.

‘Get it, bishop!’ they all shouted.

‘That, I have often told you I will not,’ said he.

"I've told you many times that I won't," he said.

They gathered closer round him, threatening, but he stood unmoved. Then, one man struck him; then, another; then a cursing soldier picked up from a heap in a corner of the hall, where fragments had been rudely thrown at dinner, a great ox-bone, and cast it at his face, from which the blood came spurting forth; then, others ran to the same heap, and knocked him down with other bones, and bruised and battered him; until one soldier whom he had baptised (willing, as I hope for the sake of that soldier’s soul, to shorten the sufferings of the good man) struck him dead with his battle-axe.

They gathered closer around him, threatening, but he stood his ground. Then, one guy hit him; then, another; then a yelling soldier grabbed a big ox bone from a pile in the corner of the hall, where bits had been carelessly tossed after dinner, and threw it at his face, causing blood to spurt out. Others then went to the same pile, knocked him down with more bones, and beat him up until one soldier he had baptized (hoping, for that soldier's sake, to lessen the suffering of the good man) struck him dead with his battle axe.

If Ethelred had had the heart to emulate the courage of this noble archbishop, he might have done something yet. But he paid the Danes forty-eight thousand pounds, instead, and gained so little by the cowardly act, that Sweyn soon afterwards came over to subdue all England. So broken was the attachment of the English people, by this time, to their incapable King and their forlorn country which could not protect them, that they welcomed Sweyn on all sides, as a deliverer. London faithfully stood out, as long as the King was within its walls; but, when he sneaked away, it also welcomed the Dane. Then, all was over; and the King took refuge abroad with the Duke of Normandy, who had already given shelter to the King’s wife, once the Flower of that country, and to her children.

If Ethelred had the courage to follow the example of this noble archbishop, he could have accomplished something. Instead, he paid the Danes forty-eight thousand pounds and gained so little from this cowardly decision that Sweyn soon came to conquer all of England. By this time, the English people were so disillusioned with their ineffective King and their helpless country that couldn't protect them, that they welcomed Sweyn from all sides as a savior. London held out faithfully for as long as the King was inside its walls, but when he sneaked away, it also welcomed the Dane. Then, it was all over; the King took refuge abroad with the Duke of Normandy, who had already offered shelter to the King’s wife, once the pride of that country, and to her children.

Still, the English people, in spite of their sad sufferings, could not quite forget the great King Alfred and the Saxon race. When Sweyn died suddenly, in little more than a month after he had been proclaimed King of England, they generously sent to Ethelred, to say that they would have him for their King again, ‘if he would only govern them better than he had governed them before.’ The Unready, instead of coming himself, sent Edward, one of his sons, to make promises for him. At last, he followed, and the English declared him King. The Danes declared Canute, the son of Sweyn, King. Thus, direful war began again, and lasted for three years, when the Unready died. And I know of nothing better that he did, in all his reign of eight and thirty years.

Still, the English people, despite their deep suffering, couldn’t quite forget the great King Alfred and the Saxon legacy. When Sweyn died suddenly, just over a month after being declared King of England, they generously reached out to Ethelred to say they would accept him as their King again, “if he could just govern them better than before.” Instead of coming himself, the Unready sent his son Edward to make promises on his behalf. Eventually, he followed, and the English proclaimed him King. The Danes declared Canute, Sweyn's son, as King. Thus, a terrible war started again and lasted for three years until the Unready died. And I can't think of anything better he accomplished during his thirty-eight-year reign.

Was Canute to be King now? Not over the Saxons, they said; they must have Edmund, one of the sons of the Unready, who was surnamed Ironside, because of his strength and stature. Edmund and Canute thereupon fell to, and fought five battles—O unhappy England, what a fighting-ground it was!—and then Ironside, who was a big man, proposed to Canute, who was a little man, that they two should fight it out in single combat. If Canute had been the big man, he would probably have said yes, but, being the little man, he decidedly said no. However, he declared that he was willing to divide the kingdom—to take all that lay north of Watling Street, as the old Roman military road from Dover to Chester was called, and to give Ironside all that lay south of it. Most men being weary of so much bloodshed, this was done. But Canute soon became sole King of England; for Ironside died suddenly within two months. Some think that he was killed, and killed by Canute’s orders. No one knows.

Was Canute going to be King now? Not over the Saxons, they said; they had to have Edmund, one of the sons of the Unready, who was nicknamed Ironside because of his strength and size. Edmund and Canute then went at it and fought five battles—Oh unhappy England, what a battleground it was!—and then Ironside, who was a big guy, suggested to Canute, who was smaller, that they should settle it with a one-on-one fight. If Canute had been the big guy, he might have said yes, but being the smaller guy, he firmly said no. However, he offered to split the kingdom—to take everything north of Watling Street, as the old Roman military road from Dover to Chester was known, and to give Ironside everything south of it. Most people, tired of all the bloodshed, agreed to this. But Canute soon became the sole King of England; Ironside died suddenly within two months. Some believe he was murdered, and that Canute ordered it. No one knows.

CHAPTER V—ENGLAND UNDER CANUTE THE DANE

Canute reigned eighteen years. He was a merciless King at first. After he had clasped the hands of the Saxon chiefs, in token of the sincerity with which he swore to be just and good to them in return for their acknowledging him, he denounced and slew many of them, as well as many relations of the late King. ‘He who brings me the head of one of my enemies,’ he used to say, ‘shall be dearer to me than a brother.’ And he was so severe in hunting down his enemies, that he must have got together a pretty large family of these dear brothers. He was strongly inclined to kill Edmund and Edward, two children, sons of poor Ironside; but, being afraid to do so in England, he sent them over to the King of Sweden, with a request that the King would be so good as ‘dispose of them.’ If the King of Sweden had been like many, many other men of that day, he would have had their innocent throats cut; but he was a kind man, and brought them up tenderly.

Canute ruled for eighteen years. He was a ruthless king at first. After he shook hands with the Saxon leaders to show he was sincere in his promise to be fair and good to them in exchange for their loyalty, he went on to denounce and kill many of them, along with relatives of the late king. “The person who brings me the head of one of my enemies,” he would say, “will be dearer to me than a brother.” He was so relentless in hunting down his enemies that he must have accumulated quite a few of these “dear brothers.” He was strongly tempted to kill Edmund and Edward, two young sons of poor Ironside; however, fearing to do it in England, he sent them to the King of Sweden, asking him to “take care of them.” If the King of Sweden had been like many others of that time, he would have had the innocent boys killed; but he was kind and raised them with care.

Normandy ran much in Canute’s mind. In Normandy were the two children of the late king—Edward and Alfred by name; and their uncle the Duke might one day claim the crown for them. But the Duke showed so little inclination to do so now, that he proposed to Canute to marry his sister, the widow of The Unready; who, being but a showy flower, and caring for nothing so much as becoming a queen again, left her children and was wedded to him.

Normandy was often on Canute’s mind. In Normandy were the two children of the late king—Edward and Alfred; their uncle, the Duke, might one day claim the throne for them. However, the Duke seemed very reluctant to do so now. Instead, he suggested to Canute that he marry his sister, the widow of The Unready. She, being more of a flashy figure and caring for nothing as much as becoming a queen again, abandoned her children to marry him.

Successful and triumphant, assisted by the valour of the English in his foreign wars, and with little strife to trouble him at home, Canute had a prosperous reign, and made many improvements. He was a poet and a musician. He grew sorry, as he grew older, for the blood he had shed at first; and went to Rome in a Pilgrim’s dress, by way of washing it out. He gave a great deal of money to foreigners on his journey; but he took it from the English before he started. On the whole, however, he certainly became a far better man when he had no opposition to contend with, and was as great a King as England had known for some time.

Successful and triumphant, supported by the bravery of the English in his foreign wars, and facing little conflict at home, Canute had a prosperous reign and made many improvements. He was a poet and a musician. As he aged, he regretted the blood he had spilled early on and traveled to Rome dressed as a pilgrim, hoping to atone for it. He gave a lot of money to foreigners during his journey, but he had taken it from the English before he left. Overall, however, he certainly became a much better man when he faced no opposition and was one of the greatest kings England had seen in a while.

The old writers of history relate how that Canute was one day disgusted with his courtiers for their flattery, and how he caused his chair to be set on the sea-shore, and feigned to command the tide as it came up not to wet the edge of his robe, for the land was his; how the tide came up, of course, without regarding him; and how he then turned to his flatterers, and rebuked them, saying, what was the might of any earthly king, to the might of the Creator, who could say unto the sea, ‘Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther!’ We may learn from this, I think, that a little sense will go a long way in a king; and that courtiers are not easily cured of flattery, nor kings of a liking for it. If the courtiers of Canute had not known, long before, that the King was fond of flattery, they would have known better than to offer it in such large doses. And if they had not known that he was vain of this speech (anything but a wonderful speech it seems to me, if a good child had made it), they would not have been at such great pains to repeat it. I fancy I see them all on the sea-shore together; the King’s chair sinking in the sand; the King in a mighty good humour with his own wisdom; and the courtiers pretending to be quite stunned by it!

The old historians tell how Canute was once fed up with his courtiers for their flattery. He had a chair set up on the beach and pretended to command the tide not to wet the edge of his robe, as if the land was his. Of course, the tide came in without paying him any mind. Then he turned to his flatterers and scolded them, asking what power any earthly king had compared to the Creator, who could command the sea, saying, ‘Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther!’ From this, I think we can learn that a little common sense goes a long way for a king, and that courtiers are hard to wean off flattery, just as kings find it hard to resist. If Canute's courtiers hadn’t known beforehand that he enjoyed flattery, they would have been more careful than to offer it in such large amounts. And if they hadn’t known that he took pride in such praise (which doesn't seem that impressive to me, especially if a good child had said it), they wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to repeat it. I can almost picture them all on the beach together: the King’s chair sinking into the sand, the King in a great mood with his own wisdom, and the courtiers pretending to be completely amazed by it!

It is not the sea alone that is bidden to go ‘thus far, and no farther.’ The great command goes forth to all the kings upon the earth, and went to Canute in the year one thousand and thirty-five, and stretched him dead upon his bed. Beside it, stood his Norman wife. Perhaps, as the King looked his last upon her, he, who had so often thought distrustfully of Normandy, long ago, thought once more of the two exiled Princes in their uncle’s court, and of the little favour they could feel for either Danes or Saxons, and of a rising cloud in Normandy that slowly moved towards England.

It’s not just the sea that is told to go ‘this far, and no farther.’ The same command is given to all the kings of the earth, including Canute in the year 1035, and it laid him dead on his bed. Next to him stood his Norman wife. Maybe, as the King took his final look at her, he, who had often been suspicious of Normandy, remembered once again the two exiled Princes in their uncle's court, and how little they could trust either the Danes or the Saxons, and the growing storm in Normandy that slowly drifted towards England.

CHAPTER VI—ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD HAREFOOT, HARDICANUTE, AND EDWARD THE CONFESSOR

Canute left three sons, by name Sweyn, Harold, and Hardicanute; but his Queen, Emma, once the Flower of Normandy, was the mother of only Hardicanute. Canute had wished his dominions to be divided between the three, and had wished Harold to have England; but the Saxon people in the South of England, headed by a nobleman with great possessions, called the powerful Earl Godwin (who is said to have been originally a poor cow-boy), opposed this, and desired to have, instead, either Hardicanute, or one of the two exiled Princes who were over in Normandy. It seemed so certain that there would be more bloodshed to settle this dispute, that many people left their homes, and took refuge in the woods and swamps. Happily, however, it was agreed to refer the whole question to a great meeting at Oxford, which decided that Harold should have all the country north of the Thames, with London for his capital city, and that Hardicanute should have all the south. The quarrel was so arranged; and, as Hardicanute was in Denmark troubling himself very little about anything but eating and getting drunk, his mother and Earl Godwin governed the south for him.

Canute had three sons: Sweyn, Harold, and Hardicanute. However, his Queen, Emma, the once-famous beauty of Normandy, was the mother of only Hardicanute. Canute intended for his realms to be divided among the three, wanting Harold to oversee England. But the Saxon people in Southern England, led by a wealthy nobleman known as Earl Godwin (who reportedly started off as a poor cowherd), opposed this and wanted either Hardicanute or one of the two exiled princes over in Normandy to take charge instead. The risk of bloodshed over this conflict was so high that many people fled their homes, seeking safety in the woods and swamps. Fortunately, a large meeting was arranged in Oxford to settle the issue. It was decided that Harold would rule all the territory north of the Thames, with London as his capital, while Hardicanute would control the southern part. The dispute was settled; and since Hardicanute was in Denmark focused mainly on eating and drinking, his mother and Earl Godwin managed the southern lands for him.

They had hardly begun to do so, and the trembling people who had hidden themselves were scarcely at home again, when Edward, the elder of the two exiled Princes, came over from Normandy with a few followers, to claim the English Crown. His mother Emma, however, who only cared for her last son Hardicanute, instead of assisting him, as he expected, opposed him so strongly with all her influence that he was very soon glad to get safely back. His brother Alfred was not so fortunate. Believing in an affectionate letter, written some time afterwards to him and his brother, in his mother’s name (but whether really with or without his mother’s knowledge is now uncertain), he allowed himself to be tempted over to England, with a good force of soldiers, and landing on the Kentish coast, and being met and welcomed by Earl Godwin, proceeded into Surrey, as far as the town of Guildford. Here, he and his men halted in the evening to rest, having still the Earl in their company; who had ordered lodgings and good cheer for them. But, in the dead of the night, when they were off their guard, being divided into small parties sleeping soundly after a long march and a plentiful supper in different houses, they were set upon by the King’s troops, and taken prisoners. Next morning they were drawn out in a line, to the number of six hundred men, and were barbarously tortured and killed; with the exception of every tenth man, who was sold into slavery. As to the wretched Prince Alfred, he was stripped naked, tied to a horse and sent away into the Isle of Ely, where his eyes were torn out of his head, and where in a few days he miserably died. I am not sure that the Earl had wilfully entrapped him, but I suspect it strongly.

They had barely started to settle back in when Edward, the older of the two exiled princes, arrived from Normandy with a few supporters to take back the English Crown. However, his mother Emma, who only cared about her youngest son Hardicanute, instead of helping him as he expected, strongly opposed him using all her influence, making him eager to return safely. His brother Alfred was not as lucky. Believing in a heartfelt letter, supposedly from his mother (though it’s uncertain whether she actually knew about it), he was lured back to England with a solid group of soldiers. After landing on the Kentish coast and being greeted by Earl Godwin, he moved into Surrey, reaching the town of Guildford. There, he and his men stopped for the night to rest, still accompanied by the Earl, who had arranged for them to have accommodations and good food. But in the dead of night, when they were caught off guard, having divided into small groups and fallen into a deep sleep after a long march and a hearty dinner, they were attacked by the King’s troops and taken prisoner. The next morning, six hundred men were lined up and brutally tortured and killed, with every tenth man sold into slavery. As for the unfortunate Prince Alfred, he was stripped naked, tied to a horse, and sent to the Isle of Ely, where his eyes were gouged out, and he died miserably a few days later. I can’t be certain that the Earl intentionally set him up, but I strongly suspect it.

Harold was now King all over England, though it is doubtful whether the Archbishop of Canterbury (the greater part of the priests were Saxons, and not friendly to the Danes) ever consented to crown him. Crowned or uncrowned, with the Archbishop’s leave or without it, he was King for four years: after which short reign he died, and was buried; having never done much in life but go a hunting. He was such a fast runner at this, his favourite sport, that the people called him Harold Harefoot.

Harold was now King of all England, although it's uncertain whether the Archbishop of Canterbury (most of the priests were Saxons and not supportive of the Danes) ever agreed to crown him. Crowned or not, with the Archbishop’s permission or not, he ruled for four years; after which brief reign he died and was buried, having mostly spent his life hunting. He was such a fast runner in this, his favorite sport, that people called him Harold Harefoot.

Hardicanute was then at Bruges, in Flanders, plotting, with his mother (who had gone over there after the cruel murder of Prince Alfred), for the invasion of England. The Danes and Saxons, finding themselves without a King, and dreading new disputes, made common cause, and joined in inviting him to occupy the Throne. He consented, and soon troubled them enough; for he brought over numbers of Danes, and taxed the people so insupportably to enrich those greedy favourites that there were many insurrections, especially one at Worcester, where the citizens rose and killed his tax-collectors; in revenge for which he burned their city. He was a brutal King, whose first public act was to order the dead body of poor Harold Harefoot to be dug up, beheaded, and thrown into the river. His end was worthy of such a beginning. He fell down drunk, with a goblet of wine in his hand, at a wedding-feast at Lambeth, given in honour of the marriage of his standard-bearer, a Dane named Towed the Proud. And he never spoke again.

Hardicanute was in Bruges, Flanders, scheming with his mother (who had gone there after the brutal murder of Prince Alfred) to invade England. The Danes and Saxons, finding themselves without a King and fearing more conflict, banded together and invited him to take the Throne. He agreed, but soon caused them a lot of trouble; he brought over many Danes and imposed such unbearable taxes to enrich his greedy favorites that numerous uprisings occurred, particularly one in Worcester, where the citizens revolted and killed his tax collectors. In retaliation, he burned their city. He was a savage King, whose first public act was to order that the dead body of poor Harold Harefoot be dug up, beheaded, and thrown into the river. His demise was fitting for such a start. He collapsed drunk, with a goblet of wine in his hand, at a wedding feast in Lambeth, held to celebrate the marriage of his standard-bearer, a Dane named Towed the Pride. And he never spoke again.

Edward, afterwards called by the monks The Confessor, succeeded; and his first act was to oblige his mother Emma, who had favoured him so little, to retire into the country; where she died some ten years afterwards. He was the exiled prince whose brother Alfred had been so foully killed. He had been invited over from Normandy by Hardicanute, in the course of his short reign of two years, and had been handsomely treated at court. His cause was now favoured by the powerful Earl Godwin, and he was soon made King. This Earl had been suspected by the people, ever since Prince Alfred’s cruel death; he had even been tried in the last reign for the Prince’s murder, but had been pronounced not guilty; chiefly, as it was supposed, because of a present he had made to the swinish King, of a gilded ship with a figure-head of solid gold, and a crew of eighty splendidly armed men. It was his interest to help the new King with his power, if the new King would help him against the popular distrust and hatred. So they made a bargain. Edward the Confessor got the Throne. The Earl got more power and more land, and his daughter Editha was made queen; for it was a part of their compact that the King should take her for his wife.

Edward, later known as The Confessor, came to power; and his first move was to force his mother Emma, who had been unsupportive of him, to move to the countryside, where she passed away about ten years later. He was the exiled prince whose brother Alfred had been brutally murdered. He had been invited over from Normandy by Hardicanute during his brief two-year reign and had been treated well at court. His cause gained support from the influential Earl Godwin, and he was soon crowned King. This Earl had been under suspicion from the public ever since Prince Alfred’s tragic death; he had even been tried in the previous reign for the murder of the Prince but had been found not guilty, largely due to a gift he presented to the gluttonous King—a gilded ship with a solid gold figurehead, accompanied by a crew of eighty well-armed men. It was in his best interest to assist the new King with his influence, provided the new King would help him counter the popular distrust and animosity. Thus, they struck a deal. Edward the Confessor gained the Throne. The Earl received more power and land, and his daughter Editha became queen, as part of their agreement required the King to marry her.

But, although she was a gentle lady, in all things worthy to be beloved—good, beautiful, sensible, and kind—the King from the first neglected her. Her father and her six proud brothers, resenting this cold treatment, harassed the King greatly by exerting all their power to make him unpopular. Having lived so long in Normandy, he preferred the Normans to the English. He made a Norman Archbishop, and Norman Bishops; his great officers and favourites were all Normans; he introduced the Norman fashions and the Norman language; in imitation of the state custom of Normandy, he attached a great seal to his state documents, instead of merely marking them, as the Saxon Kings had done, with the sign of the cross—just as poor people who have never been taught to write, now make the same mark for their names. All this, the powerful Earl Godwin and his six proud sons represented to the people as disfavour shown towards the English; and thus they daily increased their own power, and daily diminished the power of the King.

But, even though she was a kind lady, deserving to be loved—good, beautiful, sensible, and kind—the King ignored her from the start. Her father and her six arrogant brothers, upset by this cold treatment, pressured the King heavily by using all their influence to turn people against him. Having lived in Normandy for so long, he favored the Normans over the English. He appointed a Norman Archbishop and Norman Bishops; all his top officials and favorites were Normans; he adopted Norman styles and the Norman language; following the custom in Normandy, he sealed his state documents instead of just marking them, like the Saxon Kings did with the sign of the cross—much like poor people today who have never learned to write make their mark as their signature. All this was presented to the people by the powerful Earl Godwin and his six arrogant sons as evidence of hostility towards the English; thus, they continually grew their own power while weakening the King's authority.

They were greatly helped by an event that occurred when he had reigned eight years. Eustace, Earl of Bologne, who had married the King’s sister, came to England on a visit. After staying at the court some time, he set forth, with his numerous train of attendants, to return home. They were to embark at Dover. Entering that peaceful town in armour, they took possession of the best houses, and noisily demanded to be lodged and entertained without payment. One of the bold men of Dover, who would not endure to have these domineering strangers jingling their heavy swords and iron corselets up and down his house, eating his meat and drinking his strong liquor, stood in his doorway and refused admission to the first armed man who came there. The armed man drew, and wounded him. The man of Dover struck the armed man dead. Intelligence of what he had done, spreading through the streets to where the Count Eustace and his men were standing by their horses, bridle in hand, they passionately mounted, galloped to the house, surrounded it, forced their way in (the doors and windows being closed when they came up), and killed the man of Dover at his own fireside. They then clattered through the streets, cutting down and riding over men, women, and children. This did not last long, you may believe. The men of Dover set upon them with great fury, killed nineteen of the foreigners, wounded many more, and, blockading the road to the port so that they should not embark, beat them out of the town by the way they had come. Hereupon, Count Eustace rides as hard as man can ride to Gloucester, where Edward is, surrounded by Norman monks and Norman lords. ‘Justice!’ cries the Count, ‘upon the men of Dover, who have set upon and slain my people!’ The King sends immediately for the powerful Earl Godwin, who happens to be near; reminds him that Dover is under his government; and orders him to repair to Dover and do military execution on the inhabitants. ‘It does not become you,’ says the proud Earl in reply, ‘to condemn without a hearing those whom you have sworn to protect. I will not do it.’

They were significantly aided by an event that took place after he had been reigning for eight years. Eustace, Earl of Bologne, who had married the King’s sister, came to England for a visit. After spending some time at court, he and his large entourage set out to return home, planning to board a ship at Dover. Arriving in that quiet town in armor, they took over the best houses and loudly demanded to be accommodated and fed without paying. One brave man from Dover, unwilling to let these arrogant strangers clatter around his house in their heavy swords and armor, eating his food and drinking his drinks, stood in his doorway and refused entry to the first armed man who approached. The armed man drew his weapon and wounded him. The Dover man fought back and killed the armed man. News of what he had done quickly spread through the streets to where Count Eustace and his men were waiting with their horses, ready to go. They angrily mounted up, rode to the house, surrounded it, broke in (the doors and windows were shut when they arrived), and killed the man from Dover at his own fire. Then, they thundered through the streets, trampling over men, women, and children. This chaos didn’t last long, as the people of Dover fiercely attacked them, killing nineteen of the foreigners, wounding many more, and blocking the road to the port so they couldn't board their ships, driving them out of town the way they had come. Following this, Count Eustace rode as fast as he could to Gloucester, where Edward was, surrounded by Norman monks and lords. “Justice!” shouted the Count, “for the men of Dover who have attacked and killed my people!” The King immediately called for the powerful Earl Godwin, who happened to be nearby; he reminded him that Dover was under his authority and ordered him to go there and take military action against the residents. “It is not fitting for you,” replied the proud Earl, “to condemn those whom you have sworn to protect without hearing their side. I will not do it.”

The King, therefore, summoned the Earl, on pain of banishment and loss of his titles and property, to appear before the court to answer this disobedience. The Earl refused to appear. He, his eldest son Harold, and his second son Sweyn, hastily raised as many fighting men as their utmost power could collect, and demanded to have Count Eustace and his followers surrendered to the justice of the country. The King, in his turn, refused to give them up, and raised a strong force. After some treaty and delay, the troops of the great Earl and his sons began to fall off. The Earl, with a part of his family and abundance of treasure, sailed to Flanders; Harold escaped to Ireland; and the power of the great family was for that time gone in England. But, the people did not forget them.

The King, therefore, summoned the Earl, warning that failure to comply would result in banishment and the loss of his titles and property, to appear before the court to address this disobedience. The Earl refused to attend. He, along with his eldest son Harold and his second son Sweyn, quickly gathered as many fighting men as they could muster and demanded that Count Eustace and his followers be handed over for justice. The King, in turn, refused to surrender them and raised a strong force. After some negotiations and delays, the troops loyal to the great Earl and his sons began to dwindle. The Earl, accompanied by part of his family and a substantial amount of treasure, sailed to Flanders; Harold escaped to Ireland; and the influence of the great family was, for the time being, diminished in England. However, the people did not forget them.

Then, Edward the Confessor, with the true meanness of a mean spirit, visited his dislike of the once powerful father and sons upon the helpless daughter and sister, his unoffending wife, whom all who saw her (her husband and his monks excepted) loved. He seized rapaciously upon her fortune and her jewels, and allowing her only one attendant, confined her in a gloomy convent, of which a sister of his—no doubt an unpleasant lady after his own heart—was abbess or jailer.

Then, Edward the Confessor, showing his true nature, took out his dislike for the once-powerful father and sons on their helpless daughter and sister, his innocent wife, whom everyone except her husband and his monks loved. He greedily claimed her fortune and jewels, allowing her only one attendant while locking her away in a dark convent run by a sister of his—surely an unpleasant woman who shared his views.

Having got Earl Godwin and his six sons well out of his way, the King favoured the Normans more than ever. He invited over William, Duke Of Normandy, the son of that Duke who had received him and his murdered brother long ago, and of a peasant girl, a tanner’s daughter, with whom that Duke had fallen in love for her beauty as he saw her washing clothes in a brook. William, who was a great warrior, with a passion for fine horses, dogs, and arms, accepted the invitation; and the Normans in England, finding themselves more numerous than ever when he arrived with his retinue, and held in still greater honour at court than before, became more and more haughty towards the people, and were more and more disliked by them.

Having gotten Earl Godwin and his six sons out of the way, the King favored the Normans even more. He invited over William, Duke of Normandy, the son of the Duke who had welcomed him and his murdered brother long ago, and of a peasant girl, the daughter of a tanner, whom that Duke had fallen for because of her beauty when he saw her washing clothes in a stream. William, a great warrior with a love for fine horses, dogs, and weapons, accepted the invitation; and the Normans in England, finding themselves more numerous than ever when he arrived with his entourage, became even more esteemed at court than before, growing increasingly arrogant towards the people, who disliked them more and more.

The old Earl Godwin, though he was abroad, knew well how the people felt; for, with part of the treasure he had carried away with him, he kept spies and agents in his pay all over England.

The old Earl Godwin, even while he was away, understood how the people felt; for, with some of the treasure he had taken with him, he kept spies and agents on his payroll all over England.

Accordingly, he thought the time was come for fitting out a great expedition against the Norman-loving King. With it, he sailed to the Isle of Wight, where he was joined by his son Harold, the most gallant and brave of all his family. And so the father and son came sailing up the Thames to Southwark; great numbers of the people declaring for them, and shouting for the English Earl and the English Harold, against the Norman favourites!

Accordingly, he believed the time had come to launch a major expedition against the king who favored the Normans. With this in mind, he set sail for the Isle of Wight, where he met up with his son Harold, the boldest and bravest of his family. Together, they sailed up the Thames to Southwark; a large crowd of people rallied around them, cheering for the English Earl and the English Harold, standing against the Norman favorites!

The King was at first as blind and stubborn as kings usually have been whensoever they have been in the hands of monks. But the people rallied so thickly round the old Earl and his son, and the old Earl was so steady in demanding without bloodshed the restoration of himself and his family to their rights, that at last the court took the alarm. The Norman Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Norman Bishop of London, surrounded by their retainers, fought their way out of London, and escaped from Essex to France in a fishing-boat. The other Norman favourites dispersed in all directions. The old Earl and his sons (except Sweyn, who had committed crimes against the law) were restored to their possessions and dignities. Editha, the virtuous and lovely Queen of the insensible King, was triumphantly released from her prison, the convent, and once more sat in her chair of state, arrayed in the jewels of which, when she had no champion to support her rights, her cold-blooded husband had deprived her.

The King was initially as blind and stubborn as kings usually are when they’re influenced by monks. But the people rallied around the old Earl and his son, and the old Earl was persistent in demanding, without violence, the restoration of himself and his family to their rights, that the court finally took notice. The Norman Archbishop of Canterbury and the Norman Bishop of London, surrounded by their followers, fought their way out of London and escaped from Essex to France in a fishing boat. The other Norman favorites scattered in all directions. The old Earl and his sons (except Sweyn, who had broken the law) were restored to their lands and titles. Editha, the virtuous and beautiful Queen of the unfeeling King, was joyfully released from her prison, the convent, and once again took her place on the throne, adorned with the jewels that her callous husband had stripped from her when she had no champion to defend her rights.

The old Earl Godwin did not long enjoy his restored fortune. He fell down in a fit at the King’s table, and died upon the third day afterwards. Harold succeeded to his power, and to a far higher place in the attachment of the people than his father had ever held. By his valour he subdued the King’s enemies in many bloody fights. He was vigorous against rebels in Scotland—this was the time when Macbeth slew Duncan, upon which event our English Shakespeare, hundreds of years afterwards, wrote his great tragedy; and he killed the restless Welsh King Griffith, and brought his head to England.

The old Earl Godwin didn’t enjoy his restored wealth for long. He had a seizure at the King’s table and died three days later. Harold took over his power and gained a much stronger bond with the people than his father ever had. He skillfully defeated the King’s enemies in many fierce battles. He fought hard against the rebels in Scotland—this was the time when Macbeth killed Duncan, which inspired our English Shakespeare to write his famous tragedy hundreds of years later; he also killed the restless Welsh King Griffith and brought his head back to England.

What Harold was doing at sea, when he was driven on the French coast by a tempest, is not at all certain; nor does it at all matter. That his ship was forced by a storm on that shore, and that he was taken prisoner, there is no doubt. In those barbarous days, all shipwrecked strangers were taken prisoners, and obliged to pay ransom. So, a certain Count Guy, who was the Lord of Ponthieu where Harold’s disaster happened, seized him, instead of relieving him like a hospitable and Christian lord as he ought to have done, and expected to make a very good thing of it.

What Harold was doing at sea when a storm drove him onto the French coast is unclear, and it doesn’t really matter. There’s no doubt that his ship was forced ashore by the storm and that he was captured. In those brutal days, all shipwrecked travelers were taken prisoner and had to pay a ransom. So, a certain Count Guy, the Lord of Ponthieu where Harold's misfortune occurred, seized him instead of helping him as any hospitable and decent lord should have, hoping to profit from the situation.

But Harold sent off immediately to Duke William of Normandy, complaining of this treatment; and the Duke no sooner heard of it than he ordered Harold to be escorted to the ancient town of Rouen, where he then was, and where he received him as an honoured guest. Now, some writers tell us that Edward the Confessor, who was by this time old and had no children, had made a will, appointing Duke William of Normandy his successor, and had informed the Duke of his having done so. There is no doubt that he was anxious about his successor; because he had even invited over, from abroad, Edward the Outlaw, a son of Ironside, who had come to England with his wife and three children, but whom the King had strangely refused to see when he did come, and who had died in London suddenly (princes were terribly liable to sudden death in those days), and had been buried in St. Paul’s Cathedral. The King might possibly have made such a will; or, having always been fond of the Normans, he might have encouraged Norman William to aspire to the English crown, by something that he said to him when he was staying at the English court. But, certainly William did now aspire to it; and knowing that Harold would be a powerful rival, he called together a great assembly of his nobles, offered Harold his daughter Adele in marriage, informed him that he meant on King Edward’s death to claim the English crown as his own inheritance, and required Harold then and there to swear to aid him. Harold, being in the Duke’s power, took this oath upon the Missal, or Prayer-book. It is a good example of the superstitions of the monks, that this Missal, instead of being placed upon a table, was placed upon a tub; which, when Harold had sworn, was uncovered, and shown to be full of dead men’s bones—bones, as the monks pretended, of saints. This was supposed to make Harold’s oath a great deal more impressive and binding. As if the great name of the Creator of Heaven and earth could be made more solemn by a knuckle-bone, or a double-tooth, or a finger-nail, of Dunstan!

But Harold immediately wrote to Duke William of Normandy, complaining about this treatment; and as soon as the Duke heard about it, he ordered Harold to be taken to the ancient town of Rouen, where he was at the time, and where he welcomed him as an honored guest. Some writers say that Edward the Confessor, who was now old and had no children, had made a will appointing Duke William of Normandy as his successor and had informed the Duke about it. There’s no doubt he was worried about his successor because he had even invited over from abroad, Edward the Outlaw, the son of Ironside, who had come to England with his wife and three children, but the King had strangely refused to see him when he arrived, and he suddenly died in London (princes were notoriously prone to sudden death back then) and was buried in St. Paul’s Cathedral. The King might have made such a will; or having always liked the Normans, he might have encouraged William to aim for the English crown by something he said to him while he was at the English court. But William certainly aspired to it now; knowing that Harold would be a serious rival, he called a big meeting of his nobles, offered Harold his daughter Adele in marriage, told him that he intended to claim the English crown as his own inheritance upon King Edward’s death, and demanded that Harold swear to help him. With Harold in the Duke’s power, he took this oath on the Missal, or Prayer-book. It’s a good example of the superstitions of the monks that instead of being placed on a table, the Missal was put on a tub; and after Harold swore, it was uncovered and shown to be full of dead men’s bones—bones, as the monks claimed, of saints. This was supposed to make Harold’s oath much more impressive and binding. As if the great name of the Creator of Heaven and earth could be made more serious by a knuckle-bone, or a tooth, or a fingernail of Dunstan!

Within a week or two after Harold’s return to England, the dreary old Confessor was found to be dying. After wandering in his mind like a very weak old man, he died. As he had put himself entirely in the hands of the monks when he was alive, they praised him lustily when he was dead. They had gone so far, already, as to persuade him that he could work miracles; and had brought people afflicted with a bad disorder of the skin, to him, to be touched and cured. This was called ‘touching for the King’s Evil,’ which afterwards became a royal custom. You know, however, Who really touched the sick, and healed them; and you know His sacred name is not among the dusty line of human kings.

Within a week or two after Harold returned to England, the gloomy old Confessor was found to be dying. After wandering in his mind like a frail old man, he passed away. Since he had fully relied on the monks while he was alive, they praised him loudly after his death. They had already convinced him that he could perform miracles and had brought people suffering from a severe skin disorder to him to be touched and healed. This was known as ‘touching for the King’s Evil,’ which later became a royal tradition. However, you know who truly touched the sick and healed them; and you know His sacred name is not among the dusty line of human kings.

CHAPTER VII—ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD THE SECOND, AND CONQUERED BY THE NORMANS

Harold was crowned King of England on the very day of the maudlin Confessor’s funeral. He had good need to be quick about it. When the news reached Norman William, hunting in his park at Rouen, he dropped his bow, returned to his palace, called his nobles to council, and presently sent ambassadors to Harold, calling on him to keep his oath and resign the Crown. Harold would do no such thing. The barons of France leagued together round Duke William for the invasion of England. Duke William promised freely to distribute English wealth and English lands among them. The Pope sent to Normandy a consecrated banner, and a ring containing a hair which he warranted to have grown on the head of Saint Peter. He blessed the enterprise; and cursed Harold; and requested that the Normans would pay ‘Peter’s Pence’—or a tax to himself of a penny a year on every house—a little more regularly in future, if they could make it convenient.

Harold was crowned King of England on the very day of the sad Confessor’s funeral. He had a good reason to act quickly. When the news reached William the Conqueror, who was hunting in his park at Rouen, he dropped his bow, returned to his palace, called his nobles for a meeting, and soon sent ambassadors to Harold, demanding that he keep his promise and give up the Crown. Harold refused to do that. The French barons united around Duke William to plan the invasion of England. Duke William promised to generously share the wealth and lands of England among them. The Pope sent a blessed banner to Normandy and a ring containing a hair he claimed came from Saint Peter’s head. He blessed the mission, cursed Harold, and asked that the Normans pay 'Peter’s Pence'—a yearly tax of a penny per household—to him more consistently in the future, if they could manage it.

King Harold had a rebel brother in Flanders, who was a vassal of Harold Hardrada, King of Norway. This brother, and this Norwegian King, joining their forces against England, with Duke William’s help, won a fight in which the English were commanded by two nobles; and then besieged York. Harold, who was waiting for the Normans on the coast at Hastings, with his army, marched to Stamford Bridge upon the river Derwent to give them instant battle.

King Harold had a rebellious brother in Flanders, who was a vassal of Harald Hardrada, King of Norway. This brother, along with the Norwegian King, joined forces against England, with Duke William’s assistance, winning a battle where the English were led by two nobles; they then laid siege to York. Harold, who was waiting for the Normans on the coast at Hastings with his army, marched to Stamford Bridge on the river Derwent to engage them in battle immediately.

He found them drawn up in a hollow circle, marked out by their shining spears. Riding round this circle at a distance, to survey it, he saw a brave figure on horseback, in a blue mantle and a bright helmet, whose horse suddenly stumbled and threw him.

He found them gathered in a hollow circle, outlined by their gleaming spears. Riding around this circle from a distance to get a look, he noticed a bold figure on horseback, dressed in a blue cloak and a shiny helmet, whose horse suddenly tripped and threw him off.

‘Who is that man who has fallen?’ Harold asked of one of his captains.

‘Who is that guy who has fallen?’ Harold asked one of his captains.

‘The King of Norway,’ he replied.

‘The King of Norway,’ he said.

‘He is a tall and stately king,’ said Harold, ‘but his end is near.’

‘He’s a tall and dignified king,’ said Harold, ‘but his end is near.’

He added, in a little while, ‘Go yonder to my brother, and tell him, if he withdraw his troops, he shall be Earl of Northumberland, and rich and powerful in England.’

He added after a bit, “Go over to my brother and tell him, if he pulls back his troops, he will be the Earl of Northumberland and will have wealth and power in England.”

The captain rode away and gave the message.

The captain rode off and delivered the message.

‘What will he give to my friend the King of Norway?’ asked the brother.

‘What will he give to my friend, the King of Norway?’ asked the brother.

‘Seven feet of earth for a grave,’ replied the captain.

‘Seven feet of dirt for a grave,’ answered the captain.

‘No more?’ returned the brother, with a smile.

'No more?' the brother replied, smiling.

‘The King of Norway being a tall man, perhaps a little more,’ replied the captain.

‘The King of Norway is a tall guy, maybe a bit taller,’ replied the captain.

‘Ride back!’ said the brother, ‘and tell King Harold to make ready for the fight!’

‘Ride back!’ said the brother, ‘and tell King Harold to get ready for the fight!’

He did so, very soon. And such a fight King Harold led against that force, that his brother, and the Norwegian King, and every chief of note in all their host, except the Norwegian King’s son, Olave, to whom he gave honourable dismissal, were left dead upon the field. The victorious army marched to York. As King Harold sat there at the feast, in the midst of all his company, a stir was heard at the doors; and messengers all covered with mire from riding far and fast through broken ground came hurrying in, to report that the Normans had landed in England.

He did so very quickly. And King Harold led such a fierce battle against that force that his brother, the Norwegian King, and every notable leader in their army, except for the Norwegian King’s son, Olave, whom he dismissed honorably, were left dead on the battlefield. The victorious army then marched to York. While King Harold was seated at the feast, surrounded by his companions, there was a commotion at the doors; messengers, covered in mud from riding hard across rough terrain, rushed in to announce that the Normans had landed in England.

The intelligence was true. They had been tossed about by contrary winds, and some of their ships had been wrecked. A part of their own shore, to which they had been driven back, was strewn with Norman bodies. But they had once more made sail, led by the Duke’s own galley, a present from his wife, upon the prow whereof the figure of a golden boy stood pointing towards England. By day, the banner of the three Lions of Normandy, the diverse coloured sails, the gilded vans, the many decorations of this gorgeous ship, had glittered in the sun and sunny water; by night, a light had sparkled like a star at her mast-head. And now, encamped near Hastings, with their leader lying in the old Roman castle of Pevensey, the English retiring in all directions, the land for miles around scorched and smoking, fired and pillaged, was the whole Norman power, hopeful and strong on English ground.

The intelligence was accurate. They had been tossed around by opposing winds, and some of their ships had been destroyed. Parts of their own shore, where they had been forced back, were covered with Norman bodies. But they had set sail once again, led by the Duke’s own galley, a gift from his wife, on the prow of which a golden boy figure pointed towards England. During the day, the banner of the three Lions of Normandy, the brightly colored sails, the gilded decorations, and the many embellishments of this magnificent ship sparkled in the sun and water; at night, a light twinkled like a star at her masthead. Now, camped near Hastings, with their leader in the old Roman castle of Pevensey, the English were retreating in all directions, the land for miles around was scorched and smoking, burned and looted, and the entire Norman force was hopeful and strong on English soil.

Harold broke up the feast and hurried to London. Within a week, his army was ready. He sent out spies to ascertain the Norman strength. William took them, caused them to be led through his whole camp, and then dismissed. ‘The Normans,’ said these spies to Harold, ‘are not bearded on the upper lip as we English are, but are shorn. They are priests.’ ‘My men,’ replied Harold, with a laugh, ‘will find those priests good soldiers!’

Harold ended the feast and rushed to London. Within a week, his army was prepared. He sent out spies to check the strength of the Normans. William captured them, had them shown around his entire camp, and then released them. "The Normans," the spies told Harold, "don't have beards on their upper lips like us English do; they are clean-shaven. They are priests." "My men," replied Harold with a laugh, "will find those priests to be good soldiers!"

‘The Saxons,’ reported Duke William’s outposts of Norman soldiers, who were instructed to retire as King Harold’s army advanced, ‘rush on us through their pillaged country with the fury of madmen.’

‘The Saxons,’ reported Duke William’s scouts among the Norman soldiers, who were told to pull back as King Harold’s army approached, ‘are charging at us through their ravaged land like wild lunatics.’

‘Let them come, and come soon!’ said Duke William.

Some proposals for a reconciliation were made, but were soon abandoned. In the middle of the month of October, in the year one thousand and sixty-six, the Normans and the English came front to front. All night the armies lay encamped before each other, in a part of the country then called Senlac, now called (in remembrance of them) Battle. With the first dawn of day, they arose. There, in the faint light, were the English on a hill; a wood behind them; in their midst, the Royal banner, representing a fighting warrior, woven in gold thread, adorned with precious stones; beneath the banner, as it rustled in the wind, stood King Harold on foot, with two of his remaining brothers by his side; around them, still and silent as the dead, clustered the whole English army—every soldier covered by his shield, and bearing in his hand his dreaded English battle-axe.

Some proposals for reconciliation were made but quickly set aside. In the middle of October in the year 1066, the Normans and the English faced each other. All night, the armies camped in front of one another in an area then called Senlac, now known as Battle, in their memory. With the first light of day, they rose. There, in the dim morning light, were the English on a hill with a forest behind them; in their midst was the Royal banner, depicting a warrior in battle, woven in gold thread and decorated with precious stones; beneath the banner, fluttering in the wind, stood King Harold on foot, flanked by two of his remaining brothers; around them, as still and silent as the dead, gathered the entire English army—every soldier shielded and holding his feared English battle-axe.

On an opposite hill, in three lines, archers, foot-soldiers, horsemen, was the Norman force. Of a sudden, a great battle-cry, ‘God help us!’ burst from the Norman lines. The English answered with their own battle-cry, ‘God’s Rood! Holy Rood!’ The Normans then came sweeping down the hill to attack the English.

On the opposite hill, in three lines, there were archers, foot soldiers, and horsemen of the Norman force. Suddenly, a loud battle cry, “God help us!” erupted from the Norman lines. The English responded with their own battle cry, “God’s Rood! Holy Rood!” The Normans then charged down the hill to attack the English.

There was one tall Norman Knight who rode before the Norman army on a prancing horse, throwing up his heavy sword and catching it, and singing of the bravery of his countrymen. An English Knight, who rode out from the English force to meet him, fell by this Knight’s hand. Another English Knight rode out, and he fell too. But then a third rode out, and killed the Norman. This was in the first beginning of the fight. It soon raged everywhere.

There was a tall Norman knight riding ahead of the Norman army on a spirited horse, tossing his heavy sword in the air and catching it while singing about the courage of his fellow countrymen. An English knight rode out from the English forces to confront him and was killed by this knight. Another English knight charged out, and he fell as well. But then a third one came out and killed the Norman. This happened at the start of the battle, which quickly escalated everywhere.

The English, keeping side by side in a great mass, cared no more for the showers of Norman arrows than if they had been showers of Norman rain. When the Norman horsemen rode against them, with their battle-axes they cut men and horses down. The Normans gave way. The English pressed forward. A cry went forth among the Norman troops that Duke William was killed. Duke William took off his helmet, in order that his face might be distinctly seen, and rode along the line before his men. This gave them courage. As they turned again to face the English, some of their Norman horse divided the pursuing body of the English from the rest, and thus all that foremost portion of the English army fell, fighting bravely. The main body still remaining firm, heedless of the Norman arrows, and with their battle-axes cutting down the crowds of horsemen when they rode up, like forests of young trees, Duke William pretended to retreat. The eager English followed. The Norman army closed again, and fell upon them with great slaughter.

The English, standing together in a large group, cared no more for the rain of Norman arrows than if it had been regular rain. When the Norman horsemen charged at them, they used their battle-axes to cut down both men and horses. The Normans started to give ground. The English pushed forward. A shout went up among the Norman troops that Duke William had been killed. Duke William took off his helmet so that his face could be clearly seen and rode along the line in front of his men. This inspired them. As they turned back to confront the English, some of the Norman horse split the pursuing English from the rest, resulting in the fall of that leading segment of the English army, who fought bravely. The main force remained strong, ignoring the Norman arrows, and with their battle-axes chopping down waves of horsemen as they galloped in, like young trees in a forest. Duke William pretended to retreat. The eager English pursued him. The Norman army regrouped and attacked them with devastating force.

‘Still,’ said Duke William, ‘there are thousands of the English, firms as rocks around their King. Shoot upward, Norman archers, that your arrows may fall down upon their faces!’

‘Still,’ said Duke William, ‘there are thousands of the English, solid as rocks around their King. Shoot higher, Norman archers, so your arrows can hit them in the face!’

The sun rose high, and sank, and the battle still raged. Through all the wild October day, the clash and din resounded in the air. In the red sunset, and in the white moonlight, heaps upon heaps of dead men lay strewn, a dreadful spectacle, all over the ground.

The sun rose high and set, while the battle continued to rage on. Throughout the wild October day, the sounds of conflict echoed in the air. In the red sunset and under the white moonlight, piles of dead men were scattered across the ground, a horrifying sight.

King Harold, wounded with an arrow in the eye, was nearly blind. His brothers were already killed. Twenty Norman Knights, whose battered armour had flashed fiery and golden in the sunshine all day long, and now looked silvery in the moonlight, dashed forward to seize the Royal banner from the English Knights and soldiers, still faithfully collected round their blinded King. The King received a mortal wound, and dropped. The English broke and fled. The Normans rallied, and the day was lost.

King Harold, hit by an arrow in the eye, was almost blind. His brothers had already been killed. Twenty Norman Knights, whose worn armor had shone bright and golden in the sun all day, now looked silvery in the moonlight, rushed forward to grab the Royal banner from the English Knights and soldiers, who were still loyally gathered around their blinded King. The King suffered a fatal wound and fell. The English broke and ran. The Normans regrouped, and the day was lost.

O what a sight beneath the moon and stars, when lights were shining in the tent of the victorious Duke William, which was pitched near the spot where Harold fell—and he and his knights were carousing, within—and soldiers with torches, going slowly to and fro, without, sought for the corpse of Harold among piles of dead—and the Warrior, worked in golden thread and precious stones, lay low, all torn and soiled with blood—and the three Norman Lions kept watch over the field!

O what a sight beneath the moon and stars, when lights were shining in the tent of the victorious Duke William, which was set up near the spot where Harold fell—and he and his knights were celebrating inside—and soldiers with torches, moving slowly to and fro outside, searched for Harold's body among piles of the dead—and the Warrior, worked in golden thread and precious stones, lay low, all torn and stained with blood—and the three Norman Lions kept watch over the field!

CHAPTER VIII—ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM THE FIRST, THE NORMAN CONQUEROR

Upon the ground where the brave Harold fell, William the Norman afterwards founded an abbey, which, under the name of Battle Abbey, was a rich and splendid place through many a troubled year, though now it is a grey ruin overgrown with ivy. But the first work he had to do, was to conquer the English thoroughly; and that, as you know by this time, was hard work for any man.

Upon the ground where the brave Harold fell, William the Norman later established an abbey, which, known as Battle Abbey, became a wealthy and impressive place for many difficult years, though now it stands as a gray ruin overgrown with ivy. But the first task he had to undertake was to completely conquer the English; and as you know by now, that was tough work for anyone.

He ravaged several counties; he burned and plundered many towns; he laid waste scores upon scores of miles of pleasant country; he destroyed innumerable lives. At length Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury, with other representatives of the clergy and the people, went to his camp, and submitted to him. Edgar, the insignificant son of Edmund Ironside, was proclaimed King by others, but nothing came of it. He fled to Scotland afterwards, where his sister, who was young and beautiful, married the Scottish King. Edgar himself was not important enough for anybody to care much about him.

He devastated several counties, burned and looted many towns, ruined miles and miles of beautiful countryside, and caused countless deaths. Eventually, Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury, along with other church and community leaders, went to his camp and submitted to him. Edgar, the unimportant son of Edmund Ironside, was proclaimed King by others, but it didn’t lead to anything. He later fled to Scotland, where his young and beautiful sister married the Scottish King. Edgar himself was too insignificant for anyone to care much about him.

On Christmas Day, William was crowned in Westminster Abbey, under the title of William the First; but he is best known as William the Conqueror. It was a strange coronation. One of the bishops who performed the ceremony asked the Normans, in French, if they would have Duke William for their king? They answered Yes. Another of the bishops put the same question to the Saxons, in English. They too answered Yes, with a loud shout. The noise being heard by a guard of Norman horse-soldiers outside, was mistaken for resistance on the part of the English. The guard instantly set fire to the neighbouring houses, and a tumult ensued; in the midst of which the King, being left alone in the Abbey, with a few priests (and they all being in a terrible fright together), was hurriedly crowned. When the crown was placed upon his head, he swore to govern the English as well as the best of their own monarchs. I dare say you think, as I do, that if we except the Great Alfred, he might pretty easily have done that.

On Christmas Day, William was crowned in Westminster Abbey, under the title of William I; but he is best known as William the Conqueror. It was an unusual coronation. One of the bishops who led the ceremony asked the Normans, in French, if they would accept Duke William as their king. They answered Yes. Another bishop posed the same question to the Saxons, in English. They also answered Yes, with a loud cheer. The commotion was heard by a group of Norman horse-soldiers outside, who mistakenly thought the English were resisting. The guard immediately set fire to the nearby houses, causing a riot; in the midst of this chaos, the King was left alone in the Abbey with a few priests (all of them terrified), and he was hurriedly crowned. When the crown was placed on his head, he swore to govern the English as well as the best of their own kings. I’m sure you agree, as I do, that except for the Great Alfred, he probably could have easily lived up to that promise.

Numbers of the English nobles had been killed in the last disastrous battle. Their estates, and the estates of all the nobles who had fought against him there, King William seized upon, and gave to his own Norman knights and nobles. Many great English families of the present time acquired their English lands in this way, and are very proud of it.

Many English nobles were killed in the last disastrous battle. King William took over their estates, as well as the estates of all the nobles who had fought against him, and gave them to his own Norman knights and nobles. Many prominent English families today acquired their land this way and take great pride in it.

But what is got by force must be maintained by force. These nobles were obliged to build castles all over England, to defend their new property; and, do what he would, the King could neither soothe nor quell the nation as he wished. He gradually introduced the Norman language and the Norman customs; yet, for a long time the great body of the English remained sullen and revengeful. On his going over to Normandy, to visit his subjects there, the oppressions of his half-brother Odo, whom he left in charge of his English kingdom, drove the people mad. The men of Kent even invited over, to take possession of Dover, their old enemy Count Eustace of Boulogne, who had led the fray when the Dover man was slain at his own fireside. The men of Hereford, aided by the Welsh, and commanded by a chief named Edric the Wild, drove the Normans out of their country. Some of those who had been dispossessed of their lands, banded together in the North of England; some, in Scotland; some, in the thick woods and marshes; and whensoever they could fall upon the Normans, or upon the English who had submitted to the Normans, they fought, despoiled, and murdered, like the desperate outlaws that they were. Conspiracies were set on foot for a general massacre of the Normans, like the old massacre of the Danes. In short, the English were in a murderous mood all through the kingdom.

But what is taken by force must be held by force. These nobles had to build castles all over England to protect their new lands; and no matter what he did, the King couldn't calm or control the nation as he wanted. He slowly brought in the Norman language and customs, yet for a long time, the majority of the English remained angry and vengeful. When he went to Normandy to visit his subjects there, the harshness of his half-brother Odo, whom he left in charge of England, drove the people to madness. The men of Kent even invited their old enemy Count Eustace of Boulogne to take over Dover, the one who had led the attack when a Dover man was killed at his own home. The men of Hereford, with help from the Welsh and led by a chief named Edric the Wild, drove the Normans out of their land. Some of those who had lost their land banded together in Northern England; others in Scotland; some in the dense woods and marshes; and whenever they could attack the Normans or the English who had submitted to them, they fought, looted, and killed like the desperate outlaws they were. Plots were started for a general massacre of the Normans, similar to the old massacre of the Danes. In short, the English were in a violent mood throughout the kingdom.

King William, fearing he might lose his conquest, came back, and tried to pacify the London people by soft words. He then set forth to repress the country people by stern deeds. Among the towns which he besieged, and where he killed and maimed the inhabitants without any distinction, sparing none, young or old, armed or unarmed, were Oxford, Warwick, Leicester, Nottingham, Derby, Lincoln, York. In all these places, and in many others, fire and sword worked their utmost horrors, and made the land dreadful to behold. The streams and rivers were discoloured with blood; the sky was blackened with smoke; the fields were wastes of ashes; the waysides were heaped up with dead. Such are the fatal results of conquest and ambition! Although William was a harsh and angry man, I do not suppose that he deliberately meant to work this shocking ruin, when he invaded England. But what he had got by the strong hand, he could only keep by the strong hand, and in so doing he made England a great grave.

King William, worried he might lose his conquest, returned and tried to calm the people of London with gentle words. He then set out to subdue the rural folks with harsh actions. Among the towns he besieged, where he killed and injured the residents without any distinction, sparing none, whether young or old, armed or unarmed, were Oxford, Warwick, Leicester, Nottingham, Derby, Lincoln, and York. In all these places, and many others, fire and sword unleashed their worst horrors, making the land terrifying to see. The streams and rivers ran red with blood; the sky was darkened with smoke; the fields were reduced to ashes; the roads were piled with the dead. Such are the tragic consequences of conquest and ambition! Although William was a harsh and angry man, I don’t think he intended to cause this shocking devastation when he invaded England. But what he gained through force, he could only maintain through force, and in doing so, he turned England into a great grave.

Two sons of Harold, by name Edmund and Godwin, came over from Ireland, with some ships, against the Normans, but were defeated. This was scarcely done, when the outlaws in the woods so harassed York, that the Governor sent to the King for help. The King despatched a general and a large force to occupy the town of Durham. The Bishop of that place met the general outside the town, and warned him not to enter, as he would be in danger there. The general cared nothing for the warning, and went in with all his men. That night, on every hill within sight of Durham, signal fires were seen to blaze. When the morning dawned, the English, who had assembled in great strength, forced the gates, rushed into the town, and slew the Normans every one. The English afterwards besought the Danes to come and help them. The Danes came, with two hundred and forty ships. The outlawed nobles joined them; they captured York, and drove the Normans out of that city. Then, William bribed the Danes to go away; and took such vengeance on the English, that all the former fire and sword, smoke and ashes, death and ruin, were nothing compared with it. In melancholy songs, and doleful stories, it was still sung and told by cottage fires on winter evenings, a hundred years afterwards, how, in those dreadful days of the Normans, there was not, from the River Humber to the River Tyne, one inhabited village left, nor one cultivated field—how there was nothing but a dismal ruin, where the human creatures and the beasts lay dead together.

Two sons of Harold, named Edmund and Godwin, came over from Ireland with some ships to fight against the Normans, but they were defeated. As soon as this happened, the outlaws in the woods attacked York so severely that the Governor requested help from the King. The King sent a general and a large force to take control of the town of Durham. The Bishop of Durham met the general outside the town and warned him not to enter, claiming it would be dangerous. The general ignored the warning and entered with all his men. That night, signal fires blazed on every hill within sight of Durham. When morning came, the English, who had gathered in large numbers, broke down the gates, rushed into the town, and killed every Norman they found. The English then pleaded with the Danes to come and assist them. The Danes arrived with two hundred and forty ships. The outlawed nobles joined them; they captured York and expelled the Normans from the city. Then, William bribed the Danes to leave and exacted such revenge on the English that all the previous destruction—fire, smoke, death, and ruin—paled in comparison. Even a hundred years later, it was still sung in sad songs and told in sorrowful stories by cottage fires on winter nights how, during those terrible days of the Normans, there was not a single inhabited village or cultivated field left from the River Humber to the River Tyne—only desolation, where human beings and animals lay dead together.

The outlaws had, at this time, what they called a Camp of Refuge, in the midst of the fens of Cambridgeshire. Protected by those marshy grounds which were difficult of approach, they lay among the reeds and rushes, and were hidden by the mists that rose up from the watery earth. Now, there also was, at that time, over the sea in Flanders, an Englishman named Hereward, whose father had died in his absence, and whose property had been given to a Norman. When he heard of this wrong that had been done him (from such of the exiled English as chanced to wander into that country), he longed for revenge; and joining the outlaws in their camp of refuge, became their commander. He was so good a soldier, that the Normans supposed him to be aided by enchantment. William, even after he had made a road three miles in length across the Cambridgeshire marshes, on purpose to attack this supposed enchanter, thought it necessary to engage an old lady, who pretended to be a sorceress, to come and do a little enchantment in the royal cause. For this purpose she was pushed on before the troops in a wooden tower; but Hereward very soon disposed of this unfortunate sorceress, by burning her, tower and all. The monks of the convent of Ely near at hand, however, who were fond of good living, and who found it very uncomfortable to have the country blockaded and their supplies of meat and drink cut off, showed the King a secret way of surprising the camp. So Hereward was soon defeated. Whether he afterwards died quietly, or whether he was killed after killing sixteen of the men who attacked him (as some old rhymes relate that he did), I cannot say. His defeat put an end to the Camp of Refuge; and, very soon afterwards, the King, victorious both in Scotland and in England, quelled the last rebellious English noble. He then surrounded himself with Norman lords, enriched by the property of English nobles; had a great survey made of all the land in England, which was entered as the property of its new owners, on a roll called Doomsday Book; obliged the people to put out their fires and candles at a certain hour every night, on the ringing of a bell which was called The Curfew; introduced the Norman dresses and manners; made the Normans masters everywhere, and the English, servants; turned out the English bishops, and put Normans in their places; and showed himself to be the Conqueror indeed.

The outlaws had, at this time, what they called a Camp of Refuge, in the middle of the fens of Cambridgeshire. Protected by those marshy lands that were hard to access, they lay among the reeds and rushes, hidden by the mists that rose from the wet ground. Over the sea in Flanders, there was also an Englishman named Hereward, whose father had died while he was away, and whose property had been given to a Norman. When he learned about this injustice (from some of the exiled English who happened to wander into that area), he yearned for revenge; and after joining the outlaws in their camp of refuge, he became their leader. He was such a skilled soldier that the Normans thought he must be helped by magic. Even after he built a road three miles long through the Cambridgeshire marshes to attack this supposed magician, William felt he needed to hire an old woman who claimed to be a sorceress to come and work a little magic for the royal cause. For this purpose, she was pushed in a wooden tower in front of the troops, but Hereward quickly dealt with this unfortunate sorceress by burning her, tower and all. However, the monks of the nearby convent of Ely, who enjoyed good food and found it very inconvenient to have the area blockaded with their supplies of meat and drink cut off, showed the King a secret route to surprise the camp. So Hereward was soon defeated. Whether he then died quietly, or was killed after taking down sixteen of the men who attacked him (as some old rhymes say), I can't say. His defeat brought an end to the Camp of Refuge; and soon after, the King, victorious in both Scotland and England, crushed the last rebellious English noble. He then surrounded himself with Norman lords, enriched by the possessions of English nobles; had a comprehensive survey made of all the land in England, recorded as the property of its new owners in a document called the Doomsday Book; forced the people to extinguish their fires and candles at a certain hour each night when a bell known as The Curfew rang; introduced Norman clothing and manners; made the Normans the rulers everywhere, and the English their servants; ousted the English bishops and replaced them with Normans; and proved himself to be the Conqueror indeed.

But, even with his own Normans, he had a restless life. They were always hungering and thirsting for the riches of the English; and the more he gave, the more they wanted. His priests were as greedy as his soldiers. We know of only one Norman who plainly told his master, the King, that he had come with him to England to do his duty as a faithful servant, and that property taken by force from other men had no charms for him. His name was Guilbert. We should not forget his name, for it is good to remember and to honour honest men.

But even with his own Normans, he lived a restless life. They were always eager for the wealth of the English, and the more he gave, the more they wanted. His priests were just as greedy as his soldiers. We only know of one Norman who openly told his master, the King, that he had come to England to fulfill his duty as a loyal servant and that property taken by force from others held no appeal for him. His name was Guilbert. We should remember his name, as it's important to recognize and honor honest people.

Besides all these troubles, William the Conqueror was troubled by quarrels among his sons. He had three living. Robert, called Curthose, because of his short legs; William, called Rufus or the Red, from the colour of his hair; and Henry, fond of learning, and called, in the Norman language, Beauclerc, or Fine-Scholar. When Robert grew up, he asked of his father the government of Normandy, which he had nominally possessed, as a child, under his mother, Matilda. The King refusing to grant it, Robert became jealous and discontented; and happening one day, while in this temper, to be ridiculed by his brothers, who threw water on him from a balcony as he was walking before the door, he drew his sword, rushed up-stairs, and was only prevented by the King himself from putting them to death. That same night, he hotly departed with some followers from his father’s court, and endeavoured to take the Castle of Rouen by surprise. Failing in this, he shut himself up in another Castle in Normandy, which the King besieged, and where Robert one day unhorsed and nearly killed him without knowing who he was. His submission when he discovered his father, and the intercession of the queen and others, reconciled them; but not soundly; for Robert soon strayed abroad, and went from court to court with his complaints. He was a gay, careless, thoughtless fellow, spending all he got on musicians and dancers; but his mother loved him, and often, against the King’s command, supplied him with money through a messenger named Samson. At length the incensed King swore he would tear out Samson’s eyes; and Samson, thinking that his only hope of safety was in becoming a monk, became one, went on such errands no more, and kept his eyes in his head.

Besides all these troubles, William the Conqueror was burdened by conflicts among his sons. He had three living: Robert, nicknamed Curse because of his short legs; William, called Rufus or the Red, due to the color of his hair; and Henry, who loved learning and was referred to in Norman as Beauclerc, or Fine-Scholar. When Robert grew up, he asked his father for control of Normandy, which he had nominally held as a child under his mother, Matilda. The King refused to grant it, causing Robert to become jealous and unhappy; one day, while in this mood, he was mocked by his brothers, who poured water on him from a balcony while he was walking outside. In anger, he drew his sword, rushed upstairs, and was only stopped by the King himself from killing them. That same night, he angrily left his father’s court with some followers and tried to take the Castle of Rouen by surprise. Failing at this, he locked himself in another castle in Normandy, which the King besieged, and one day, Robert unhorsed and nearly killed him without realizing who he was. When he discovered his father, he submitted, and with the help of the queen and others, they were reconciled, but not fully; Robert soon wandered off and traveled from court to court with his grievances. He was a carefree, thoughtless person, spending all his money on musicians and dancers; however, his mother loved him and often, against the King’s orders, sent him money through a messenger named Samson. Eventually, the furious King swore he would tear out Samson’s eyes; thinking that his only chance for safety was to become a monk, Samson did just that, stopped running those errands, and kept his eyes intact.

All this time, from the turbulent day of his strange coronation, the Conqueror had been struggling, you see, at any cost of cruelty and bloodshed, to maintain what he had seized. All his reign, he struggled still, with the same object ever before him. He was a stern, bold man, and he succeeded in it.

All this time, since the chaotic day of his unusual coronation, the Conqueror had been fighting, no matter the cruelty and bloodshed, to hold onto what he had taken. Throughout his entire reign, he kept struggling with the same goal in mind. He was a tough, fearless man, and he succeeded in that.

He loved money, and was particular in his eating, but he had only leisure to indulge one other passion, and that was his love of hunting. He carried it to such a height that he ordered whole villages and towns to be swept away to make forests for the deer. Not satisfied with sixty-eight Royal Forests, he laid waste an immense district, to form another in Hampshire, called the New Forest. The many thousands of miserable peasants who saw their little houses pulled down, and themselves and children turned into the open country without a shelter, detested him for his merciless addition to their many sufferings; and when, in the twenty-first year of his reign (which proved to be the last), he went over to Rouen, England was as full of hatred against him, as if every leaf on every tree in all his Royal Forests had been a curse upon his head. In the New Forest, his son Richard (for he had four sons) had been gored to death by a Stag; and the people said that this so cruelly-made Forest would yet be fatal to others of the Conqueror’s race.

He loved money and was particular about his food, but he had just enough free time to indulge in one other passion: hunting. He took it to such extremes that he ordered entire villages and towns to be wiped out to create forests for deer. Not content with sixty-eight Royal Forests, he devastated a huge area to establish another one in Hampshire called the New Forest. The thousands of miserable peasants who watched their homes destroyed and themselves and their children left homeless in the open countryside despised him for his ruthless addition to their many hardships. When, in the twenty-first year of his reign (which turned out to be his last), he traveled to Rouen, England was filled with hatred for him, as if every leaf on every tree in all his Royal Forests were a curse aimed at him. In the New Forest, his son Richard (he had four sons) had been gored to death by a stag; and the people said that this cruelly created Forest would eventually bring doom to others of the Conqueror’s family.

He was engaged in a dispute with the King of France about some territory. While he stayed at Rouen, negotiating with that King, he kept his bed and took medicines: being advised by his physicians to do so, on account of having grown to an unwieldy size. Word being brought to him that the King of France made light of this, and joked about it, he swore in a great rage that he should rue his jests. He assembled his army, marched into the disputed territory, burnt—his old way!—the vines, the crops, and fruit, and set the town of Mantes on fire. But, in an evil hour; for, as he rode over the hot ruins, his horse, setting his hoofs upon some burning embers, started, threw him forward against the pommel of the saddle, and gave him a mortal hurt. For six weeks he lay dying in a monastery near Rouen, and then made his will, giving England to William, Normandy to Robert, and five thousand pounds to Henry. And now, his violent deeds lay heavy on his mind. He ordered money to be given to many English churches and monasteries, and—which was much better repentance—released his prisoners of state, some of whom had been confined in his dungeons twenty years.

He was in a disagreement with the King of France over some land. While he was in Rouen, negotiating with the King, he stayed in bed and took medicine because his doctors recommended it, as he had become quite large. When he heard that the King of France was mocking him and making jokes, he became extremely angry and vowed that the King would regret his jokes. He gathered his army, marched into the disputed territory, and burned—his usual method—the vines, crops, and fruit, and set the town of Mantes on fire. But, it was a terrible mistake; as he rode over the hot ruins, his horse stepped on some burning embers, startled, and threw him forward onto the pommel of the saddle, injuring him fatally. He lay dying for six weeks in a monastery near Rouen before making his will, giving England to William, Normandy to Robert, and five thousand pounds to Henry. Now, the violent actions weighed heavily on his conscience. He ordered money to be given to many English churches and monasteries, and—in a much better act of repentance—released his state prisoners, some of whom had been locked away in his dungeons for twenty years.

It was a September morning, and the sun was rising, when the King was awakened from slumber by the sound of a church bell. ‘What bell is that?’ he faintly asked. They told him it was the bell of the chapel of Saint Mary. ‘I commend my soul,’ said he, ‘to Mary!’ and died.

It was a September morning, and the sun was rising when the King was awakened from sleep by the sound of a church bell. “What bell is that?” he weakly asked. They told him it was the bell of the chapel of Saint Mary. “I commend my soul to Mary!” he said, and then he died.

Think of his name, The Conqueror, and then consider how he lay in death! The moment he was dead, his physicians, priests, and nobles, not knowing what contest for the throne might now take place, or what might happen in it, hastened away, each man for himself and his own property; the mercenary servants of the court began to rob and plunder; the body of the King, in the indecent strife, was rolled from the bed, and lay alone, for hours, upon the ground. O Conqueror, of whom so many great names are proud now, of whom so many great names thought nothing then, it were better to have conquered one true heart, than England!

Think about his name, The Conqueror, and then think about how he lay in death! The moment he died, his doctors, priests, and nobles, not knowing what struggle for the throne might happen next, each rushed away for their own safety and belongings; the hired hands of the court started to steal and loot; the King's body, in the chaotic frenzy, was pushed off the bed and lay alone for hours on the floor. O Conqueror, of whom so many great names are now proud, and whom so many great names disregarded then, it would have been better to have conquered one true heart than England!

By-and-by, the priests came creeping in with prayers and candles; and a good knight, named Herluin, undertook (which no one else would do) to convey the body to Caen, in Normandy, in order that it might be buried in St. Stephen’s church there, which the Conqueror had founded. But fire, of which he had made such bad use in his life, seemed to follow him of itself in death. A great conflagration broke out in the town when the body was placed in the church; and those present running out to extinguish the flames, it was once again left alone.

Eventually, the priests came in quietly with prayers and candles, and a brave knight named Herluin stepped up to take on the task that no one else would: transporting the body to Caen in Normandy so it could be buried in St. Stephen's Church, which the Conqueror had established. But the fire, which he had misused in his life, seemed to follow him even in death. A huge blaze erupted in the town as the body was being placed in the church, and as those present rushed out to put out the flames, it was once again left unattended.

It was not even buried in peace. It was about to be let down, in its Royal robes, into a tomb near the high altar, in presence of a great concourse of people, when a loud voice in the crowd cried out, ‘This ground is mine! Upon it, stood my father’s house. This King despoiled me of both ground and house to build this church. In the great name of God, I here forbid his body to be covered with the earth that is my right!’ The priests and bishops present, knowing the speaker’s right, and knowing that the King had often denied him justice, paid him down sixty shillings for the grave. Even then, the corpse was not at rest. The tomb was too small, and they tried to force it in. It broke, a dreadful smell arose, the people hurried out into the air, and, for the third time, it was left alone.

It wasn’t even buried peacefully. It was about to be lowered, in its royal robes, into a tomb near the high altar, in front of a large crowd, when a loud voice in the crowd shouted, “This ground is mine! Upon it stood my father’s house. This King took both my land and my house to build this church. In the great name of God, I hereby forbid his body from being buried in the earth that is my rightful property!” The priests and bishops present, knowing the speaker’s claim and aware that the King had often denied him justice, paid him sixty shillings for the grave. Even then, the corpse was not at rest. The tomb was too small, and they attempted to force it in. It broke, a terrible smell arose, the people rushed out into the air, and once again, it was left alone.

Where were the Conqueror’s three sons, that they were not at their father’s burial? Robert was lounging among minstrels, dancers, and gamesters, in France or Germany. Henry was carrying his five thousand pounds safely away in a convenient chest he had got made. William the Red was hurrying to England, to lay hands upon the Royal treasure and the crown.

Where were the Conqueror’s three sons that they weren’t at their father’s funeral? Robert was hanging out with musicians, dancers, and gamblers in France or Germany. Henry was taking his five thousand pounds away securely in a handy chest he had made. William the Red was racing to England to grab the royal treasure and the crown.

CHAPTER IX—ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM THE SECOND, CALLED RUFUS

William the Red, in breathless haste, secured the three great forts of Dover, Pevensey, and Hastings, and made with hot speed for Winchester, where the Royal treasure was kept. The treasurer delivering him the keys, he found that it amounted to sixty thousand pounds in silver, besides gold and jewels. Possessed of this wealth, he soon persuaded the Archbishop of Canterbury to crown him, and became William the Second, King of England.

William the Red, in a rush, captured the three major forts of Dover, Pevensey, and Hastings, then quickly headed to Winchester, where the royal treasure was stored. When the treasurer handed him the keys, he discovered that it totaled sixty thousand pounds in silver, along with gold and jewels. With this wealth, he quickly convinced the Archbishop of Canterbury to crown him, becoming William the Second, King of England.

Rufus was no sooner on the throne, than he ordered into prison again the unhappy state captives whom his father had set free, and directed a goldsmith to ornament his father’s tomb profusely with gold and silver. It would have been more dutiful in him to have attended the sick Conqueror when he was dying; but England itself, like this Red King, who once governed it, has sometimes made expensive tombs for dead men whom it treated shabbily when they were alive.

Rufus hadn’t been on the throne for long when he ordered the unfortunate captives, whom his father had freed, to be imprisoned again, and he instructed a goldsmith to lavishly decorate his father’s tomb with gold and silver. It would have been more respectful for him to attend to the ailing Conqueror during his last moments; however, England itself, much like this Red King who once ruled it, has occasionally built costly tombs for dead men whom it mistreated while they were alive.

The King’s brother, Robert of Normandy, seeming quite content to be only Duke of that country; and the King’s other brother, Fine-Scholar, being quiet enough with his five thousand pounds in a chest; the King flattered himself, we may suppose, with the hope of an easy reign. But easy reigns were difficult to have in those days. The turbulent Bishop Odo (who had blessed the Norman army at the Battle of Hastings, and who, I dare say, took all the credit of the victory to himself) soon began, in concert with some powerful Norman nobles, to trouble the Red King.

The King’s brother, Robert of Normandy, seemed perfectly happy being just the Duke of that region; and the King’s other brother, Fine-Scholar, was content to have his five thousand pounds stashed away. The King, we can assume, felt confident about having an easy reign. But easy reigns were hard to come by back then. The unruly Bishop Odo (who had blessed the Norman army at the Battle of Hastings and probably claimed all the credit for the victory) soon started, along with some influential Norman nobles, to create problems for the Red King.

The truth seems to be that this bishop and his friends, who had lands in England and lands in Normandy, wished to hold both under one Sovereign; and greatly preferred a thoughtless good-natured person, such as Robert was, to Rufus; who, though far from being an amiable man in any respect, was keen, and not to be imposed upon. They declared in Robert’s favour, and retired to their castles (those castles were very troublesome to kings) in a sullen humour. The Red King, seeing the Normans thus falling from him, revenged himself upon them by appealing to the English; to whom he made a variety of promises, which he never meant to perform—in particular, promises to soften the cruelty of the Forest Laws; and who, in return, so aided him with their valour, that Odo was besieged in the Castle of Rochester, and forced to abandon it, and to depart from England for ever: whereupon the other rebellious Norman nobles were soon reduced and scattered.

The reality is that this bishop and his friends, who owned land in both England and Normandy, wanted to keep both territories under one ruler. They much preferred someone easygoing like Robert over Rufus, who, while not friendly at all, was sharp and not easily fooled. They declared their support for Robert and retreated to their castles (which were quite a hassle for kings) in a bad mood. The Red King, noticing the Normans turning away from him, took his revenge by appealing to the English, promising them many things he never intended to follow through on—especially promises to ease the harshness of the Forest Laws. In return, the English helped him so valiantly that Odo was besieged in Rochester Castle and forced to abandon it and leave England forever. After that, the other rebellious Norman nobles were quickly subdued and scattered.

Then, the Red King went over to Normandy, where the people suffered greatly under the loose rule of Duke Robert. The King’s object was to seize upon the Duke’s dominions. This, the Duke, of course, prepared to resist; and miserable war between the two brothers seemed inevitable, when the powerful nobles on both sides, who had seen so much of war, interfered to prevent it. A treaty was made. Each of the two brothers agreed to give up something of his claims, and that the longer-liver of the two should inherit all the dominions of the other. When they had come to this loving understanding, they embraced and joined their forces against Fine-Scholar; who had bought some territory of Robert with a part of his five thousand pounds, and was considered a dangerous individual in consequence.

Then, the Red King traveled to Normandy, where the people were suffering greatly under Duke Robert's loose rule. The King’s goal was to take over the Duke’s lands. Naturally, the Duke was ready to fight back, and a miserable war between the two brothers seemed unavoidable, until the powerful nobles from both sides, who had seen plenty of conflict, stepped in to stop it. A treaty was reached. Each brother agreed to give up part of their claims, and it was decided that the longer-living brother would inherit all the lands of the other. After they came to this agreement, they embraced and united their forces against Fine-Scholar, who had purchased some land from Robert with part of his five thousand pounds and was considered a threat because of it.

St. Michael’s Mount, in Normandy (there is another St. Michael’s Mount, in Cornwall, wonderfully like it), was then, as it is now, a strong place perched upon the top of a high rock, around which, when the tide is in, the sea flows, leaving no road to the mainland. In this place, Fine-Scholar shut himself up with his soldiers, and here he was closely besieged by his two brothers. At one time, when he was reduced to great distress for want of water, the generous Robert not only permitted his men to get water, but sent Fine-Scholar wine from his own table; and, on being remonstrated with by the Red King, said ‘What! shall we let our own brother die of thirst? Where shall we get another, when he is gone?’ At another time, the Red King riding alone on the shore of the bay, looking up at the Castle, was taken by two of Fine-Scholar’s men, one of whom was about to kill him, when he cried out, ‘Hold, knave! I am the King of England!’ The story says that the soldier raised him from the ground respectfully and humbly, and that the King took him into his service. The story may or may not be true; but at any rate it is true that Fine-Scholar could not hold out against his united brothers, and that he abandoned Mount St. Michael, and wandered about—as poor and forlorn as other scholars have been sometimes known to be.

St. Michael’s Mount, in Normandy (there's another St. Michael’s Mount in Cornwall that looks remarkably similar), was, just like today, a stronghold situated on top of a high rock, surrounded by the sea when the tide is in, leaving no path to the mainland. Here, Fine-Scholar locked himself in with his soldiers, while his two brothers laid siege to him. At one point, when he was desperate for water, the generous Robert not only allowed his men to fetch water but also sent Fine-Scholar wine from his own table. When the Red King protested, he said, "What! Should we let our own brother die of thirst? Where will we find another when he's gone?" On another occasion, the Red King was riding alone along the shore of the bay, looking up at the Castle, when he was captured by two of Fine-Scholar’s men. One of them was about to kill him when he shouted, "Stop, you scoundrel! I’m the King of England!" The story goes that the soldier respectfully lifted him off the ground, and the King took him into his service. This tale may or may not be true, but what is certain is that Fine-Scholar couldn’t withstand the combined might of his brothers and eventually abandoned Mount St. Michael, wandering about— as poor and destitute as many scholars have sometimes been known to be.

The Scotch became unquiet in the Red King’s time, and were twice defeated—the second time, with the loss of their King, Malcolm, and his son. The Welsh became unquiet too. Against them, Rufus was less successful; for they fought among their native mountains, and did great execution on the King’s troops. Robert of Normandy became unquiet too; and, complaining that his brother the King did not faithfully perform his part of their agreement, took up arms, and obtained assistance from the King of France, whom Rufus, in the end, bought off with vast sums of money. England became unquiet too. Lord Mowbray, the powerful Earl of Northumberland, headed a great conspiracy to depose the King, and to place upon the throne, Stephen, the Conqueror’s near relative. The plot was discovered; all the chief conspirators were seized; some were fined, some were put in prison, some were put to death. The Earl of Northumberland himself was shut up in a dungeon beneath Windsor Castle, where he died, an old man, thirty long years afterwards. The Priests in England were more unquiet than any other class or power; for the Red King treated them with such small ceremony that he refused to appoint new bishops or archbishops when the old ones died, but kept all the wealth belonging to those offices in his own hands. In return for this, the Priests wrote his life when he was dead, and abused him well. I am inclined to think, myself, that there was little to choose between the Priests and the Red King; that both sides were greedy and designing; and that they were fairly matched.

The Scots became restless during the time of the Red King and were defeated twice—the second time resulting in the death of their King, Malcolm, and his son. The Welsh also grew restless. In their case, Rufus was less successful; they fought among their familiar mountains and caused significant damage to the King’s troops. Robert of Normandy grew restless too, and, claiming that his brother the King wasn't keeping his part of their agreement, took up arms and sought help from the King of France, whom Rufus ultimately won over with large sums of money. England became unsettled as well. Lord Mowbray, the powerful Earl of Northumberland, led a major conspiracy to depose the King and place Stephen, a close relative of the Conqueror, on the throne. The plot was uncovered; all the main conspirators were caught; some were fined, some were imprisoned, and some were executed. The Earl of Northumberland himself was locked away in a dungeon beneath Windsor Castle, where he died as an old man, thirty long years later. The priests in England were more restless than any other class or authority; the Red King treated them with such disrespect that he refused to appoint new bishops or archbishops when the old ones passed away, keeping all the wealth from those positions for himself. In return, the priests wrote a scathing account of his life once he was dead. Personally, I believe there was little difference between the priests and the Red King; both sides were greedy and scheming, and they were quite evenly matched.

The Red King was false of heart, selfish, covetous, and mean. He had a worthy minister in his favourite, Ralph, nicknamed—for almost every famous person had a nickname in those rough days—Flambard, or the Firebrand. Once, the King being ill, became penitent, and made Anselm, a foreign priest and a good man, Archbishop of Canterbury. But he no sooner got well again than he repented of his repentance, and persisted in wrongfully keeping to himself some of the wealth belonging to the archbishopric. This led to violent disputes, which were aggravated by there being in Rome at that time two rival Popes; each of whom declared he was the only real original infallible Pope, who couldn’t make a mistake. At last, Anselm, knowing the Red King’s character, and not feeling himself safe in England, asked leave to return abroad. The Red King gladly gave it; for he knew that as soon as Anselm was gone, he could begin to store up all the Canterbury money again, for his own use.

The Red King was deceitful, selfish, greedy, and stingy. He had a capable minister in his favorite, Ralph, nicknamed—since nearly everyone had a nickname in those rough times—Flambard, or the Firebrand. One time, when the King was sick, he felt remorseful and appointed Anselm, a foreign priest and a good man, as Archbishop of Canterbury. But as soon as he got better, he regretted his change of heart and continued to wrongfully keep some of the wealth that belonged to the archbishopric. This caused intense conflicts, made worse by the fact that at that time, there were two rival Popes in Rome, each claiming to be the only true, infallible Pope who could do no wrong. Eventually, Anselm, understanding the Red King’s nature and not feeling safe in England, requested permission to return abroad. The Red King was pleased to grant it because he knew that once Anselm left, he could start hoarding all the Canterbury money for himself again.

By such means, and by taxing and oppressing the English people in every possible way, the Red King became very rich. When he wanted money for any purpose, he raised it by some means or other, and cared nothing for the injustice he did, or the misery he caused. Having the opportunity of buying from Robert the whole duchy of Normandy for five years, he taxed the English people more than ever, and made the very convents sell their plate and valuables to supply him with the means to make the purchase. But he was as quick and eager in putting down revolt as he was in raising money; for, a part of the Norman people objecting—very naturally, I think—to being sold in this way, he headed an army against them with all the speed and energy of his father. He was so impatient, that he embarked for Normandy in a great gale of wind. And when the sailors told him it was dangerous to go to sea in such angry weather, he replied, ‘Hoist sail and away! Did you ever hear of a king who was drowned?’

Through these methods, and by taxing and oppressing the English people in every possible way, the Red King became very wealthy. Whenever he needed money for anything, he found a way to get it, showing no concern for the injustice he was causing or the suffering he inflicted. When he had the chance to buy the entire duchy of Normandy from Robert for five years, he taxed the English people more heavily than ever and forced even the convents to sell their silver and treasures to raise the funds for the purchase. But he was just as quick and determined to crush any revolts as he was to gather money; when some of the Norman people, quite understandably, protested being sold like that, he led an army against them with all the speed and energy of his father. He was so impatient that he set sail for Normandy in a fierce storm. When the sailors warned him that it was dangerous to go out in such rough weather, he replied, "Hoist sail and let’s go! Have you ever heard of a king who drowned?"

You will wonder how it was that even the careless Robert came to sell his dominions. It happened thus. It had long been the custom for many English people to make journeys to Jerusalem, which were called pilgrimages, in order that they might pray beside the tomb of Our Saviour there. Jerusalem belonging to the Turks, and the Turks hating Christianity, these Christian travellers were often insulted and ill used. The Pilgrims bore it patiently for some time, but at length a remarkable man, of great earnestness and eloquence, called Peter the Hermit, began to preach in various places against the Turks, and to declare that it was the duty of good Christians to drive away those unbelievers from the tomb of Our Saviour, and to take possession of it, and protect it. An excitement such as the world had never known before was created. Thousands and thousands of men of all ranks and conditions departed for Jerusalem to make war against the Turks. The war is called in history the first Crusade, and every Crusader wore a cross marked on his right shoulder.

You might be curious how even the careless Robert ended up selling his territories. Here's what happened. For a long time, many English people traveled to Jerusalem on pilgrimages to pray at the tomb of Our Savior. Since Jerusalem was under Turkish control, and the Turks despised Christianity, these Christian travelers often faced insults and mistreatment. The Pilgrims put up with it for a while, but eventually, a remarkable man named Peter the Hermit, known for his passion and eloquence, started preaching in various locations against the Turks. He proclaimed that it was the duty of good Christians to drive these unbelievers away from Our Savior's tomb, claim it, and protect it. This sparked an unprecedented excitement. Thousands of men from all walks of life set out for Jerusalem to wage war against the Turks. This conflict is known in history as the first Crusade, and every Crusader wore a cross on his right shoulder.

All the Crusaders were not zealous Christians. Among them were vast numbers of the restless, idle, profligate, and adventurous spirit of the time. Some became Crusaders for the love of change; some, in the hope of plunder; some, because they had nothing to do at home; some, because they did what the priests told them; some, because they liked to see foreign countries; some, because they were fond of knocking men about, and would as soon knock a Turk about as a Christian. Robert of Normandy may have been influenced by all these motives; and by a kind desire, besides, to save the Christian Pilgrims from bad treatment in future. He wanted to raise a number of armed men, and to go to the Crusade. He could not do so without money. He had no money; and he sold his dominions to his brother, the Red King, for five years. With the large sum he thus obtained, he fitted out his Crusaders gallantly, and went away to Jerusalem in martial state. The Red King, who made money out of everything, stayed at home, busily squeezing more money out of Normans and English.

Not all the Crusaders were dedicated Christians. Among them were many restless, idle, reckless, and adventurous individuals of the time. Some became Crusaders just for the thrill of it; others were hoping for loot; some joined because they had nothing else to do back home; some followed the orders of priests; some wanted to see new places; and some just liked fighting, willing to take on anyone, whether they were Turks or Christians. Robert of Normandy may have been motivated by all these reasons, along with a genuine desire to protect Christian Pilgrims from mistreatment in the future. He aimed to gather a group of armed men to join the Crusade, but he couldn't do it without funding. Lacking money, he sold his lands to his brother, the Red King, for five years. With the substantial amount he got from this deal, he equipped his Crusaders splendidly and set off for Jerusalem in impressive fashion. Meanwhile, the Red King, who profited from everything, stayed home, busily extracting more money from the Normans and English.

After three years of great hardship and suffering—from shipwreck at sea; from travel in strange lands; from hunger, thirst, and fever, upon the burning sands of the desert; and from the fury of the Turks—the valiant Crusaders got possession of Our Saviour’s tomb. The Turks were still resisting and fighting bravely, but this success increased the general desire in Europe to join the Crusade. Another great French Duke was proposing to sell his dominions for a term to the rich Red King, when the Red King’s reign came to a sudden and violent end.

After three years of intense hardship and suffering—from shipwrecks at sea; from traveling in unfamiliar lands; from hunger, thirst, and fever on the scorching sands of the desert; and from the violence of the Turks—the brave Crusaders finally took control of Our Savior’s tomb. The Turks continued to resist and fight fiercely, but this victory sparked a growing desire in Europe to join the Crusade. Another powerful French Duke was planning to sell his territory for a time to the wealthy Red King when the Red King’s reign came to a sudden and violent end.

You have not forgotten the New Forest which the Conqueror made, and which the miserable people whose homes he had laid waste, so hated. The cruelty of the Forest Laws, and the torture and death they brought upon the peasantry, increased this hatred. The poor persecuted country people believed that the New Forest was enchanted. They said that in thunder-storms, and on dark nights, demons appeared, moving beneath the branches of the gloomy trees. They said that a terrible spectre had foretold to Norman hunters that the Red King should be punished there. And now, in the pleasant season of May, when the Red King had reigned almost thirteen years; and a second Prince of the Conqueror’s blood—another Richard, the son of Duke Robert—was killed by an arrow in this dreaded Forest; the people said that the second time was not the last, and that there was another death to come.

You haven't forgotten the New Forest that the Conqueror created, which the unfortunate people whose homes he destroyed despised. The harshness of the Forest Laws and the suffering and death they caused for the peasants only fueled this hatred. The oppressed country folk believed that the New Forest was cursed. They claimed that during thunderstorms and on dark nights, demons could be seen moving under the branches of the eerie trees. They said that a terrifying specter had warned Norman hunters that the Red King would meet his fate there. Now, in the lovely month of May, with the Red King having reigned for nearly thirteen years, and another Prince of the Conqueror’s blood—another Richard, the son of Duke Robert—killed by an arrow in this feared Forest, the people whispered that this second death would not be the last and that another tragedy was still to come.

It was a lonely forest, accursed in the people’s hearts for the wicked deeds that had been done to make it; and no man save the King and his Courtiers and Huntsmen, liked to stray there. But, in reality, it was like any other forest. In the spring, the green leaves broke out of the buds; in the summer, flourished heartily, and made deep shades; in the winter, shrivelled and blew down, and lay in brown heaps on the moss. Some trees were stately, and grew high and strong; some had fallen of themselves; some were felled by the forester’s axe; some were hollow, and the rabbits burrowed at their roots; some few were struck by lightning, and stood white and bare. There were hill-sides covered with rich fern, on which the morning dew so beautifully sparkled; there were brooks, where the deer went down to drink, or over which the whole herd bounded, flying from the arrows of the huntsmen; there were sunny glades, and solemn places where but little light came through the rustling leaves. The songs of the birds in the New Forest were pleasanter to hear than the shouts of fighting men outside; and even when the Red King and his Court came hunting through its solitudes, cursing loud and riding hard, with a jingling of stirrups and bridles and knives and daggers, they did much less harm there than among the English or Normans, and the stags died (as they lived) far easier than the people.

It was a desolate forest, hated by the people for the evil deeds that had been done there, and no one except the King, his courtiers, and hunters wanted to wander in it. But, really, it was just like any other forest. In spring, the green leaves sprouted from the buds; in summer, they thrived and created deep shade; in winter, they withered and fell, forming brown piles on the moss. Some trees were tall and strong; some had fallen naturally; some were cut down by the forester's axe; some were hollow, with rabbits burrowing at their roots; a few were struck by lightning and stood naked and white. There were hillsides covered in lush ferns, glittering in the morning dew; there were streams where deer came to drink or where the whole herd leaped across, fleeing from the hunters' arrows; there were sunny clearings and solemn spots where little light filtered through the rustling leaves. The birds' songs in the New Forest were more pleasant to hear than the shouts of fighting men outside; and even when the Red King and his Court hunted through its depths, shouting loudly and riding hard, their clattering stirrups, bridles, knives, and daggers caused much less damage there than among the English or Normans, and the stags died (as they lived) much more peacefully than the people.

Upon a day in August, the Red King, now reconciled to his brother, Fine-Scholar, came with a great train to hunt in the New Forest. Fine-Scholar was of the party. They were a merry party, and had lain all night at Malwood-Keep, a hunting-lodge in the forest, where they had made good cheer, both at supper and breakfast, and had drunk a deal of wine. The party dispersed in various directions, as the custom of hunters then was. The King took with him only Sir Walter Tyrrel, who was a famous sportsman, and to whom he had given, before they mounted horse that morning, two fine arrows.

One August day, the Red King, now on good terms with his brother, Fine-Scholar, arrived with a large group to hunt in the New Forest. Fine-Scholar was part of the group. They were a lively bunch and had spent the night at Malwood-Keep, a hunting lodge in the forest, where they enjoyed themselves with a hearty supper and breakfast, along with plenty of wine. The group scattered in different directions, as was the practice for hunters at that time. The King took with him only Sir Walter Tyrell, who was a skilled hunter, and to whom he had given, before they set off on horseback that morning, two fine arrows.

The last time the King was ever seen alive, he was riding with Sir Walter Tyrrel, and their dogs were hunting together.

The last time the King was seen alive, he was riding with Sir Walter Tyrrel, and their dogs were out hunting together.

It was almost night, when a poor charcoal-burner, passing through the forest with his cart, came upon the solitary body of a dead man, shot with an arrow in the breast, and still bleeding. He got it into his cart. It was the body of the King. Shaken and tumbled, with its red beard all whitened with lime and clotted with blood, it was driven in the cart by the charcoal-burner next day to Winchester Cathedral, where it was received and buried.

It was nearly nighttime when a poor charcoal burner, traveling through the forest with his cart, stumbled upon the lonely body of a man who had been shot in the chest with an arrow and was still bleeding. He loaded it into his cart. It was the body of the King. Disheveled and battered, with his red beard covered in lime and matted with blood, the charcoal burner took it to Winchester Cathedral the next day, where it was received and buried.

Sir Walter Tyrrel, who escaped to Normandy, and claimed the protection of the King of France, swore in France that the Red King was suddenly shot dead by an arrow from an unseen hand, while they were hunting together; that he was fearful of being suspected as the King’s murderer; and that he instantly set spurs to his horse, and fled to the sea-shore. Others declared that the King and Sir Walter Tyrrel were hunting in company, a little before sunset, standing in bushes opposite one another, when a stag came between them. That the King drew his bow and took aim, but the string broke. That the King then cried, ‘Shoot, Walter, in the Devil’s name!’ That Sir Walter shot. That the arrow glanced against a tree, was turned aside from the stag, and struck the King from his horse, dead.

Sir Walter Tyrrel, who fled to Normandy and sought the protection of the King of France, swore in France that the Red King was suddenly shot dead by an arrow from an unseen source while they were out hunting together. He was afraid of being suspected as the King’s murderer and immediately spurred his horse to escape to the shore. Others claimed that the King and Sir Walter Tyrrel were hunting together just before sunset, standing in bushes opposite each other when a stag came between them. The King drew his bow and took aim, but the string snapped. The King then shouted, ‘Shoot, Walter, in the Devil’s name!’ Sir Walter shot, but the arrow glanced off a tree, veered away from the stag, and struck the King, killing him instantly.

By whose hand the Red King really fell, and whether that hand despatched the arrow to his breast by accident or by design, is only known to God. Some think his brother may have caused him to be killed; but the Red King had made so many enemies, both among priests and people, that suspicion may reasonably rest upon a less unnatural murderer. Men know no more than that he was found dead in the New Forest, which the suffering people had regarded as a doomed ground for his race.

By whose hand the Red King actually fell, and whether that hand shot the arrow into his chest by accident or intentionally, is only known to God. Some believe his brother might have orchestrated his death; however, the Red King had made so many enemies among both priests and the public that it's reasonable to consider a less obvious murderer. All that people really know is that he was found dead in the New Forest, which the suffering populace had viewed as cursed ground for his family.

CHAPTER X—ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FIRST, CALLED FINE-SCHOLAR

Fine-scholar, on hearing of the Red King’s death, hurried to Winchester with as much speed as Rufus himself had made, to seize the Royal treasure. But the keeper of the treasure who had been one of the hunting-party in the Forest, made haste to Winchester too, and, arriving there at about the same time, refused to yield it up. Upon this, Fine-Scholar drew his sword, and threatened to kill the treasurer; who might have paid for his fidelity with his life, but that he knew longer resistance to be useless when he found the Prince supported by a company of powerful barons, who declared they were determined to make him King. The treasurer, therefore, gave up the money and jewels of the Crown: and on the third day after the death of the Red King, being a Sunday, Fine-Scholar stood before the high altar in Westminster Abbey, and made a solemn declaration that he would resign the Church property which his brother had seized; that he would do no wrong to the nobles; and that he would restore to the people the laws of Edward the Confessor, with all the improvements of William the Conqueror. So began the reign of King Henry the First.

Fine-Scholar, upon hearing about the Red King’s death, rushed to Winchester with as much urgency as Rufus had, to claim the royal treasure. However, the keeper of the treasure, who was also part of the hunting party in the Forest, quickly made his way to Winchester as well, and upon arriving around the same time, refused to give it up. In response, Fine-Scholar drew his sword and threatened to kill the treasurer, who might have lost his life for his loyalty, but he realized that further resistance was futile when he saw the Prince backed by a group of powerful barons who were set on making him King. Therefore, the treasurer surrendered the Crown's money and jewels. On the third day after the Red King’s death, which was a Sunday, Fine-Scholar stood before the high altar in Westminster Abbey and made a solemn promise that he would return the Church property his brother had taken; that he would not harm the nobles; and that he would restore the laws of Edward the Confessor to the people, along with all the enhancements from William the Conqueror. Thus began the reign of King Henry I.

The people were attached to their new King, both because he had known distresses, and because he was an Englishman by birth and not a Norman. To strengthen this last hold upon them, the King wished to marry an English lady; and could think of no other wife than Maud the Good, the daughter of the King of Scotland. Although this good Princess did not love the King, she was so affected by the representations the nobles made to her of the great charity it would be in her to unite the Norman and Saxon races, and prevent hatred and bloodshed between them for the future, that she consented to become his wife. After some disputing among the priests, who said that as she had been in a convent in her youth, and had worn the veil of a nun, she could not lawfully be married—against which the Princess stated that her aunt, with whom she had lived in her youth, had indeed sometimes thrown a piece of black stuff over her, but for no other reason than because the nun’s veil was the only dress the conquering Normans respected in girl or woman, and not because she had taken the vows of a nun, which she never had—she was declared free to marry, and was made King Henry’s Queen. A good Queen she was; beautiful, kind-hearted, and worthy of a better husband than the King.

The people were loyal to their new King, not only because he had experienced hardships but also because he was English by birth and not Norman. To strengthen this bond, the King wanted to marry an English woman and could think of no one better than Maud the Nice, the daughter of the King of Scotland. Although this kind Princess didn't love the King, she was persuaded by the nobles that it would be a great act of kindness to unite the Norman and Saxon people and prevent future hatred and bloodshed between them, so she agreed to marry him. After some debate among the priests, who argued that since she had been in a convent and worn a nun’s veil, she couldn't legally marry, the Princess pointed out that her aunt had sometimes draped a piece of black fabric over her, but only because the Normans respected the nun’s veil as appropriate attire for girls and women, not because she had taken any vows—as she never had. Ultimately, she was declared free to marry and became Queen Henry’s wife. She was a good Queen, beautiful, compassionate, and deserving of a better husband than the King.

For he was a cunning and unscrupulous man, though firm and clever. He cared very little for his word, and took any means to gain his ends. All this is shown in his treatment of his brother Robert—Robert, who had suffered him to be refreshed with water, and who had sent him the wine from his own table, when he was shut up, with the crows flying below him, parched with thirst, in the castle on the top of St. Michael’s Mount, where his Red brother would have let him die.

For he was a sly and ruthless man, though strong and smart. He didn’t care much about keeping his word and would do whatever it took to achieve his goals. This is evident in how he treated his brother Robert—Robert, who had allowed him to quench his thirst with water and who had sent him wine from his own table when he was trapped, with the crows flying below him, desperate for a drink, in the castle on top of St. Michael’s Mount, where his Red brother would have let him perish.

Before the King began to deal with Robert, he removed and disgraced all the favourites of the late King; who were for the most part base characters, much detested by the people. Flambard, or Firebrand, whom the late King had made Bishop of Durham, of all things in the world, Henry imprisoned in the Tower; but Firebrand was a great joker and a jolly companion, and made himself so popular with his guards that they pretended to know nothing about a long rope that was sent into his prison at the bottom of a deep flagon of wine. The guards took the wine, and Firebrand took the rope; with which, when they were fast asleep, he let himself down from a window in the night, and so got cleverly aboard ship and away to Normandy.

Before the King started dealing with Robert, he got rid of all the favorites of the late King, who were mostly disliked by the public. Flambard, or Firebrand, whom the late King had made Bishop of Durham, was imprisoned in the Tower by Henry; but Firebrand was quite the joker and a fun companion, and he became so well-liked by his guards that they pretended not to notice a long rope that was sent into his cell hidden in a deep flask of wine. The guards took the wine, and Firebrand took the rope; then, when they were fast asleep, he lowered himself out of a window at night and cleverly made his way onto a ship bound for Normandy.

Now Robert, when his brother Fine-Scholar came to the throne, was still absent in the Holy Land. Henry pretended that Robert had been made Sovereign of that country; and he had been away so long, that the ignorant people believed it. But, behold, when Henry had been some time King of England, Robert came home to Normandy; having leisurely returned from Jerusalem through Italy, in which beautiful country he had enjoyed himself very much, and had married a lady as beautiful as itself! In Normandy, he found Firebrand waiting to urge him to assert his claim to the English crown, and declare war against King Henry. This, after great loss of time in feasting and dancing with his beautiful Italian wife among his Norman friends, he at last did.

Now Robert, when his brother Fine-Scholar took the throne, was still away in the Holy Land. Henry pretended that Robert had been made ruler of that country, and he had been gone for so long that the uninformed people believed it. But, lo and behold, after Henry had been King of England for a while, Robert came back to Normandy, having taken his time returning from Jerusalem through Italy, where he had enjoyed himself greatly and married a woman as beautiful as the country itself! In Normandy, he found Firebrand urging him to assert his claim to the English crown and declare war against King Henry. After wasting a lot of time enjoying feasts and dancing with his beautiful Italian wife among his Norman friends, he finally did.

The English in general were on King Henry’s side, though many of the Normans were on Robert’s. But the English sailors deserted the King, and took a great part of the English fleet over to Normandy; so that Robert came to invade this country in no foreign vessels, but in English ships. The virtuous Anselm, however, whom Henry had invited back from abroad, and made Archbishop of Canterbury, was steadfast in the King’s cause; and it was so well supported that the two armies, instead of fighting, made a peace. Poor Robert, who trusted anybody and everybody, readily trusted his brother, the King; and agreed to go home and receive a pension from England, on condition that all his followers were fully pardoned. This the King very faithfully promised, but Robert was no sooner gone than he began to punish them.

The English generally supported King Henry, although a lot of the Normans were on Robert’s side. However, English sailors left the King and took a significant portion of the English fleet over to Normandy, allowing Robert to invade the country using English ships instead of foreign ones. The virtuous Anselm, whom Henry had invited back from abroad and made Archbishop of Canterbury, remained loyal to the King; their cause was so strong that, instead of battling, the two armies made peace. Poor Robert, who trusted anyone and everyone, easily trusted his brother, the King, and agreed to go home and accept a pension from England, as long as all his followers were fully pardoned. The King promised this faithfully, but no sooner had Robert left than he started punishing them.

Among them was the Earl of Shrewsbury, who, on being summoned by the King to answer to five-and-forty accusations, rode away to one of his strong castles, shut himself up therein, called around him his tenants and vassals, and fought for his liberty, but was defeated and banished. Robert, with all his faults, was so true to his word, that when he first heard of this nobleman having risen against his brother, he laid waste the Earl of Shrewsbury’s estates in Normandy, to show the King that he would favour no breach of their treaty. Finding, on better information, afterwards, that the Earl’s only crime was having been his friend, he came over to England, in his old thoughtless, warm-hearted way, to intercede with the King, and remind him of the solemn promise to pardon all his followers.

Among them was the Earl of Shrewsbury, who, when summoned by the King to answer to forty-five accusations, rode off to one of his strong castles, locked himself inside, gathered his tenants and vassals around him, and fought for his freedom, but was defeated and exiled. Robert, despite all his faults, was so true to his word that when he first heard about this nobleman rising up against his brother, he destroyed the Earl of Shrewsbury’s lands in Normandy to show the King that he wouldn’t support any violation of their treaty. Later, upon learning better information that the Earl’s only crime was being his friend, he went to England, in his usual impulsive, warm-hearted way, to plead with the King and remind him of the solemn promise to forgive all his followers.

This confidence might have put the false King to the blush, but it did not. Pretending to be very friendly, he so surrounded his brother with spies and traps, that Robert, who was quite in his power, had nothing for it but to renounce his pension and escape while he could. Getting home to Normandy, and understanding the King better now, he naturally allied himself with his old friend the Earl of Shrewsbury, who had still thirty castles in that country. This was exactly what Henry wanted. He immediately declared that Robert had broken the treaty, and next year invaded Normandy.

This confidence might have embarrassed the false King, but it didn’t. Putting on a friendly front, he surrounded his brother with spies and traps, leaving Robert, who was completely at his mercy, with no choice but to give up his pension and escape while he could. Once he got back to Normandy and understood the King better, he naturally teamed up with his old friend the Earl of Shrewsbury, who still had thirty castles in that region. This was exactly what Henry wanted. He quickly announced that Robert had violated the treaty and the following year invaded Normandy.

He pretended that he came to deliver the Normans, at their own request, from his brother’s misrule. There is reason to fear that his misrule was bad enough; for his beautiful wife had died, leaving him with an infant son, and his court was again so careless, dissipated, and ill-regulated, that it was said he sometimes lay in bed of a day for want of clothes to put on—his attendants having stolen all his dresses. But he headed his army like a brave prince and a gallant soldier, though he had the misfortune to be taken prisoner by King Henry, with four hundred of his Knights. Among them was poor harmless Edgar Atheling, who loved Robert well. Edgar was not important enough to be severe with. The King afterwards gave him a small pension, which he lived upon and died upon, in peace, among the quiet woods and fields of England.

He acted like he came to rescue the Normans, at their own request, from his brother's poor leadership. There's reason to believe that his rule was pretty bad; his beautiful wife had passed away, leaving him with an infant son, and his court was so reckless, indulgent, and disorganized that it was said he sometimes lay in bed all day because he had no clothes to wear—his attendants had stolen all his outfits. But he led his army like a brave prince and a gallant soldier, even though he unfortunately got captured by King Henry, along with four hundred of his knights. Among them was the innocent Edgar Atheling, who cared for Robert a lot. Edgar wasn't important enough to be treated harshly. The King later gave him a small pension, which he lived on and ultimately passed away on, peacefully, among the serene woods and fields of England.

And Robert—poor, kind, generous, wasteful, heedless Robert, with so many faults, and yet with virtues that might have made a better and a happier man—what was the end of him? If the King had had the magnanimity to say with a kind air, ‘Brother, tell me, before these noblemen, that from this time you will be my faithful follower and friend, and never raise your hand against me or my forces more!’ he might have trusted Robert to the death. But the King was not a magnanimous man. He sentenced his brother to be confined for life in one of the Royal Castles. In the beginning of his imprisonment, he was allowed to ride out, guarded; but he one day broke away from his guard and galloped of. He had the evil fortune to ride into a swamp, where his horse stuck fast and he was taken. When the King heard of it he ordered him to be blinded, which was done by putting a red-hot metal basin on his eyes.

And Robert—poor, kind, generous, wasteful, careless Robert, with so many flaws, yet with qualities that could have made him a better and happier man—what became of him? If the King had been big-hearted enough to say kindly, ‘Brother, tell me, in front of these noblemen, that from now on you will be my loyal supporter and friend, and never raise your hand against me or my forces again!’ he could have trusted Robert until the end. But the King wasn't a generous man. He sentenced his brother to lifelong confinement in one of the Royal Castles. At first, he was allowed to ride out under guard, but one day he broke free from his guard and rode off. Unfortunately, he ended up in a swamp where his horse got stuck, and he was captured. When the King found out, he ordered him to be blinded, which was done by placing a red-hot metal basin on his eyes.

And so, in darkness and in prison, many years, he thought of all his past life, of the time he had wasted, of the treasure he had squandered, of the opportunities he had lost, of the youth he had thrown away, of the talents he had neglected. Sometimes, on fine autumn mornings, he would sit and think of the old hunting parties in the free Forest, where he had been the foremost and the gayest. Sometimes, in the still nights, he would wake, and mourn for the many nights that had stolen past him at the gaming-table; sometimes, would seem to hear, upon the melancholy wind, the old songs of the minstrels; sometimes, would dream, in his blindness, of the light and glitter of the Norman Court. Many and many a time, he groped back, in his fancy, to Jerusalem, where he had fought so well; or, at the head of his brave companions, bowed his feathered helmet to the shouts of welcome greeting him in Italy, and seemed again to walk among the sunny vineyards, or on the shore of the blue sea, with his lovely wife. And then, thinking of her grave, and of his fatherless boy, he would stretch out his solitary arms and weep.

And so, in darkness and in prison for many years, he thought about his entire past life, the time he had wasted, the treasure he had squandered, the opportunities he had lost, the youth he had thrown away, and the talents he had neglected. Sometimes, on nice autumn mornings, he'd sit and reminisce about the old hunting parties in the free Forest, where he had been the leader and the happiest. Sometimes, in the quiet nights, he would wake up and mourn for the many nights that had slipped away from him at the gaming table; at times, he seemed to hear, on the sad wind, the old songs of the minstrels; sometimes, he would dream, in his blindness, of the light and glamour of the Norman Court. Many times, he groped back in his mind to Jerusalem, where he had fought so bravely; or, at the front with his brave companions, he bowed his feathered helmet to the cheers welcoming him in Italy, and seemed to walk again among the sunny vineyards or on the shore of the blue sea with his beautiful wife. And then, thinking about her grave and his fatherless son, he would stretch out his lonely arms and cry.

At length, one day, there lay in prison, dead, with cruel and disfiguring scars upon his eyelids, bandaged from his jailer’s sight, but on which the eternal Heavens looked down, a worn old man of eighty. He had once been Robert of Normandy. Pity him!

At last, one day, there was a worn old man of eighty lying dead in prison, with cruel and disfiguring scars on his eyelids, covered to keep them hidden from the jailer, but visible to the eternal Heavens. He had once been Robert of Normandy. Feel sorry for him!

At the time when Robert of Normandy was taken prisoner by his brother, Robert’s little son was only five years old. This child was taken, too, and carried before the King, sobbing and crying; for, young as he was, he knew he had good reason to be afraid of his Royal uncle. The King was not much accustomed to pity those who were in his power, but his cold heart seemed for the moment to soften towards the boy. He was observed to make a great effort, as if to prevent himself from being cruel, and ordered the child to be taken away; whereupon a certain Baron, who had married a daughter of Duke Robert’s (by name, Helie of Saint Saen), took charge of him, tenderly. The King’s gentleness did not last long. Before two years were over, he sent messengers to this lord’s Castle to seize the child and bring him away. The Baron was not there at the time, but his servants were faithful, and carried the boy off in his sleep and hid him. When the Baron came home, and was told what the King had done, he took the child abroad, and, leading him by the hand, went from King to King and from Court to Court, relating how the child had a claim to the throne of England, and how his uncle the King, knowing that he had that claim, would have murdered him, perhaps, but for his escape.

At the time Robert of Normandy got captured by his brother, his little son was just five years old. This boy was also taken and brought before the King, sobbing and crying; for, despite his young age, he knew he had every reason to fear his royal uncle. The King wasn’t used to showing pity to those at his mercy, but for a moment, his cold heart seemed to soften towards the boy. He was seen making a real effort to avoid being cruel and ordered the child to be taken away; then a certain Baron, who had married one of Duke Robert's daughters (named Helie of Saint Saen), took care of him tenderly. The King’s kindness didn’t last long. Within two years, he sent messengers to the Baron’s castle to seize the child and bring him back. The Baron wasn’t there at the time, but his loyal servants took the boy out of his sleep and hid him. When the Baron returned and learned what the King had done, he took the child with him and, holding his hand, traveled from King to King and Court to Court, explaining how the child had a claim to the throne of England and how his uncle the King, aware of this claim, might have killed him if he hadn’t escaped.

The youth and innocence of the pretty little William Fitz-Robert (for that was his name) made him many friends at that time. When he became a young man, the King of France, uniting with the French Counts of Anjou and Flanders, supported his cause against the King of England, and took many of the King’s towns and castles in Normandy. But, King Henry, artful and cunning always, bribed some of William’s friends with money, some with promises, some with power. He bought off the Count of Anjou, by promising to marry his eldest son, also named William, to the Count’s daughter; and indeed the whole trust of this King’s life was in such bargains, and he believed (as many another King has done since, and as one King did in France a very little time ago) that every man’s truth and honour can be bought at some price. For all this, he was so afraid of William Fitz-Robert and his friends, that, for a long time, he believed his life to be in danger; and never lay down to sleep, even in his palace surrounded by his guards, without having a sword and buckler at his bedside.

The youth and innocence of the charming William Fitz-Robert (that was his name) won him many friends back then. When he grew into a young man, the King of France, teaming up with the French Counts of Anjou and Flanders, backed him against the King of England, capturing many of the King’s towns and castles in Normandy. However, King Henry, always crafty and sly, bribed some of William’s friends with cash, some with promises, and some with power. He won over the Count of Anjou by promising to marry his eldest son, also named Will, to the Count’s daughter. In fact, the whole strategy of this King’s life revolved around such deals, and he believed (just as many other Kings have thought since, and as one King in France recently did) that every person’s honesty and integrity could be bought at some cost. Despite all this, he was so afraid of William Fitz-Robert and his allies that for a long time, he thought his life was in danger; he never went to sleep, even in his palace surrounded by guards, without having a sword and shield by his bedside.

To strengthen his power, the King with great ceremony betrothed his eldest daughter Matilda, then a child only eight years old, to be the wife of Henry the Fifth, the Emperor of Germany. To raise her marriage-portion, he taxed the English people in a most oppressive manner; then treated them to a great procession, to restore their good humour; and sent Matilda away, in fine state, with the German ambassadors, to be educated in the country of her future husband.

To enhance his power, the King officially betrothed his eldest daughter Matilda, who was just eight years old at the time, to Henry the Fifth, the Emperor of Germany. To increase her dowry, he imposed heavy taxes on the English people; then he organized a grand procession to lift their spirits and sent Matilda off in style with the German ambassadors to be raised in her future husband's homeland.

And now his Queen, Maud the Good, unhappily died. It was a sad thought for that gentle lady, that the only hope with which she had married a man whom she had never loved—the hope of reconciling the Norman and English races—had failed. At the very time of her death, Normandy and all France was in arms against England; for, so soon as his last danger was over, King Henry had been false to all the French powers he had promised, bribed, and bought, and they had naturally united against him. After some fighting, however, in which few suffered but the unhappy common people (who always suffered, whatsoever was the matter), he began to promise, bribe, and buy again; and by those means, and by the help of the Pope, who exerted himself to save more bloodshed, and by solemnly declaring, over and over again, that he really was in earnest this time, and would keep his word, the King made peace.

And now his Queen, Maud the Good, sadly passed away. It was a heartbreaking thought for that kind lady that the only hope she had when marrying a man she had never loved—the hope of bringing together the Norman and English people—had failed. At the very moment of her death, Normandy and all of France were in arms against England; for, once his last danger had passed, King Henry had betrayed all the French powers he had promised, bribed, and bought, and they understandably united against him. After some fighting, however, in which only the unfortunate common people suffered (who always suffer, no matter the issue), he began to promise, bribe, and buy again; and through these means, along with the help of the Pope, who worked to prevent more bloodshed, and by repeatedly declaring that he was serious this time and would keep his promises, the King made peace.

One of the first consequences of this peace was, that the King went over to Normandy with his son Prince William and a great retinue, to have the Prince acknowledged as his successor by the Norman Nobles, and to contract the promised marriage (this was one of the many promises the King had broken) between him and the daughter of the Count of Anjou. Both these things were triumphantly done, with great show and rejoicing; and on the twenty-fifth of November, in the year one thousand one hundred and twenty, the whole retinue prepared to embark at the Port of Barfleur, for the voyage home.

One of the first results of this peace was that the King traveled to Normandy with his son Prince William and a large entourage to have the Prince recognized as his successor by the Norman nobles, and to finalize the promised marriage—one of the many promises the King had broken—between him and the daughter of the Count of Anjou. Both of these goals were achieved triumphantly, with great fanfare and celebration; and on November 25, in the year 1120, the entire entourage got ready to board at the Port of Barfleur for the journey home.

On that day, and at that place, there came to the King, Fitz-Stephen, a sea-captain, and said:

On that day, and at that place, a sea captain named Fitz-Stephen came to the King and said:

‘My liege, my father served your father all his life, upon the sea. He steered the ship with the golden boy upon the prow, in which your father sailed to conquer England. I beseech you to grant me the same office. I have a fair vessel in the harbour here, called The White Ship, manned by fifty sailors of renown. I pray you, Sire, to let your servant have the honour of steering you in The White Ship to England!’

‘My lord, my father served your father his entire life at sea. He captained the ship with the golden boy on the bow, the one your father sailed to conquer England. I ask you to grant me the same role. I have a fine ship in the harbor here, called The White Ship, crewed by fifty skilled sailors. I kindly request, Sire, that you allow your servant the honor of steering you in The White Ship to England!’

‘I am sorry, friend,’ replied the King, ‘that my vessel is already chosen, and that I cannot (therefore) sail with the son of the man who served my father. But the Prince and all his company shall go along with you, in the fair White Ship, manned by the fifty sailors of renown.’

‘I’m sorry, my friend,’ replied the King, ‘but my ship is already chosen, so I can’t sail with the son of the man who served my father. But the Prince and all his crew will go with you on the beautiful White Ship, crewed by the fifty famous sailors.’

An hour or two afterwards, the King set sail in the vessel he had chosen, accompanied by other vessels, and, sailing all night with a fair and gentle wind, arrived upon the coast of England in the morning. While it was yet night, the people in some of those ships heard a faint wild cry come over the sea, and wondered what it was.

An hour or two later, the King set off in the ship he had selected, along with other ships. He sailed all night with a nice, gentle breeze and reached the coast of England in the morning. While it was still dark, some people on those ships heard a faint, eerie cry coming from the sea and wondered what it could be.

Now, the Prince was a dissolute, debauched young man of eighteen, who bore no love to the English, and had declared that when he came to the throne he would yoke them to the plough like oxen. He went aboard The White Ship, with one hundred and forty youthful Nobles like himself, among whom were eighteen noble ladies of the highest rank. All this gay company, with their servants and the fifty sailors, made three hundred souls aboard the fair White Ship.

Now, the Prince was a reckless, spoiled young man of eighteen, who had no love for the English and had stated that when he became king, he would make them work like oxen. He boarded The White Ship with one hundred and forty young nobles like himself, including eighteen noble ladies of the highest rank. This lively group, along with their attendants and the fifty sailors, totaled three hundred people on the beautiful White Ship.

‘Give three casks of wine, Fitz-Stephen,’ said the Prince, ‘to the fifty sailors of renown! My father the King has sailed out of the harbour. What time is there to make merry here, and yet reach England with the rest?’

‘Give three casks of wine, Fitz-Stephen,’ said the Prince, ‘to the fifty famous sailors! My father the King has sailed out of the harbor. How much time do we have to celebrate here, and still make it to England with the others?’

‘Prince!’ said Fitz-Stephen, ‘before morning, my fifty and The White Ship shall overtake the swiftest vessel in attendance on your father the King, if we sail at midnight!’

‘Prince!’ said Fitz-Stephen, ‘before morning, my fifty and The White Ship will catch up to the fastest ship in your father the King’s fleet, if we set sail at midnight!’

Then the Prince commanded to make merry; and the sailors drank out the three casks of wine; and the Prince and all the noble company danced in the moonlight on the deck of The White Ship.

Then the Prince ordered everyone to celebrate; the sailors finished off the three casks of wine, and the Prince along with all the noble guests danced in the moonlight on the deck of The White Ship.

When, at last, she shot out of the harbour of Barfleur, there was not a sober seaman on board. But the sails were all set, and the oars all going merrily. Fitz-Stephen had the helm. The gay young nobles and the beautiful ladies, wrapped in mantles of various bright colours to protect them from the cold, talked, laughed, and sang. The Prince encouraged the fifty sailors to row harder yet, for the honour of The White Ship.

When she finally left the harbor of Barfleur, there wasn’t a sober sailor on board. But the sails were fully set, and the oars were moving happily. Fitz-Stephen was at the helm. The lively young nobles and the beautiful ladies, wrapped in colorful cloaks to keep warm, chatted, laughed, and sang. The Prince urged the fifty sailors to row even harder for the honor of The White Ship.

Crash! A terrific cry broke from three hundred hearts. It was the cry the people in the distant vessels of the King heard faintly on the water. The White Ship had struck upon a rock—was filling—going down!

Crash! A tremendous scream erupted from three hundred hearts. It was the shout that the people in the distant King’s ships heard softly on the water. The White Ship had hit a rock—was taking on water—sinking!

Fitz-Stephen hurried the Prince into a boat, with some few Nobles. ‘Push off,’ he whispered; ‘and row to land. It is not far, and the sea is smooth. The rest of us must die.’

Fitz-Stephen hurried the Prince into a boat with a few Nobles. ‘Push off,’ he whispered; ‘and row to the shore. It isn’t far, and the sea is calm. The rest of us must die.’

But, as they rowed away, fast, from the sinking ship, the Prince heard the voice of his sister Marie, the Countess of Perche, calling for help. He never in his life had been so good as he was then. He cried in an agony, ‘Row back at any risk! I cannot bear to leave her!’

But, as they quickly rowed away from the sinking ship, the Prince heard his sister Marie, the Countess of Perche, calling for help. He had never been so noble in his life as he was at that moment. He shouted in despair, ‘Row back at any cost! I can't stand leaving her behind!’

They rowed back. As the Prince held out his arms to catch his sister, such numbers leaped in, that the boat was overset. And in the same instant The White Ship went down.

They rowed back. As the Prince reached out his arms to catch his sister, so many people jumped in that the boat tipped over. And at that exact moment, The White Ship sank.

Only two men floated. They both clung to the main yard of the ship, which had broken from the mast, and now supported them. One asked the other who he was? He said, ‘I am a nobleman, Godfrey by name, the son of Gilbert de l’Aigle. And you?’ said he. ‘I am Berold, a poor butcher of Rouen,’ was the answer. Then, they said together, ‘Lord be merciful to us both!’ and tried to encourage one another, as they drifted in the cold benumbing sea on that unfortunate November night.

Only two men were floating. They both clung to the main yard of the ship, which had broken off from the mast and was now supporting them. One asked the other who he was. He replied, "I’m a nobleman, Godfrey by name, the son of Gilbert de l’Aigle. And you?" he asked. "I’m Berold, a poor butcher from Rouen," was the response. Then, they both said, "Lord, have mercy on us both!" and tried to encourage each other as they drifted in the cold, numbing sea that unfortunate November night.

By-and-by, another man came swimming towards them, whom they knew, when he pushed aside his long wet hair, to be Fitz-Stephen. ‘Where is the Prince?’ said he. ‘Gone! Gone!’ the two cried together. ‘Neither he, nor his brother, nor his sister, nor the King’s niece, nor her brother, nor any one of all the brave three hundred, noble or commoner, except we three, has risen above the water!’ Fitz-Stephen, with a ghastly face, cried, ‘Woe! woe, to me!’ and sunk to the bottom.

By and by, another man swam toward them, and when he pushed aside his long wet hair, they recognized him as Fitz-Stephen. “Where’s the Prince?” he asked. “Gone! Gone!” the two shouted together. “Neither he, nor his brother, nor his sister, nor the King’s niece, nor her brother, nor any of the brave three hundred, noble or commoner, except for us three, has surfaced!” Fitz-Stephen, with a pale face, exclaimed, “Woe! Woe to me!” and sank to the bottom.

The other two clung to the yard for some hours. At length the young noble said faintly, ‘I am exhausted, and chilled with the cold, and can hold no longer. Farewell, good friend! God preserve you!’ So, he dropped and sunk; and of all the brilliant crowd, the poor Butcher of Rouen alone was saved. In the morning, some fishermen saw him floating in his sheep-skin coat, and got him into their boat—the sole relater of the dismal tale.

The other two held onto the yard for several hours. Eventually, the young noble said weakly, “I’m worn out and freezing cold, and I can’t hang on any longer. Goodbye, good friend! May God watch over you!” With that, he fell and disappeared; of all the shining crowd, only the poor Butcher of Rouen was saved. In the morning, some fishermen spotted him floating in his sheepskin coat and managed to get him into their boat—the only one left to tell the tragic story.

For three days, no one dared to carry the intelligence to the King. At length, they sent into his presence a little boy, who, weeping bitterly, and kneeling at his feet, told him that The White Ship was lost with all on board. The King fell to the ground like a dead man, and never, never afterwards, was seen to smile.

For three days, no one had the courage to deliver the news to the King. Finally, they sent a young boy into his presence. The boy, crying hard and kneeling at the King's feet, told him that The White Ship had sunk with everyone on board. The King collapsed to the ground like a lifeless body, and from that moment on, he was never seen to smile again.

But he plotted again, and promised again, and bribed and bought again, in his old deceitful way. Having no son to succeed him, after all his pains (‘The Prince will never yoke us to the plough, now!’ said the English people), he took a second wife—Adelais or Alice, a duke’s daughter, and the Pope’s niece. Having no more children, however, he proposed to the Barons to swear that they would recognise as his successor, his daughter Matilda, whom, as she was now a widow, he married to the eldest son of the Count of Anjou, Geoffrey, surnamed Plantagenet, from a custom he had of wearing a sprig of flowering broom (called Genêt in French) in his cap for a feather. As one false man usually makes many, and as a false King, in particular, is pretty certain to make a false Court, the Barons took the oath about the succession of Matilda (and her children after her), twice over, without in the least intending to keep it. The King was now relieved from any remaining fears of William Fitz-Robert, by his death in the Monastery of St. Omer, in France, at twenty-six years old, of a pike-wound in the hand. And as Matilda gave birth to three sons, he thought the succession to the throne secure.

But he plotted again, made promises again, and bribed and bought again, in his old deceitful way. Without a son to take over after him, despite all his efforts (‘The Prince will never make us work the fields now!’ the English people said), he took a second wife—Adelaide or Alice, a duke's daughter and the Pope's niece. However, since he had no more children, he proposed to the Barons that they swear to recognize his daughter Matilda as his successor. Since she was now a widow, he married her to the eldest son of the Count of Anjou, Geoff, known as Plantagenet, because he had a habit of wearing a sprig of flowering broom (called Genêt in French) in his cap. As one deceitful man often leads to many, and as a deceitful King, in particular, is likely to create a deceitful Court, the Barons took the oath about Matilda's succession (and her children's after her) twice, with no intention of keeping it. The King was now relieved of any lingering worries about William Fitz-Robert, who died at the age of twenty-six from a pike wound in the hand at the Monastery of St. Omer in France. And since Matilda gave birth to three sons, he felt the throne's succession was secure.

He spent most of the latter part of his life, which was troubled by family quarrels, in Normandy, to be near Matilda. When he had reigned upward of thirty-five years, and was sixty-seven years old, he died of an indigestion and fever, brought on by eating, when he was far from well, of a fish called Lamprey, against which he had often been cautioned by his physicians. His remains were brought over to Reading Abbey to be buried.

He spent most of the later years of his life, which were filled with family disputes, in Normandy to be close to Matilda. After reigning for more than thirty-five years and at the age of sixty-seven, he died from indigestion and fever caused by eating, despite not feeling well, a fish called Lamprey, which his doctors had often warned him about. His body was taken to Reading Abbey to be buried.

You may perhaps hear the cunning and promise-breaking of King Henry the First, called ‘policy’ by some people, and ‘diplomacy’ by others. Neither of these fine words will in the least mean that it was true; and nothing that is not true can possibly be good.

You might hear some people refer to King Henry the First's cleverness and broken promises as 'policy' and others as 'diplomacy.' Using these fancy terms doesn’t make it true; and nothing that isn't true can ever be good.

His greatest merit, that I know of, was his love of learning—I should have given him greater credit even for that, if it had been strong enough to induce him to spare the eyes of a certain poet he once took prisoner, who was a knight besides. But he ordered the poet’s eyes to be torn from his head, because he had laughed at him in his verses; and the poet, in the pain of that torture, dashed out his own brains against his prison wall. King Henry the First was avaricious, revengeful, and so false, that I suppose a man never lived whose word was less to be relied upon.

His greatest quality, as far as I know, was his love of learning—I should have given him more credit for that if it had been strong enough to make him spare the eyes of a certain poet he once captured, who was also a knight. But he ordered the poet’s eyes to be ripped out because the poet had laughed at him in his verses; and in the agony of that torture, the poet smashed his own head against the prison wall. King Henry the First was greedy, vengeful, and so deceitful that I doubt anyone ever lived whose word was less trustworthy.

CHAPTER XI—ENGLAND UNDER MATILDA AND STEPHEN

The King was no sooner dead than all the plans and schemes he had laboured at so long, and lied so much for, crumbled away like a hollow heap of sand. Stephen, whom he had never mistrusted or suspected, started up to claim the throne.

The King had barely died when all the plans and schemes he had worked on for so long, and lied about so much, fell apart like a hollow pile of sand. Stephen, whom he had never doubted or suspected, jumped up to claim the throne.

Stephen was the son of Adela, the Conqueror’s daughter, married to the Count of Blois. To Stephen, and to his brother Henry, the late King had been liberal; making Henry Bishop of Winchester, and finding a good marriage for Stephen, and much enriching him. This did not prevent Stephen from hastily producing a false witness, a servant of the late King, to swear that the King had named him for his heir upon his death-bed. On this evidence the Archbishop of Canterbury crowned him. The new King, so suddenly made, lost not a moment in seizing the Royal treasure, and hiring foreign soldiers with some of it to protect his throne.

Stephen was the son of Adela, the daughter of the Conqueror, who was married to the Count of Blois. The late King had been generous to Stephen and his brother Henry; he made Henry Bishop of Winchester and arranged a good marriage for Stephen, significantly increasing his wealth. However, this didn’t stop Stephen from hastily presenting a false witness, a servant of the late King, to claim that the King had named him as his heir on his deathbed. Based on this testimony, the Archbishop of Canterbury crowned him. The newly crowned King wasted no time in seizing the Royal treasure and using some of it to hire foreign soldiers to secure his throne.

If the dead King had even done as the false witness said, he would have had small right to will away the English people, like so many sheep or oxen, without their consent. But he had, in fact, bequeathed all his territory to Matilda; who, supported by Robert, Earl of Gloucester, soon began to dispute the crown. Some of the powerful barons and priests took her side; some took Stephen’s; all fortified their castles; and again the miserable English people were involved in war, from which they could never derive advantage whosoever was victorious, and in which all parties plundered, tortured, starved, and ruined them.

If the dead King had actually done what the false witness claimed, he still wouldn't have had the right to dispose of the English people like they were just sheep or cattle, without their permission. But in reality, he had left all his territory to Matilda, who, backed by Robert, Earl of Gloucester, soon started to challenge for the crown. Some of the powerful barons and priests supported her; others supported Stephen; all of them fortified their castles; and once again, the suffering English people were caught up in war, from which they could gain nothing no matter who won, and in which all sides pillaged, tortured, starved, and devastated them.

Five years had passed since the death of Henry the First—and during those five years there had been two terrible invasions by the people of Scotland under their King, David, who was at last defeated with all his army—when Matilda, attended by her brother Robert and a large force, appeared in England to maintain her claim. A battle was fought between her troops and King Stephen’s at Lincoln; in which the King himself was taken prisoner, after bravely fighting until his battle-axe and sword were broken, and was carried into strict confinement at Gloucester. Matilda then submitted herself to the Priests, and the Priests crowned her Queen of England.

Five years had gone by since the death of Henry the First—and during those five years, there had been two devastating invasions by the Scots under their King, David, who was ultimately defeated along with his entire army—when Matilda, accompanied by her brother Robert and a large force, came to England to assert her claim. A battle took place between her troops and King Stephen’s at Lincoln; in this battle, the King himself was captured after valiantly fighting until his battle-axe and sword were shattered, and he was taken into strict confinement in Gloucester. Matilda then submitted herself to the priests, and the priests crowned her Queen of England.

She did not long enjoy this dignity. The people of London had a great affection for Stephen; many of the Barons considered it degrading to be ruled by a woman; and the Queen’s temper was so haughty that she made innumerable enemies. The people of London revolted; and, in alliance with the troops of Stephen, besieged her at Winchester, where they took her brother Robert prisoner, whom, as her best soldier and chief general, she was glad to exchange for Stephen himself, who thus regained his liberty. Then, the long war went on afresh. Once, she was pressed so hard in the Castle of Oxford, in the winter weather when the snow lay thick upon the ground, that her only chance of escape was to dress herself all in white, and, accompanied by no more than three faithful Knights, dressed in like manner that their figures might not be seen from Stephen’s camp as they passed over the snow, to steal away on foot, cross the frozen Thames, walk a long distance, and at last gallop away on horseback. All this she did, but to no great purpose then; for her brother dying while the struggle was yet going on, she at last withdrew to Normandy.

She didn’t get to enjoy her position for long. The people of London had a lot of love for Stephen; many of the Barons thought it was beneath them to be ruled by a woman; and the Queen’s attitude was so proud that she made countless enemies. The people of London revolted and, teaming up with Stephen’s troops, besieged her at Winchester, where they captured her brother Robert. She was willing to trade him, her best soldier and main general, for Stephen, who thus regained his freedom. Then, the long war started up again. At one point, she was under such intense pressure in the Castle of Oxford during the winter, when the snow was thick on the ground, that her only chance to escape was to dress in all white. With only three loyal Knights, also dressed the same so they wouldn’t be spotted from Stephen’s camp, she slipped away on foot, crossed the frozen Thames, walked a long distance, and finally rode off on horseback. She managed to do all this, but it didn’t lead to much at that moment; her brother died while the conflict was still ongoing, and she eventually retreated to Normandy.

In two or three years after her withdrawal her cause appeared in England, afresh, in the person of her son Henry, young Plantagenet, who, at only eighteen years of age, was very powerful: not only on account of his mother having resigned all Normandy to him, but also from his having married Eleanor, the divorced wife of the French King, a bad woman, who had great possessions in France. Louis, the French King, not relishing this arrangement, helped Eustace, King Stephen’s son, to invade Normandy: but Henry drove their united forces out of that country, and then returned here, to assist his partisans, whom the King was then besieging at Wallingford upon the Thames. Here, for two days, divided only by the river, the two armies lay encamped opposite to one another—on the eve, as it seemed to all men, of another desperate fight, when the Earl of Arundel took heart and said ‘that it was not reasonable to prolong the unspeakable miseries of two kingdoms to minister to the ambition of two princes.’

In two or three years after her withdrawal, her cause resurfaced in England through her son Henry, the young Plantagenet, who was only eighteen but already very powerful. This was not only because his mother had handed over all of Normandy to him, but also due to his marriage to Eleanor, the divorced wife of the French King, a woman of questionable reputation who had significant lands in France. Louis, the French King, didn’t like this situation and supported Eustace, King Stephen’s son, in invading Normandy. However, Henry expelled their combined forces from the region and then returned to assist his supporters, who were being besieged by the King at Wallingford on the Thames. There, for two days, the two armies camped opposite each other, separated only by the river, seemingly on the brink of another fierce battle. It was then that the Earl of Arundel gathered his courage and remarked that it was unreasonable to prolong the immense suffering of two kingdoms just to satisfy the ambitions of two princes.

Many other noblemen repeating and supporting this when it was once uttered, Stephen and young Plantagenet went down, each to his own bank of the river, and held a conversation across it, in which they arranged a truce; very much to the dissatisfaction of Eustace, who swaggered away with some followers, and laid violent hands on the Abbey of St. Edmund’s-Bury, where he presently died mad. The truce led to a solemn council at Winchester, in which it was agreed that Stephen should retain the crown, on condition of his declaring Henry his successor; that William, another son of the King’s, should inherit his father’s rightful possessions; and that all the Crown lands which Stephen had given away should be recalled, and all the Castles he had permitted to be built demolished. Thus terminated the bitter war, which had now lasted fifteen years, and had again laid England waste. In the next year Stephen died, after a troubled reign of nineteen years.

Many other noblemen echoed and supported this when it was first said. Stephen and young Plantagenet went down to their respective banks of the river and had a conversation across it, where they arranged a truce. This was very frustrating for Eustace, who swaggered off with some followers and violently took over the Abbey of St. Edmund’s-Bury, where he soon died mad. The truce led to a formal council at Winchester, where it was agreed that Stephen would keep the crown, on the condition that he declared Henry as his successor; that William, another son of the King, would inherit his father's rightful lands; and that all the Crown lands Stephen had given away would be reclaimed, along with the demolition of all the castles he had allowed to be built. This marked the end of the bitter war, which had lasted fifteen years and had once again devastated England. The following year, Stephen died after a troubled reign of nineteen years.

Although King Stephen was, for the time in which he lived, a humane and moderate man, with many excellent qualities; and although nothing worse is known of him than his usurpation of the Crown, which he probably excused to himself by the consideration that King Henry the First was a usurper too—which was no excuse at all; the people of England suffered more in these dread nineteen years, than at any former period even of their suffering history. In the division of the nobility between the two rival claimants of the Crown, and in the growth of what is called the Feudal System (which made the peasants the born vassals and mere slaves of the Barons), every Noble had his strong Castle, where he reigned the cruel king of all the neighbouring people. Accordingly, he perpetrated whatever cruelties he chose. And never were worse cruelties committed upon earth than in wretched England in those nineteen years.

Although King Stephen was, for his time, a compassionate and reasonable man with many great qualities, and although nothing worse is known about him than his taking the Crown, which he likely justified to himself by thinking that King Henry the First was a usurper too—which wasn’t really an excuse at all—the people of England endured more suffering during those terrible nineteen years than at any other point in their troubled history. With the nobility split between two rival claimants to the Crown, and the rise of what’s known as the Feudal System (which turned the peasants into the natural vassals and virtual slaves of the Barons), every Noble had his own stronghold where he ruled as a harsh king over all the people nearby. As a result, he committed whatever atrocities he wanted. And never were worse atrocities committed on earth than in miserable England during those nineteen years.

The writers who were living then describe them fearfully. They say that the castles were filled with devils rather than with men; that the peasants, men and women, were put into dungeons for their gold and silver, were tortured with fire and smoke, were hung up by the thumbs, were hung up by the heels with great weights to their heads, were torn with jagged irons, killed with hunger, broken to death in narrow chests filled with sharp-pointed stones, murdered in countless fiendish ways. In England there was no corn, no meat, no cheese, no butter, there were no tilled lands, no harvests. Ashes of burnt towns, and dreary wastes, were all that the traveller, fearful of the robbers who prowled abroad at all hours, would see in a long day’s journey; and from sunrise until night, he would not come upon a home.

The writers from that time describe it with intense fear. They claim that the castles were filled with devils instead of people; that peasants, both men and women, were thrown into dungeons for their gold and silver, tortured with fire and smoke, hung up by their thumbs, hung up by their heels with heavy weights on their heads, torn apart with jagged iron, starved to death, crushed in narrow chests filled with sharp stones, and murdered in countless horrific ways. In England, there was no grain, no meat, no cheese, no butter, no cultivated land, and no harvests. The ashes of burned towns and desolate wasteland were all that a traveler, fearful of the robbers who roamed the area at all hours, would see on a long journey; and from sunrise to sunset, he wouldn’t find a single home.

The clergy sometimes suffered, and heavily too, from pillage, but many of them had castles of their own, and fought in helmet and armour like the barons, and drew lots with other fighting men for their share of booty. The Pope (or Bishop of Rome), on King Stephen’s resisting his ambition, laid England under an Interdict at one period of this reign; which means that he allowed no service to be performed in the churches, no couples to be married, no bells to be rung, no dead bodies to be buried. Any man having the power to refuse these things, no matter whether he were called a Pope or a Poulterer, would, of course, have the power of afflicting numbers of innocent people. That nothing might be wanting to the miseries of King Stephen’s time, the Pope threw in this contribution to the public store—not very like the widow’s contribution, as I think, when Our Saviour sat in Jerusalem over-against the Treasury, ‘and she threw in two mites, which make a farthing.’

The clergy sometimes faced serious losses from looting, but many had their own castles and fought in helmets and armor like the barons, drawing lots with other warriors for their share of the spoils. The Pope (or Bishop of Rome), when King Stephen opposed his ambitions, placed England under an Interdict during part of this reign; this meant that no services were held in churches, no couples could be married, no bells could be rung, and no dead bodies could be buried. Anyone who had the power to refuse these things, whether they were called a Pope or a Poulterer, would obviously have the ability to cause suffering to many innocent people. To add to the hardships of King Stephen’s time, the Pope contributed this additional burden to the collective suffering—not quite like the widow’s contribution, I think, when Our Savior sat in Jerusalem across from the Treasury, ‘and she threw in two mites, which make a farthing.’

CHAPTER XII—ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SECOND

PART THE FIRST

Henry Plantagenet, when he was but twenty-one years old, quietly succeeded to the throne of England, according to his agreement made with the late King at Winchester. Six weeks after Stephen’s death, he and his Queen, Eleanor, were crowned in that city; into which they rode on horseback in great state, side by side, amidst much shouting and rejoicing, and clashing of music, and strewing of flowers.

Henry Plantagenet, when he was just twenty-one years old, calmly took the throne of England, as agreed with the late King in Winchester. Six weeks after Stephen’s death, he and his Queen, Eleanor, were crowned in that city; they rode in on horseback in grand style, side by side, amidst a lot of cheering and celebration, accompanied by music and the tossing of flowers.

The reign of King Henry the Second began well. The King had great possessions, and (what with his own rights, and what with those of his wife) was lord of one-third part of France. He was a young man of vigour, ability, and resolution, and immediately applied himself to remove some of the evils which had arisen in the last unhappy reign. He revoked all the grants of land that had been hastily made, on either side, during the late struggles; he obliged numbers of disorderly soldiers to depart from England; he reclaimed all the castles belonging to the Crown; and he forced the wicked nobles to pull down their own castles, to the number of eleven hundred, in which such dismal cruelties had been inflicted on the people. The King’s brother, Geoffrey, rose against him in France, while he was so well employed, and rendered it necessary for him to repair to that country; where, after he had subdued and made a friendly arrangement with his brother (who did not live long), his ambition to increase his possessions involved him in a war with the French King, Louis, with whom he had been on such friendly terms just before, that to the French King’s infant daughter, then a baby in the cradle, he had promised one of his little sons in marriage, who was a child of five years old. However, the war came to nothing at last, and the Pope made the two Kings friends again.

The reign of King Henry II started off strong. The King had vast lands and, thanks to both his own rights and those of his wife, controlled about a third of France. He was a young man full of energy, skill, and determination, and he quickly set to work addressing some of the problems that had emerged during the last troubled reign. He canceled all the hastily made land grants from the recent conflicts on both sides; he forced many unruly soldiers to leave England; he reclaimed all castles that belonged to the Crown; and he compelled the evil nobles to demolish their own castles, a total of eleven hundred, where terrible atrocities had been committed against the people. The King’s brother, Geoffrey, rose up against him in France while he was busy with these tasks, requiring him to go there; after he defeated his brother and settled things amicably (though his brother didn’t live much longer), his desire to expand his lands drew him into a war with the French King, Louis, with whom he had been on friendly terms just before, even promising to marry one of his young sons to the French King’s baby daughter, who was still in her cradle. However, the war ultimately achieved nothing, and the Pope intervened to restore peace between the two kings.

Now, the clergy, in the troubles of the last reign, had gone on very ill indeed. There were all kinds of criminals among them—murderers, thieves, and vagabonds; and the worst of the matter was, that the good priests would not give up the bad priests to justice, when they committed crimes, but persisted in sheltering and defending them. The King, well knowing that there could be no peace or rest in England while such things lasted, resolved to reduce the power of the clergy; and, when he had reigned seven years, found (as he considered) a good opportunity for doing so, in the death of the Archbishop of Canterbury. ‘I will have for the new Archbishop,’ thought the King, ‘a friend in whom I can trust, who will help me to humble these rebellious priests, and to have them dealt with, when they do wrong, as other men who do wrong are dealt with.’ So, he resolved to make his favourite, the new Archbishop; and this favourite was so extraordinary a man, and his story is so curious, that I must tell you all about him.

Now, during the troubles of the last reign, the clergy had really suffered. There were all kinds of criminals among them—murderers, thieves, and drifters; and the worst part was that the good priests refused to turn in the bad ones when they committed crimes, instead choosing to protect and defend them. The King, fully aware that England couldn't have peace or stability with this going on, decided to reduce the power of the clergy. After ruling for seven years, he saw what he thought was a good chance to do this with the death of the Archbishop of Canterbury. "I want a new Archbishop," the King thought, "someone I can trust, who will help me bring these rebellious priests under control and ensure they face consequences like anyone else who does wrong." So, he decided to make his favorite the new Archbishop, and this favorite was such an extraordinary person, with a captivating story, that I need to tell you all about him.

Once upon a time, a worthy merchant of London, named Gilbert à Becket, made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and was taken prisoner by a Saracen lord. This lord, who treated him kindly and not like a slave, had one fair daughter, who fell in love with the merchant; and who told him that she wanted to become a Christian, and was willing to marry him if they could fly to a Christian country. The merchant returned her love, until he found an opportunity to escape, when he did not trouble himself about the Saracen lady, but escaped with his servant Richard, who had been taken prisoner along with him, and arrived in England and forgot her. The Saracen lady, who was more loving than the merchant, left her father’s house in disguise to follow him, and made her way, under many hardships, to the sea-shore. The merchant had taught her only two English words (for I suppose he must have learnt the Saracen tongue himself, and made love in that language), of which London was one, and his own name, Gilbert, the other. She went among the ships, saying, ‘London! London!’ over and over again, until the sailors understood that she wanted to find an English vessel that would carry her there; so they showed her such a ship, and she paid for her passage with some of her jewels, and sailed away. Well! The merchant was sitting in his counting-house in London one day, when he heard a great noise in the street; and presently Richard came running in from the warehouse, with his eyes wide open and his breath almost gone, saying, ‘Master, master, here is the Saracen lady!’ The merchant thought Richard was mad; but Richard said, ‘No, master! As I live, the Saracen lady is going up and down the city, calling Gilbert! Gilbert!’ Then, he took the merchant by the sleeve, and pointed out of window; and there they saw her among the gables and water-spouts of the dark, dirty street, in her foreign dress, so forlorn, surrounded by a wondering crowd, and passing slowly along, calling Gilbert, Gilbert! When the merchant saw her, and thought of the tenderness she had shown him in his captivity, and of her constancy, his heart was moved, and he ran down into the street; and she saw him coming, and with a great cry fainted in his arms. They were married without loss of time, and Richard (who was an excellent man) danced with joy the whole day of the wedding; and they all lived happy ever afterwards.

Once upon a time, a respected merchant from London named Gilbert of Becket went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and got captured by a Saracen lord. This lord treated him kindly instead of like a slave and had a beautiful daughter who fell in love with the merchant. She told him that she wanted to convert to Christianity and was willing to marry him if they could escape to a Christian country. The merchant loved her back, but when he found a chance to escape, he forgot about the Saracen lady and fled with his servant Richard, who had also been captured. They made it back to England, where the merchant forgot her. The Saracen lady, who loved him more than he realized, disguised herself and bravely followed him, enduring many hardships until she reached the seaside. The merchant had taught her only two English words (having likely learned her language himself to woo her), which were London and his name, Gilbert. She went among the ships, repeatedly calling out, "London! London!" until the sailors understood she wanted to find an English ship to take her there. They directed her to a ship, and she paid for her passage with some of her jewels and set sail. One day, the merchant was sitting in his office in London when he heard a commotion in the street. Richard burst in, wide-eyed and breathless, exclaiming, "Master, master, the Saracen lady is here!" The merchant thought Richard had lost his mind, but Richard insisted, "No, master! I swear, the Saracen lady is walking around the city, calling out Gilbert! Gilbert!" He grabbed the merchant’s sleeve and pointed out the window, where they saw her in her foreign dress, looking lost among the gables and water-spouts of the dark, dirty street, slowly making her way while calling Gilbert, Gilbert! When the merchant saw her and remembered the kindness she had shown him during his captivity and her loyalty, he felt a surge of emotion and rushed down to the street. She saw him coming and, with a joyful cry, fainted in his arms. They got married without delay, and Richard, who was a wonderful man, danced with joy throughout the entire wedding day; and they all lived happily ever after.

This merchant and this Saracen lady had one son, Thomas à Becket. He it was who became the Favourite of King Henry the Second.

This merchant and the Saracen lady had one son, Thomas Becket. He was the one who became the favorite of King Henry II.

He had become Chancellor, when the King thought of making him Archbishop. He was clever, gay, well educated, brave; had fought in several battles in France; had defeated a French knight in single combat, and brought his horse away as a token of the victory. He lived in a noble palace, he was the tutor of the young Prince Henry, he was served by one hundred and forty knights, his riches were immense. The King once sent him as his ambassador to France; and the French people, beholding in what state he travelled, cried out in the streets, ‘How splendid must the King of England be, when this is only the Chancellor!’ They had good reason to wonder at the magnificence of Thomas à Becket, for, when he entered a French town, his procession was headed by two hundred and fifty singing boys; then, came his hounds in couples; then, eight waggons, each drawn by five horses driven by five drivers: two of the waggons filled with strong ale to be given away to the people; four, with his gold and silver plate and stately clothes; two, with the dresses of his numerous servants. Then, came twelve horses, each with a monkey on his back; then, a train of people bearing shields and leading fine war-horses splendidly equipped; then, falconers with hawks upon their wrists; then, a host of knights, and gentlemen and priests; then, the Chancellor with his brilliant garments flashing in the sun, and all the people capering and shouting with delight.

He became Chancellor when the King considered making him Archbishop. He was smart, cheerful, well-educated, and brave; he had fought in several battles in France; he had defeated a French knight in single combat and brought his horse back as proof of his victory. He lived in a grand palace, was the tutor of the young Prince Henry, and was attended by one hundred and forty knights, with immense wealth. The King once sent him as his ambassador to France; and when the French people saw the way he traveled, they cried out in the streets, ‘How amazing must the King of England be, if this is just the Chancellor!’ They had good reason to be amazed by the splendor of Thomas à Becket, because when he entered a French town, his procession was led by two hundred and fifty singing boys; next came his hounds in pairs; then, eight wagons, each drawn by five horses and driven by five drivers: two of the wagons filled with strong ale to be given away to the people; four with his gold and silver plates and fine clothes; and two with the outfits of his many servants. Then came twelve horses, each with a monkey on its back; then, a line of people bearing shields and leading well-equipped war-horses; then, falconers with hawks on their wrists; followed by a crowd of knights, gentlemen, and priests; and then, the Chancellor, dressed in his brilliant garments shining in the sun, while all the people danced and shouted with joy.

The King was well pleased with all this, thinking that it only made himself the more magnificent to have so magnificent a favourite; but he sometimes jested with the Chancellor upon his splendour too. Once, when they were riding together through the streets of London in hard winter weather, they saw a shivering old man in rags. ‘Look at the poor object!’ said the King. ‘Would it not be a charitable act to give that aged man a comfortable warm cloak?’ ‘Undoubtedly it would,’ said Thomas à Becket, ‘and you do well, Sir, to think of such Christian duties.’ ‘Come!’ cried the King, ‘then give him your cloak!’ It was made of rich crimson trimmed with ermine. The King tried to pull it off, the Chancellor tried to keep it on, both were near rolling from their saddles in the mud, when the Chancellor submitted, and the King gave the cloak to the old beggar: much to the beggar’s astonishment, and much to the merriment of all the courtiers in attendance. For, courtiers are not only eager to laugh when the King laughs, but they really do enjoy a laugh against a Favourite.

The King was really happy about all this, thinking it made him look even more impressive to have such an impressive favorite. But he sometimes joked with the Chancellor about his grandness too. Once, when they were riding together through the streets of London in freezing winter weather, they spotted a shivering old man in rags. “Look at that poor fellow!” said the King. “Wouldn’t it be a nice thing to give that elderly man a warm cloak?” “Absolutely,” replied Thomas à Becket, “and you’re right, Sir, to think of such Christian duties.” “Alright!” exclaimed the King, “then give him your cloak!” It was made of rich crimson and trimmed with ermine. The King tried to pull it off, the Chancellor tried to keep it on, and they almost tumbled off their horses into the mud when the Chancellor finally gave in, and the King handed the cloak to the old beggar. This shocked the beggar and made all the attending courtiers laugh. Because, courtiers are not just eager to laugh when the King laughs, they really enjoy a good laugh at the expense of a Favorite.

‘I will make,’ thought King Henry the second, ‘this Chancellor of mine, Thomas à Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury. He will then be the head of the Church, and, being devoted to me, will help me to correct the Church. He has always upheld my power against the power of the clergy, and once publicly told some bishops (I remember), that men of the Church were equally bound to me, with men of the sword. Thomas à Becket is the man, of all other men in England, to help me in my great design.’ So the King, regardless of all objection, either that he was a fighting man, or a lavish man, or a courtly man, or a man of pleasure, or anything but a likely man for the office, made him Archbishop accordingly.

‘I will make,’ thought King Henry the Second, ‘this Chancellor of mine, Thomas à Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury. He will then be the head of the Church, and, being loyal to me, will help me reform it. He has always supported my power against the authority of the clergy and once told some bishops (I remember) that Church men are just as obligated to me as men of the sword. Thomas à Becket is, above all others in England, the person to assist me in my grand plan.’ So the King, ignoring all objections—whether he was a warrior, a spender, a socialite, or someone who enjoyed luxury, or anything that might suggest he wasn't suitable for the role—appointed him as Archbishop.

Now, Thomas à Becket was proud and loved to be famous. He was already famous for the pomp of his life, for his riches, his gold and silver plate, his waggons, horses, and attendants. He could do no more in that way than he had done; and being tired of that kind of fame (which is a very poor one), he longed to have his name celebrated for something else. Nothing, he knew, would render him so famous in the world, as the setting of his utmost power and ability against the utmost power and ability of the King. He resolved with the whole strength of his mind to do it.

Now, Thomas à Becket was proud and loved being famous. He was already well-known for the lavishness of his lifestyle, his wealth, his gold and silver items, his wagons, horses, and attendants. He couldn’t achieve more in that way than he already had, and being tired of that type of fame (which isn’t very substantial), he yearned to have his name celebrated for something deeper. He realized that nothing would make him more famous in the world than to pit his full power and abilities against the full power and abilities of the King. He resolved, with all his mental strength, to do just that.

He may have had some secret grudge against the King besides. The King may have offended his proud humour at some time or other, for anything I know. I think it likely, because it is a common thing for Kings, Princes, and other great people, to try the tempers of their favourites rather severely. Even the little affair of the crimson cloak must have been anything but a pleasant one to a haughty man. Thomas à Becket knew better than any one in England what the King expected of him. In all his sumptuous life, he had never yet been in a position to disappoint the King. He could take up that proud stand now, as head of the Church; and he determined that it should be written in history, either that he subdued the King, or that the King subdued him.

He might have had some hidden grudge against the King too. The King may have offended his pride at some point, for all I know. I think it's likely because it's pretty common for Kings, Princes, and other powerful people to test the patience of their favorites pretty harshly. Even the incident with the crimson cloak must have been anything but pleasant for a proud man. Thomas à Becket understood better than anyone in England what the King expected from him. Throughout his lavish life, he had never been in a position to let the King down. Now, as the head of the Church, he could take a strong stand, and he decided that it should be recorded in history that either he overpowered the King or the King overpowered him.

So, of a sudden, he completely altered the whole manner of his life. He turned off all his brilliant followers, ate coarse food, drank bitter water, wore next his skin sackcloth covered with dirt and vermin (for it was then thought very religious to be very dirty), flogged his back to punish himself, lived chiefly in a little cell, washed the feet of thirteen poor people every day, and looked as miserable as he possibly could. If he had put twelve hundred monkeys on horseback instead of twelve, and had gone in procession with eight thousand waggons instead of eight, he could not have half astonished the people so much as by this great change. It soon caused him to be more talked about as an Archbishop than he had been as a Chancellor.

Suddenly, he completely changed his entire way of life. He dismissed all his flashy followers, ate simple food, drank bitter water, wore coarse sackcloth against his skin, covered in dirt and pests (since it was considered very religious to be extremely unkempt), whipped his back for punishment, lived mostly in a small cell, washed the feet of thirteen poor people every day, and tried to look as miserable as possible. If he had put twelve hundred monkeys on horseback instead of twelve, and paraded with eight thousand wagons instead of eight, he couldn't have astonished people as much as he did with this drastic change. It quickly made him a more talked-about Archbishop than he had been as Chancellor.

The King was very angry; and was made still more so, when the new Archbishop, claiming various estates from the nobles as being rightfully Church property, required the King himself, for the same reason, to give up Rochester Castle, and Rochester City too. Not satisfied with this, he declared that no power but himself should appoint a priest to any Church in the part of England over which he was Archbishop; and when a certain gentleman of Kent made such an appointment, as he claimed to have the right to do, Thomas à Becket excommunicated him.

The King was really angry, and he got even angrier when the new Archbishop demanded that various estates from the nobles be returned as rightful Church property. He also required the King to hand over Rochester Castle and the city of Rochester for the same reason. Not content with that, he proclaimed that only he had the authority to appoint a priest to any Church in the area of England where he served as Archbishop. When a certain gentleman from Kent made an appointment, claiming he had the right to do so, Thomas à Becket excommunicated him.

Excommunication was, next to the Interdict I told you of at the close of the last chapter, the great weapon of the clergy. It consisted in declaring the person who was excommunicated, an outcast from the Church and from all religious offices; and in cursing him all over, from the top of his head to the sole of his foot, whether he was standing up, lying down, sitting, kneeling, walking, running, hopping, jumping, gaping, coughing, sneezing, or whatever else he was doing. This unchristian nonsense would of course have made no sort of difference to the person cursed—who could say his prayers at home if he were shut out of church, and whom none but God could judge—but for the fears and superstitions of the people, who avoided excommunicated persons, and made their lives unhappy. So, the King said to the New Archbishop, ‘Take off this Excommunication from this gentleman of Kent.’ To which the Archbishop replied, ‘I shall do no such thing.’

Excommunication was, after the Interdict I mentioned at the end of the last chapter, one of the biggest tools the clergy had. It meant declaring someone who was excommunicated an outcast from the Church and all religious services; and cursing them completely, from head to toe, whether they were standing, lying down, sitting, kneeling, walking, running, hopping, jumping, gaping, coughing, sneezing, or doing anything else. This unchristian nonsense wouldn’t really have affected the person being cursed—after all, they could pray at home if they were barred from church, and only God could judge them—but it played on the fears and superstitions of the people, who avoided excommunicated individuals and made their lives miserable. So, the King said to the New Archbishop, ‘Lift this Excommunication from this gentleman of Kent.’ To which the Archbishop replied, ‘I won’t do that.’

The quarrel went on. A priest in Worcestershire committed a most dreadful murder, that aroused the horror of the whole nation. The King demanded to have this wretch delivered up, to be tried in the same court and in the same way as any other murderer. The Archbishop refused, and kept him in the Bishop’s prison. The King, holding a solemn assembly in Westminster Hall, demanded that in future all priests found guilty before their Bishops of crimes against the law of the land should be considered priests no longer, and should be delivered over to the law of the land for punishment. The Archbishop again refused. The King required to know whether the clergy would obey the ancient customs of the country? Every priest there, but one, said, after Thomas à Becket, ‘Saving my order.’ This really meant that they would only obey those customs when they did not interfere with their own claims; and the King went out of the Hall in great wrath.

The argument continued. A priest in Worcestershire committed a terrible murder that shocked the entire nation. The King demanded that this criminal be handed over to be tried in the same court and in the same manner as any other murderer. The Archbishop refused and kept him in the Bishop’s prison. The King, holding a formal assembly in Westminster Hall, stated that from now on, all priests found guilty of crimes against the law of the land by their Bishops should no longer be considered priests and should be handed over to the law for punishment. The Archbishop refused again. The King asked whether the clergy would follow the traditional customs of the country. Every priest present, except one, responded, after Thomas à Becket, "Saving my order." This essentially meant that they would only follow those customs when they didn’t conflict with their own interests, and the King left the Hall in great anger.

Some of the clergy began to be afraid, now, that they were going too far. Though Thomas à Becket was otherwise as unmoved as Westminster Hall, they prevailed upon him, for the sake of their fears, to go to the King at Woodstock, and promise to observe the ancient customs of the country, without saying anything about his order. The King received this submission favourably, and summoned a great council of the clergy to meet at the Castle of Clarendon, by Salisbury. But when the council met, the Archbishop again insisted on the words ‘saying my order;’ and he still insisted, though lords entreated him, and priests wept before him and knelt to him, and an adjoining room was thrown open, filled with armed soldiers of the King, to threaten him. At length he gave way, for that time, and the ancient customs (which included what the King had demanded in vain) were stated in writing, and were signed and sealed by the chief of the clergy, and were called the Constitutions of Clarendon.

Some of the clergy started to worry that they were going too far. Although Thomas à Becket was otherwise as unshaken as Westminster Hall, they urged him, out of their fears, to go to the King at Woodstock and promise to follow the ancient customs of the country without mentioning his order. The King welcomed this submission and called a large council of clergy to meet at the Castle of Clarendon, near Salisbury. But when the council gathered, the Archbishop once again insisted on the phrase "mentioning my order," and he kept insisting, even as lords pleaded with him, priests cried in front of him and knelt, and a nearby room was opened, filled with the King’s armed soldiers to intimidate him. Finally, he relented for that time, and the ancient customs (which included what the King had demanded in vain) were written down, signed, and sealed by the chief clergy, and they became known as the Constitutions of Clarendon.

The quarrel went on, for all that. The Archbishop tried to see the King. The King would not see him. The Archbishop tried to escape from England. The sailors on the coast would launch no boat to take him away. Then, he again resolved to do his worst in opposition to the King, and began openly to set the ancient customs at defiance.

The argument continued, despite everything. The Archbishop attempted to meet with the King. The King refused to meet him. The Archbishop tried to leave England. The sailors on the coast wouldn’t launch a boat to take him away. Then, he decided once more to oppose the King and started openly defying the old customs.

The King summoned him before a great council at Northampton, where he accused him of high treason, and made a claim against him, which was not a just one, for an enormous sum of money. Thomas à Becket was alone against the whole assembly, and the very Bishops advised him to resign his office and abandon his contest with the King. His great anxiety and agitation stretched him on a sick-bed for two days, but he was still undaunted. He went to the adjourned council, carrying a great cross in his right hand, and sat down holding it erect before him. The King angrily retired into an inner room. The whole assembly angrily retired and left him there. But there he sat. The Bishops came out again in a body, and renounced him as a traitor. He only said, ‘I hear!’ and sat there still. They retired again into the inner room, and his trial proceeded without him. By-and-by, the Earl of Leicester, heading the barons, came out to read his sentence. He refused to hear it, denied the power of the court, and said he would refer his cause to the Pope. As he walked out of the hall, with the cross in his hand, some of those present picked up rushes—rushes were strewn upon the floors in those days by way of carpet—and threw them at him. He proudly turned his head, and said that were he not Archbishop, he would chastise those cowards with the sword he had known how to use in bygone days. He then mounted his horse, and rode away, cheered and surrounded by the common people, to whom he threw open his house that night and gave a supper, supping with them himself. That same night he secretly departed from the town; and so, travelling by night and hiding by day, and calling himself ‘Brother Dearman,’ got away, not without difficulty, to Flanders.

The King called him before a large council in Northampton, where he accused him of treason and made an unjust claim against him for a huge amount of money. Thomas à Becket stood alone against the entire assembly, and even the Bishops advised him to step down and give up his fight with the King. His immense worry and stress left him bedridden for two days, but he remained brave. He attended the resumed council, holding a large cross in his right hand, and sat down with it upright in front of him. The King angrily retreated to another room. The entire assembly left him there in anger. But he stayed. The Bishops returned as a group and declared him a traitor. He simply said, ‘I hear!’ and remained seated. They went back into the inner room, and his trial continued without him. After a while, the Earl of Leicester, leading the barons, came out to deliver his sentence. He refused to listen, rejected the court’s authority, and declared that he would take his case to the Pope. As he left the hall, holding the cross, some attendees picked up rushes—used as carpet in those days—and threw them at him. He turned his head proudly and said that if he weren’t Archbishop, he would punish those cowards with the sword he once knew how to wield. He then got on his horse and rode away, cheered and surrounded by the common people, to whom he opened his house that night and shared a meal, dining with them himself. That same night, he quietly left the town; traveling by night and hiding by day, calling himself ‘Brother Dearman,’ he managed to reach Flanders, though not without difficulty.

The struggle still went on. The angry King took possession of the revenues of the archbishopric, and banished all the relations and servants of Thomas à Becket, to the number of four hundred. The Pope and the French King both protected him, and an abbey was assigned for his residence. Stimulated by this support, Thomas à Becket, on a great festival day, formally proceeded to a great church crowded with people, and going up into the pulpit publicly cursed and excommunicated all who had supported the Constitutions of Clarendon: mentioning many English noblemen by name, and not distantly hinting at the King of England himself.

The struggle continued. The furious King seized the archbishopric's revenue and exiled all of Thomas à Becket's relatives and servants, totaling four hundred people. Both the Pope and the King of France supported him, and a monastery was designated for his residence. Encouraged by this backing, Thomas à Becket, on a major feast day, made his way to a large church filled with people. He ascended the pulpit and publicly cursed and excommunicated everyone who had backed the Constitutions of Clarendon, naming several English nobles and subtly implying it included the King of England himself.

When intelligence of this new affront was carried to the King in his chamber, his passion was so furious that he tore his clothes, and rolled like a madman on his bed of straw and rushes. But he was soon up and doing. He ordered all the ports and coasts of England to be narrowly watched, that no letters of Interdict might be brought into the kingdom; and sent messengers and bribes to the Pope’s palace at Rome. Meanwhile, Thomas à Becket, for his part, was not idle at Rome, but constantly employed his utmost arts in his own behalf. Thus the contest stood, until there was peace between France and England (which had been for some time at war), and until the two children of the two Kings were married in celebration of it. Then, the French King brought about a meeting between Henry and his old favourite, so long his enemy.

When the King heard about this new insult in his chamber, he was so furious that he ripped his clothes and thrashed around like a madman on his bed of straw and rushes. But he quickly got up and took action. He ordered that all the ports and coastlines of England be closely monitored to prevent any letters of Interdict from entering the kingdom, and he sent messengers and bribes to the Pope's palace in Rome. Meanwhile, Thomas à Becket wasn’t idle in Rome either; he was constantly using all his skills to advocate for himself. This was how things stood until there was peace between France and England, which had been at war for some time, and the two kings' children were married to celebrate it. Then, the French King arranged a meeting between Henry and his old favorite, who had long been his enemy.

Even then, though Thomas à Becket knelt before the King, he was obstinate and immovable as to those words about his order. King Louis of France was weak enough in his veneration for Thomas à Becket and such men, but this was a little too much for him. He said that à Becket ‘wanted to be greater than the saints and better than St. Peter,’ and rode away from him with the King of England. His poor French Majesty asked à Becket’s pardon for so doing, however, soon afterwards, and cut a very pitiful figure.

Even then, even though Thomas à Becket knelt before the King, he was stubborn and unyielding about his words regarding his position. King Louis of France was weak in his admiration for Thomas à Becket and similar figures, but this was a bit too much for him. He stated that à Becket “wanted to be greater than the saints and better than St. Peter,” and then rode away with the King of England. However, the poor French King later asked à Becket for forgiveness for his actions and looked quite pathetic.

At last, and after a world of trouble, it came to this. There was another meeting on French ground between King Henry and Thomas à Becket, and it was agreed that Thomas à Becket should be Archbishop of Canterbury, according to the customs of former Archbishops, and that the King should put him in possession of the revenues of that post. And now, indeed, you might suppose the struggle at an end, and Thomas à Becket at rest. No, not even yet. For Thomas à Becket hearing, by some means, that King Henry, when he was in dread of his kingdom being placed under an interdict, had had his eldest son Prince Henry secretly crowned, not only persuaded the Pope to suspend the Archbishop of York who had performed that ceremony, and to excommunicate the Bishops who had assisted at it, but sent a messenger of his own into England, in spite of all the King’s precautions along the coast, who delivered the letters of excommunication into the Bishops’ own hands. Thomas à Becket then came over to England himself, after an absence of seven years. He was privately warned that it was dangerous to come, and that an ireful knight, named Ranulf de Broc, had threatened that he should not live to eat a loaf of bread in England; but he came.

At last, after a lot of trouble, it came down to this. There was another meeting on French soil between King Henry and Thomas à Becket, and it was agreed that Thomas à Becket would become Archbishop of Canterbury, following the customs of previous Archbishops, and that the King would hand over the income from that position. And now, you might think the struggle was over and Thomas à Becket could finally relax. No., not yet. For Thomas à Becket learned, somehow, that King Henry, fearing his kingdom would be put under an interdict, had secretly crowned his eldest son, Prince Henry. Not only did he convince the Pope to suspend the Archbishop of York who had conducted that ceremony and excommunicate the Bishops who participated, but he also sent a messenger to England, despite all the King’s precautions along the coast, who delivered the excommunication letters directly to the Bishops. Thomas à Becket then returned to England himself after being away for seven years. He was privately warned that it was dangerous to come back, and that a furious knight named Ranulf de Broc had threatened that he wouldn’t survive long enough to eat a loaf of bread in England; but he came anyway.

The common people received him well, and marched about with him in a soldierly way, armed with such rustic weapons as they could get. He tried to see the young prince who had once been his pupil, but was prevented. He hoped for some little support among the nobles and priests, but found none. He made the most of the peasants who attended him, and feasted them, and went from Canterbury to Harrow-on-the-Hill, and from Harrow-on-the-Hill back to Canterbury, and on Christmas Day preached in the Cathedral there, and told the people in his sermon that he had come to die among them, and that it was likely he would be murdered. He had no fear, however—or, if he had any, he had much more obstinacy—for he, then and there, excommunicated three of his enemies, of whom Ranulf de Broc, the ireful knight, was one.

The common people welcomed him warmly and marched alongside him like soldiers, armed with whatever crude weapons they could find. He tried to meet with the young prince who had once been his student, but he was stopped. He hoped to find some support among the nobles and priests, but didn’t receive any. He made the most of the peasants who followed him, treated them to a feast, and traveled from Canterbury to Harrow-on-the-Hill, and back again. On Christmas Day, he preached in the Cathedral in Canterbury and told the congregation in his sermon that he had come to die among them, and that it was likely he would be murdered. However, he felt no fear—or if he did, his stubbornness overshadowed it—because right then and there, he excommunicated three of his enemies, one of whom was the angry knight Ranulf de Broc.

As men in general had no fancy for being cursed, in their sitting and walking, and gaping and sneezing, and all the rest of it, it was very natural in the persons so freely excommunicated to complain to the King. It was equally natural in the King, who had hoped that this troublesome opponent was at last quieted, to fall into a mighty rage when he heard of these new affronts; and, on the Archbishop of York telling him that he never could hope for rest while Thomas à Becket lived, to cry out hastily before his court, ‘Have I no one here who will deliver me from this man?’ There were four knights present, who, hearing the King’s words, looked at one another, and went out.

As men generally didn't appreciate being cursed while they were sitting, walking, gaping, sneezing, and doing everything else, it was completely understandable for those who had been excommunicated to complain to the King. It was also natural for the King, who had hoped this troublesome opponent was finally silenced, to become furious upon hearing of these new insults. When the Archbishop of York told him that he would never find peace as long as Thomas à Becket was alive, the King exclaimed in haste before his court, “Is there no one here who will get rid of this man for me?” Four knights were present, and upon hearing the King's words, they exchanged glances and left.

The names of these knights were Reginald Fitzurse, William Tracy, Hugh de Morville, and Richard Brito; three of whom had been in the train of Thomas à Becket in the old days of his splendour. They rode away on horseback, in a very secret manner, and on the third day after Christmas Day arrived at Saltwood House, not far from Canterbury, which belonged to the family of Ranulf de Broc. They quietly collected some followers here, in case they should need any; and proceeding to Canterbury, suddenly appeared (the four knights and twelve men) before the Archbishop, in his own house, at two o’clock in the afternoon. They neither bowed nor spoke, but sat down on the floor in silence, staring at the Archbishop.

The knights' names were Reginald Fitzurse, William Tracy, Hugh de Morville, and Richard Brito; three of them had been part of Thomas à Becket's entourage during his glorious days. They rode off on horseback, quite discreetly, and on the third day after Christmas, they reached Saltwood House, not far from Canterbury, which belonged to the Ranulf de Broc family. They quietly gathered some supporters there, just in case they needed them; then they headed to Canterbury and suddenly appeared (the four knights and twelve men) before the Archbishop in his own home at two o’clock in the afternoon. They didn't bow or speak but just sat down on the floor in silence, staring at the Archbishop.

Thomas à Becket said, at length, ‘What do you want?’

Thomas à Becket finally asked, "What do you want?"

‘We want,’ said Reginald Fitzurse, ‘the excommunication taken from the Bishops, and you to answer for your offences to the King.’ Thomas à Becket defiantly replied, that the power of the clergy was above the power of the King. That it was not for such men as they were, to threaten him. That if he were threatened by all the swords in England, he would never yield.

‘What we want,’ said Reginald Fitzurse, ‘is for the Bishops to lift the excommunication and for you to answer for your offenses to the King.’ Thomas à Becket boldly responded that the authority of the clergy is greater than that of the King. He asserted that it wasn’t for men like them to threaten him. He claimed that even if he were threatened by all the swords in England, he would never give in.

‘Then we will do more than threaten!’ said the knights. And they went out with the twelve men, and put on their armour, and drew their shining swords, and came back.

‘Then we will do more than just threaten!’ said the knights. And they went out with the twelve men, put on their armor, drew their shining swords, and came back.

His servants, in the meantime, had shut up and barred the great gate of the palace. At first, the knights tried to shatter it with their battle-axes; but, being shown a window by which they could enter, they let the gate alone, and climbed in that way. While they were battering at the door, the attendants of Thomas à Becket had implored him to take refuge in the Cathedral; in which, as a sanctuary or sacred place, they thought the knights would dare to do no violent deed. He told them, again and again, that he would not stir. Hearing the distant voices of the monks singing the evening service, however, he said it was now his duty to attend, and therefore, and for no other reason, he would go.

His servants had, in the meantime, shut and locked the big gate of the palace. At first, the knights tried to break it down with their battle-axes, but when they were shown a window they could use to get in, they left the gate alone and climbed through that way. While they were pounding on the door, Thomas à Becket's attendants urged him to seek refuge in the Cathedral, believing that as a sanctuary or sacred place, the knights would not dare to commit any violent acts there. He told them repeatedly that he wouldn’t budge. However, upon hearing the distant voices of the monks singing the evening service, he said it was now his duty to attend, and for that reason, and that reason alone, he would go.

There was a near way between his Palace and the Cathedral, by some beautiful old cloisters which you may yet see. He went into the Cathedral, without any hurry, and having the Cross carried before him as usual. When he was safely there, his servants would have fastened the door, but he said No! it was the house of God and not a fortress.

There was a quick route between his palace and the cathedral, through some beautiful old cloisters that you can still see today. He entered the cathedral at a leisurely pace, with the Cross carried in front of him as usual. Once he was safely inside, his servants tried to close the door, but he said Nope! It was the house of God, not a fortress.

As he spoke, the shadow of Reginald Fitzurse appeared in the Cathedral doorway, darkening the little light there was outside, on the dark winter evening. This knight said, in a strong voice, ‘Follow me, loyal servants of the King!’ The rattle of the armour of the other knights echoed through the Cathedral, as they came clashing in.

As he spoke, the shadow of Reginald Fitzurse appeared in the Cathedral doorway, blocking out the little light that remained on the dark winter evening. This knight said, in a strong voice, ‘Follow me, loyal servants of the King!’ The sound of the other knights' armor clattering echoed through the Cathedral as they stormed in.

It was so dark, in the lofty aisles and among the stately pillars of the church, and there were so many hiding-places in the crypt below and in the narrow passages above, that Thomas à Becket might even at that pass have saved himself if he would. But he would not. He told the monks resolutely that he would not. And though they all dispersed and left him there with no other follower than Edward Gryme, his faithful cross-bearer, he was as firm then, as ever he had been in his life.

It was so dark in the high aisles and among the grand pillars of the church, and there were so many hiding spots in the crypt below and in the narrow passages above, that Thomas à Becket could have saved himself if he wanted to. But he wouldn’t. He told the monks firmly that he wouldn’t. And although they all scattered and left him there with no one but Edward Gryme, his loyal cross-bearer, he was as resolute then as he had ever been in his life.

The knights came on, through the darkness, making a terrible noise with their armed tread upon the stone pavement of the church. ‘Where is the traitor?’ they cried out. He made no answer. But when they cried, ‘Where is the Archbishop?’ he said proudly, ‘I am here!’ and came out of the shade and stood before them.

The knights marched forward, their armored footsteps echoing loudly on the stone floor of the church. “Where is the traitor?” they shouted. He didn’t respond. But when they yelled, “Where is the Archbishop?” he replied confidently, “I am here!” and stepped out of the shadows to stand before them.

The knights had no desire to kill him, if they could rid the King and themselves of him by any other means. They told him he must either fly or go with them. He said he would do neither; and he threw William Tracy off with such force when he took hold of his sleeve, that Tracy reeled again. By his reproaches and his steadiness, he so incensed them, and exasperated their fierce humour, that Reginald Fitzurse, whom he called by an ill name, said, ‘Then die!’ and struck at his head. But the faithful Edward Gryme put out his arm, and there received the main force of the blow, so that it only made his master bleed. Another voice from among the knights again called to Thomas à Becket to fly; but, with his blood running down his face, and his hands clasped, and his head bent, he commanded himself to God, and stood firm. Then they cruelly killed him close to the altar of St. Bennet; and his body fell upon the pavement, which was dirtied with his blood and brains.

The knights didn't want to kill him if they could get rid of him and the King by any other means. They told him he had to either flee or go with them. He refused to do either and threw William Tracy off with such force when he grabbed his sleeve that Tracy staggered back. His accusations and his calm demeanor angered them and fueled their rage, leading Reginald Fitzurse, whom he insulted, to say, "Then die!" and swing at his head. But the loyal Edward Gryme reached out his arm and took the brunt of the blow, so it only made his master bleed. Another knight called out to Thomas à Becket to run away; but with blood running down his face, hands clasped, and head lowered, he entrusted himself to God and stood his ground. Then they brutally killed him right by the altar of St. Bennet, and his body fell to the ground, staining the pavement with his blood and brains.

It is an awful thing to think of the murdered mortal, who had so showered his curses about, lying, all disfigured, in the church, where a few lamps here and there were but red specks on a pall of darkness; and to think of the guilty knights riding away on horseback, looking over their shoulders at the dim Cathedral, and remembering what they had left inside.

It’s a terrible thought to imagine the murdered person, who had cursed so much, lying there, all disfigured, in the church, where a few lights here and there were just tiny spots of red against a blanket of darkness; and to think of the guilty knights riding off on horseback, glancing back at the dim Cathedral, and recalling what they had left behind.

PART THE SECOND

When the King heard how Thomas à Becket had lost his life in Canterbury Cathedral, through the ferocity of the four Knights, he was filled with dismay. Some have supposed that when the King spoke those hasty words, ‘Have I no one here who will deliver me from this man?’ he wished, and meant à Becket to be slain. But few things are more unlikely; for, besides that the King was not naturally cruel (though very passionate), he was wise, and must have known full well what any stupid man in his dominions must have known, namely, that such a murder would rouse the Pope and the whole Church against him.

When the King learned that Thomas à Becket had been killed in Canterbury Cathedral by the brutal actions of the four Knights, he was filled with distress. Some people believe that when the King angrily stated, “Is there no one here who will free me from this man?” he intended for à Becket to be killed. However, that seems highly unlikely; because, while the King was not naturally cruel (even though he was very passionate), he was wise and must have understood what any foolish person in his kingdom would have known: that such a murder would provoke the Pope and the entire Church against him.

He sent respectful messengers to the Pope, to represent his innocence (except in having uttered the hasty words); and he swore solemnly and publicly to his innocence, and contrived in time to make his peace. As to the four guilty Knights, who fled into Yorkshire, and never again dared to show themselves at Court, the Pope excommunicated them; and they lived miserably for some time, shunned by all their countrymen. At last, they went humbly to Jerusalem as a penance, and there died and were buried.

He sent respectful messengers to the Pope to show his innocence (except for having spoken the rash words); and he swore solemnly and publicly that he was innocent, eventually managing to make peace. As for the four guilty Knights who ran away to Yorkshire and never dared to return to Court, the Pope excommunicated them, and they lived miserably for a while, avoided by everyone in their country. In the end, they went humbly to Jerusalem as a form of penance, where they died and were buried.

It happened, fortunately for the pacifying of the Pope, that an opportunity arose very soon after the murder of à Becket, for the King to declare his power in Ireland—which was an acceptable undertaking to the Pope, as the Irish, who had been converted to Christianity by one Patricius (otherwise Saint Patrick) long ago, before any Pope existed, considered that the Pope had nothing at all to do with them, or they with the Pope, and accordingly refused to pay him Peter’s Pence, or that tax of a penny a house which I have elsewhere mentioned. The King’s opportunity arose in this way.

It happened, luckily for the appeasement of the Pope, that a chance came up soon after the murder of à Becket for the King to assert his authority in Ireland—which was a welcome initiative for the Pope, since the Irish, converted to Christianity by Patricius (also known as Saint Patrick) a long time ago, before any Pope existed, believed that the Pope had nothing to do with them, and they had no connection to the Pope either. As a result, they refused to pay him Peter’s Pence, or the tax of a penny per household that I have mentioned elsewhere. The King’s opportunity came about in this way.

The Irish were, at that time, as barbarous a people as you can well imagine. They were continually quarrelling and fighting, cutting one another’s throats, slicing one another’s noses, burning one another’s houses, carrying away one another’s wives, and committing all sorts of violence. The country was divided into five kingdoms—Desmond, Thomond, Connaught, Ulster, and Leinster—each governed by a separate King, of whom one claimed to be the chief of the rest. Now, one of these Kings, named Dermond Mac Murrough (a wild kind of name, spelt in more than one wild kind of way), had carried off the wife of a friend of his, and concealed her on an island in a bog. The friend resenting this (though it was quite the custom of the country), complained to the chief King, and, with the chief King’s help, drove Dermond Mac Murrough out of his dominions. Dermond came over to England for revenge; and offered to hold his realm as a vassal of King Henry, if King Henry would help him to regain it. The King consented to these terms; but only assisted him, then, with what were called Letters Patent, authorising any English subjects who were so disposed, to enter into his service, and aid his cause.

The Irish were, at that time, as brutal a people as you can imagine. They were constantly fighting, cutting each other's throats, slicing each other's noses, burning each other's houses, taking each other's wives, and committing all sorts of violence. The country was divided into five kingdoms—Desmond, Thomond, Connacht, Ulster, and Leinster—each ruled by its own King, with one claiming to be the chief among them. One of these Kings, named Dermond Mac Murrough (a rather unusual name, spelled in several unusual ways), had taken the wife of a friend and hid her on an island in a bog. The friend, upset about this (even though it was a common practice in the country), went to the chief King for help and, with the chief King's support, drove Dermond Mac Murrough out of his lands. Dermond went to England seeking revenge and offered to be a vassal of King Henry if King Henry would help him get his kingdom back. The King agreed to these terms but only supported him with what were called Letters Patent, authorizing any English subjects who wanted to join him and assist his cause.

There was, at Bristol, a certain Earl Richard de Clare, called Strongbow; of no very good character; needy and desperate, and ready for anything that offered him a chance of improving his fortunes. There were, in South Wales, two other broken knights of the same good-for-nothing sort, called Robert Fitz-Stephen, and Maurice Fitz-Gerald. These three, each with a small band of followers, took up Dermond’s cause; and it was agreed that if it proved successful, Strongbow should marry Dermond’s daughter Eva, and be declared his heir.

There was a guy in Bristol named Earl Richard de Clare, known as Strongbow cider; not the best character; broke and desperate, willing to do anything that could improve his situation. In South Wales, there were two other washed-up knights of the same useless kind, named Robert FitzStephen and Maurice Fitz-Gerald. These three, each with a small group of followers, took up Dermond’s cause; and they agreed that if they succeeded, Strongbow would marry Dermond’s daughter Eva and be named his heir.

The trained English followers of these knights were so superior in all the discipline of battle to the Irish, that they beat them against immense superiority of numbers. In one fight, early in the war, they cut off three hundred heads, and laid them before Mac Murrough; who turned them every one up with his hands, rejoicing, and, coming to one which was the head of a man whom he had much disliked, grasped it by the hair and ears, and tore off the nose and lips with his teeth. You may judge from this, what kind of a gentleman an Irish King in those times was. The captives, all through this war, were horribly treated; the victorious party making nothing of breaking their limbs, and casting them into the sea from the tops of high rocks. It was in the midst of the miseries and cruelties attendant on the taking of Waterford, where the dead lay piled in the streets, and the filthy gutters ran with blood, that Strongbow married Eva. An odious marriage-company those mounds of corpse’s must have made, I think, and one quite worthy of the young lady’s father.

The trained English followers of these knights were so much better at battle than the Irish that they defeated them despite being outnumbered. In one fight early in the war, they cut off three hundred heads and laid them before Mac Murrough, who picked each one up, celebrating, and when he came to the head of a man he particularly disliked, he grabbed it by the hair and ears and bit off the nose and lips. You can imagine what kind of gentleman an Irish king was back then. The captives during this war were treated horribly; the victorious side had no problem breaking their limbs and throwing them off high cliffs into the sea. It was in the midst of the suffering and brutality surrounding the capture of Waterford, where the dead were piled up in the streets and the filthy gutters flowed with blood, that Strongbow married Eva. Those heaps of corpses must have made for a grim wedding party, I think, and one quite fitting for the young lady’s father.

He died, after Waterford and Dublin had been taken, and various successes achieved; and Strongbow became King of Leinster. Now came King Henry’s opportunity. To restrain the growing power of Strongbow, he himself repaired to Dublin, as Strongbow’s Royal Master, and deprived him of his kingdom, but confirmed him in the enjoyment of great possessions. The King, then, holding state in Dublin, received the homage of nearly all the Irish Kings and Chiefs, and so came home again with a great addition to his reputation as Lord of Ireland, and with a new claim on the favour of the Pope. And now, their reconciliation was completed—more easily and mildly by the Pope, than the King might have expected, I think.

He died after Waterford and Dublin had been captured and several victories won; Strongbow then became King of Leinster. This was King Henry's chance. To curb Strongbow's increasing power, he went to Dublin as Strongbow’s royal superior and took away his kingdom while letting him keep a lot of his lands. The King then held court in Dublin, receiving loyalty from nearly all the Irish kings and chiefs. He returned home with a boosted reputation as Lord of Ireland and a stronger claim to the Pope's favor. Their reconciliation was now complete—more smoothly and gently than the King might have anticipated, I believe.

At this period of his reign, when his troubles seemed so few and his prospects so bright, those domestic miseries began which gradually made the King the most unhappy of men, reduced his great spirit, wore away his health, and broke his heart.

At this time in his reign, when his troubles seemed few and his future looked bright, those personal struggles began that gradually made the King the most unhappy man, diminished his once-great spirit, took a toll on his health, and shattered his heart.

He had four sons. Henry, now aged eighteen—his secret crowning of whom had given such offence to Thomas à Becket. Richard, aged sixteen; Geoffrey, fifteen; and John, his favourite, a young boy whom the courtiers named Lackland, because he had no inheritance, but to whom the King meant to give the Lordship of Ireland. All these misguided boys, in their turn, were unnatural sons to him, and unnatural brothers to each other. Prince Henry, stimulated by the French King, and by his bad mother, Queen Eleanor, began the undutiful history,

He had four sons. Henry, now eighteen—his secret crowning of whom had offended Thomas à Becket. Richard, sixteen; Geoff, fifteen; and John, his favorite, a young boy whom the courtiers called Lackland Air Force Base, because he had no inheritance, but whom the King planned to give the Lordship of Ireland. All these misguided boys, in their own way, were unnatural sons to him and unnatural brothers to each other. Prince Henry, encouraged by the French King and his manipulative mother, Queen Eleanor, started the disloyal story.

First, he demanded that his young wife, Margaret, the French King’s daughter, should be crowned as well as he. His father, the King, consented, and it was done. It was no sooner done, than he demanded to have a part of his father’s dominions, during his father’s life. This being refused, he made off from his father in the night, with his bad heart full of bitterness, and took refuge at the French King’s Court. Within a day or two, his brothers Richard and Geoffrey followed. Their mother tried to join them—escaping in man’s clothes—but she was seized by King Henry’s men, and immured in prison, where she lay, deservedly, for sixteen years. Every day, however, some grasping English noblemen, to whom the King’s protection of his people from their avarice and oppression had given offence, deserted him and joined the Princes. Every day he heard some fresh intelligence of the Princes levying armies against him; of Prince Henry’s wearing a crown before his own ambassadors at the French Court, and being called the Junior King of England; of all the Princes swearing never to make peace with him, their father, without the consent and approval of the Barons of France. But, with his fortitude and energy unshaken, King Henry met the shock of these disasters with a resolved and cheerful face. He called upon all Royal fathers who had sons, to help him, for his cause was theirs; he hired, out of his riches, twenty thousand men to fight the false French King, who stirred his own blood against him; and he carried on the war with such vigour, that Louis soon proposed a conference to treat for peace.

First, he demanded that his young wife, Margaret, the daughter of the French King, should be crowned alongside him. His father, the King, agreed, and it was done. As soon as that happened, he requested a portion of his father’s territories while his father was still alive. When this was denied, he sneaked away from his father at night, filled with bitterness, and took refuge at the French King’s Court. Within a day or two, his brothers Richard and Geoffrey followed. Their mother tried to join them by disguising herself in men’s clothing, but she was captured by King Henry’s men and imprisoned, where she stayed for sixteen years, justifiably. Every day, however, some greedy English noblemen, offended by the King’s protection of his people from their greed and oppression, deserted him and joined the Princes. Daily, he received news of the Princes gathering armies against him; of Prince Henry wearing a crown before his own ambassadors at the French Court, and being called the Junior King of England; of all the Princes swearing never to make peace with him, their father, without the consent and approval of the Barons of France. But with his determination and energy unwavering, King Henry faced the blow of these disasters with a resolute and cheerful demeanor. He called upon all royal fathers with sons to support him, as his cause was theirs; he hired, with his wealth, twenty thousand men to fight against the false French King, who turned his own blood against him; and he conducted the war with such vigor that Louis soon suggested a meeting to negotiate for peace.

The conference was held beneath an old wide-spreading green elm-tree, upon a plain in France. It led to nothing. The war recommenced. Prince Richard began his fighting career, by leading an army against his father; but his father beat him and his army back; and thousands of his men would have rued the day in which they fought in such a wicked cause, had not the King received news of an invasion of England by the Scots, and promptly come home through a great storm to repress it. And whether he really began to fear that he suffered these troubles because à Becket had been murdered; or whether he wished to rise in the favour of the Pope, who had now declared à Becket to be a saint, or in the favour of his own people, of whom many believed that even à Becket’s senseless tomb could work miracles, I don’t know: but the King no sooner landed in England than he went straight to Canterbury; and when he came within sight of the distant Cathedral, he dismounted from his horse, took off his shoes, and walked with bare and bleeding feet to à Becket’s grave. There, he lay down on the ground, lamenting, in the presence of many people; and by-and-by he went into the Chapter House, and, removing his clothes from his back and shoulders, submitted himself to be beaten with knotted cords (not beaten very hard, I dare say though) by eighty Priests, one after another. It chanced that on the very day when the King made this curious exhibition of himself, a complete victory was obtained over the Scots; which very much delighted the Priests, who said that it was won because of his great example of repentance. For the Priests in general had found out, since à Becket’s death, that they admired him of all things—though they had hated him very cordially when he was alive.

The conference took place under a big, old green elm tree on a plain in France. It led to nothing. The war started again. Prince Richard began his fighting career by leading an army against his father, but his father defeated him and his troops. Thousands of his men would have regretted fighting for such a wicked cause if the King hadn't received news of an invasion of England by the Scots and quickly returned home through a fierce storm to handle it. Whether he truly started to worry that these troubles were because à Becket had been murdered or whether he wanted to gain favor with the Pope, who had now declared à Becket a saint, or with his own people, many of whom believed that even à Becket’s empty tomb could perform miracles, I can’t say. But as soon as the King landed in England, he headed straight to Canterbury. When he caught sight of the distant Cathedral, he got off his horse, took off his shoes, and walked with bare, bleeding feet to à Becket’s grave. There, he lay down on the ground, crying out in front of many people. After a while, he went into the Chapter House, took off his clothes from his back and shoulders, and allowed himself to be whipped with knotted cords (not too hard, I assume) by eighty Priests, one after another. It just so happened that on the very day the King made this unusual display, a complete victory was achieved over the Scots, which delighted the Priests, who claimed it was won because of his great show of repentance. Generally, the Priests had realized, since à Becket’s death, that they admired him above all things—despite having hated him very much when he was alive.

The Earl of Flanders, who was at the head of the base conspiracy of the King’s undutiful sons and their foreign friends, took the opportunity of the King being thus employed at home, to lay siege to Rouen, the capital of Normandy. But the King, who was extraordinarily quick and active in all his movements, was at Rouen, too, before it was supposed possible that he could have left England; and there he so defeated the said Earl of Flanders, that the conspirators proposed peace, and his bad sons Henry and Geoffrey submitted. Richard resisted for six weeks; but, being beaten out of castle after castle, he at last submitted too, and his father forgave him.

The Earl of Flanders, who led the treacherous plot with the King’s disobedient sons and their foreign allies, seized the chance while the King was occupied at home to lay siege to Rouen, the capital of Normandy. However, the King, known for his quickness and agility, arrived in Rouen even before anyone thought it was possible for him to leave England. There, he defeated the Earl of Flanders so decisively that the conspirators asked for peace, and his rebellious sons Henry and Geoffrey gave in. Richard held out for six weeks, but after losing castle after castle, he eventually surrendered too, and his father forgave him.

To forgive these unworthy princes was only to afford them breathing-time for new faithlessness. They were so false, disloyal, and dishonourable, that they were no more to be trusted than common thieves. In the very next year, Prince Henry rebelled again, and was again forgiven. In eight years more, Prince Richard rebelled against his elder brother; and Prince Geoffrey infamously said that the brothers could never agree well together, unless they were united against their father. In the very next year after their reconciliation by the King, Prince Henry again rebelled against his father; and again submitted, swearing to be true; and was again forgiven; and again rebelled with Geoffrey.

To forgive these unworthy princes was only to give them a chance to betray again. They were so dishonest, disloyal, and dishonorable that they couldn't be trusted any more than common thieves. The very next year, Prince Henry rebelled again, and was once more forgiven. Eight years later, Prince Richard rebelled against his older brother, and Prince Geoffrey infamously remarked that the brothers could only get along when they were united against their father. The year after their reconciliation by the King, Prince Henry rebelled against his father again; he submitted once more, promising to be loyal, and was forgiven again, only to rebel again with Geoffrey.

But the end of this perfidious Prince was come. He fell sick at a French town; and his conscience terribly reproaching him with his baseness, he sent messengers to the King his father, imploring him to come and see him, and to forgive him for the last time on his bed of death. The generous King, who had a royal and forgiving mind towards his children always, would have gone; but this Prince had been so unnatural, that the noblemen about the King suspected treachery, and represented to him that he could not safely trust his life with such a traitor, though his own eldest son. Therefore the King sent him a ring from off his finger as a token of forgiveness; and when the Prince had kissed it, with much grief and many tears, and had confessed to those around him how bad, and wicked, and undutiful a son he had been; he said to the attendant Priests: ‘O, tie a rope about my body, and draw me out of bed, and lay me down upon a bed of ashes, that I may die with prayers to God in a repentant manner!’ And so he died, at twenty-seven years old.

But the end of this treacherous Prince had come. He fell ill in a French town, and his conscience severely tormented him for his wrongdoing. He sent messengers to his father, the King, begging him to come and see him one last time to forgive him on his deathbed. The noble King, who always had a royal and forgiving heart toward his children, would have gone; however, this Prince had been so unnatural that the nobles around the King suspected deceit and warned him that he couldn't safely trust his life with a traitor, even if he was his eldest son. So the King sent him a ring from his finger as a sign of forgiveness. When the Prince kissed it, filled with sorrow and tears, he confessed to those around him how wrong, wicked, and disloyal he had been. He then said to the attending priests, “O, tie a rope around my body, pull me out of bed, and lay me on a bed of ashes, so I can die with prayers to God in a repentant way!” And so he died at the age of twenty-seven.

Three years afterwards, Prince Geoffrey, being unhorsed at a tournament, had his brains trampled out by a crowd of horses passing over him. So, there only remained Prince Richard, and Prince John—who had grown to be a young man now, and had solemnly sworn to be faithful to his father. Richard soon rebelled again, encouraged by his friend the French King, Philip the Second (son of Louis, who was dead); and soon submitted and was again forgiven, swearing on the New Testament never to rebel again; and in another year or so, rebelled again; and, in the presence of his father, knelt down on his knee before the King of France; and did the French King homage: and declared that with his aid he would possess himself, by force, of all his father’s French dominions.

Three years later, Prince Geoffrey was unseated at a tournament and had his head trampled by a crowd of horses running over him. So, only Prince Richard and Prince John were left—John had grown into a young man now and had solemnly promised to be loyal to his father. Richard soon rebelled again, encouraged by his friend, the French King, Philip II (the son of the deceased Louis); but eventually, he submitted and was forgiven again, swearing on the New Testament that he would never rebel again. Yet, in another year or so, he rebelled again; and in front of his father, he knelt before the King of France and paid homage to the French King, declaring that with his support, he would forcibly take all his father's French territories.

And yet this Richard called himself a soldier of Our Saviour! And yet this Richard wore the Cross, which the Kings of France and England had both taken, in the previous year, at a brotherly meeting underneath the old wide-spreading elm-tree on the plain, when they had sworn (like him) to devote themselves to a new Crusade, for the love and honour of the Truth!

And yet this Richard called himself a soldier of Our Savior! And yet this Richard wore the Cross, which both the Kings of France and England had taken the previous year during a friendly meeting under the old, wide-spreading elm tree on the plain, when they had sworn (like him) to dedicate themselves to a new Crusade, out of love and honor for the Truth!

Sick at heart, wearied out by the falsehood of his sons, and almost ready to lie down and die, the unhappy King who had so long stood firm, began to fail. But the Pope, to his honour, supported him; and obliged the French King and Richard, though successful in fight, to treat for peace. Richard wanted to be Crowned King of England, and pretended that he wanted to be married (which he really did not) to the French King’s sister, his promised wife, whom King Henry detained in England. King Henry wanted, on the other hand, that the French King’s sister should be married to his favourite son, John: the only one of his sons (he said) who had never rebelled against him. At last King Henry, deserted by his nobles one by one, distressed, exhausted, broken-hearted, consented to establish peace.

Sick at heart, exhausted by the lies of his sons, and nearly ready to give up and die, the unhappy King who had held on for so long began to weaken. But the Pope, to his credit, supported him, forcing the French King and Richard, despite their victories in battle, to negotiate for peace. Richard wanted to be crowned King of England and pretended he wanted to marry the French King’s sister, his promised bride, whom King Henry kept in England. On the other hand, King Henry wanted the French King’s sister to marry his favorite son, John—the only one of his sons (he claimed) who had never rebelled against him. Eventually, King Henry, abandoned by his nobles one by one, distressed, exhausted, and heartbroken, agreed to establish peace.

One final heavy sorrow was reserved for him, even yet. When they brought him the proposed treaty of peace, in writing, as he lay very ill in bed, they brought him also the list of the deserters from their allegiance, whom he was required to pardon. The first name upon this list was John, his favourite son, in whom he had trusted to the last.

One last deep sorrow was saved for him, even now. When they brought him the written proposed peace treaty while he was very ill in bed, they also brought him the list of deserters from their loyalty, whom he was expected to forgive. The first name on this list was John, his favorite son, whom he had trusted until the very end.

‘O John! child of my heart!’ exclaimed the King, in a great agony of mind. ‘O John, whom I have loved the best! O John, for whom I have contended through these many troubles! Have you betrayed me too!’ And then he lay down with a heavy groan, and said, ‘Now let the world go as it will. I care for nothing more!’

‘O John! child of my heart!’ the King exclaimed, overwhelmed with anguish. ‘O John, whom I have loved the most! O John, for whom I have fought through so many troubles! Have you betrayed me too?’ Then he lay down with a heavy groan and said, ‘Let the world do what it wants. I don’t care about anything anymore!’

After a time, he told his attendants to take him to the French town of Chinon—a town he had been fond of, during many years. But he was fond of no place now; it was too true that he could care for nothing more upon this earth. He wildly cursed the hour when he was born, and cursed the children whom he left behind him; and expired.

After a while, he asked his attendants to take him to the French town of Chinon—a place he had loved for many years. But he didn't love anything anymore; it was painfully clear that he couldn't care about anything else in this world. He angrily cursed the moment he was born and cursed the children he was leaving behind; then he died.

As, one hundred years before, the servile followers of the Court had abandoned the Conqueror in the hour of his death, so they now abandoned his descendant. The very body was stripped, in the plunder of the Royal chamber; and it was not easy to find the means of carrying it for burial to the abbey church of Fontevraud.

As a hundred years earlier, the submissive followers of the Court had abandoned the Conqueror at the moment of his death, they now deserted his descendant. The body was looted right in the Royal chamber, and it was difficult to find a way to transport it for burial at the abbey church of Fontevraud.

Richard was said in after years, by way of flattery, to have the heart of a Lion. It would have been far better, I think, to have had the heart of a Man. His heart, whatever it was, had cause to beat remorsefully within his breast, when he came—as he did—into the solemn abbey, and looked on his dead father’s uncovered face. His heart, whatever it was, had been a black and perjured heart, in all its dealings with the deceased King, and more deficient in a single touch of tenderness than any wild beast’s in the forest.

Richard was later flattered as having the heart of a lion. I think it would have been much better if he had just had the heart of a man. Whatever his heart was, it had reason to beat painfully within his chest when he entered the solemn abbey and looked at his dead father’s uncovered face. His heart, whatever it was, had been a corrupt and deceitful one in all its dealings with the late King, lacking even a single touch of tenderness compared to any wild animal in the forest.

There is a pretty story told of this Reign, called the story of Fair Rosamond. It relates how the King doted on Fair Rosamond, who was the loveliest girl in all the world; and how he had a beautiful Bower built for her in a Park at Woodstock; and how it was erected in a labyrinth, and could only be found by a clue of silk. How the bad Queen Eleanor, becoming jealous of Fair Rosamond, found out the secret of the clue, and one day, appeared before her, with a dagger and a cup of poison, and left her to the choice between those deaths. How Fair Rosamond, after shedding many piteous tears and offering many useless prayers to the cruel Queen, took the poison, and fell dead in the midst of the beautiful bower, while the unconscious birds sang gaily all around her.

There’s an interesting story from this Reign about Fair Rosamund. It tells how the King was infatuated with Fair Rosamond, the most beautiful girl in the world; how he had a lovely Bower built for her in a Park at Woodstock; and how it was designed as a labyrinth that could only be accessed with a silk clue. It explains how the jealous Queen Eleanor discovered the secret of the clue and one day confronted Fair Rosamond with a dagger and a poison cup, forcing her to choose between those two deaths. It goes on to describe how Fair Rosamond, after crying many tears and offering countless futile prayers to the cruel Queen, chose the poison and collapsed dead in the lovely bower, while the unaware birds joyfully sang all around her.

Now, there was a fair Rosamond, and she was (I dare say) the loveliest girl in all the world, and the King was certainly very fond of her, and the bad Queen Eleanor was certainly made jealous. But I am afraid—I say afraid, because I like the story so much—that there was no bower, no labyrinth, no silken clue, no dagger, no poison. I am afraid fair Rosamond retired to a nunnery near Oxford, and died there, peaceably; her sister-nuns hanging a silken drapery over her tomb, and often dressing it with flowers, in remembrance of the youth and beauty that had enchanted the King when he too was young, and when his life lay fair before him.

Now, there was a beautiful Rosamond, and she was (I must say) the most lovely girl in the whole world, and the King was definitely very fond of her, which made the wicked Queen Eleanor jealous. But I’m afraid—I say afraid because I love the story so much—that there was no bower, no labyrinth, no silken clue, no dagger, no poison. I’m afraid the beautiful Rosamond went to a convent near Oxford, where she peacefully passed away; her fellow nuns draped a silk covering over her tomb and often adorned it with flowers, in memory of the youth and beauty that had captivated the King when he was young and when life stretched out beautifully before him.

It was dark and ended now; faded and gone. Henry Plantagenet lay quiet in the abbey church of Fontevraud, in the fifty-seventh year of his age—never to be completed—after governing England well, for nearly thirty-five years.

It was dark and now it was over; faded and gone. Henry Plantagenet lay quietly in the abbey church of Fontevraud, at the age of fifty-seven—never to be completed—after skillfully ruling England for almost thirty-five years.

CHAPTER XIII—ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE FIRST, CALLED THE LION-HEART

In the year of our Lord one thousand one hundred and eighty-nine, Richard of the Lion Heart succeeded to the throne of King Henry the Second, whose paternal heart he had done so much to break. He had been, as we have seen, a rebel from his boyhood; but, the moment he became a king against whom others might rebel, he found out that rebellion was a great wickedness. In the heat of this pious discovery, he punished all the leading people who had befriended him against his father. He could scarcely have done anything that would have been a better instance of his real nature, or a better warning to fawners and parasites not to trust in lion-hearted princes.

In the year 1189, Richard the Lionheart took over the throne from King Henry II, whose heart he had done much to break. He had been a rebel since he was a boy; however, once he became a king against whom others might rebel, he realized that rebellion was a serious wrongdoing. In the heat of this newfound belief, he punished all the key figures who had supported him against his father. It would be hard to find a better example of his true nature or a stronger warning to flatterers and opportunists not to rely on lion-hearted kings.

He likewise put his late father’s treasurer in chains, and locked him up in a dungeon from which he was not set free until he had relinquished, not only all the Crown treasure, but all his own money too. So, Richard certainly got the Lion’s share of the wealth of this wretched treasurer, whether he had a Lion’s heart or not.

He also locked up his late father’s treasurer in chains and imprisoned him in a dungeon, only releasing him after he surrendered not just all the Crown's treasure but all his own money as well. So, Richard definitely got the lion’s share of the wealth from this unfortunate treasurer, whether or not he had a lion’s heart.

He was crowned King of England, with great pomp, at Westminster: walking to the Cathedral under a silken canopy stretched on the tops of four lances, each carried by a great lord. On the day of his coronation, a dreadful murdering of the Jews took place, which seems to have given great delight to numbers of savage persons calling themselves Christians. The King had issued a proclamation forbidding the Jews (who were generally hated, though they were the most useful merchants in England) to appear at the ceremony; but as they had assembled in London from all parts, bringing presents to show their respect for the new Sovereign, some of them ventured down to Westminster Hall with their gifts; which were very readily accepted. It is supposed, now, that some noisy fellow in the crowd, pretending to be a very delicate Christian, set up a howl at this, and struck a Jew who was trying to get in at the Hall door with his present. A riot arose. The Jews who had got into the Hall, were driven forth; and some of the rabble cried out that the new King had commanded the unbelieving race to be put to death. Thereupon the crowd rushed through the narrow streets of the city, slaughtering all the Jews they met; and when they could find no more out of doors (on account of their having fled to their houses, and fastened themselves in), they ran madly about, breaking open all the houses where the Jews lived, rushing in and stabbing or spearing them, sometimes even flinging old people and children out of window into blazing fires they had lighted up below. This great cruelty lasted four-and-twenty hours, and only three men were punished for it. Even they forfeited their lives not for murdering and robbing the Jews, but for burning the houses of some Christians.

He was crowned King of England with great fanfare at Westminster, walking to the Cathedral under a silken canopy held up by four lances, each carried by a nobleman. On the day of his coronation, a horrific massacre of Jews occurred, which seemed to delight many cruel individuals calling themselves Christians. The King had issued a proclamation banning the Jews (who were generally despised, despite being the most valuable merchants in England) from attending the ceremony; however, they had gathered in London from all over, bringing gifts to show their respect for the new Sovereign, and some of them dared to approach Westminster Hall with their offerings, which were readily accepted. It is believed that a loud troublemaker in the crowd, pretending to be a pious Christian, started a commotion and assaulted a Jew attempting to enter the Hall with his gift. A riot broke out. The Jews who had entered the Hall were expelled, and some in the mob shouted that the new King had ordered the extermination of the unbelieving race. Consequently, the crowd surged through the narrow streets of the city, killing every Jew they encountered; and when they could find no more outside (since many had fled to their homes and locked themselves in), they frantically went from house to house, breaking into the homes where Jews lived, rushing in and stabbing or spearing them, even throwing elderly people and children out of windows into the fires they had set below. This horrifying violence continued for twenty-four hours, and only three men were punished for it. Even they lost their lives not for murdering and robbing the Jews, but for burning the homes of some Christians.

King Richard, who was a strong, restless, burly man, with one idea always in his head, and that the very troublesome idea of breaking the heads of other men, was mightily impatient to go on a Crusade to the Holy Land, with a great army. As great armies could not be raised to go, even to the Holy Land, without a great deal of money, he sold the Crown domains, and even the high offices of State; recklessly appointing noblemen to rule over his English subjects, not because they were fit to govern, but because they could pay high for the privilege. In this way, and by selling pardons at a dear rate and by varieties of avarice and oppression, he scraped together a large treasure. He then appointed two Bishops to take care of his kingdom in his absence, and gave great powers and possessions to his brother John, to secure his friendship. John would rather have been made Regent of England; but he was a sly man, and friendly to the expedition; saying to himself, no doubt, ‘The more fighting, the more chance of my brother being killed; and when he is killed, then I become King John!’

King Richard, a strong, restless, burly man, always had one troublesome thought in his head: smashing the heads of other men. He was extremely eager to embark on a Crusade to the Holy Land with a large army. Since great armies couldn’t be assembled for a journey to the Holy Land without a lot of money, he sold off Crown lands and even high-ranking government positions, carelessly appointing noblemen to rule over his English subjects—not because they were capable leaders, but because they could afford to pay for the privilege. Through this method, along with selling pardons at high prices and various acts of greed and oppression, he gathered a significant treasure. He then appointed two Bishops to manage his kingdom while he was away and granted substantial powers and wealth to his brother John to ensure his loyalty. John would have preferred to be named Regent of England, but he was clever, and supported the expedition, likely thinking, ‘The more fighting, the greater the chance my brother gets killed; and when he is killed, I’ll become King John!’

Before the newly levied army departed from England, the recruits and the general populace distinguished themselves by astonishing cruelties on the unfortunate Jews: whom, in many large towns, they murdered by hundreds in the most horrible manner.

Before the newly raised army left England, the recruits and the general public showed their brutality through shocking acts of violence against the unfortunate Jews, who were murdered by the hundreds in the most horrific ways in many large towns.

At York, a large body of Jews took refuge in the Castle, in the absence of its Governor, after the wives and children of many of them had been slain before their eyes. Presently came the Governor, and demanded admission. ‘How can we give it thee, O Governor!’ said the Jews upon the walls, ‘when, if we open the gate by so much as the width of a foot, the roaring crowd behind thee will press in and kill us?’

At York, a large group of Jews took shelter in the Castle while its Governor was away, having witnessed the slaughter of many of their wives and children. Soon after, the Governor arrived and requested to be let in. "How can we let you in, O Governor!" the Jews on the walls replied, "when, if we open the gate even a little, the raging crowd behind you will rush in and kill us?"

Upon this, the unjust Governor became angry, and told the people that he approved of their killing those Jews; and a mischievous maniac of a friar, dressed all in white, put himself at the head of the assault, and they assaulted the Castle for three days.

Upon this, the unfair Governor got angry and told the people that he supported their killing those Jews; and a crazy friar, dressed all in white, led the attack, and they attacked the Castle for three days.

Then said Jocen, the head-Jew (who was a Rabbi or Priest), to the rest, ‘Brethren, there is no hope for us with the Christians who are hammering at the gates and walls, and who must soon break in. As we and our wives and children must die, either by Christian hands, or by our own, let it be by our own. Let us destroy by fire what jewels and other treasure we have here, then fire the castle, and then perish!’

Then said Jocen, the leader of the Jews (who was a Rabbi or Priest), to the others, ‘Brothers, there is no hope for us against the Christians who are pounding at the gates and walls, and will soon break in. As we and our wives and children must die, either at the hands of the Christians or by our own, let it be by our own. Let’s set fire to the jewels and other treasures we have here, then burn the castle, and then perish!’

A few could not resolve to do this, but the greater part complied. They made a blazing heap of all their valuables, and, when those were consumed, set the castle in flames. While the flames roared and crackled around them, and shooting up into the sky, turned it blood-red, Jocen cut the throat of his beloved wife, and stabbed himself. All the others who had wives or children, did the like dreadful deed. When the populace broke in, they found (except the trembling few, cowering in corners, whom they soon killed) only heaps of greasy cinders, with here and there something like part of the blackened trunk of a burnt tree, but which had lately been a human creature, formed by the beneficent hand of the Creator as they were.

A few couldn't bring themselves to do it, but most went along with it. They piled all their valuables into a blazing heap, and when that was gone, they set the castle on fire. As the flames roared and crackled around them, shooting up into the sky and turning it blood-red, Jocen slit the throat of his beloved wife and then stabbed himself. All the others who had wives or children did the same horrific act. When the townspeople broke in, they found (except for a few trembling people hiding in corners, whom they quickly killed) only heaps of greasy ashes, with some remnants that looked like part of a burnt tree trunk, but which had once been a human being, created by the kind hand of the Creator just like they were.

After this bad beginning, Richard and his troops went on, in no very good manner, with the Holy Crusade. It was undertaken jointly by the King of England and his old friend Philip of France. They commenced the business by reviewing their forces, to the number of one hundred thousand men. Afterwards, they severally embarked their troops for Messina, in Sicily, which was appointed as the next place of meeting.

After this rough start, Richard and his troops continued on, not in the best way, with the Holy Crusade. It was launched together by the King of England and his long-time friend Philip of France. They kicked things off by assessing their forces, totaling one hundred thousand men. Afterwards, they each sent their troops by ship to Messina, in Sicily, which was designated as the next meeting point.

King Richard’s sister had married the King of this place, but he was dead: and his uncle Tancred had usurped the crown, cast the Royal Widow into prison, and possessed himself of her estates. Richard fiercely demanded his sister’s release, the restoration of her lands, and (according to the Royal custom of the Island) that she should have a golden chair, a golden table, four-and-twenty silver cups, and four-and-twenty silver dishes. As he was too powerful to be successfully resisted, Tancred yielded to his demands; and then the French King grew jealous, and complained that the English King wanted to be absolute in the Island of Messina and everywhere else. Richard, however, cared little or nothing for this complaint; and in consideration of a present of twenty thousand pieces of gold, promised his pretty little nephew Arthur, then a child of two years old, in marriage to Tancred’s daughter. We shall hear again of pretty little Arthur by-and-by.

King Richard's sister had married the king of this place, but he was dead; and his uncle Tancred had taken the crown, imprisoned the Royal Widow, and seized her estates. Richard fiercely demanded his sister's release, the return of her lands, and (following the Royal custom of the Island) that she should receive a golden chair, a golden table, twenty-four silver cups, and twenty-four silver dishes. Since he was too powerful to be effectively opposed, Tancred agreed to his demands; then the French King got jealous and complained that the English King wanted to have total control in the Island of Messina and elsewhere. However, Richard didn’t care much about this complaint; and in exchange for a gift of twenty thousand gold coins, he promised his adorable little nephew Arthur, who was only two years old, in marriage to Tancred’s daughter. We will hear more about adorable little Arthur soon.

This Sicilian affair arranged without anybody’s brains being knocked out (which must have rather disappointed him), King Richard took his sister away, and also a fair lady named Berengaria, with whom he had fallen in love in France, and whom his mother, Queen Eleanor (so long in prison, you remember, but released by Richard on his coming to the Throne), had brought out there to be his wife; and sailed with them for Cyprus.

This Sicilian deal went down without anyone getting hurt (which probably disappointed him). King Richard took his sister and a beautiful woman named Berengaria, whom he had fallen in love with in France. His mother, Queen Eleanor (who had been in prison for a long time, but was freed by Richard when he became king), had brought her there to be his wife. They sailed to Cyprus together.

He soon had the pleasure of fighting the King of the Island of Cyprus, for allowing his subjects to pillage some of the English troops who were shipwrecked on the shore; and easily conquering this poor monarch, he seized his only daughter, to be a companion to the lady Berengaria, and put the King himself into silver fetters. He then sailed away again with his mother, sister, wife, and the captive princess; and soon arrived before the town of Acre, which the French King with his fleet was besieging from the sea. But the French King was in no triumphant condition, for his army had been thinned by the swords of the Saracens, and wasted by the plague; and Saladin, the brave Sultan of the Turks, at the head of a numerous army, was at that time gallantly defending the place from the hills that rise above it.

He soon had the chance to fight the King of the Island of Cyprus, who had allowed his subjects to loot some of the English troops who were shipwrecked on the shore. Easily defeating this unfortunate king, he captured his only daughter to be a companion to Lady Berengaria and placed the king himself in silver shackles. He then set sail again with his mother, sister, wife, and the captive princess; and soon arrived at the town of Acre, which the French King was besieging by sea with his fleet. However, the French King was not in a strong position, as his army had been weakened by the swords of the Saracens and ravaged by the plague; and Saladin, the brave Sultan of the Turks, was valiantly defending the city with a large army from the hills above.

Wherever the united army of Crusaders went, they agreed in few points except in gaming, drinking, and quarrelling, in a most unholy manner; in debauching the people among whom they tarried, whether they were friends or foes; and in carrying disturbance and ruin into quiet places. The French King was jealous of the English King, and the English King was jealous of the French King, and the disorderly and violent soldiers of the two nations were jealous of one another; consequently, the two Kings could not at first agree, even upon a joint assault on Acre; but when they did make up their quarrel for that purpose, the Saracens promised to yield the town, to give up to the Christians the wood of the Holy Cross, to set at liberty all their Christian captives, and to pay two hundred thousand pieces of gold. All this was to be done within forty days; but, not being done, King Richard ordered some three thousand Saracen prisoners to be brought out in the front of his camp, and there, in full view of their own countrymen, to be butchered.

Wherever the united army of Crusaders went, they agreed on very few things except for gaming, drinking, and fighting in a really disrespectful way; they corrupted the people they stayed with, whether friends or enemies, and brought chaos and destruction to peaceful areas. The French King was jealous of the English King, and the English King was jealous of the French King, and the unruly and aggressive soldiers from both nations were jealous of each other; as a result, the two Kings couldn't initially agree on a joint attack on Acre. However, when they finally settled their disagreements for that purpose, the Saracens promised to surrender the town, hand over the wood of the Holy Cross to the Christians, free all their Christian captives, and pay two hundred thousand gold pieces. All of this was to be completed within forty days; but since it wasn't done, King Richard ordered about three thousand Saracen prisoners to be brought to the front of his camp, where they were to be executed in full view of their fellow countrymen.

The French King had no part in this crime; for he was by that time travelling homeward with the greater part of his men; being offended by the overbearing conduct of the English King; being anxious to look after his own dominions; and being ill, besides, from the unwholesome air of that hot and sandy country. King Richard carried on the war without him; and remained in the East, meeting with a variety of adventures, nearly a year and a half. Every night when his army was on the march, and came to a halt, the heralds cried out three times, to remind all the soldiers of the cause in which they were engaged, ‘Save the Holy Sepulchre!’ and then all the soldiers knelt and said ‘Amen!’ Marching or encamping, the army had continually to strive with the hot air of the glaring desert, or with the Saracen soldiers animated and directed by the brave Saladin, or with both together. Sickness and death, battle and wounds, were always among them; but through every difficulty King Richard fought like a giant, and worked like a common labourer. Long and long after he was quiet in his grave, his terrible battle-axe, with twenty English pounds of English steel in its mighty head, was a legend among the Saracens; and when all the Saracen and Christian hosts had been dust for many a year, if a Saracen horse started at any object by the wayside, his rider would exclaim, ‘What dost thou fear, Fool? Dost thou think King Richard is behind it?’

The French King had no involvement in this crime; by that time he was traveling home with most of his troops, upset by the English King's domineering behavior, eager to manage his own territories, and also feeling unwell from the unhealthy air of that hot, sandy land. King Richard continued the war without him and stayed in the East, facing various challenges for nearly a year and a half. Every night when his army was on the move and paused for rest, the heralds shouted three times to remind all the soldiers of their mission, "Save the Holy Sepulchre!" Then all the soldiers knelt and replied, "Amen!" Whether marching or camping, the army constantly battled the hot air of the glaring desert, or the Saracen soldiers motivated and led by the brave Saladin, or both at once. Sickness and death, battles and injuries were always present; yet through every hardship, King Richard fought like a warrior and toiled like a common laborer. Long after he lay peacefully in his grave, his fearsome battle-axe, with twenty English pounds of English steel at its hefty head, became a legend among the Saracens; and even when all the Saracen and Christian armies had turned to dust many years later, if a Saracen horse shied away from something on the roadside, its rider would shout, "What are you scared of, Fool? Do you think King Richard is behind it?"

No one admired this King’s renown for bravery more than Saladin himself, who was a generous and gallant enemy. When Richard lay ill of a fever, Saladin sent him fresh fruits from Damascus, and snow from the mountain-tops. Courtly messages and compliments were frequently exchanged between them—and then King Richard would mount his horse and kill as many Saracens as he could; and Saladin would mount his, and kill as many Christians as he could. In this way King Richard fought to his heart’s content at Arsoof and at Jaffa; and finding himself with nothing exciting to do at Ascalon, except to rebuild, for his own defence, some fortifications there which the Saracens had destroyed, he kicked his ally the Duke of Austria, for being too proud to work at them.

No one admired this king's reputation for bravery more than Saladin himself, who was a generous and noble foe. When Richard was sick with a fever, Saladin sent him fresh fruit from Damascus and snow from the mountaintops. They often exchanged courteous messages and compliments—then King Richard would get on his horse and kill as many Saracens as he could; and Saladin would get on his horse and kill as many Christians as he could. This is how King Richard fought to his heart’s content at Arsoof and Jaffa; and when he found himself with nothing exciting to do at Ascalon, except to rebuild some fortifications there that the Saracens had destroyed for his own defense, he kicked his ally, the Duke of Austria, for being too proud to help with the work.

The army at last came within sight of the Holy City of Jerusalem; but, being then a mere nest of jealousy, and quarrelling and fighting, soon retired, and agreed with the Saracens upon a truce for three years, three months, three days, and three hours. Then, the English Christians, protected by the noble Saladin from Saracen revenge, visited Our Saviour’s tomb; and then King Richard embarked with a small force at Acre to return home.

The army finally caught sight of the Holy City of Jerusalem; however, being consumed by jealousy, conflict, and fighting, they quickly stepped back and made a truce with the Saracens for three years, three months, three days, and three hours. Then, the English Christians, protected by the noble Saladin from Saracen retribution, visited the tomb of Our Savior; after that, King Richard set sail with a small force from Acre to head home.

But he was shipwrecked in the Adriatic Sea, and was fain to pass through Germany, under an assumed name. Now, there were many people in Germany who had served in the Holy Land under that proud Duke of Austria who had been kicked; and some of them, easily recognising a man so remarkable as King Richard, carried their intelligence to the kicked Duke, who straightway took him prisoner at a little inn near Vienna.

But he was shipwrecked in the Adriatic Sea and had to go through Germany using a fake name. Now, there were many people in Germany who had served in the Holy Land under that proud Duke of Austria who had been kicked, and some of them, quickly recognizing a man as notable as King Richard, reported his whereabouts to the kicked Duke, who immediately captured him at a small inn near Vienna.

The Duke’s master the Emperor of Germany, and the King of France, were equally delighted to have so troublesome a monarch in safe keeping. Friendships which are founded on a partnership in doing wrong, are never true; and the King of France was now quite as heartily King Richard’s foe, as he had ever been his friend in his unnatural conduct to his father. He monstrously pretended that King Richard had designed to poison him in the East; he charged him with having murdered, there, a man whom he had in truth befriended; he bribed the Emperor of Germany to keep him close prisoner; and, finally, through the plotting of these two princes, Richard was brought before the German legislature, charged with the foregoing crimes, and many others. But he defended himself so well, that many of the assembly were moved to tears by his eloquence and earnestness. It was decided that he should be treated, during the rest of his captivity, in a manner more becoming his dignity than he had been, and that he should be set free on the payment of a heavy ransom. This ransom the English people willingly raised. When Queen Eleanor took it over to Germany, it was at first evaded and refused. But she appealed to the honour of all the princes of the German Empire in behalf of her son, and appealed so well that it was accepted, and the King released. Thereupon, the King of France wrote to Prince John—‘Take care of thyself. The devil is unchained!’

The Duke’s master, the Emperor of Germany, and the King of France were both pleased to have such a troublesome king safely contained. Friendships built on a mutual partnership in wrongdoing are never genuine; and the King of France was now as much King Richard’s enemy as he had once been his friend during Richard’s harsh treatment of his father. He falsely claimed that King Richard had plotted to poison him in the East; he accused him of murdering a man whom Richard had actually helped; he bribed the Emperor of Germany to keep him imprisoned; and finally, through the scheming of these two rulers, Richard was brought before the German legislature, facing accusations of these crimes and many others. However, he defended himself so well that many in the assembly were moved to tears by his eloquence and passion. It was determined that he should be treated with more dignity for the remainder of his captivity than he had been, and that he would be set free upon paying a substantial ransom. The English people willingly gathered this ransom. When Queen Eleanor brought it to Germany, it was initially evaded and rejected. But she appealed to the honor of all the princes of the German Empire on behalf of her son, and her plea was so effective that it was accepted, leading to the King’s release. Then, the King of France wrote to Prince John—“Take care of yourself. The devil is unleashed!”

Prince John had reason to fear his brother, for he had been a traitor to him in his captivity. He had secretly joined the French King; had vowed to the English nobles and people that his brother was dead; and had vainly tried to seize the crown. He was now in France, at a place called Evreux. Being the meanest and basest of men, he contrived a mean and base expedient for making himself acceptable to his brother. He invited the French officers of the garrison in that town to dinner, murdered them all, and then took the fortress. With this recommendation to the good will of a lion-hearted monarch, he hastened to King Richard, fell on his knees before him, and obtained the intercession of Queen Eleanor. ‘I forgive him,’ said the King, ‘and I hope I may forget the injury he has done me, as easily as I know he will forget my pardon.’

Prince John had every reason to be afraid of his brother, since he had betrayed him during his captivity. He had secretly allied with the French King, falsely claimed to the English nobles and the people that his brother was dead, and unsuccessfully attempted to take the crown. He was now in France, in a place called Evreux. Being the lowest and most despicable of men, he came up with a sneaky and disgraceful plan to win back his brother's favor. He invited the French officers of the garrison in that town to dinner, killed them all, and then took over the fortress. With this act to present to a noble king, he rushed to King Richard, fell to his knees before him, and secured the intervention of Queen Eleanor. "I forgive him," said the King, "and I hope I can forget the harm he has done me as easily as I know he will forget my pardon."

While King Richard was in Sicily, there had been trouble in his dominions at home: one of the bishops whom he had left in charge thereof, arresting the other; and making, in his pride and ambition, as great a show as if he were King himself. But the King hearing of it at Messina, and appointing a new Regency, this Longchamp (for that was his name) had fled to France in a woman’s dress, and had there been encouraged and supported by the French King. With all these causes of offence against Philip in his mind, King Richard had no sooner been welcomed home by his enthusiastic subjects with great display and splendour, and had no sooner been crowned afresh at Winchester, than he resolved to show the French King that the Devil was unchained indeed, and made war against him with great fury.

While King Richard was in Sicily, there was trouble back home: one of the bishops he had left in charge arrested the other and acted as if he were the King himself, due to his pride and ambition. But when the King heard about this in Messina and appointed a new Regency, this Longchamp (that was his name) fled to France dressed as a woman and was supported by the French King. With all these reasons to be angry at Philip, King Richard was welcomed home by his enthusiastic subjects with great celebration and immediately crowned again at Winchester. He then decided to show the French King that he meant business and waged war against him with great intensity.

There was fresh trouble at home about this time, arising out of the discontents of the poor people, who complained that they were far more heavily taxed than the rich, and who found a spirited champion in William Fitz-Osbert, called Longbeard. He became the leader of a secret society, comprising fifty thousand men; he was seized by surprise; he stabbed the citizen who first laid hands upon him; and retreated, bravely fighting, to a church, which he maintained four days, until he was dislodged by fire, and run through the body as he came out. He was not killed, though; for he was dragged, half dead, at the tail of a horse to Smithfield, and there hanged. Death was long a favourite remedy for silencing the people’s advocates; but as we go on with this history, I fancy we shall find them difficult to make an end of, for all that.

There was fresh trouble at home around this time, stemming from the frustrations of the poor people, who complained that they were taxed much more heavily than the rich, and who found a passionate advocate in William Fitz-Osbert, known as Longbeard. He became the leader of a secret society with fifty thousand members; he was taken by surprise, stabbed the first citizen who tried to grab him, and fought bravely while retreating to a church, which he defended for four days until he was forced out by fire and run through with a sword as he exited. He didn't die, though; instead, he was dragged, half dead, behind a horse to Smithfield, where he was hanged. Death was often a favored method for silencing the people’s advocates; but as we continue with this story, I think we’ll find them hard to get rid of, despite that.

The French war, delayed occasionally by a truce, was still in progress when a certain Lord named Vidomar, Viscount of Limoges, chanced to find in his ground a treasure of ancient coins. As the King’s vassal, he sent the King half of it; but the King claimed the whole. The lord refused to yield the whole. The King besieged the lord in his castle, swore that he would take the castle by storm, and hang every man of its defenders on the battlements.

The French war, occasionally paused by a truce, was still ongoing when a Lord named Vidomar, Viscount of Limoges, happened to discover a treasure of ancient coins on his land. As the King’s vassal, he sent the King half of it; however, the King demanded the entire amount. The lord refused to give it all up. The King laid siege to the lord's castle, swearing that he would capture the castle by force and execute every defender on the battlements.

There was a strange old song in that part of the country, to the effect that in Limoges an arrow would be made by which King Richard would die. It may be that Bertrand de Gourdon, a young man who was one of the defenders of the castle, had often sung it or heard it sung of a winter night, and remembered it when he saw, from his post upon the ramparts, the King attended only by his chief officer riding below the walls surveying the place. He drew an arrow to the head, took steady aim, said between his teeth, ‘Now I pray God speed thee well, arrow!’ discharged it, and struck the King in the left shoulder.

There was a weird old song in that part of the country that said in Limoges an arrow would be made that would lead to King Richard's death. It might be that Bertrand de Gourdon, a young man who was one of the defenders of the castle, had often sung it or heard it sung on winter nights, and he remembered it when he saw, from his spot on the ramparts, the King riding below the walls with only his chief officer, surveying the place. He drew an arrow to the head, took steady aim, whispered to himself, ‘Now I pray God speed you well, arrow!’ and shot it, hitting the King in the left shoulder.

Although the wound was not at first considered dangerous, it was severe enough to cause the King to retire to his tent, and direct the assault to be made without him. The castle was taken; and every man of its defenders was hanged, as the King had sworn all should be, except Bertrand de Gourdon, who was reserved until the royal pleasure respecting him should be known.

Although the wound wasn't initially seen as life-threatening, it was serious enough for the King to retire to his tent and order the attack to proceed without him. The castle was captured, and every one of its defenders was hanged, as the King had vowed would happen, except for Bertrand de Gourdon, who was kept alive until the King decided what to do with him.

By that time unskilful treatment had made the wound mortal and the King knew that he was dying. He directed Bertrand to be brought into his tent. The young man was brought there, heavily chained, King Richard looked at him steadily. He looked, as steadily, at the King.

By that time, poor treatment had made the wound fatal, and the King knew he was dying. He ordered Bertrand to be brought into his tent. The young man was brought there, heavily chained. King Richard looked at him intently. He returned the stare just as firmly.

‘Knave!’ said King Richard. ‘What have I done to thee that thou shouldest take my life?’

‘Rogue!’ said King Richard. ‘What have I done to you that makes you want to take my life?’

‘What hast thou done to me?’ replied the young man. ‘With thine own hands thou hast killed my father and my two brothers. Myself thou wouldest have hanged. Let me die now, by any torture that thou wilt. My comfort is, that no torture can save Thee. Thou too must die; and, through me, the world is quit of thee!’

‘What have you done to me?’ replied the young man. ‘With your own hands, you have killed my father and my two brothers. You would have hanged me as well. Let me die now, in whatever way you want. My only comfort is that no torture can save you. You must die too; and through me, the world is rid of you!’

Again the King looked at the young man steadily. Again the young man looked steadily at him. Perhaps some remembrance of his generous enemy Saladin, who was not a Christian, came into the mind of the dying King.

Again the King looked at the young man intently. Again the young man looked back at him just as firmly. Maybe a memory of his noble foe Saladin, who was not a Christian, flashed through the dying King's mind.

‘Youth!’ he said, ‘I forgive thee. Go unhurt!’ Then, turning to the chief officer who had been riding in his company when he received the wound, King Richard said:

‘Youth!’ he said, ‘I forgive you. Go unharmed!’ Then, turning to the chief officer who had been riding with him when he got injured, King Richard said:

‘Take off his chains, give him a hundred shillings, and let him depart.’

‘Take off his chains, give him a hundred shillings, and let him go.’

He sunk down on his couch, and a dark mist seemed in his weakened eyes to fill the tent wherein he had so often rested, and he died. His age was forty-two; he had reigned ten years. His last command was not obeyed; for the chief officer flayed Bertrand de Gourdon alive, and hanged him.

He collapsed onto his couch, and a dark mist appeared in his tired eyes, filling the tent where he had so frequently rested, and he died. He was forty-two years old; he had been king for ten years. His last order was ignored; instead, the chief officer skinned Bertrand de Gourdon alive and hanged him.

There is an old tune yet known—a sorrowful air will sometimes outlive many generations of strong men, and even last longer than battle-axes with twenty pounds of steel in the head—by which this King is said to have been discovered in his captivity. Blondel, a favourite Minstrel of King Richard, as the story relates, faithfully seeking his Royal master, went singing it outside the gloomy walls of many foreign fortresses and prisons; until at last he heard it echoed from within a dungeon, and knew the voice, and cried out in ecstasy, ‘O Richard, O my King!’ You may believe it, if you like; it would be easy to believe worse things. Richard was himself a Minstrel and a Poet. If he had not been a Prince too, he might have been a better man perhaps, and might have gone out of the world with less bloodshed and waste of life to answer for.

There’s an old song that still exists—a sad tune that can sometimes outlive generations of strong men and even last longer than battle-axes made of twenty pounds of steel. This is how it’s said that this King was discovered during his captivity. Blonde, a favorite minstrel of King Richard, as the story goes, faithfully searching for his royal master, sang it outside the dark walls of many foreign fortresses and prisons. Eventually, he heard it echo from inside a dungeon, recognized the voice, and shouted in excitement, ‘O Richard, O my King!’ You can believe it if you want; it’s easy to believe in stranger things. Richard was a minstrel and a poet himself. If he hadn’t also been a prince, he might have been a better man and could have left this world with less bloodshed and fewer lives lost to answer for.

CHAPTER XIV—ENGLAND UNDER KING JOHN, CALLED LACKLAND

At two-and-thirty years of age, John became King of England. His pretty little nephew Arthur had the best claim to the throne; but John seized the treasure, and made fine promises to the nobility, and got himself crowned at Westminster within a few weeks after his brother Richard’s death. I doubt whether the crown could possibly have been put upon the head of a meaner coward, or a more detestable villain, if England had been searched from end to end to find him out.

At thirty-two years old, John became King of England. His charming little nephew Arthur had the strongest claim to the throne, but John took the riches, made big promises to the nobles, and got himself crowned at Westminster just weeks after his brother Richard's death. I doubt there could have been a more despicable coward or a more loathsome villain in all of England if you had searched from one end to the other.

The French King, Philip, refused to acknowledge the right of John to his new dignity, and declared in favour of Arthur. You must not suppose that he had any generosity of feeling for the fatherless boy; it merely suited his ambitious schemes to oppose the King of England. So John and the French King went to war about Arthur.

The French King, Philip, wouldn't recognize John's claim to his new position and supported Arthur instead. Don't think he had any compassion for the orphaned boy; it just aligned with his ambitious plans to challenge the King of England. So, John and the French King went to war over Arthur.

He was a handsome boy, at that time only twelve years old. He was not born when his father, Geoffrey, had his brains trampled out at the tournament; and, besides the misfortune of never having known a father’s guidance and protection, he had the additional misfortune to have a foolish mother (Constance by name), lately married to her third husband. She took Arthur, upon John’s accession, to the French King, who pretended to be very much his friend, and who made him a Knight, and promised him his daughter in marriage; but, who cared so little about him in reality, that finding it his interest to make peace with King John for a time, he did so without the least consideration for the poor little Prince, and heartlessly sacrificed all his interests.

He was a good-looking boy, just twelve years old at the time. He hadn't been born when his father, Geoffrey, was killed during the tournament; and on top of never having had a father's guidance and protection, he also had the extra burden of a foolish mother (named Constance), recently married to her third husband. When John became king, she took Arthur to the French King, who pretended to be a good friend and made him a knight, promising him his daughter in marriage. However, he cared so little for him that when it became beneficial for him to make peace with King John, he did so without any regard for the poor little prince, selfishly sacrificing all of Arthur's interests.

Young Arthur, for two years afterwards, lived quietly; and in the course of that time his mother died. But, the French King then finding it his interest to quarrel with King John again, again made Arthur his pretence, and invited the orphan boy to court. ‘You know your rights, Prince,’ said the French King, ‘and you would like to be a King. Is it not so?’ ‘Truly,’ said Prince Arthur, ‘I should greatly like to be a King!’ ‘Then,’ said Philip, ‘you shall have two hundred gentlemen who are Knights of mine, and with them you shall go to win back the provinces belonging to you, of which your uncle, the usurping King of England, has taken possession. I myself, meanwhile, will head a force against him in Normandy.’ Poor Arthur was so flattered and so grateful that he signed a treaty with the crafty French King, agreeing to consider him his superior Lord, and that the French King should keep for himself whatever he could take from King John.

Young Arthur lived quietly for two years after that, and during that time, his mother passed away. However, when the French King found it beneficial to pick a fight with King John again, he used Arthur as a pretext and invited the orphan boy to his court. “You know your rights, Prince,” said the French King, “and you would like to be a King, right?” “Honestly,” replied Prince Arthur, “I would really like to be a King!” “Then,” said Philip, “I will give you two hundred knights of mine, and with them, you will go to reclaim the provinces that your uncle, the usurping King of England, has taken from you. In the meantime, I will lead a force against him in Normandy.” Poor Arthur was so flattered and grateful that he signed a treaty with the cunning French King, agreeing to consider him his superior Lord and allowing the French King to keep whatever he could take from King John.

Now, King John was so bad in all ways, and King Philip was so perfidious, that Arthur, between the two, might as well have been a lamb between a fox and a wolf. But, being so young, he was ardent and flushed with hope; and, when the people of Brittany (which was his inheritance) sent him five hundred more knights and five thousand foot soldiers, he believed his fortune was made. The people of Brittany had been fond of him from his birth, and had requested that he might be called Arthur, in remembrance of that dimly-famous English Arthur, of whom I told you early in this book, whom they believed to have been the brave friend and companion of an old King of their own. They had tales among them about a prophet called Merlin (of the same old time), who had foretold that their own King should be restored to them after hundreds of years; and they believed that the prophecy would be fulfilled in Arthur; that the time would come when he would rule them with a crown of Brittany upon his head; and when neither King of France nor King of England would have any power over them. When Arthur found himself riding in a glittering suit of armour on a richly caparisoned horse, at the head of his train of knights and soldiers, he began to believe this too, and to consider old Merlin a very superior prophet.

Now, King John was terrible in every way, and King Philip was so treacherous that Arthur, caught between them, might as well have been a lamb between a fox and a wolf. But, being so young, he was eager and filled with hope; and when the people of Brittany (his inheritance) sent him five hundred more knights and five thousand foot soldiers, he thought his fortune was secured. The people of Brittany had liked him since he was born, and they had asked that he be called Arthur to honor that vaguely famous English Arthur that I mentioned earlier in this book, whom they believed to have been the brave friend and ally of a former King of theirs. They had stories about a prophet named Merlin (from the same old days), who had predicted that their King would be restored to them after hundreds of years; and they believed that the prophecy would come true in Arthur, that one day he would rule them with a crown of Brittany on his head, and neither the King of France nor the King of England would have any power over them. When Arthur found himself riding in a shiny suit of armor on a beautifully adorned horse, leading his knights and soldiers, he started to believe this too and thought of old Merlin as a truly great prophet.

He did not know—how could he, being so innocent and inexperienced?—that his little army was a mere nothing against the power of the King of England. The French King knew it; but the poor boy’s fate was little to him, so that the King of England was worried and distressed. Therefore, King Philip went his way into Normandy and Prince Arthur went his way towards Mirebeau, a French town near Poictiers, both very well pleased.

He didn’t know—how could he, being so innocent and inexperienced?—that his small army was nothing compared to the power of the King of England. The French King was aware of this; but the poor boy’s fate mattered little to him, so the King of England was worried and troubled. So, King Philip went on his way to Normandy and Prince Arthur headed towards Mirebeau, a French town near Poictiers, both feeling quite pleased.

Prince Arthur went to attack the town of Mirebeau, because his grandmother Eleanor, who has so often made her appearance in this history (and who had always been his mother’s enemy), was living there, and because his Knights said, ‘Prince, if you can take her prisoner, you will be able to bring the King your uncle to terms!’ But she was not to be easily taken. She was old enough by this time—eighty—but she was as full of stratagem as she was full of years and wickedness. Receiving intelligence of young Arthur’s approach, she shut herself up in a high tower, and encouraged her soldiers to defend it like men. Prince Arthur with his little army besieged the high tower. King John, hearing how matters stood, came up to the rescue, with his army. So here was a strange family-party! The boy-Prince besieging his grandmother, and his uncle besieging him!

Prince Arthur went to attack the town of Mirebeau because his grandmother Eleanor, who often appeared in this story and had always been his mother’s enemy, was living there. His Knights said, "Prince, if you can capture her, you'll be able to force your uncle the King to negotiate!" But she wasn’t going to be taken easily. At this point, she was eighty years old, but she was as clever as she was old and wicked. Learning about young Arthur’s approach, she locked herself in a high tower and urged her soldiers to defend it bravely. Prince Arthur, with his small army, besieged the tower. King John, hearing how things were going, came to the rescue with his army. So, it was quite a family showdown! The boy Prince besieging his grandmother, and his uncle besieging him!

This position of affairs did not last long. One summer night King John, by treachery, got his men into the town, surprised Prince Arthur’s force, took two hundred of his knights, and seized the Prince himself in his bed. The Knights were put in heavy irons, and driven away in open carts drawn by bullocks, to various dungeons where they were most inhumanly treated, and where some of them were starved to death. Prince Arthur was sent to the castle of Falaise.

This situation didn't last long. One summer night, King John, through deceit, got his men into the town, caught Prince Arthur’s forces off guard, captured two hundred of his knights, and seized the Prince himself from his bed. The knights were put in heavy chains and hauled away in open carts pulled by oxen to various dungeons where they were treated cruelly, and some of them died from starvation. Prince Arthur was sent to Falaise Castle.

One day, while he was in prison at that castle, mournfully thinking it strange that one so young should be in so much trouble, and looking out of the small window in the deep dark wall, at the summer sky and the birds, the door was softly opened, and he saw his uncle the King standing in the shadow of the archway, looking very grim.

One day, while he was in prison in that castle, sadly reflecting on how odd it was for someone so young to be in such deep trouble, and gazing out of the small window in the thick, dark wall at the summer sky and the birds, the door quietly opened, and he saw his uncle the King standing in the shadow of the archway, looking very serious.

‘Arthur,’ said the King, with his wicked eyes more on the stone floor than on his nephew, ‘will you not trust to the gentleness, the friendship, and the truthfulness of your loving uncle?’

‘Arthur,’ said the King, with his sly eyes focused more on the stone floor than on his nephew, ‘won’t you trust in the kindness, the friendship, and the honesty of your loving uncle?’

‘I will tell my loving uncle that,’ replied the boy, ‘when he does me right. Let him restore to me my kingdom of England, and then come to me and ask the question.’

‘I will tell my caring uncle that,’ replied the boy, ‘when he treats me fairly. Let him give me back my kingdom of England, and then he can come to me and ask the question.’

The King looked at him and went out. ‘Keep that boy close prisoner,’ said he to the warden of the castle.

The King looked at him and walked out. 'Keep that boy closely confined,' he told the warden of the castle.

Then, the King took secret counsel with the worst of his nobles how the Prince was to be got rid of. Some said, ‘Put out his eyes and keep him in prison, as Robort of Normandy was kept.’ Others said, ‘Have him stabbed.’ Others, ‘Have him hanged.’ Others, ‘Have him poisoned.’

Then, the King secretly consulted with the most devious of his nobles about how to dispose of the Prince. Some suggested, ‘Blind him and imprison him, just like Robert of Normandy was imprisoned.’ Others said, ‘Have him stabbed.’ Some suggested, ‘Hang him.’ Others proposed, ‘Poison him.’

King John, feeling that in any case, whatever was done afterwards, it would be a satisfaction to his mind to have those handsome eyes burnt out that had looked at him so proudly while his own royal eyes were blinking at the stone floor, sent certain ruffians to Falaise to blind the boy with red-hot irons. But Arthur so pathetically entreated them, and shed such piteous tears, and so appealed to Hubert de Bourg (or Burgh), the warden of the castle, who had a love for him, and was an honourable, tender man, that Hubert could not bear it. To his eternal honour he prevented the torture from being performed, and, at his own risk, sent the savages away.

King John, feeling that no matter what happened afterwards, it would ease his mind to have those beautiful eyes burned out that had looked at him so proudly while his own royal eyes were blinking at the stone floor, sent some thugs to Falaise to blind the boy with red-hot irons. But Arthur pleaded with them so earnestly, shed such heartbreaking tears, and appealed to Hubert of Burgundy (or Burgh), the warden of the castle, who had a fondness for him and was an honorable, kind man, that Hubert could not stand it. To his eternal credit, he stopped the torture from happening and, at his own risk, sent the brutes away.

The chafed and disappointed King bethought himself of the stabbing suggestion next, and, with his shuffling manner and his cruel face, proposed it to one William de Bray. ‘I am a gentleman and not an executioner,’ said William de Bray, and left the presence with disdain.

The irritated and disappointed King considered the harsh suggestion next, and with his awkward demeanor and cruel expression, brought it up to one William de Bray. ‘I am a gentleman, not an executioner,’ said William de Bray, and left the room in disdain.

But it was not difficult for a King to hire a murderer in those days. King John found one for his money, and sent him down to the castle of Falaise. ‘On what errand dost thou come?’ said Hubert to this fellow. ‘To despatch young Arthur,’ he returned. ‘Go back to him who sent thee,’ answered Hubert, ‘and say that I will do it!’

But it wasn't hard for a king to hire a hitman back then. King John found one who wanted the cash and sent him to the castle of Falaise. “What brings you here?” Hubert asked the guy. “To take care of young Arthur,” he replied. “Go back to the person who sent you,” Hubert said, “and tell them that I’ll do it!”

King John very well knowing that Hubert would never do it, but that he courageously sent this reply to save the Prince or gain time, despatched messengers to convey the young prisoner to the castle of Rouen.

King John, fully aware that Hubert would never go through with it, but knowing he bravely sent this reply to either save the Prince or buy some time, sent messengers to take the young prisoner to the castle of Rouen.

Arthur was soon forced from the good Hubert—of whom he had never stood in greater need than then—carried away by night, and lodged in his new prison: where, through his grated window, he could hear the deep waters of the river Seine, rippling against the stone wall below.

Arthur was soon taken away from the good Hubert—who he had never needed more than at that moment—dragged away at night and placed in his new prison: where, through his barred window, he could hear the deep waters of the Seine, gently lapping against the stone wall below.

One dark night, as he lay sleeping, dreaming perhaps of rescue by those unfortunate gentlemen who were obscurely suffering and dying in his cause, he was roused, and bidden by his jailer to come down the staircase to the foot of the tower. He hurriedly dressed himself and obeyed. When they came to the bottom of the winding stairs, and the night air from the river blew upon their faces, the jailer trod upon his torch and put it out. Then, Arthur, in the darkness, was hurriedly drawn into a solitary boat. And in that boat, he found his uncle and one other man.

One dark night, while he was sleeping, maybe dreaming about being rescued by those poor guys who were quietly suffering and dying for him, he was awakened by his jailer, who told him to come down the stairs to the bottom of the tower. He quickly got dressed and followed. When they reached the bottom of the winding stairs and the night air from the river hit their faces, the jailer stepped on his torch and extinguished it. Then, in the darkness, Arthur was quickly pulled into a solitary boat. In that boat, he found his uncle and another man.

He knelt to them, and prayed them not to murder him. Deaf to his entreaties, they stabbed him and sunk his body in the river with heavy stones. When the spring-morning broke, the tower-door was closed, the boat was gone, the river sparkled on its way, and never more was any trace of the poor boy beheld by mortal eyes.

He knelt before them and begged them not to kill him. Ignoring his pleas, they stabbed him and weighted his body with heavy stones before throwing it into the river. When morning came, the tower door was shut, the boat was gone, the river shimmered as it flowed, and no one ever saw any sign of the poor boy again.

The news of this atrocious murder being spread in England, awakened a hatred of the King (already odious for his many vices, and for his having stolen away and married a noble lady while his own wife was living) that never slept again through his whole reign. In Brittany, the indignation was intense. Arthur’s own sister Eleanor was in the power of John and shut up in a convent at Bristol, but his half-sister Alice was in Brittany. The people chose her, and the murdered prince’s father-in-law, the last husband of Constance, to represent them; and carried their fiery complaints to King Philip. King Philip summoned King John (as the holder of territory in France) to come before him and defend himself. King John refusing to appear, King Philip declared him false, perjured, and guilty; and again made war. In a little time, by conquering the greater part of his French territory, King Philip deprived him of one-third of his dominions. And, through all the fighting that took place, King John was always found, either to be eating and drinking, like a gluttonous fool, when the danger was at a distance, or to be running away, like a beaten cur, when it was near.

The news of this horrific murder spreading in England stirred up a hatred for the King (already detested for his numerous vices and for marrying a noble lady while his wife was still alive) that never faded throughout his entire reign. In Brittany, the outrage was intense. Arthur’s own sister Eleanor was under John’s control, locked away in a convent in Bristol, but his half-sister Alice was in Brittany. The people chose her, along with the murdered prince’s father-in-law, the last husband of Constance, to represent them and brought their heated grievances to King Philip. King Philip summoned King John (who held land in France) to appear before him and defend himself. When King John refused to show up, King Philip declared him deceitful, perjured, and guilty; and waged war once again. Soon, by conquering most of his French territory, King Philip stripped him of a third of his lands. Throughout all the fighting, King John was often found either indulging in food and drink like a glutton when danger was afar or fleeing like a beaten dog when it was close.

You might suppose that when he was losing his dominions at this rate, and when his own nobles cared so little for him or his cause that they plainly refused to follow his banner out of England, he had enemies enough. But he made another enemy of the Pope, which he did in this way.

You might think that as he was losing his territories this quickly, and when his own nobles cared so little for him or his cause that they openly refused to join him outside of England, he had enough enemies. But he ended up making another enemy out of the Pope, and here's how he did it.

The Archbishop of Canterbury dying, and the junior monks of that place wishing to get the start of the senior monks in the appointment of his successor, met together at midnight, secretly elected a certain Reginald, and sent him off to Rome to get the Pope’s approval. The senior monks and the King soon finding this out, and being very angry about it, the junior monks gave way, and all the monks together elected the Bishop of Norwich, who was the King’s favourite. The Pope, hearing the whole story, declared that neither election would do for him, and that he elected Stephen Langton. The monks submitting to the Pope, the King turned them all out bodily, and banished them as traitors. The Pope sent three bishops to the King, to threaten him with an Interdict. The King told the bishops that if any Interdict were laid upon his kingdom, he would tear out the eyes and cut off the noses of all the monks he could lay hold of, and send them over to Rome in that undecorated state as a present for their master. The bishops, nevertheless, soon published the Interdict, and fled.

The Archbishop of Canterbury died, and the junior monks at the monastery, hoping to beat the senior monks to the appointment of his successor, secretly met at midnight to elect a certain Reginald and sent him to Rome to get the Pope’s approval. When the senior monks and the King found out and were really upset, the junior monks backed down, and all the monks together chose the Bishop of Norwich, who was the King's favorite. The Pope, hearing the whole situation, said that neither election was acceptable, and he appointed Stephen Langton himself. The monks accepted the Pope's decision, but the King expelled all of them and banished them as traitors. The Pope then sent three bishops to the King to threaten him with an Interdict. The King told the bishops that if any Interdict was placed on his kingdom, he would gouge out the eyes and cut off the noses of all the monks he could find and send them to Rome in that mutilated state as a gift to their master. Despite this, the bishops soon issued the Interdict and fled.

After it had lasted a year, the Pope proceeded to his next step; which was Excommunication. King John was declared excommunicated, with all the usual ceremonies. The King was so incensed at this, and was made so desperate by the disaffection of his Barons and the hatred of his people, that it is said he even privately sent ambassadors to the Turks in Spain, offering to renounce his religion and hold his kingdom of them if they would help him. It is related that the ambassadors were admitted to the presence of the Turkish Emir through long lines of Moorish guards, and that they found the Emir with his eyes seriously fixed on the pages of a large book, from which he never once looked up. That they gave him a letter from the King containing his proposals, and were gravely dismissed. That presently the Emir sent for one of them, and conjured him, by his faith in his religion, to say what kind of man the King of England truly was? That the ambassador, thus pressed, replied that the King of England was a false tyrant, against whom his own subjects would soon rise. And that this was quite enough for the Emir.

After a year, the Pope moved to the next step: Excommunication. King John was officially excommunicated with all the usual rituals. The King was so enraged by this and became so desperate due to the dissatisfaction of his Barons and the hatred of his people that it’s said he even secretly sent ambassadors to the Turks in Spain, offering to give up his religion and pledge his kingdom to them if they would assist him. It’s reported that the ambassadors were led to the Turkish Emir through long lines of Moorish guards and found him intently focused on the pages of a large book, never looking up. They presented a letter from the King with his proposals, and were dismissed respectfully. Soon after, the Emir called for one of them and asked him, by his faith, to describe what kind of man the King of England truly was. The ambassador, under pressure, responded that the King of England was a deceitful tyrant, and his own subjects would soon revolt against him. This was enough for the Emir.

Money being, in his position, the next best thing to men, King John spared no means of getting it. He set on foot another oppressing and torturing of the unhappy Jews (which was quite in his way), and invented a new punishment for one wealthy Jew of Bristol. Until such time as that Jew should produce a certain large sum of money, the King sentenced him to be imprisoned, and, every day, to have one tooth violently wrenched out of his head—beginning with the double teeth. For seven days, the oppressed man bore the daily pain and lost the daily tooth; but, on the eighth, he paid the money. With the treasure raised in such ways, the King made an expedition into Ireland, where some English nobles had revolted. It was one of the very few places from which he did not run away; because no resistance was shown. He made another expedition into Wales—whence he did run away in the end: but not before he had got from the Welsh people, as hostages, twenty-seven young men of the best families; every one of whom he caused to be slain in the following year.

Money being, in his position, the next best thing to men, King John spared no effort in getting it. He initiated another round of oppression and torture against the unfortunate Jews (which was typical for him) and devised a new punishment for a wealthy Jew from Bristol. Until that Jew could produce a significant amount of money, the King sentenced him to imprisonment, and each day, he would have one tooth brutally extracted from his mouth—starting with the molars. For seven days, the tortured man endured the daily agony and lost a tooth each day; however, on the eighth day, he paid the money. With the funds obtained in such a manner, the King launched a campaign into Ireland, where some English nobles had revolted. It was one of the very few places from which he did not flee, as there was no resistance. He also made another campaign into Wales—where he eventually did retreat—but not before he had taken as hostages twenty-seven young men from the best families in Wales; each of whom he ordered to be killed the following year.

To Interdict and Excommunication, the Pope now added his last sentence; Deposition. He proclaimed John no longer King, absolved all his subjects from their allegiance, and sent Stephen Langton and others to the King of France to tell him that, if he would invade England, he should be forgiven all his sins—at least, should be forgiven them by the Pope, if that would do.

To Interdict and Excommunication, the Pope now added his final decree; Deposition. He declared John no longer King, freed all his subjects from their loyalty, and sent Stephen Langton and others to the King of France to inform him that, if he invaded England, he would be forgiven all his sins—at least, he would be forgiven by the Pope, if that counted.

As there was nothing that King Philip desired more than to invade England, he collected a great army at Rouen, and a fleet of seventeen hundred ships to bring them over. But the English people, however bitterly they hated the King, were not a people to suffer invasion quietly. They flocked to Dover, where the English standard was, in such great numbers to enrol themselves as defenders of their native land, that there were not provisions for them, and the King could only select and retain sixty thousand. But, at this crisis, the Pope, who had his own reasons for objecting to either King John or King Philip being too powerful, interfered. He entrusted a legate, whose name was Pandolf, with the easy task of frightening King John. He sent him to the English Camp, from France, to terrify him with exaggerations of King Philip’s power, and his own weakness in the discontent of the English Barons and people. Pandolf discharged his commission so well, that King John, in a wretched panic, consented to acknowledge Stephen Langton; to resign his kingdom ‘to God, Saint Peter, and Saint Paul’—which meant the Pope; and to hold it, ever afterwards, by the Pope’s leave, on payment of an annual sum of money. To this shameful contract he publicly bound himself in the church of the Knights Templars at Dover: where he laid at the legate’s feet a part of the tribute, which the legate haughtily trampled upon. But they do say, that this was merely a genteel flourish, and that he was afterwards seen to pick it up and pocket it.

As King Philip wanted nothing more than to invade England, he gathered a massive army in Rouen and a fleet of seventeen hundred ships to transport them. However much the English loathed their king, they weren't the type to accept an invasion quietly. They flocked to Dover, where the English flag was raised, in such large numbers to sign up as defenders of their homeland that there weren't enough provisions for them, and the king could only choose and keep sixty thousand. At this critical moment, the Pope, who had his own reasons for wanting to limit the power of both King John and King Philip, intervened. He sent a legate named Pandolf to scare King John. Pandolf traveled from France to the English Camp to terrify him with exaggerated tales of King Philip’s might and his own vulnerability amid the discontent of the English Barons and people. Pandolf executed his mission so effectively that King John, in a state of miserable panic, agreed to recognize Stephen Langton, to resign his kingdom "to God, Saint Peter, and Saint Paul"—meaning the Pope; and to hold it thereafter with the Pope's permission, in exchange for an annual payment. He publicly committed to this shameful agreement in the church of the Knights Templars at Dover, where he laid a part of the tribute at the legate’s feet, which the legate arrogantly trampled on. However, it’s said that this was just a show, and he was later seen picking it up and putting it in his pocket.

There was an unfortunate prophet, the name of Peter, who had greatly increased King John’s terrors by predicting that he would be unknighted (which the King supposed to signify that he would die) before the Feast of the Ascension should be past. That was the day after this humiliation. When the next morning came, and the King, who had been trembling all night, found himself alive and safe, he ordered the prophet—and his son too—to be dragged through the streets at the tails of horses, and then hanged, for having frightened him.

There was an unfortunate prophet named Peter, who had greatly increased King John’s fears by predicting that he would be unknighted (which the King thought meant he would die) before the Feast of the Ascension. That was the day after this humiliation. When the next morning came, and the King, who had been shaking all night, found himself alive and safe, he ordered the prophet—and his son too—to be dragged through the streets behind horses and then hanged for scaring him.

As King John had now submitted, the Pope, to King Philip’s great astonishment, took him under his protection, and informed King Philip that he found he could not give him leave to invade England. The angry Philip resolved to do it without his leave but he gained nothing and lost much; for, the English, commanded by the Earl of Salisbury, went over, in five hundred ships, to the French coast, before the French fleet had sailed away from it, and utterly defeated the whole.

As King John had now agreed, the Pope, to King Philip’s great surprise, took him under his protection and informed King Philip that he could not permit him to invade England. Furious, Philip decided to proceed without permission, but he gained nothing and lost a lot; the English, led by the Earl of Salisbury, crossed over in five hundred ships to the French coast before the French fleet had even left, and completely defeated them.

The Pope then took off his three sentences, one after another, and empowered Stephen Langton publicly to receive King John into the favour of the Church again, and to ask him to dinner. The King, who hated Langton with all his might and main—and with reason too, for he was a great and a good man, with whom such a King could have no sympathy—pretended to cry and to be very grateful. There was a little difficulty about settling how much the King should pay as a recompense to the clergy for the losses he had caused them; but, the end of it was, that the superior clergy got a good deal, and the inferior clergy got little or nothing—which has also happened since King John’s time, I believe.

The Pope then removed his three penalties one by one and authorized Stephen Langton to publicly welcome King John back into the Church's good graces and invite him to dinner. The King, who despised Langton with all his strength—and justifiably so, since he was a great and good man with whom such a King could feel no connection—pretended to cry and act very grateful. There was some debate about how much the King should compensate the clergy for the losses he had caused them, but in the end, the higher clergy received a lot, while the lower clergy got little or nothing—which I believe has remained the case since King John's time.

When all these matters were arranged, the King in his triumph became more fierce, and false, and insolent to all around him than he had ever been. An alliance of sovereigns against King Philip, gave him an opportunity of landing an army in France; with which he even took a town! But, on the French King’s gaining a great victory, he ran away, of course, and made a truce for five years.

When all these issues were settled, the King, in his victory, became more aggressive, deceitful, and arrogant towards everyone around him than ever before. An alliance of kings against King Philip gave him the chance to invade France with an army, and he even captured a town! But when the French King achieved a major victory, he obviously fled and negotiated a truce for five years.

And now the time approached when he was to be still further humbled, and made to feel, if he could feel anything, what a wretched creature he was. Of all men in the world, Stephen Langton seemed raised up by Heaven to oppose and subdue him. When he ruthlessly burnt and destroyed the property of his own subjects, because their Lords, the Barons, would not serve him abroad, Stephen Langton fearlessly reproved and threatened him. When he swore to restore the laws of King Edward, or the laws of King Henry the First, Stephen Langton knew his falsehood, and pursued him through all his evasions. When the Barons met at the abbey of Saint Edmund’s-Bury, to consider their wrongs and the King’s oppressions, Stephen Langton roused them by his fervid words to demand a solemn charter of rights and liberties from their perjured master, and to swear, one by one, on the High Altar, that they would have it, or would wage war against him to the death. When the King hid himself in London from the Barons, and was at last obliged to receive them, they told him roundly they would not believe him unless Stephen Langton became a surety that he would keep his word. When he took the Cross to invest himself with some interest, and belong to something that was received with favour, Stephen Langton was still immovable. When he appealed to the Pope, and the Pope wrote to Stephen Langton in behalf of his new favourite, Stephen Langton was deaf, even to the Pope himself, and saw before him nothing but the welfare of England and the crimes of the English King.

And now the time was coming when he would be further humbled and made to realize, if he could feel anything at all, just how miserable he was. Of all the people in the world, Stephen Langton seemed destined by Heaven to oppose and bring him down. When he heartlessly burned and destroyed the property of his own subjects because their Lords, the Barons, refused to serve him abroad, Stephen Langton boldly criticized and threatened him. When he claimed he would restore the laws of King Edward or King Henry the First, Stephen Langton saw through his lies and pursued him through all his dodges. When the Barons gathered at the abbey of Saint Edmund's Bury to discuss their grievances and the King's oppressions, Stephen Langton inspired them with his passionate words to demand a formal charter of rights and liberties from their perjured master, making them swear, one by one, at the High Altar that they would have it, or wage war against him to the death. When the King hid in London from the Barons and was finally forced to meet them, they told him flat out that they wouldn’t believe him unless Stephen Langton guaranteed that he would keep his promise. When he took the Cross to gain some favor or be part of something that was accepted, Stephen Langton remained unyielding. When he appealed to the Pope, and the Pope wrote to Stephen Langton on behalf of his new favorite, Stephen Langton was deaf, even to the Pope, and saw only the well-being of England and the wrongdoings of the English King.

At Easter-time, the Barons assembled at Stamford, in Lincolnshire, in proud array, and, marching near to Oxford where the King was, delivered into the hands of Stephen Langton and two others, a list of grievances. ‘And these,’ they said, ‘he must redress, or we will do it for ourselves!’ When Stephen Langton told the King as much, and read the list to him, he went half mad with rage. But that did him no more good than his afterwards trying to pacify the Barons with lies. They called themselves and their followers, ‘The army of God and the Holy Church.’ Marching through the country, with the people thronging to them everywhere (except at Northampton, where they failed in an attack upon the castle), they at last triumphantly set up their banner in London itself, whither the whole land, tired of the tyrant, seemed to flock to join them. Seven knights alone, of all the knights in England, remained with the King; who, reduced to this strait, at last sent the Earl of Pembroke to the Barons to say that he approved of everything, and would meet them to sign their charter when they would. ‘Then,’ said the Barons, ‘let the day be the fifteenth of June, and the place, Runny-Mead.’

At Easter, the Barons gathered at Stamford in Lincolnshire, dressed in their finest, and marched near Oxford, where the King was, to hand over a list of grievances to Stephen Langton and two others. "He must address these,” they declared, “or we’ll take matters into our own hands!" When Stephen Langton relayed this to the King and read him the list, the King became furious. However, his rage didn't help him, nor did his later attempts to calm the Barons with deceit. They referred to themselves and their followers as “The army of God and the Holy Church.” As they marched through the countryside, people flocked to them everywhere (except in Northampton, where they failed in an attack on the castle), until they proudly raised their banner in London, where the entire land, weary of the tyrant, seemed to converge to support them. Only seven knights remained loyal to the King out of all the knights in England. Faced with this situation, he finally sent the Earl of Pembroke to the Barons to say he agreed with everything and would meet them to sign their charter whenever they wished. "Then,” the Barons replied, “let’s set the date for June fifteenth and the location at Runny-Mead.”

On Monday, the fifteenth of June, one thousand two hundred and fourteen, the King came from Windsor Castle, and the Barons came from the town of Staines, and they met on Runny-Mead, which is still a pleasant meadow by the Thames, where rushes grow in the clear water of the winding river, and its banks are green with grass and trees. On the side of the Barons, came the General of their army, Robert Fitz-Walter, and a great concourse of the nobility of England. With the King, came, in all, some four-and-twenty persons of any note, most of whom despised him, and were merely his advisers in form. On that great day, and in that great company, the King signed Magna Charta—the great charter of England—by which he pledged himself to maintain the Church in its rights; to relieve the Barons of oppressive obligations as vassals of the Crown—of which the Barons, in their turn, pledged themselves to relieve their vassals, the people; to respect the liberties of London and all other cities and boroughs; to protect foreign merchants who came to England; to imprison no man without a fair trial; and to sell, delay, or deny justice to none. As the Barons knew his falsehood well, they further required, as their securities, that he should send out of his kingdom all his foreign troops; that for two months they should hold possession of the city of London, and Stephen Langton of the Tower; and that five-and-twenty of their body, chosen by themselves, should be a lawful committee to watch the keeping of the charter, and to make war upon him if he broke it.

On Monday, June 15, 1214, the King arrived from Windsor Castle, and the Barons came from Staines. They met at Runny-Mead, which is still a lovely meadow by the Thames, where rushes grow in the clear water of the winding river, and the banks are lush with grass and trees. Among the Barons was their army General, Robert Fitz-Walter, along with a large gathering of England's nobility. The King brought with him about twenty-four notable individuals, most of whom looked down on him and were merely his nominal advisers. On that significant day, in that large assembly, the King signed the Magna Carta—the great charter of England—by which he committed to uphold the Church's rights; to free the Barons from unfair obligations as vassals of the Crown—who, in turn, promised to relieve their own vassals, the people; to respect the freedoms of London and all other cities and boroughs; to protect foreign merchants who came to England; to not imprison anyone without a fair trial; and to not sell, delay, or deny justice to anyone. Since the Barons were well aware of his deceit, they required as their guarantees that he would remove all foreign troops from his kingdom; that for two months they would take control of the city of London, with Stephen Langton in the Tower; and that twenty-five of their members, chosen by themselves, would form a legitimate committee to oversee the enforcement of the charter and to wage war against him if he violated it.

All this he was obliged to yield. He signed the charter with a smile, and, if he could have looked agreeable, would have done so, as he departed from the splendid assembly. When he got home to Windsor Castle, he was quite a madman in his helpless fury. And he broke the charter immediately afterwards.

All of this he had to accept. He signed the charter with a smile and, if he could have looked friendly, he would have done so as he left the grand gathering. When he got home to Windsor Castle, he was completely out of control with anger. And he destroyed the charter right afterwards.

He sent abroad for foreign soldiers, and sent to the Pope for help, and plotted to take London by surprise, while the Barons should be holding a great tournament at Stamford, which they had agreed to hold there as a celebration of the charter. The Barons, however, found him out and put it off. Then, when the Barons desired to see him and tax him with his treachery, he made numbers of appointments with them, and kept none, and shifted from place to place, and was constantly sneaking and skulking about. At last he appeared at Dover, to join his foreign soldiers, of whom numbers came into his pay; and with them he besieged and took Rochester Castle, which was occupied by knights and soldiers of the Barons. He would have hanged them every one; but the leader of the foreign soldiers, fearful of what the English people might afterwards do to him, interfered to save the knights; therefore the King was fain to satisfy his vengeance with the death of all the common men. Then, he sent the Earl of Salisbury, with one portion of his army, to ravage the eastern part of his own dominions, while he carried fire and slaughter into the northern part; torturing, plundering, killing, and inflicting every possible cruelty upon the people; and, every morning, setting a worthy example to his men by setting fire, with his own monster-hands, to the house where he had slept last night. Nor was this all; for the Pope, coming to the aid of his precious friend, laid the kingdom under an Interdict again, because the people took part with the Barons. It did not much matter, for the people had grown so used to it now, that they had begun to think nothing about it. It occurred to them—perhaps to Stephen Langton too—that they could keep their churches open, and ring their bells, without the Pope’s permission as well as with it. So, they tried the experiment—and found that it succeeded perfectly.

He hired foreign soldiers and reached out to the Pope for help, planning to catch London off guard while the Barons held a big tournament at Stamford to celebrate the charter. However, the Barons figured him out and canceled it. Then, when the Barons wanted to confront him about his betrayal, he made numerous appointments with them but didn’t show up, constantly moving around and hiding. Eventually, he showed up in Dover to join his foreign soldiers, many of whom came to serve him; with them, he besieged and captured Rochester Castle, which was held by the Barons’ knights and soldiers. He wanted to hang them all, but the leader of the foreign troops, fearing the English might retaliate against him later, intervened to save the knights. So, the King settled for executing all the common soldiers instead. Then, he sent the Earl of Salisbury with part of his army to ravage the eastern part of his own lands, while he brought fire and death to the north, torturing, looting, killing, and committing every kind of cruelty against the people. Each morning, he set an example for his men by setting fire, with his own hands, to the house where he had stayed the night before. And that wasn’t all; the Pope, supporting his dear friend, placed the kingdom under an Interdict again because the people sided with the Barons. It didn’t make much difference, though, as the people had gotten so used to it that they stopped paying it much mind. They realized—maybe Stephen Langton did too—that they could keep their churches open and ring their bells without needing the Pope’s permission, just like they could with it. So, they tried it out—and it worked perfectly.

It being now impossible to bear the country, as a wilderness of cruelty, or longer to hold any terms with such a forsworn outlaw of a King, the Barons sent to Louis, son of the French monarch, to offer him the English crown. Caring as little for the Pope’s excommunication of him if he accepted the offer, as it is possible his father may have cared for the Pope’s forgiveness of his sins, he landed at Sandwich (King John immediately running away from Dover, where he happened to be), and went on to London. The Scottish King, with whom many of the Northern English Lords had taken refuge; numbers of the foreign soldiers, numbers of the Barons, and numbers of the people went over to him every day;—King John, the while, continually running away in all directions.

It was now impossible to stand the country, which had become a wilderness of cruelty, or to negotiate with such a treacherous outlaw of a King any longer. The Barons reached out to Louis, the son of the French king, to offer him the English crown. He cared as little about the Pope’s excommunication if he accepted the offer as his father might have cared about the Pope’s forgiveness of his sins. He landed at Sandwich (King John immediately fled from Dover, where he happened to be) and made his way to London. The Scottish King, with whom many of the Northern English Lords had sought refuge; along with many foreign soldiers, numerous Barons, and many people joined him every day—meanwhile, King John kept running away in all directions.

The career of Louis was checked however, by the suspicions of the Barons, founded on the dying declaration of a French Lord, that when the kingdom was conquered he was sworn to banish them as traitors, and to give their estates to some of his own Nobles. Rather than suffer this, some of the Barons hesitated: others even went over to King John.

The career of Louis was hindered, however, by the suspicions of the Barons, based on the dying statement of a French Lord, that when the kingdom was conquered he was pledged to banish them as traitors and give their estates to some of his own Nobles. Rather than endure this, some of the Barons hesitated; others even switched sides to King John.

It seemed to be the turning-point of King John’s fortunes, for, in his savage and murderous course, he had now taken some towns and met with some successes. But, happily for England and humanity, his death was near. Crossing a dangerous quicksand, called the Wash, not very far from Wisbeach, the tide came up and nearly drowned his army. He and his soldiers escaped; but, looking back from the shore when he was safe, he saw the roaring water sweep down in a torrent, overturn the waggons, horses, and men, that carried his treasure, and engulf them in a raging whirlpool from which nothing could be delivered.

It seemed to be the turning point in King John’s fortunes, as he had now captured some towns and achieved a few successes during his brutal and violent campaign. But, fortunately for England and humanity, his death was approaching. While crossing a dangerous quicksand called the Wash, not far from Wisbeach, the tide rose and nearly drowned his army. He and his troops managed to escape, but when he looked back from the shore, safe at last, he saw the raging water sweep down like a torrent, upending the wagons, horses, and men that were carrying his treasure, pulling them into a furious whirlpool from which no one could escape.

Cursing, and swearing, and gnawing his fingers, he went on to Swinestead Abbey, where the monks set before him quantities of pears, and peaches, and new cider—some say poison too, but there is very little reason to suppose so—of which he ate and drank in an immoderate and beastly way. All night he lay ill of a burning fever, and haunted with horrible fears. Next day, they put him in a horse-litter, and carried him to Sleaford Castle, where he passed another night of pain and horror. Next day, they carried him, with greater difficulty than on the day before, to the castle of Newark upon Trent; and there, on the eighteenth of October, in the forty-ninth year of his age, and the seventeenth of his vile reign, was an end of this miserable brute.

Cursing and swearing, while biting his fingers, he headed to Swinestead Abbey, where the monks served him lots of pears, peaches, and fresh cider—some claim there was poison too, but there's hardly any evidence to support that—of which he overindulged in a gluttonous and disgusting manner. All night, he suffered from a burning fever and was plagued by terrifying fears. The next day, they placed him in a horse-drawn litter and took him to Sleaford Castle, where he spent another night in pain and distress. The following day, they transported him, with more difficulty than the day before, to the castle of Newark upon Trent; and there, on October 18th, in his forty-ninth year and the seventeenth year of his wretched reign, this miserable beast met his end.

CHAPTER XV—ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE THIRD, CALLED, OF WINCHESTER

If any of the English Barons remembered the murdered Arthur’s sister, Eleanor the fair maid of Brittany, shut up in her convent at Bristol, none among them spoke of her now, or maintained her right to the Crown. The dead Usurper’s eldest boy, Henry by name, was taken by the Earl of Pembroke, the Marshal of England, to the city of Gloucester, and there crowned in great haste when he was only ten years old. As the Crown itself had been lost with the King’s treasure in the raging water, and as there was no time to make another, they put a circle of plain gold upon his head instead. ‘We have been the enemies of this child’s father,’ said Lord Pembroke, a good and true gentleman, to the few Lords who were present, ‘and he merited our ill-will; but the child himself is innocent, and his youth demands our friendship and protection.’ Those Lords felt tenderly towards the little boy, remembering their own young children; and they bowed their heads, and said, ‘Long live King Henry the Third!’

If any of the English barons remembered the murdered Arthur’s sister, Eleanor, the fair maid of Brittany, locked away in her convent in Bristol, none of them spoke about her now or claimed her right to the crown. The dead usurper’s eldest son, Henry, was taken by the Earl of Pembroke, the Marshal of England, to the city of Gloucester, where he was hurriedly crowned when he was just ten years old. Since the crown had been lost with the king’s treasure in the raging waters, and there was no time to make a new one, they placed a simple gold band on his head instead. “We have been the enemies of this child’s father,” said Lord Pembroke, a good and true gentleman, to the few lords present, “and he deserved our anger; but the child himself is innocent, and his youth requires our friendship and protection.” Those lords felt compassion for the little boy, remembering their own young children, and they bowed their heads, saying, “Long live King Henry the Third!”

Next, a great council met at Bristol, revised Magna Charta, and made Lord Pembroke Regent or Protector of England, as the King was too young to reign alone. The next thing to be done, was to get rid of Prince Louis of France, and to win over those English Barons who were still ranged under his banner. He was strong in many parts of England, and in London itself; and he held, among other places, a certain Castle called the Castle of Mount Sorel, in Leicestershire. To this fortress, after some skirmishing and truce-making, Lord Pembroke laid siege. Louis despatched an army of six hundred knights and twenty thousand soldiers to relieve it. Lord Pembroke, who was not strong enough for such a force, retired with all his men. The army of the French Prince, which had marched there with fire and plunder, marched away with fire and plunder, and came, in a boastful swaggering manner, to Lincoln. The town submitted; but the Castle in the town, held by a brave widow lady, named Nichola de Camville (whose property it was), made such a sturdy resistance, that the French Count in command of the army of the French Prince found it necessary to besiege this Castle. While he was thus engaged, word was brought to him that Lord Pembroke, with four hundred knights, two hundred and fifty men with cross-bows, and a stout force both of horse and foot, was marching towards him. ‘What care I?’ said the French Count. ‘The Englishman is not so mad as to attack me and my great army in a walled town!’ But the Englishman did it for all that, and did it—not so madly but so wisely, that he decoyed the great army into the narrow, ill-paved lanes and byways of Lincoln, where its horse-soldiers could not ride in any strong body; and there he made such havoc with them, that the whole force surrendered themselves prisoners, except the Count; who said that he would never yield to any English traitor alive, and accordingly got killed. The end of this victory, which the English called, for a joke, the Fair of Lincoln, was the usual one in those times—the common men were slain without any mercy, and the knights and gentlemen paid ransom and went home.

Next, a major council gathered in Bristol, reviewed the Magna Carta, and appointed Lord Pembroke as the Regent or Protector of England since the King was too young to rule on his own. The next task was to get rid of Prince Louis of France and win over the English Barons still loyal to him. He had a stronghold in many areas of England, including London, and he controlled a castle called Mount Sorel in Leicestershire. After some skirmishes and negotiations, Lord Pembroke laid siege to this fortress. Louis sent an army of six hundred knights and twenty thousand soldiers to relieve it. Lord Pembroke, realizing he was outmatched, retreated with all his men. The French army, having marched there for plunder, left in the same manner and swaggered into Lincoln. The town surrendered, but the castle within, held by a brave widow named Nichola de Camville (the rightful owner), put up such a strong fight that the French Count leading the army found it necessary to besiege the castle. While he was occupied, he received word that Lord Pembroke, with four hundred knights, two hundred and fifty crossbowmen, and a solid force of cavalry and infantry, was approaching. “What do I care?” said the French Count. “The Englishman isn’t crazy enough to attack me and my large army in a fortified town!” But the Englishman did, and not recklessly, but cleverly, drawing the large army into the cramped, poorly paved streets of Lincoln, where their cavalry couldn’t operate effectively. There, he caused so much destruction that the entire force surrendered except for the Count, who vowed he would never submit to any English traitor alive and was consequently killed. The outcome of this victory, which the English jokingly referred to as the Fair of Lincoln, followed the typical pattern of the time: the common men were mercilessly slain, while the knights and gentlemen paid a ransom and returned home.

The wife of Louis, the fair Blanche of Castile, dutifully equipped a fleet of eighty good ships, and sent it over from France to her husband’s aid. An English fleet of forty ships, some good and some bad, gallantly met them near the mouth of the Thames, and took or sunk sixty-five in one fight. This great loss put an end to the French Prince’s hopes. A treaty was made at Lambeth, in virtue of which the English Barons who had remained attached to his cause returned to their allegiance, and it was engaged on both sides that the Prince and all his troops should retire peacefully to France. It was time to go; for war had made him so poor that he was obliged to borrow money from the citizens of London to pay his expenses home.

The wife of Louis, the fair Blanca of Castile, promptly equipped a fleet of eighty solid ships and sent it from France to help her husband. An English fleet of forty ships, some decent and some not, bravely confronted them near the mouth of the Thames and captured or sank sixty-five in one battle. This major loss ended the French Prince’s hopes. A treaty was signed at Lambeth, under which the English Barons who had stayed loyal to his cause returned to their allegiance, and both sides agreed that the Prince and all his troops would peacefully retreat to France. It was time to leave; war had made him so broke that he had to borrow money from the citizens of London to pay for his trip home.

Lord Pembroke afterwards applied himself to governing the country justly, and to healing the quarrels and disturbances that had arisen among men in the days of the bad King John. He caused Magna Charta to be still more improved, and so amended the Forest Laws that a Peasant was no longer put to death for killing a stag in a Royal Forest, but was only imprisoned. It would have been well for England if it could have had so good a Protector many years longer, but that was not to be. Within three years after the young King’s Coronation, Lord Pembroke died; and you may see his tomb, at this day, in the old Temple Church in London.

Lord Pembroke later focused on governing the country fairly and resolving the conflicts and turmoil that had arisen during the reign of the terrible King John. He further improved the Magna Carta and revised the Forest Laws so that a peasant would no longer be executed for killing a stag in a Royal Forest; instead, they would only be imprisoned. It would have been beneficial for England to have such a good Protector for many more years, but that was not meant to be. Within three years of the young King’s coronation, Lord Pembroke passed away, and you can still see his tomb today in the old Temple Church in London.

The Protectorship was now divided. Peter de Roches, whom King John had made Bishop of Winchester, was entrusted with the care of the person of the young sovereign; and the exercise of the Royal authority was confided to Earl Hubert de Burgh. These two personages had from the first no liking for each other, and soon became enemies. When the young King was declared of age, Peter de Roches, finding that Hubert increased in power and favour, retired discontentedly, and went abroad. For nearly ten years afterwards Hubert had full sway alone.

The Protectorship was now split. Peter de Roches, who King John appointed as Bishop of Winchester, was given the responsibility of taking care of the young king. Meanwhile, the Royal authority was handed over to Earl Hubert de Burgh. From the beginning, these two didn't get along and soon became rivals. When the young king was declared of age, Peter de Roches, realizing that Hubert was gaining more power and favor, left in dissatisfaction and went abroad. For nearly ten years after that, Hubert had complete control on his own.

But ten years is a long time to hold the favour of a King. This King, too, as he grew up, showed a strong resemblance to his father, in feebleness, inconsistency, and irresolution. The best that can be said of him is that he was not cruel. De Roches coming home again, after ten years, and being a novelty, the King began to favour him and to look coldly on Hubert. Wanting money besides, and having made Hubert rich, he began to dislike Hubert. At last he was made to believe, or pretended to believe, that Hubert had misappropriated some of the Royal treasure; and ordered him to furnish an account of all he had done in his administration. Besides which, the foolish charge was brought against Hubert that he had made himself the King’s favourite by magic. Hubert very well knowing that he could never defend himself against such nonsense, and that his old enemy must be determined on his ruin, instead of answering the charges fled to Merton Abbey. Then the King, in a violent passion, sent for the Mayor of London, and said to the Mayor, ‘Take twenty thousand citizens, and drag me Hubert de Burgh out of that abbey, and bring him here.’ The Mayor posted off to do it, but the Archbishop of Dublin (who was a friend of Hubert’s) warning the King that an abbey was a sacred place, and that if he committed any violence there, he must answer for it to the Church, the King changed his mind and called the Mayor back, and declared that Hubert should have four months to prepare his defence, and should be safe and free during that time.

But ten years is a long time to keep the favor of a King. This King, as he grew up, resembled his father in being weak, inconsistent, and indecisive. The best thing you can say about him is that he wasn’t cruel. When De Roches returned after ten years and became a novelty, the King started favoring him and looked coldly at Hubert. Also needing money, and having made Hubert rich, he began to dislike Hubert. Eventually, he was convinced, or pretended to be convinced, that Hubert had stolen some of the Royal treasure; he ordered Hubert to provide an account of everything he had done in his administration. Furthermore, a ridiculous accusation was made against Hubert, claiming he had become the King’s favorite through magic. Hubert knew he could never defend himself against such nonsense and that his old enemy was determined to ruin him, so instead of responding to the charges, he fled to Merton Abbey. Then the King, in a fit of rage, summoned the Mayor of London and said to him, “Take twenty thousand citizens, drag Hubert de Burgh out of that abbey, and bring him here.” The Mayor rushed off to do it, but the Archbishop of Dublin (a friend of Hubert’s) warned the King that an abbey was a sacred place and that if he acted violently there, he would have to answer to the Church. The King reconsidered, called the Mayor back, and announced that Hubert would have four months to prepare his defense and would be safe and free during that time.

Hubert, who relied upon the King’s word, though I think he was old enough to have known better, came out of Merton Abbey upon these conditions, and journeyed away to see his wife: a Scottish Princess who was then at St. Edmund’s-Bury.

Hubert, who trusted the King's word, although I think he should have known better, left Merton Abbey under these conditions and set off to see his wife: a Scottish Princess who was at St. Edmund’s-Bury at that time.

Almost as soon as he had departed from the Sanctuary, his enemies persuaded the weak King to send out one Sir Godfrey de Crancumb, who commanded three hundred vagabonds called the Black Band, with orders to seize him. They came up with him at a little town in Essex, called Brentwood, when he was in bed. He leaped out of bed, got out of the house, fled to the church, ran up to the altar, and laid his hand upon the cross. Sir Godfrey and the Black Band, caring neither for church, altar, nor cross, dragged him forth to the church door, with their drawn swords flashing round his head, and sent for a Smith to rivet a set of chains upon him. When the Smith (I wish I knew his name!) was brought, all dark and swarthy with the smoke of his forge, and panting with the speed he had made; and the Black Band, falling aside to show him the Prisoner, cried with a loud uproar, ‘Make the fetters heavy! make them strong!’ the Smith dropped upon his knee—but not to the Black Band—and said, ‘This is the brave Earl Hubert de Burgh, who fought at Dover Castle, and destroyed the French fleet, and has done his country much good service. You may kill me, if you like, but I will never make a chain for Earl Hubert de Burgh!’

Almost as soon as he left the Sanctuary, his enemies convinced the weak King to send out one Sir Godfrey de Crancumb, who led three hundred outlaws known as the Black Band, with orders to capture him. They found him in bed at a small town in Essex called Brentwood. He jumped out of bed, rushed out of the house, fled to the church, ran up to the altar, and laid his hand on the cross. Sir Godfrey and the Black Band, indifferent to church, altar, or cross, dragged him out to the church door, swords drawn and flashing around his head, and called for a Smith to fasten chains on him. When the Smith (I wish I knew his name!) arrived, dark and grimy from the smoke of his forge and breathless from his hurried journey, the Black Band stepped aside to show him the Prisoner and shouted loudly, ‘Make the fetters heavy! make them strong!’ The Smith knelt down—but not to the Black Band—and said, ‘This is the brave Earl Hubert de Burgh, who fought at Dover Castle, destroyed the French fleet, and has served his country well. You can kill me if you want, but I will never make a chain for Earl Hubert de Burgh!’

The Black Band never blushed, or they might have blushed at this. They knocked the Smith about from one to another, and swore at him, and tied the Earl on horseback, undressed as he was, and carried him off to the Tower of London. The Bishops, however, were so indignant at the violation of the Sanctuary of the Church, that the frightened King soon ordered the Black Band to take him back again; at the same time commanding the Sheriff of Essex to prevent his escaping out of Brentwood Church. Well! the Sheriff dug a deep trench all round the church, and erected a high fence, and watched the church night and day; the Black Band and their Captain watched it too, like three hundred and one black wolves. For thirty-nine days, Hubert de Burgh remained within. At length, upon the fortieth day, cold and hunger were too much for him, and he gave himself up to the Black Band, who carried him off, for the second time, to the Tower. When his trial came on, he refused to plead; but at last it was arranged that he should give up all the royal lands which had been bestowed upon him, and should be kept at the Castle of Devizes, in what was called ‘free prison,’ in charge of four knights appointed by four lords. There, he remained almost a year, until, learning that a follower of his old enemy the Bishop was made Keeper of the Castle, and fearing that he might be killed by treachery, he climbed the ramparts one dark night, dropped from the top of the high Castle wall into the moat, and coming safely to the ground, took refuge in another church. From this place he was delivered by a party of horse despatched to his help by some nobles, who were by this time in revolt against the King, and assembled in Wales. He was finally pardoned and restored to his estates, but he lived privately, and never more aspired to a high post in the realm, or to a high place in the King’s favour. And thus end—more happily than the stories of many favourites of Kings—the adventures of Earl Hubert de Burgh.

The Black Band never felt ashamed, or they might have at this. They pushed Smith around, cursing at him, and put the Earl on horseback, even though he was still undressed, and took him off to the Tower of London. However, the Bishops were so outraged by the violation of the Church's Sanctuary that the terrified King quickly ordered the Black Band to return him; at the same time, he instructed the Sheriff of Essex to make sure he didn’t escape from Brentwood Church. So, the Sheriff dug a deep trench all around the church, built a tall fence, and watched the church day and night; the Black Band and their Captain also kept watch, like three hundred and one black wolves. For thirty-nine days, Hubert de Burgh stayed inside. Finally, on the fortieth day, hunger and cold became too much for him, and he surrendered to the Black Band, who took him back to the Tower for the second time. When it was time for his trial, he refused to plead; eventually, it was settled that he would give up all the royal lands he had been given and would be kept at the Castle of Devizes in what was known as ‘free prison,’ under the care of four knights appointed by four lords. He stayed there for almost a year until he learned that a supporter of his old enemy, the Bishop, had been made Keeper of the Castle. Fearing that he might be killed through treachery, he climbed the castle walls one dark night, dropped down into the moat, and safely reached the ground, finding refuge in another church. He was rescued from there by a group of horsemen sent to help him by some nobles who had by then turned against the King and were gathering in Wales. He was eventually pardoned and returned to his estates, but he lived quietly and never sought a high position in the realm or to regain the King's favor. And so ended—more happily than the stories of many royal favorites—the adventures of Earl Hubert de Burgh.

The nobles, who had risen in revolt, were stirred up to rebellion by the overbearing conduct of the Bishop of Winchester, who, finding that the King secretly hated the Great Charter which had been forced from his father, did his utmost to confirm him in that dislike, and in the preference he showed to foreigners over the English. Of this, and of his even publicly declaring that the Barons of England were inferior to those of France, the English Lords complained with such bitterness, that the King, finding them well supported by the clergy, became frightened for his throne, and sent away the Bishop and all his foreign associates. On his marriage, however, with Eleanor, a French lady, the daughter of the Count of Provence, he openly favoured the foreigners again; and so many of his wife’s relations came over, and made such an immense family-party at court, and got so many good things, and pocketed so much money, and were so high with the English whose money they pocketed, that the bolder English Barons murmured openly about a clause there was in the Great Charter, which provided for the banishment of unreasonable favourites. But, the foreigners only laughed disdainfully, and said, ‘What are your English laws to us?’

The nobles who had rebelled were provoked to rise up due to the arrogant behavior of the Bishop of Winchester. He recognized that the King secretly disliked the Great Charter that had been forced upon his father and did everything he could to encourage that disdain, along with the King’s favoritism towards foreigners over the English. The English Lords were so upset about this, especially regarding the Bishop's public claim that the Barons of England were inferior to those in France, that the King, realizing they had strong support from the clergy, grew worried for his throne and dismissed the Bishop and all his foreign allies. However, after marrying Eleanor, a French woman and the daughter of the Count of Provence, he once again showed favoritism to foreigners. Many of his wife's relatives came over, formed a massive family gathering at court, received numerous benefits, made a lot of money, and acted arrogantly towards the English whose money they took. This led to some bold English Barons openly complaining about a clause in the Great Charter that allowed for the expulsion of unreasonable favorites. But the foreigners just laughed dismissively and said, "What do your English laws mean to us?"

King Philip of France had died, and had been succeeded by Prince Louis, who had also died after a short reign of three years, and had been succeeded by his son of the same name—so moderate and just a man that he was not the least in the world like a King, as Kings went. Isabella, King Henry’s mother, wished very much (for a certain spite she had) that England should make war against this King; and, as King Henry was a mere puppet in anybody’s hands who knew how to manage his feebleness, she easily carried her point with him. But, the Parliament were determined to give him no money for such a war. So, to defy the Parliament, he packed up thirty large casks of silver—I don’t know how he got so much; I dare say he screwed it out of the miserable Jews—and put them aboard ship, and went away himself to carry war into France: accompanied by his mother and his brother Richard, Earl of Cornwall, who was rich and clever. But he only got well beaten, and came home.

King Philip of France had died and was succeeded by Prince Louis, who also died after a brief reign of three years, and was followed by his son, who shared the same name. This son was such a moderate and fair man that he bore no resemblance to the typical King. Isabella, King Henry’s mother, really wanted England to go to war against this King, spurred on by a certain grudge she held, and since King Henry was essentially a puppet in anyone's hands who knew how to manipulate his weakness, she easily persuaded him. However, the Parliament was determined not to provide him with any money for such a war. To defy Parliament, he managed to gather thirty large barrels of silver—I have no idea where he got that much; I guess he squeezed it out of the poor Jews—and loaded them onto a ship to take the fight to France, accompanied by his mother and his brother Richard, the Earl of Cornwall, who was wealthy and intelligent. Unfortunately, he ended up getting thoroughly beaten and returned home.

The good-humour of the Parliament was not restored by this. They reproached the King with wasting the public money to make greedy foreigners rich, and were so stern with him, and so determined not to let him have more of it to waste if they could help it, that he was at his wit’s end for some, and tried so shamelessly to get all he could from his subjects, by excuses or by force, that the people used to say the King was the sturdiest beggar in England. He took the Cross, thinking to get some money by that means; but, as it was very well known that he never meant to go on a crusade, he got none. In all this contention, the Londoners were particularly keen against the King, and the King hated them warmly in return. Hating or loving, however, made no difference; he continued in the same condition for nine or ten years, when at last the Barons said that if he would solemnly confirm their liberties afresh, the Parliament would vote him a large sum.

The Parliament's good mood didn't improve because of this. They blamed the King for wasting public funds to make greedy foreigners wealthy and were so harsh with him, determined not to let him waste any more money if they could help it, that he was completely frustrated. He tried so shamelessly to extract whatever he could from his subjects, using excuses or force, that people started calling the King the most persistent beggar in England. He took the Cross, thinking he could raise some funds that way; however, since everyone knew he had no intention of going on a crusade, he received nothing. Throughout all this conflict, the people of London were particularly hostile toward the King, and he despised them in return. But whether he loved or hated them made no difference; he remained in this situation for nine or ten years until the Barons finally said that if he would formally reaffirm their liberties, Parliament would grant him a substantial sum.

As he readily consented, there was a great meeting held in Westminster Hall, one pleasant day in May, when all the clergy, dressed in their robes and holding every one of them a burning candle in his hand, stood up (the Barons being also there) while the Archbishop of Canterbury read the sentence of excommunication against any man, and all men, who should henceforth, in any way, infringe the Great Charter of the Kingdom. When he had done, they all put out their burning candles with a curse upon the soul of any one, and every one, who should merit that sentence. The King concluded with an oath to keep the Charter, ‘As I am a man, as I am a Christian, as I am a Knight, as I am a King!’

As he readily agreed, a significant gathering took place in Westminster Hall on a nice day in May, where all the clergy, dressed in their robes and each holding a burning candle, stood up (with the Barons present as well) while the Archbishop of Canterbury read out a sentence of excommunication against anyone, and everyone, who would from then on violate the Great Charter of the Kingdom. Once he finished, they all extinguished their burning candles while cursing anyone who deserved that sentence. The King wrapped it up with an oath to uphold the Charter, saying, “As I am a man, as I am a Christian, as I am a Knight, as I am a King!”

It was easy to make oaths, and easy to break them; and the King did both, as his father had done before him. He took to his old courses again when he was supplied with money, and soon cured of their weakness the few who had ever really trusted him. When his money was gone, and he was once more borrowing and begging everywhere with a meanness worthy of his nature, he got into a difficulty with the Pope respecting the Crown of Sicily, which the Pope said he had a right to give away, and which he offered to King Henry for his second son, Prince Edmund. But, if you or I give away what we have not got, and what belongs to somebody else, it is likely that the person to whom we give it, will have some trouble in taking it. It was exactly so in this case. It was necessary to conquer the Sicilian Crown before it could be put upon young Edmund’s head. It could not be conquered without money. The Pope ordered the clergy to raise money. The clergy, however, were not so obedient to him as usual; they had been disputing with him for some time about his unjust preference of Italian Priests in England; and they had begun to doubt whether the King’s chaplain, whom he allowed to be paid for preaching in seven hundred churches, could possibly be, even by the Pope’s favour, in seven hundred places at once. ‘The Pope and the King together,’ said the Bishop of London, ‘may take the mitre off my head; but, if they do, they will find that I shall put on a soldier’s helmet. I pay nothing.’ The Bishop of Worcester was as bold as the Bishop of London, and would pay nothing either. Such sums as the more timid or more helpless of the clergy did raise were squandered away, without doing any good to the King, or bringing the Sicilian Crown an inch nearer to Prince Edmund’s head. The end of the business was, that the Pope gave the Crown to the brother of the King of France (who conquered it for himself), and sent the King of England in, a bill of one hundred thousand pounds for the expenses of not having won it.

It was easy to make promises, and easy to break them; and the King did both, just like his father before him. He returned to his old ways as soon as he had money again, quickly alienating the few people who had truly trusted him. Once his money ran out, and he was back to borrowing and begging everywhere with a meanness that fit his character, he got into a dispute with the Pope over the Crown of Sicily. The Pope claimed he had the right to give it away and offered it to King Henry for his second son, Prince Ed. But if you or I give away something we don’t own, which belongs to someone else, the person receiving it is likely to run into some trouble. That’s exactly what happened here. The Sicilian Crown needed to be conquered before it could be placed on young Edmund's head, but it couldn't be conquered without money. The Pope ordered the clergy to raise funds. However, the clergy weren’t as obedient as usual; they had been arguing with him for a while about his unfair favoring of Italian priests in England, and they started to doubt if the King’s chaplain, who was paid to preach in seven hundred churches, could possibly be in all those places at once, even with the Pope’s blessing. “The Pope and the King together,” said the Bishop of London, “can take the mitre off my head, but if they do, they’ll find that I’ll just put on a soldier’s helmet. I’m not paying anything.” The Bishop of Worcester was just as bold and refused to pay as well. The timid or helpless clergy who did raise some money ended up squandering it, doing no good for the King or bringing the Sicilian Crown any closer to Prince Edmund. In the end, the Pope gave the Crown to the brother of the King of France, who conquered it for himself, and sent the King of England a bill for one hundred thousand pounds for the costs of not having won it.

The King was now so much distressed that we might almost pity him, if it were possible to pity a King so shabby and ridiculous. His clever brother, Richard, had bought the title of King of the Romans from the German people, and was no longer near him, to help him with advice. The clergy, resisting the very Pope, were in alliance with the Barons. The Barons were headed by Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, married to King Henry’s sister, and, though a foreigner himself, the most popular man in England against the foreign favourites. When the King next met his Parliament, the Barons, led by this Earl, came before him, armed from head to foot, and cased in armour. When the Parliament again assembled, in a month’s time, at Oxford, this Earl was at their head, and the King was obliged to consent, on oath, to what was called a Committee of Government: consisting of twenty-four members: twelve chosen by the Barons, and twelve chosen by himself.

The King was now so distressed that we might almost feel sorry for him, if it were possible to feel sorry for a King so shabby and ridiculous. His clever brother, Richard, had purchased the title of King of the Romans from the German people and was no longer nearby to offer him advice. The clergy, defying even the Pope, had teamed up with the Barons. The Barons were led by Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, who was married to King Henry’s sister and, despite being a foreigner himself, was the most popular man in England against the foreign favorites. When the King next met with his Parliament, the Barons, led by this Earl, came before him fully armed and in armor. When Parliament gathered again a month later in Oxford, this Earl was at their head, and the King was forced to agree, under oath, to what was called a Committee of Government: consisting of twenty-four members, twelve chosen by the Barons and twelve chosen by him.

But, at a good time for him, his brother Richard came back. Richard’s first act (the Barons would not admit him into England on other terms) was to swear to be faithful to the Committee of Government—which he immediately began to oppose with all his might. Then, the Barons began to quarrel among themselves; especially the proud Earl of Gloucester with the Earl of Leicester, who went abroad in disgust. Then, the people began to be dissatisfied with the Barons, because they did not do enough for them. The King’s chances seemed so good again at length, that he took heart enough—or caught it from his brother—to tell the Committee of Government that he abolished them—as to his oath, never mind that, the Pope said!—and to seize all the money in the Mint, and to shut himself up in the Tower of London. Here he was joined by his eldest son, Prince Edward; and, from the Tower, he made public a letter of the Pope’s to the world in general, informing all men that he had been an excellent and just King for five-and-forty years.

But, at a good time for him, his brother Richard came back. Richard’s first move (the Barons wouldn’t let him into England under any other conditions) was to pledge his loyalty to the Committee of Government—which he then immediately started to oppose with all his strength. Then, the Barons began to argue among themselves; especially the proud Earl of Gloucester with the Earl of Leicester, who left in disgust. Soon, the people grew dissatisfied with the Barons because they weren’t doing enough for them. The King’s chances seemed promising again, so he bravely—or maybe he got it from his brother—told the Committee of Government that he was disbanding them—forget about his oath, the Pope said!—and took control of all the money in the Mint, locking himself in the Tower of London. There, he was joined by his eldest son, Prince Edward; and from the Tower, he publicly shared a letter from the Pope with the world, announcing that he had been an excellent and just King for forty-five years.

As everybody knew he had been nothing of the sort, nobody cared much for this document. It so chanced that the proud Earl of Gloucester dying, was succeeded by his son; and that his son, instead of being the enemy of the Earl of Leicester, was (for the time) his friend. It fell out, therefore, that these two Earls joined their forces, took several of the Royal Castles in the country, and advanced as hard as they could on London. The London people, always opposed to the King, declared for them with great joy. The King himself remained shut up, not at all gloriously, in the Tower. Prince Edward made the best of his way to Windsor Castle. His mother, the Queen, attempted to follow him by water; but, the people seeing her barge rowing up the river, and hating her with all their hearts, ran to London Bridge, got together a quantity of stones and mud, and pelted the barge as it came through, crying furiously, ‘Drown the Witch! Drown her!’ They were so near doing it, that the Mayor took the old lady under his protection, and shut her up in St. Paul’s until the danger was past.

As everyone knew, he was nothing like that, so nobody paid much attention to this document. It just so happened that the proud Earl of Gloucester died and was succeeded by his son; this son, instead of being the enemy of the Earl of Leicester, was (for the time being) his ally. Consequently, these two Earls combined their forces, seized several Royal Castles throughout the country, and made their way as quickly as possible to London. The people of London, always against the King, supported them with great enthusiasm. The King himself was locked away, not exactly gloriously, in the Tower. Prince Edward made his way to Windsor Castle. His mother, the Queen, tried to follow him by boat, but when the people saw her barge rowing up the river and despised her with all their hearts, they rushed to London Bridge, gathered a bunch of stones and mud, and bombarded the barge as it approached, shouting furiously, “Drown the Witch! Drown her!” They came so close to succeeding that the Mayor had to take the old lady under his protection and locked her in St. Paul’s until the danger passed.

It would require a great deal of writing on my part, and a great deal of reading on yours, to follow the King through his disputes with the Barons, and to follow the Barons through their disputes with one another—so I will make short work of it for both of us, and only relate the chief events that arose out of these quarrels. The good King of France was asked to decide between them. He gave it as his opinion that the King must maintain the Great Charter, and that the Barons must give up the Committee of Government, and all the rest that had been done by the Parliament at Oxford: which the Royalists, or King’s party, scornfully called the Mad Parliament. The Barons declared that these were not fair terms, and they would not accept them. Then they caused the great bell of St. Paul’s to be tolled, for the purpose of rousing up the London people, who armed themselves at the dismal sound and formed quite an army in the streets. I am sorry to say, however, that instead of falling upon the King’s party with whom their quarrel was, they fell upon the miserable Jews, and killed at least five hundred of them. They pretended that some of these Jews were on the King’s side, and that they kept hidden in their houses, for the destruction of the people, a certain terrible composition called Greek Fire, which could not be put out with water, but only burnt the fiercer for it. What they really did keep in their houses was money; and this their cruel enemies wanted, and this their cruel enemies took, like robbers and murderers.

It would take a lot of writing from me and a lot of reading from you to follow the King through his conflicts with the Barons, and to track the Barons in their disputes with each other—so I’ll keep it brief for both of us and only share the main events that came from these arguments. The good King of France was called to settle the matter. He stated that the King should uphold the Great Charter, and that the Barons needed to abandon the Committee of Government and everything else done by the Parliament at Oxford, which the Royalists, or King’s party, mockingly labeled the Mad Parliament. The Barons claimed those terms were unfair and refused to accept them. They then had the great bell of St. Paul’s rung to stir up the people of London, who armed themselves at the mournful sound and gathered into quite an army in the streets. Unfortunately, instead of attacking the King’s party with whom they were in conflict, they turned on the helpless Jews, killing at least five hundred of them. They insisted that some of these Jews were aligned with the King and were hiding a dangerous substance known as Greek Fire, which couldn't be extinguished with water and only burned more fiercely because of it. In reality, what they kept in their homes was money; and this is what their cruel enemies wanted, and this is what their brutal enemies seized, like robbers and murderers.

The Earl of Leicester put himself at the head of these Londoners and other forces, and followed the King to Lewes in Sussex, where he lay encamped with his army. Before giving the King’s forces battle here, the Earl addressed his soldiers, and said that King Henry the Third had broken so many oaths, that he had become the enemy of God, and therefore they would wear white crosses on their breasts, as if they were arrayed, not against a fellow-Christian, but against a Turk. White-crossed accordingly, they rushed into the fight. They would have lost the day—the King having on his side all the foreigners in England: and, from Scotland, John Comyn, John Baliol, and Robert Bruce, with all their men—but for the impatience of Prince Edward, who, in his hot desire to have vengeance on the people of London, threw the whole of his father’s army into confusion. He was taken Prisoner; so was the King; so was the King’s brother the King of the Romans; and five thousand Englishmen were left dead upon the bloody grass.

The Earl of Leicester led the Londoners and other forces and followed the King to Lewes in Sussex, where he set up camp with his army. Before they fought the King’s forces here, the Earl spoke to his soldiers, saying that King Henry the Third had broken so many oaths that he had become an enemy of God. Therefore, they would wear white crosses on their chests, as if they were preparing to fight not against a fellow Christian, but against a Turk. With their white crosses, they charged into battle. They would have lost the day—especially since the King had all the foreigners in England on his side: from Scotland, John Comyn, John Baliol, and Robert the Bruce, along with all their men—if it hadn't been for Prince Edward's impatience, who, in his eagerness for revenge against the people of London, threw his father’s entire army into chaos. He was captured; so was the King; so was the King’s brother, the King of the Romans; and five thousand Englishmen lay dead on the bloody grass.

For this success, the Pope excommunicated the Earl of Leicester: which neither the Earl nor the people cared at all about. The people loved him and supported him, and he became the real King; having all the power of the government in his own hands, though he was outwardly respectful to King Henry the Third, whom he took with him wherever he went, like a poor old limp court-card. He summoned a Parliament (in the year one thousand two hundred and sixty-five) which was the first Parliament in England that the people had any real share in electing; and he grew more and more in favour with the people every day, and they stood by him in whatever he did.

For this success, the Pope excommunicated the Earl of Leicester, but neither the Earl nor the people cared at all. The people loved and supported him, and he became the true King, holding all the power of the government in his own hands, even though he acted respectfully toward King Henry the Third, whom he carried with him everywhere like a poor old limp court card. He called a Parliament in the year 1265, which was the first Parliament in England where the people had a real say in electing members; he became more and more popular with the people every day, and they backed him in everything he did.

Many of the other Barons, and particularly the Earl of Gloucester, who had become by this time as proud as his father, grew jealous of this powerful and popular Earl, who was proud too, and began to conspire against him. Since the battle of Lewes, Prince Edward had been kept as a hostage, and, though he was otherwise treated like a Prince, had never been allowed to go out without attendants appointed by the Earl of Leicester, who watched him. The conspiring Lords found means to propose to him, in secret, that they should assist him to escape, and should make him their leader; to which he very heartily consented.

Many of the other Barons, especially the Earl of Gloucester, who had become just as arrogant as his father by this time, grew envious of this powerful and popular Earl, who was also proud, and started to plot against him. Since the battle of Lewes, Prince Edward had been held as a hostage, and although he was treated like a Prince otherwise, he was never allowed to go out without attendants chosen by the Earl of Leicester, who kept an eye on him. The plotting Lords managed to secretly propose to him that they would help him escape and make him their leader; he wholeheartedly agreed.

So, on a day that was agreed upon, he said to his attendants after dinner (being then at Hereford), ‘I should like to ride on horseback, this fine afternoon, a little way into the country.’ As they, too, thought it would be very pleasant to have a canter in the sunshine, they all rode out of the town together in a gay little troop. When they came to a fine level piece of turf, the Prince fell to comparing their horses one with another, and offering bets that one was faster than another; and the attendants, suspecting no harm, rode galloping matches until their horses were quite tired. The Prince rode no matches himself, but looked on from his saddle, and staked his money. Thus they passed the whole merry afternoon. Now, the sun was setting, and they were all going slowly up a hill, the Prince’s horse very fresh and all the other horses very weary, when a strange rider mounted on a grey steed appeared at the top of the hill, and waved his hat. ‘What does the fellow mean?’ said the attendants one to another. The Prince answered on the instant by setting spurs to his horse, dashing away at his utmost speed, joining the man, riding into the midst of a little crowd of horsemen who were then seen waiting under some trees, and who closed around him; and so he departed in a cloud of dust, leaving the road empty of all but the baffled attendants, who sat looking at one another, while their horses drooped their ears and panted.

So, on a day that was agreed upon, he told his attendants after dinner (while they were in Hereford), “I’d like to go for a ride this beautiful afternoon, just a little way into the countryside.” Since they also thought it would be nice to enjoy a ride in the sunshine, they all rode out of town together in a cheerful little group. When they reached a nice flat area of grass, the Prince started comparing their horses and making bets about which one was faster; the attendants, not suspecting anything wrong, got caught up in running races until their horses were quite exhausted. The Prince didn’t race himself, but watched from his saddle and placed his bets. They spent the entire happy afternoon like this. Now, as the sun was setting and they were all slowly climbing a hill, the Prince’s horse was still fresh while the others were very tired, when a strange rider on a gray horse appeared at the top of the hill and waved his hat. “What does that guy mean?” the attendants wondered to each other. The Prince immediately responded by spurring his horse on, speeding away to join the man, riding into a small group of horsemen who were waiting under some trees and who surrounded him; and he vanished in a cloud of dust, leaving the road empty except for the confused attendants, who stared at each other while their horses drooped their ears and panted.

The Prince joined the Earl of Gloucester at Ludlow. The Earl of Leicester, with a part of the army and the stupid old King, was at Hereford. One of the Earl of Leicester’s sons, Simon de Montfort, with another part of the army, was in Sussex. To prevent these two parts from uniting was the Prince’s first object. He attacked Simon de Montfort by night, defeated him, seized his banners and treasure, and forced him into Kenilworth Castle in Warwickshire, which belonged to his family.

The Prince met up with the Earl of Gloucester in Ludlow. The Earl of Leicester, along with part of the army and the foolish old King, was in Hereford. One of the Earl of Leicester’s sons, Simon de Montfort, was with another part of the army in Sussex. The Prince’s main goal was to stop these two groups from coming together. He launched a nighttime attack on Simon de Montfort, defeated him, captured his banners and treasure, and drove him into Kenilworth Castle in Warwickshire, which belonged to his family.

His father, the Earl of Leicester, in the meanwhile, not knowing what had happened, marched out of Hereford, with his part of the army and the King, to meet him. He came, on a bright morning in August, to Evesham, which is watered by the pleasant river Avon. Looking rather anxiously across the prospect towards Kenilworth, he saw his own banners advancing; and his face brightened with joy. But, it clouded darkly when he presently perceived that the banners were captured, and in the enemy’s hands; and he said, ‘It is over. The Lord have mercy on our souls, for our bodies are Prince Edward’s!’

His father, the Earl of Leicester, not knowing what had happened, marched out of Hereford with his part of the army and the King to meet him. On a bright morning in August, he arrived in Evesham, which is by the pleasant river Avon. Looking anxiously across the landscape towards Kenilworth, he saw his own banners advancing, and his face lit up with joy. But it quickly dimmed when he realized those banners were captured and in the enemy’s hands. He then said, “It’s over. May the Lord have mercy on our souls, for our bodies belong to Prince Edward!”

He fought like a true Knight, nevertheless. When his horse was killed under him, he fought on foot. It was a fierce battle, and the dead lay in heaps everywhere. The old King, stuck up in a suit of armour on a big war-horse, which didn’t mind him at all, and which carried him into all sorts of places where he didn’t want to go, got into everybody’s way, and very nearly got knocked on the head by one of his son’s men. But he managed to pipe out, ‘I am Harry of Winchester!’ and the Prince, who heard him, seized his bridle, and took him out of peril. The Earl of Leicester still fought bravely, until his best son Henry was killed, and the bodies of his best friends choked his path; and then he fell, still fighting, sword in hand. They mangled his body, and sent it as a present to a noble lady—but a very unpleasant lady, I should think—who was the wife of his worst enemy. They could not mangle his memory in the minds of the faithful people, though. Many years afterwards, they loved him more than ever, and regarded him as a Saint, and always spoke of him as ‘Sir Simon the Righteous.’

He fought like a true knight, though. When his horse was killed underneath him, he kept fighting on foot. It was a brutal battle, and bodies lay in piles everywhere. The old king, stuck in a suit of armor on a large war horse that didn’t care about him at all and took him to places he didn’t want to go, got in everyone’s way and almost got hit on the head by one of his son’s men. But he managed to shout, ‘I am Harry of Winchester!’ and the prince, who heard him, grabbed his bridle and pulled him out of danger. The Earl of Leicester continued to fight bravely until his best son Henry was killed and the bodies of his closest friends blocked his path; then he fell, still fighting, with his sword in hand. They mutilated his body and sent it as a gift to a noble lady—but a very unpleasant one, I would think—who was the wife of his worst enemy. They couldn’t tarnish his memory in the hearts of the loyal people, though. Many years later, they loved him more than ever, considered him a saint, and always referred to him as ‘Sir Simon the Righteous.’

And even though he was dead, the cause for which he had fought still lived, and was strong, and forced itself upon the King in the very hour of victory. Henry found himself obliged to respect the Great Charter, however much he hated it, and to make laws similar to the laws of the Great Earl of Leicester, and to be moderate and forgiving towards the people at last—even towards the people of London, who had so long opposed him. There were more risings before all this was done, but they were set at rest by these means, and Prince Edward did his best in all things to restore peace. One Sir Adam de Gourdon was the last dissatisfied knight in arms; but, the Prince vanquished him in single combat, in a wood, and nobly gave him his life, and became his friend, instead of slaying him. Sir Adam was not ungrateful. He ever afterwards remained devoted to his generous conqueror.

And even though he was dead, the cause he had fought for still lived on, strong and demanding the King’s attention at that very moment of victory. Henry found himself forced to acknowledge the Great Charter, no matter how much he disliked it, and to create laws similar to those of the Great Earl of Leicester, and to finally be moderate and forgiving toward the people—even towards the people of London, who had long opposed him. There were more uprisings before all this was settled, but they were quieted by these efforts, and Prince Edward did everything he could to restore peace. One Sir Adam de Gourdon was the last knight dissatisfied with the situation; however, the Prince defeated him in single combat in a forest and honorably spared his life, becoming his friend instead of killing him. Sir Adam was not ungrateful. He remained loyal to his generous conqueror from that point on.

When the troubles of the Kingdom were thus calmed, Prince Edward and his cousin Henry took the Cross, and went away to the Holy Land, with many English Lords and Knights. Four years afterwards the King of the Romans died, and, next year (one thousand two hundred and seventy-two), his brother the weak King of England died. He was sixty-eight years old then, and had reigned fifty-six years. He was as much of a King in death, as he had ever been in life. He was the mere pale shadow of a King at all times.

When the Kingdom's troubles were settled, Prince Edward and his cousin Henry took the Cross and headed to the Holy Land, accompanied by many English Lords and Knights. Four years later, the King of the Romans passed away, and the following year (1272), his brother, the frail King of England, also died. He was sixty-eight at the time and had ruled for fifty-six years. In death, he was just as much a King as he had been in life. He had always been more of a pale shadow of a King.

CHAPTER XVI—ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FIRST, CALLED LONGSHANKS

It was now the year of our Lord one thousand two hundred and seventy-two; and Prince Edward, the heir to the throne, being away in the Holy Land, knew nothing of his father’s death. The Barons, however, proclaimed him King, immediately after the Royal funeral; and the people very willingly consented, since most men knew too well by this time what the horrors of a contest for the crown were. So King Edward the First, called, in a not very complimentary manner, Longshanks, because of the slenderness of his legs, was peacefully accepted by the English Nation.

It was now the year 1272; and Prince Edward, the heir to the throne, was away in the Holy Land and was unaware of his father’s death. The Barons, however, declared him King right after the royal funeral, and the people readily agreed since most people were all too aware by this point of the horrors that came with a fight for the crown. So King Edward the First, nicknamed, in a rather unflattering way, Longshanks because of his slender legs, was peacefully accepted by the English nation.

His legs had need to be strong, however long and thin they were; for they had to support him through many difficulties on the fiery sands of Asia, where his small force of soldiers fainted, died, deserted, and seemed to melt away. But his prowess made light of it, and he said, ‘I will go on, if I go on with no other follower than my groom!’

His legs needed to be strong, no matter how long and thin they were; they had to carry him through many challenges on the scorching sands of Asia, where his small group of soldiers fainted, died, deserted, and seemed to disappear. But his skill made it seem easy, and he said, ‘I will keep going, even if I’m left with no one but my groom!’

A Prince of this spirit gave the Turks a deal of trouble. He stormed Nazareth, at which place, of all places on earth, I am sorry to relate, he made a frightful slaughter of innocent people; and then he went to Acre, where he got a truce of ten years from the Sultan. He had very nearly lost his life in Acre, through the treachery of a Saracen Noble, called the Emir of Jaffa, who, making the pretence that he had some idea of turning Christian and wanted to know all about that religion, sent a trusty messenger to Edward very often—with a dagger in his sleeve. At last, one Friday in Whitsun week, when it was very hot, and all the sandy prospect lay beneath the blazing sun, burnt up like a great overdone biscuit, and Edward was lying on a couch, dressed for coolness in only a loose robe, the messenger, with his chocolate-coloured face and his bright dark eyes and white teeth, came creeping in with a letter, and kneeled down like a tame tiger. But, the moment Edward stretched out his hand to take the letter, the tiger made a spring at his heart. He was quick, but Edward was quick too. He seized the traitor by his chocolate throat, threw him to the ground, and slew him with the very dagger he had drawn. The weapon had struck Edward in the arm, and although the wound itself was slight, it threatened to be mortal, for the blade of the dagger had been smeared with poison. Thanks, however, to a better surgeon than was often to be found in those times, and to some wholesome herbs, and above all, to his faithful wife, Eleanor, who devotedly nursed him, and is said by some to have sucked the poison from the wound with her own red lips (which I am very willing to believe), Edward soon recovered and was sound again.

A prince with this kind of spirit caused a lot of trouble for the Turks. He attacked Nazareth, where, unfortunately, he committed a horrific massacre of innocent people. Then he went to Acre, where he secured a ten-year truce from the Sultan. He nearly lost his life in Acre due to the betrayal of a Saracen noble named the Emir of Jaffa, who pretended that he was considering converting to Christianity and wanted to learn about the religion. He frequently sent a trusted messenger to Edward—who had a dagger hidden in his sleeve. Finally, on a hot Friday during Whitsun week, when the sandy landscape was scorched under the blazing sun, resembling a burnt biscuit, Edward was lounging on a couch wearing only a loose robe for comfort. The messenger, with his dark brown complexion, bright dark eyes, and white teeth, stealthily entered with a letter and knelt down like a trained tiger. But the moment Edward reached out to take the letter, the tiger lunged at his heart. He was quick, but Edward was quicker. He grabbed the traitor by his throat, threw him to the ground, and killed him with the very dagger he had drawn. The knife had cut Edward's arm, and although the wound was minor, it could have been fatal because the blade was coated with poison. Fortunately, thanks to a skilled surgeon who was rare in those times, some healing herbs, and especially thanks to his devoted wife, Eleanor, who lovingly cared for him and is said by some to have sucked the poison from the wound with her own red lips (which I fully believe), Edward quickly recovered and was back to health.

As the King his father had sent entreaties to him to return home, he now began the journey. He had got as far as Italy, when he met messengers who brought him intelligence of the King’s death. Hearing that all was quiet at home, he made no haste to return to his own dominions, but paid a visit to the Pope, and went in state through various Italian Towns, where he was welcomed with acclamations as a mighty champion of the Cross from the Holy Land, and where he received presents of purple mantles and prancing horses, and went along in great triumph. The shouting people little knew that he was the last English monarch who would ever embark in a crusade, or that within twenty years every conquest which the Christians had made in the Holy Land at the cost of so much blood, would be won back by the Turks. But all this came to pass.

As the King, his father, had urged him to come back home, he finally started his journey. He had made it to Italy when he encountered messengers who informed him of the King’s death. Upon learning that everything was calm at home, he didn't rush to return to his own territory. Instead, he visited the Pope and traveled in style through various Italian towns, where he was greeted with cheers as a great champion of the Cross from the Holy Land. He received gifts of purple cloaks and spirited horses and moved along in grand celebration. The cheering crowds had no idea that he would be the last English king to participate in a crusade, or that within twenty years, every territory conquered by Christians in the Holy Land at the cost of so much blood would be reclaimed by the Turks. But that’s exactly what happened.

There was, and there is, an old town standing in a plain in France, called Châlons. When the King was coming towards this place on his way to England, a wily French Lord, called the Count of Châlons, sent him a polite challenge to come with his knights and hold a fair tournament with the Count and his knights, and make a day of it with sword and lance. It was represented to the King that the Count of Châlons was not to be trusted, and that, instead of a holiday fight for mere show and in good humour, he secretly meant a real battle, in which the English should be defeated by superior force.

There was, and still is, an old town sitting in a plain in France called Châlons. When the King was approaching this place on his way to England, a clever French lord named the Count of Châlons sent him a courteous challenge to come with his knights and hold a fair tournament with the Count and his knights, making a day of it with swords and lances. It was brought to the King's attention that the Count of Châlons couldn't be trusted and that, instead of a friendly fight for fun, he secretly intended a real battle, where the English would be defeated by superior numbers.

The King, however, nothing afraid, went to the appointed place on the appointed day with a thousand followers. When the Count came with two thousand and attacked the English in earnest, the English rushed at them with such valour that the Count’s men and the Count’s horses soon began to be tumbled down all over the field. The Count himself seized the King round the neck, but the King tumbled him out of his saddle in return for the compliment, and, jumping from his own horse, and standing over him, beat away at his iron armour like a blacksmith hammering on his anvil. Even when the Count owned himself defeated and offered his sword, the King would not do him the honour to take it, but made him yield it up to a common soldier. There had been such fury shown in this fight, that it was afterwards called the little Battle of Châlons.

The King, unafraid, went to the designated spot on the scheduled day with a thousand followers. When the Count arrived with two thousand men and launched a serious attack on the English, the English charged at them with such courage that the Count’s men and horses quickly started to fall all over the battlefield. The Count himself grabbed the King around the neck, but the King knocked him off his horse as a response and, jumping off his own horse to stand over him, pounded on his iron armor like a blacksmith striking an anvil. Even when the Count admitted defeat and offered his sword, the King refused to take it himself, insisting that he surrender it to a common soldier. The intensity displayed in this battle led to it being called the little Battle of Châlons.

The English were very well disposed to be proud of their King after these adventures; so, when he landed at Dover in the year one thousand two hundred and seventy-four (being then thirty-six years old), and went on to Westminster where he and his good Queen were crowned with great magnificence, splendid rejoicings took place. For the coronation-feast there were provided, among other eatables, four hundred oxen, four hundred sheep, four hundred and fifty pigs, eighteen wild boars, three hundred flitches of bacon, and twenty thousand fowls. The fountains and conduits in the street flowed with red and white wine instead of water; the rich citizens hung silks and cloths of the brightest colours out of their windows to increase the beauty of the show, and threw out gold and silver by whole handfuls to make scrambles for the crowd. In short, there was such eating and drinking, such music and capering, such a ringing of bells and tossing of caps, such a shouting, and singing, and revelling, as the narrow overhanging streets of old London City had not witnessed for many a long day. All the people were merry except the poor Jews, who, trembling within their houses, and scarcely daring to peep out, began to foresee that they would have to find the money for this joviality sooner or later.

The English were quite proud of their King after these adventures, so when he landed at Dover in 1274 (at the age of thirty-six) and went on to Westminster, where he and his beloved Queen were crowned in grand style, there were huge celebrations. For the coronation feast, they provided, among other foods, four hundred oxen, four hundred sheep, four hundred and fifty pigs, eighteen wild boars, three hundred flitches of bacon, and twenty thousand birds. The fountains and taps in the streets flowed with red and white wine instead of water; wealthy citizens displayed silks and bright cloths from their windows to enhance the spectacle and threw out gold and silver by the handfuls for the crowd to scramble for. In short, there was such eating and drinking, music and dancing, ringing of bells and tossing of caps, shouting, singing, and revelry that the narrow, overhanging streets of old London City hadn't seen in quite a while. Everyone was joyful except the poor Jews, who, trembling inside their homes and hardly daring to look outside, began to realize that they would have to pay for this revelry sooner or later.

To dismiss this sad subject of the Jews for the present, I am sorry to add that in this reign they were most unmercifully pillaged. They were hanged in great numbers, on accusations of having clipped the King’s coin—which all kinds of people had done. They were heavily taxed; they were disgracefully badged; they were, on one day, thirteen years after the coronation, taken up with their wives and children and thrown into beastly prisons, until they purchased their release by paying to the King twelve thousand pounds. Finally, every kind of property belonging to them was seized by the King, except so little as would defray the charge of their taking themselves away into foreign countries. Many years elapsed before the hope of gain induced any of their race to return to England, where they had been treated so heartlessly and had suffered so much.

To set aside this unfortunate topic about the Jews for now, I regret to mention that during this reign they were brutally exploited. They were hanged in large numbers, accused of clipping the King’s coins—which many people had done. They faced heavy taxes, were embarrassingly identified with badges, and, thirteen years after the coronation, they were rounded up along with their wives and children and thrown into terrible prisons until they paid the King twelve thousand pounds for their release. Ultimately, all their property was seized by the King, except for a small amount needed to cover their departure to foreign countries. Many years passed before any members of their community were willing to return to England, where they had been treated so cruelly and had endured so much.

If King Edward the First had been as bad a king to Christians as he was to Jews, he would have been bad indeed. But he was, in general, a wise and great monarch, under whom the country much improved. He had no love for the Great Charter—few Kings had, through many, many years—but he had high qualities. The first bold object which he conceived when he came home, was, to unite under one Sovereign England, Scotland, and Wales; the two last of which countries had each a little king of its own, about whom the people were always quarrelling and fighting, and making a prodigious disturbance—a great deal more than he was worth. In the course of King Edward’s reign he was engaged, besides, in a war with France. To make these quarrels clearer, we will separate their histories and take them thus. Wales, first. France, second. Scotland, third.

If King Edward the First had treated Christians as poorly as he treated Jews, he would have been truly terrible. But overall, he was a wise and significant king, under whom the country improved a lot. He had no affection for the Great Charter—very few kings did for many, many years—but he had admirable qualities. The first bold goal he had when he returned home was to unite England, Scotland, and Wales under one sovereign, since the latter two countries had their own little kings, and the people were constantly fighting and arguing about them, creating a huge disturbance—far more than those kings were worth. During King Edward’s reign, he was also involved in a war with France. To clarify these conflicts, let’s separate their histories like this: Wales first, France second, Scotland third.

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Understood. Please provide the text you'd like modernized.

Llewellyn was the Prince of Wales. He had been on the side of the Barons in the reign of the stupid old King, but had afterwards sworn allegiance to him. When King Edward came to the throne, Llewellyn was required to swear allegiance to him also; which he refused to do. The King, being crowned and in his own dominions, three times more required Llewellyn to come and do homage; and three times more Llewellyn said he would rather not. He was going to be married to Eleanor de Montfort, a young lady of the family mentioned in the last reign; and it chanced that this young lady, coming from France with her youngest brother, Emeric, was taken by an English ship, and was ordered by the English King to be detained. Upon this, the quarrel came to a head. The King went, with his fleet, to the coast of Wales, where, so encompassing Llewellyn, that he could only take refuge in the bleak mountain region of Snowdon in which no provisions could reach him, he was soon starved into an apology, and into a treaty of peace, and into paying the expenses of the war. The King, however, forgave him some of the hardest conditions of the treaty, and consented to his marriage. And he now thought he had reduced Wales to obedience.

Llewellyn was the Prince of Wales. He had supported the Barons during the reign of the foolish old King but later pledged loyalty to him. When King Edward ascended the throne, Llewellyn was asked to swear allegiance to him as well, but he refused. The King, now crowned and in his own territory, demanded that Llewellyn come and pay homage three times, and each time, Llewellyn declined. He was about to marry Eleanor de Montfort, a young woman from a family mentioned in the previous reign. It happened that this young woman, traveling from France with her younger brother, Emeric, was captured by an English ship and ordered by the English King to be held. This escalated the conflict. The King went with his fleet to the Welsh coast, surrounding Llewellyn, forcing him to take refuge in the harsh mountainous region of Snowdon where supplies couldn't reach him. He was soon starved into making an apology, signing a peace treaty, and covering the war costs. However, the King forgave him some of the harshest terms of the treaty and agreed to his marriage. He then believed he had brought Wales under control.

But the Welsh, although they were naturally a gentle, quiet, pleasant people, who liked to receive strangers in their cottages among the mountains, and to set before them with free hospitality whatever they had to eat and drink, and to play to them on their harps, and sing their native ballads to them, were a people of great spirit when their blood was up. Englishmen, after this affair, began to be insolent in Wales, and to assume the air of masters; and the Welsh pride could not bear it. Moreover, they believed in that unlucky old Merlin, some of whose unlucky old prophecies somebody always seemed doomed to remember when there was a chance of its doing harm; and just at this time some blind old gentleman with a harp and a long white beard, who was an excellent person, but had become of an unknown age and tedious, burst out with a declaration that Merlin had predicted that when English money had become round, a Prince of Wales would be crowned in London. Now, King Edward had recently forbidden the English penny to be cut into halves and quarters for halfpence and farthings, and had actually introduced a round coin; therefore, the Welsh people said this was the time Merlin meant, and rose accordingly.

But the Welsh, even though they were naturally gentle, quiet, and friendly people who enjoyed welcoming strangers into their mountain cottages, sharing whatever food and drink they had, playing on their harps, and singing their traditional songs, were very spirited when provoked. After this incident, the English began to act arrogantly in Wales, taking on a masterly attitude, and the Welsh pride simply couldn't stand it. Additionally, they were influenced by the unfortunate old Merlin, whose ominous prophecies always seemed to resurface at just the right moment to cause trouble. At that time, an elderly gentleman with a harp and a long white beard—who was a nice guy but had become rather old and tiresome—declared that Merlin had predicted that when English coins became round, a Prince of Wales would be crowned in London. Since King Edward had recently banned cutting English pennies into halves and quarters for use as halfpence and farthings and had introduced a round coin, the Welsh believed this was the moment Merlin had prophesied and decided to take action.

King Edward had bought over Prince David, Llewellyn’s brother, by heaping favours upon him; but he was the first to revolt, being perhaps troubled in his conscience. One stormy night, he surprised the Castle of Hawarden, in possession of which an English nobleman had been left; killed the whole garrison, and carried off the nobleman a prisoner to Snowdon. Upon this, the Welsh people rose like one man. King Edward, with his army, marching from Worcester to the Menai Strait, crossed it—near to where the wonderful tubular iron bridge now, in days so different, makes a passage for railway trains—by a bridge of boats that enabled forty men to march abreast. He subdued the Island of Anglesea, and sent his men forward to observe the enemy. The sudden appearance of the Welsh created a panic among them, and they fell back to the bridge. The tide had in the meantime risen and separated the boats; the Welsh pursuing them, they were driven into the sea, and there they sunk, in their heavy iron armour, by thousands. After this victory Llewellyn, helped by the severe winter-weather of Wales, gained another battle; but the King ordering a portion of his English army to advance through South Wales, and catch him between two foes, and Llewellyn bravely turning to meet this new enemy, he was surprised and killed—very meanly, for he was unarmed and defenceless. His head was struck off and sent to London, where it was fixed upon the Tower, encircled with a wreath, some say of ivy, some say of willow, some say of silver, to make it look like a ghastly coin in ridicule of the prediction.

King Edward had won over Prince David, Llewellyn’s brother, by showering him with favors; but he was the first to rebel, possibly because of guilt. One stormy night, he surprised the Castle of Hawarden, which an English nobleman had been guarding; he killed the entire garrison and took the nobleman prisoner to Snowdon. In response, the Welsh rose up as one. King Edward, with his army, marched from Worcester to the Menai Strait, where he crossed it—near the site of the amazing tubular iron bridge that now carries trains—in a bridge made of boats that allowed forty men to walk side by side. He conquered the Island of Anglesey and sent his men ahead to scout the enemy. The sudden appearance of the Welsh frightened them, causing them to retreat to the bridge. Meanwhile, the tide had come in and separated the boats; as the Welsh pursued them, they were driven into the sea, sinking in their heavy iron armor by the thousands. After this victory, Llewellyn, aided by the harsh winter weather in Wales, won another battle; but the King ordered part of his English army to move through South Wales to corner him between two enemies. Llewellyn bravely turned to face this new threat but was surprised and killed—quite unfairly, as he was unarmed and defenseless. His head was severed and sent to London, where it was displayed on the Tower, surrounded by a wreath—some say of ivy, some of willow, some of silver—to mockingly resemble a ghastly coin in mockery of the prophecy.

David, however, still held out for six months, though eagerly sought after by the King, and hunted by his own countrymen. One of them finally betrayed him with his wife and children. He was sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered; and from that time this became the established punishment of Traitors in England—a punishment wholly without excuse, as being revolting, vile, and cruel, after its object is dead; and which has no sense in it, as its only real degradation (and that nothing can blot out) is to the country that permits on any consideration such abominable barbarity.

David, however, managed to hold out for six months, despite being eagerly pursued by the King and hunted by his own countrymen. One of them eventually betrayed him along with his wife and children. He was sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered; and from that point on, this became the established punishment for traitors in England—a punishment that is completely unjustifiable, as it is repulsive, vile, and cruel, especially after the person is already dead; and it is meaningless since its only real degradation (which nothing can erase) is to the nation that allows such horrific brutality for any reason.

Wales was now subdued. The Queen giving birth to a young prince in the Castle of Carnarvon, the King showed him to the Welsh people as their countryman, and called him Prince of Wales; a title that has ever since been borne by the heir-apparent to the English throne—which that little Prince soon became, by the death of his elder brother. The King did better things for the Welsh than that, by improving their laws and encouraging their trade. Disturbances still took place, chiefly occasioned by the avarice and pride of the English Lords, on whom Welsh lands and castles had been bestowed; but they were subdued, and the country never rose again. There is a legend that to prevent the people from being incited to rebellion by the songs of their bards and harpers, Edward had them all put to death. Some of them may have fallen among other men who held out against the King; but this general slaughter is, I think, a fancy of the harpers themselves, who, I dare say, made a song about it many years afterwards, and sang it by the Welsh firesides until it came to be believed.

Wales was now under control. The Queen gave birth to a young prince in the Castle of Carnarvon, and the King introduced him to the Welsh people as one of their own, naming him Prince of Wales—a title that has since been held by the heir to the English throne, which that little Prince soon became after the death of his older brother. The King also did more for the Welsh by improving their laws and promoting their trade. Disturbances still happened, mainly caused by the greed and arrogance of the English Lords, who had been given Welsh lands and castles; but they were kept in check, and the country never rebelled again. There's a legend that to stop the people from being stirred to rebellion by the songs of their bards and harpers, Edward had them all executed. Some may have died alongside others who fought against the King, but I think this widespread slaughter is just a tale created by the harpers themselves, who likely composed a song about it many years later and sang it by the Welsh firesides until it became accepted as truth.

The foreign war of the reign of Edward the First arose in this way. The crews of two vessels, one a Norman ship, and the other an English ship, happened to go to the same place in their boats to fill their casks with fresh water. Being rough angry fellows, they began to quarrel, and then to fight—the English with their fists; the Normans with their knives—and, in the fight, a Norman was killed. The Norman crew, instead of revenging themselves upon those English sailors with whom they had quarrelled (who were too strong for them, I suspect), took to their ship again in a great rage, attacked the first English ship they met, laid hold of an unoffending merchant who happened to be on board, and brutally hanged him in the rigging of their own vessel with a dog at his feet. This so enraged the English sailors that there was no restraining them; and whenever, and wherever, English sailors met Norman sailors, they fell upon each other tooth and nail. The Irish and Dutch sailors took part with the English; the French and Genoese sailors helped the Normans; and thus the greater part of the mariners sailing over the sea became, in their way, as violent and raging as the sea itself when it is disturbed.

The foreign war during Edward the First's reign started like this. The crews of two ships, one Norman and the other English, happened to arrive at the same spot to fill their casks with fresh water. Being rough and aggressive, they started to argue and then fight—the English with their fists and the Normans with their knives. During the fight, a Norman was killed. Instead of seeking revenge on the English sailors they had fought with (who were, I suspect, too strong for them), the Norman crew returned to their ship in a fury, attacked the first English ship they saw, grabbed an innocent merchant on board, and brutally hanged him from their own rigging with a dog at his feet. This infuriated the English sailors so much that they could not be controlled; whenever and wherever they encountered Norman sailors, they attacked each other fiercely. The Irish and Dutch sailors sided with the English, while the French and Genoese sailors supported the Normans; thus, most of the sailors crossing the seas became as violent and chaotic as the sea itself when it’s stirred up.

King Edward’s fame had been so high abroad that he had been chosen to decide a difference between France and another foreign power, and had lived upon the Continent three years. At first, neither he nor the French King Philip (the good Louis had been dead some time) interfered in these quarrels; but when a fleet of eighty English ships engaged and utterly defeated a Norman fleet of two hundred, in a pitched battle fought round a ship at anchor, in which no quarter was given, the matter became too serious to be passed over. King Edward, as Duke of Guienne, was summoned to present himself before the King of France, at Paris, and answer for the damage done by his sailor subjects. At first, he sent the Bishop of London as his representative, and then his brother Edmund, who was married to the French Queen’s mother. I am afraid Edmund was an easy man, and allowed himself to be talked over by his charming relations, the French court ladies; at all events, he was induced to give up his brother’s dukedom for forty days—as a mere form, the French King said, to satisfy his honour—and he was so very much astonished, when the time was out, to find that the French King had no idea of giving it up again, that I should not wonder if it hastened his death: which soon took place.

King Edward was so famous abroad that he was chosen to help resolve a conflict between France and another country, and he had lived on the continent for three years. At first, neither he nor the French King Philip (good Louis had been dead for a while) got involved in these disputes; however, when a fleet of eighty English ships attacked and completely defeated a Norman fleet of two hundred in a fierce battle around a ship anchored in the water, where no mercy was shown, the situation became too serious to ignore. As Duke of Guienne, King Edward was summoned to appear before the King of France in Paris to answer for the damage caused by his sailors. Initially, he sent the Bishop of London as his representative, and then his brother Edmund, who was married to the mother of the French Queen. Unfortunately, Edmund was a bit too easygoing and let himself be swayed by the charming ladies of the French court; regardless, he was persuaded to give up his brother's dukedom for forty days—as a mere formality, the French King claimed, to uphold his honor—and he was extremely surprised when the time was up to find that the French King had no intention of giving it back. I wouldn't be surprised if this situation contributed to his untimely death, which happened soon after.

King Edward was a King to win his foreign dukedom back again, if it could be won by energy and valour. He raised a large army, renounced his allegiance as Duke of Guienne, and crossed the sea to carry war into France. Before any important battle was fought, however, a truce was agreed upon for two years; and in the course of that time, the Pope effected a reconciliation. King Edward, who was now a widower, having lost his affectionate and good wife, Eleanor, married the French King’s sister, Margaret; and the Prince of Wales was contracted to the French King’s daughter Isabella.

King Edward was determined to reclaim his foreign dukedom, if it could be achieved through hard work and bravery. He assembled a large army, renounced his allegiance as Duke of Guienne, and crossed the sea to wage war in France. However, before any significant battles took place, a truce was agreed upon for two years; during that time, the Pope helped broker a reconciliation. King Edward, now a widower after losing his loving and good wife, Eleanor, married the French King’s sister, Margaret; and the Prince of Wales was betrothed to the French King’s daughter Isabella.

Out of bad things, good things sometimes arise. Out of this hanging of the innocent merchant, and the bloodshed and strife it caused, there came to be established one of the greatest powers that the English people now possess. The preparations for the war being very expensive, and King Edward greatly wanting money, and being very arbitrary in his ways of raising it, some of the Barons began firmly to oppose him. Two of them, in particular, Humphrey Bohun, Earl of Hereford, and Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, were so stout against him, that they maintained he had no right to command them to head his forces in Guienne, and flatly refused to go there. ‘By Heaven, Sir Earl,’ said the King to the Earl of Hereford, in a great passion, ‘you shall either go or be hanged!’ ‘By Heaven, Sir King,’ replied the Earl, ‘I will neither go nor yet will I be hanged!’ and both he and the other Earl sturdily left the court, attended by many Lords. The King tried every means of raising money. He taxed the clergy, in spite of all the Pope said to the contrary; and when they refused to pay, reduced them to submission, by saying Very well, then they had no claim upon the government for protection, and any man might plunder them who would—which a good many men were very ready to do, and very readily did, and which the clergy found too losing a game to be played at long. He seized all the wool and leather in the hands of the merchants, promising to pay for it some fine day; and he set a tax upon the exportation of wool, which was so unpopular among the traders that it was called ‘The evil toll.’ But all would not do. The Barons, led by those two great Earls, declared any taxes imposed without the consent of Parliament, unlawful; and the Parliament refused to impose taxes, until the King should confirm afresh the two Great Charters, and should solemnly declare in writing, that there was no power in the country to raise money from the people, evermore, but the power of Parliament representing all ranks of the people. The King was very unwilling to diminish his own power by allowing this great privilege in the Parliament; but there was no help for it, and he at last complied. We shall come to another King by-and-by, who might have saved his head from rolling off, if he had profited by this example.

Out of bad situations, good things can sometimes emerge. From the wrongful hanging of the innocent merchant, along with the violence and conflict it sparked, one of the greatest powers that the English people now have was established. The preparations for the war were quite costly, and King Edward was in desperate need of money, using very forceful methods to raise it, which led some Barons to strongly oppose him. Two of them, in particular, Humphrey Bohun, Earl of Hereford, and Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, were so adamant against him that they argued he had no right to order them to lead his forces in Guienne, and outright refused to go. "By Heaven, Sir Earl," said the King to the Earl of Hereford, in a fit of rage, "you shall either go or be hanged!" "By Heaven, Sir King," the Earl replied, "I will neither go nor will I be hanged!" and both he and the other Earl firmly left the court, accompanied by many Lords. The King tried every possible way to raise money. He taxed the clergy, despite all the Pope’s objections; and when they refused to pay, he forced them into submission by declaring that they had no claim to government protection anymore, which meant anyone could plunder them, a situation that many took advantage of, leading the clergy to realize it was a losing game. He confiscated all the wool and leather from the merchants, promising to pay them back eventually; and he imposed a tax on wool exports, which became so unpopular among traders that it was nicknamed 'The evil toll

The people gained other benefits in Parliament from the good sense and wisdom of this King. Many of the laws were much improved; provision was made for the greater safety of travellers, and the apprehension of thieves and murderers; the priests were prevented from holding too much land, and so becoming too powerful; and Justices of the Peace were first appointed (though not at first under that name) in various parts of the country.

The people in Parliament received additional advantages from this King's sound judgment and wisdom. Many laws were significantly enhanced; measures were put in place to better protect travelers and to catch thieves and murderers; priests were restricted from owning too much land to avoid becoming overly powerful; and Justices of the Peace were initially appointed (though not under that title at first) in different regions of the country.

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Sure! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.

And now we come to Scotland, which was the great and lasting trouble of the reign of King Edward the First.

And now we turn to Scotland, which was the significant and enduring issue during the reign of King Edward the First.

About thirteen years after King Edward’s coronation, Alexander the Third, the King of Scotland, died of a fall from his horse. He had been married to Margaret, King Edward’s sister. All their children being dead, the Scottish crown became the right of a young Princess only eight years old, the daughter of Eric, King of Norway, who had married a daughter of the deceased sovereign. King Edward proposed, that the Maiden of Norway, as this Princess was called, should be engaged to be married to his eldest son; but, unfortunately, as she was coming over to England she fell sick, and landing on one of the Orkney Islands, died there. A great commotion immediately began in Scotland, where as many as thirteen noisy claimants to the vacant throne started up and made a general confusion.

About thirteen years after King Edward's coronation, Alexander the Third, the King of Scotland, died from a fall off his horse. He had been married to Margaret, King Edward's sister. Since all their children had died, the Scottish crown passed to a young princess who was only eight years old, the daughter of Eric, King of Norway, who had married a daughter of the late king. King Edward suggested that the Maiden of Norway, as this princess was known, should be betrothed to his eldest son; however, as she was traveling to England, she fell ill and landed on one of the Orkney Islands, where she died. This sparked a huge uproar in Scotland, with as many as thirteen noisy claimants emerging for the vacant throne and causing general chaos.

King Edward being much renowned for his sagacity and justice, it seems to have been agreed to refer the dispute to him. He accepted the trust, and went, with an army, to the Border-land where England and Scotland joined. There, he called upon the Scottish gentlemen to meet him at the Castle of Norham, on the English side of the river Tweed; and to that Castle they came. But, before he would take any step in the business, he required those Scottish gentlemen, one and all, to do homage to him as their superior Lord; and when they hesitated, he said, ‘By holy Edward, whose crown I wear, I will have my rights, or I will die in maintaining them!’ The Scottish gentlemen, who had not expected this, were disconcerted, and asked for three weeks to think about it.

King Edward, known for his wisdom and fairness, was chosen to settle the dispute. He accepted the responsibility and marched with an army to the border where England and Scotland meet. There, he summoned the Scottish nobles to meet him at the Castle of Norham, on the English side of the River Tweed; and they came to the castle. However, before taking any action, he demanded that all the Scottish nobles swear loyalty to him as their superior Lord. When they hesitated, he declared, "By holy Edward, whose crown I wear, I will claim my rights, or I will die defending them!" The Scottish nobles, caught off guard by this demand, asked for three weeks to consider it.

At the end of the three weeks, another meeting took place, on a green plain on the Scottish side of the river. Of all the competitors for the Scottish throne, there were only two who had any real claim, in right of their near kindred to the Royal Family. These were John Baliol and Robert Bruce: and the right was, I have no doubt, on the side of John Baliol. At this particular meeting John Baliol was not present, but Robert Bruce was; and on Robert Bruce being formally asked whether he acknowledged the King of England for his superior lord, he answered, plainly and distinctly, Yes, he did. Next day, John Baliol appeared, and said the same. This point settled, some arrangements were made for inquiring into their titles.

At the end of three weeks, another meeting took place on a green field on the Scottish side of the river. Out of all the competitors for the Scottish throne, only two had any real claim through their close relation to the Royal Family. These were John Balliol and Robert the Bruce: and I have no doubt that the rightful claim belonged to John Baliol. At this particular meeting, John Baliol was absent, but Robert Bruce was there; when Robert Bruce was formally asked if he acknowledged the King of England as his superior lord, he replied clearly and directly, Yes, he did. The next day, John Baliol showed up and said the same. With that point settled, some arrangements were made to investigate their titles.

The inquiry occupied a pretty long time—more than a year. While it was going on, King Edward took the opportunity of making a journey through Scotland, and calling upon the Scottish people of all degrees to acknowledge themselves his vassals, or be imprisoned until they did. In the meanwhile, Commissioners were appointed to conduct the inquiry, a Parliament was held at Berwick about it, the two claimants were heard at full length, and there was a vast amount of talking. At last, in the great hall of the Castle of Berwick, the King gave judgment in favour of John Baliol: who, consenting to receive his crown by the King of England’s favour and permission, was crowned at Scone, in an old stone chair which had been used for ages in the abbey there, at the coronations of Scottish Kings. Then, King Edward caused the great seal of Scotland, used since the late King’s death, to be broken in four pieces, and placed in the English Treasury; and considered that he now had Scotland (according to the common saying) under his thumb.

The investigation took quite a while—over a year. During this time, King Edward took the opportunity to travel through Scotland, urging the Scottish people of all classes to recognize him as their lord, or face imprisonment until they did. Meanwhile, Commissioners were appointed to oversee the inquiry, a Parliament was convened in Berwick about it, the two claimants were fully heard, and there was a lot of discussion. Finally, in the great hall of the Castle of Berwick, the King ruled in favor of John Baliol, who agreed to accept his crown with the favor and permission of the King of England. He was crowned at Scone, in an ancient stone chair that had been used for centuries in the abbey there during the coronations of Scottish kings. Then, King Edward ordered the great seal of Scotland, which had been in use since the late King's death, to be broken into four pieces and placed in the English Treasury; he believed he now had Scotland (as the saying goes) under his control.

Scotland had a strong will of its own yet, however. King Edward, determined that the Scottish King should not forget he was his vassal, summoned him repeatedly to come and defend himself and his judges before the English Parliament when appeals from the decisions of Scottish courts of justice were being heard. At length, John Baliol, who had no great heart of his own, had so much heart put into him by the brave spirit of the Scottish people, who took this as a national insult, that he refused to come any more. Thereupon, the King further required him to help him in his war abroad (which was then in progress), and to give up, as security for his good behaviour in future, the three strong Scottish Castles of Jedburgh, Roxburgh, and Berwick. Nothing of this being done; on the contrary, the Scottish people concealing their King among their mountains in the Highlands and showing a determination to resist; Edward marched to Berwick with an army of thirty thousand foot, and four thousand horse; took the Castle, and slew its whole garrison, and the inhabitants of the town as well—men, women, and children. Lord Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, then went on to the Castle of Dunbar, before which a battle was fought, and the whole Scottish army defeated with great slaughter. The victory being complete, the Earl of Surrey was left as guardian of Scotland; the principal offices in that kingdom were given to Englishmen; the more powerful Scottish Nobles were obliged to come and live in England; the Scottish crown and sceptre were brought away; and even the old stone chair was carried off and placed in Westminster Abbey, where you may see it now. Baliol had the Tower of London lent him for a residence, with permission to range about within a circle of twenty miles. Three years afterwards he was allowed to go to Normandy, where he had estates, and where he passed the remaining six years of his life: far more happily, I dare say, than he had lived for a long while in angry Scotland.

Scotland had its own strong will, though. King Edward, determined that the Scottish King should not forget he was his vassal, repeatedly summoned him to come and defend himself and his judges before the English Parliament when appeals from the decisions of Scottish courts were being heard. Eventually, John Baliol, who didn’t have much spirit of his own, gained enough courage from the brave spirit of the Scottish people—who viewed this as a national insult—that he refused to come anymore. After that, the King further demanded he assist in the war abroad (which was ongoing at the time) and hand over the three strong Scottish castles of Jedburgh, Roxburgh, and Berwick as security for his future good behavior. Nothing came of this; on the contrary, the Scottish people hid their King among the mountains in the Highlands and showed a strong desire to resist. Edward marched to Berwick with an army of thirty thousand infantry and four thousand cavalry; he took the castle, slaughtered its entire garrison, and killed all the townspeople—men, women, and children. Lord Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, then went on to the Castle of Dunbar, where a battle was fought and the whole Scottish army was defeated with heavy losses. The victory being complete, the Earl of Surrey was left as guardian of Scotland; the main offices in that kingdom were given to Englishmen; the more powerful Scottish nobles were forced to live in England; the Scottish crown and scepter were taken away, and even the old stone chair was carried off and placed in Westminster Abbey, where you can see it today. Baliol was lent the Tower of London for a residence, with permission to roam within a twenty-mile radius. Three years later, he was allowed to go to Normandy, where he had estates, and he spent the remaining six years of his life there—far happier, I dare say, than he had been for a long time in troubled Scotland.

Now, there was, in the West of Scotland, a gentleman of small fortune, named William Wallace, the second son of a Scottish knight. He was a man of great size and great strength; he was very brave and daring; when he spoke to a body of his countrymen, he could rouse them in a wonderful manner by the power of his burning words; he loved Scotland dearly, and he hated England with his utmost might. The domineering conduct of the English who now held the places of trust in Scotland made them as intolerable to the proud Scottish people as they had been, under similar circumstances, to the Welsh; and no man in all Scotland regarded them with so much smothered rage as William Wallace. One day, an Englishman in office, little knowing what he was, affronted him. Wallace instantly struck him dead, and taking refuge among the rocks and hills, and there joining with his countryman, Sir William Douglas, who was also in arms against King Edward, became the most resolute and undaunted champion of a people struggling for their independence that ever lived upon the earth.

In the West of Scotland, there was a gentleman with a modest fortune named William Wallace, the second son of a Scottish knight. He was a large and strong man, known for his bravery and boldness. When he addressed a group of his fellow countrymen, he could inspire them remarkably with the passion of his words. He had a deep love for Scotland and harbored intense hatred for England. The overbearing behavior of the English officials who controlled Scotland was as unbearable to the proud Scots as it had been to the Welsh in similar situations, and no one in all of Scotland felt such suppressed anger toward them as William Wallace did. One day, an English official, unaware of who he was, insulted him. Wallace immediately killed him and took refuge in the hills and rocks, where he allied with his fellow countryman, Sir William Douglas, who was also fighting against King Edward. Together, they became the most determined and fearless champions of a people fighting for their independence that the world has ever known.

The English Guardian of the Kingdom fled before him, and, thus encouraged, the Scottish people revolted everywhere, and fell upon the English without mercy. The Earl of Surrey, by the King’s commands, raised all the power of the Border-counties, and two English armies poured into Scotland. Only one Chief, in the face of those armies, stood by Wallace, who, with a force of forty thousand men, awaited the invaders at a place on the river Forth, within two miles of Stirling. Across the river there was only one poor wooden bridge, called the bridge of Kildean—so narrow, that but two men could cross it abreast. With his eyes upon this bridge, Wallace posted the greater part of his men among some rising grounds, and waited calmly. When the English army came up on the opposite bank of the river, messengers were sent forward to offer terms. Wallace sent them back with a defiance, in the name of the freedom of Scotland. Some of the officers of the Earl of Surrey in command of the English, with their eyes also on the bridge, advised him to be discreet and not hasty. He, however, urged to immediate battle by some other officers, and particularly by Cressingham, King Edward’s treasurer, and a rash man, gave the word of command to advance. One thousand English crossed the bridge, two abreast; the Scottish troops were as motionless as stone images. Two thousand English crossed; three thousand, four thousand, five. Not a feather, all this time, had been seen to stir among the Scottish bonnets. Now, they all fluttered. ‘Forward, one party, to the foot of the Bridge!’ cried Wallace, ‘and let no more English cross! The rest, down with me on the five thousand who have come over, and cut them all to pieces!’ It was done, in the sight of the whole remainder of the English army, who could give no help. Cressingham himself was killed, and the Scotch made whips for their horses of his skin.

The English Guardian of the Kingdom ran away, and this motivated the Scottish people to rise up against the English everywhere, attacking them fiercely. The Earl of Surrey, following the King's orders, gathered all the troops from the Border counties, and two English armies advanced into Scotland. Only one Chief stood with Wallace in the face of those armies. He awaited the invaders with a force of forty thousand men at a location on the River Forth, just two miles from Stirling. There was only one flimsy wooden bridge across the river, known as the bridge of Kildean—it was so narrow that only two men could cross it side by side. Keeping his eyes on this bridge, Wallace placed most of his men on some rising ground and waited calmly. When the English army arrived on the opposite bank of the river, they sent messengers to offer terms. Wallace rejected them defiantly, asserting the freedom of Scotland. Some of the Earl of Surrey's officers in charge of the English, also eyeing the bridge, advised him to be cautious and patient. However, he was pushed towards an immediate battle by some other officers, especially by Cressingham, King Edward’s treasurer, who was reckless and urged him to advance. One thousand English crossed the bridge, two at a time; the Scottish troops remained as still as statues. Two thousand English crossed; then three thousand, four thousand, and five. Not a single Scottish feather moved during all this time. Then they all stirred. “Forward, one group, to the foot of the Bridge!” Wallace shouted. “And let no more English cross! The rest, come down with me to attack the five thousand who have come over and take them all out!” It was accomplished right before the eyes of the rest of the English army, who could do nothing to help. Cressingham himself was killed, and the Scots made whips for their horses from his skin.

King Edward was abroad at this time, and during the successes on the Scottish side which followed, and which enabled bold Wallace to win the whole country back again, and even to ravage the English borders. But, after a few winter months, the King returned, and took the field with more than his usual energy. One night, when a kick from his horse as they both lay on the ground together broke two of his ribs, and a cry arose that he was killed, he leaped into his saddle, regardless of the pain he suffered, and rode through the camp. Day then appearing, he gave the word (still, of course, in that bruised and aching state) Forward! and led his army on to near Falkirk, where the Scottish forces were seen drawn up on some stony ground, behind a morass. Here, he defeated Wallace, and killed fifteen thousand of his men. With the shattered remainder, Wallace drew back to Stirling; but, being pursued, set fire to the town that it might give no help to the English, and escaped. The inhabitants of Perth afterwards set fire to their houses for the same reason, and the King, unable to find provisions, was forced to withdraw his army.

King Edward was overseas at this time, and during the successes on the Scottish side that followed, bold Wallace managed to reclaim the entire country and even attack the English borders. But after a few winter months, the King returned and entered the battlefield with more energy than usual. One night, when a kick from his horse while they were both on the ground broke two of his ribs, a shout went up that he was dead. He jumped into his saddle, ignoring the pain, and rode through the camp. As day broke, he issued the command (still, of course, in that bruised and aching state) to move forward! and led his army toward Falkirk, where the Scottish forces were positioned on some rocky ground behind a swamp. There, he defeated Wallace and killed fifteen thousand of his men. With the few survivors, Wallace retreated to Stirling, but while being pursued, he set fire to the town to deny any assistance to the English and managed to escape. The people of Perth later burned their houses for the same reason, and the King, unable to find supplies, was forced to pull back his army.

Another Robert Bruce, the grandson of him who had disputed the Scottish crown with Baliol, was now in arms against the King (that elder Bruce being dead), and also John Comyn, Baliol’s nephew. These two young men might agree in opposing Edward, but could agree in nothing else, as they were rivals for the throne of Scotland. Probably it was because they knew this, and knew what troubles must arise even if they could hope to get the better of the great English King, that the principal Scottish people applied to the Pope for his interference. The Pope, on the principle of losing nothing for want of trying to get it, very coolly claimed that Scotland belonged to him; but this was a little too much, and the Parliament in a friendly manner told him so.

Another Robert the Bruce, the grandson of the man who had contested the Scottish crown with Baliol, was now fighting against the King (that older Bruce was dead), along with John Comyn, Baliol’s nephew. These two young men could unite against Edward, but they could agree on nothing else, as they were rivals for the throne of Scotland. They likely understood that, and realized the troubles that would arise even if they had a chance of defeating the powerful English King, which is why the leading Scottish figures appealed to the Pope for help. The Pope, not wanting to miss an opportunity, casually claimed that Scotland belonged to him; but this was a bit excessive, and Parliament politely informed him of that.

In the spring time of the year one thousand three hundred and three, the King sent Sir John Segrave, whom he made Governor of Scotland, with twenty thousand men, to reduce the rebels. Sir John was not as careful as he should have been, but encamped at Rosslyn, near Edinburgh, with his army divided into three parts. The Scottish forces saw their advantage; fell on each part separately; defeated each; and killed all the prisoners. Then, came the King himself once more, as soon as a great army could be raised; he passed through the whole north of Scotland, laying waste whatsoever came in his way; and he took up his winter quarters at Dunfermline. The Scottish cause now looked so hopeless, that Comyn and the other nobles made submission and received their pardons. Wallace alone stood out. He was invited to surrender, though on no distinct pledge that his life should be spared; but he still defied the ireful King, and lived among the steep crags of the Highland glens, where the eagles made their nests, and where the mountain torrents roared, and the white snow was deep, and the bitter winds blew round his unsheltered head, as he lay through many a pitch-dark night wrapped up in his plaid. Nothing could break his spirit; nothing could lower his courage; nothing could induce him to forget or to forgive his country’s wrongs. Even when the Castle of Stirling, which had long held out, was besieged by the King with every kind of military engine then in use; even when the lead upon cathedral roofs was taken down to help to make them; even when the King, though an old man, commanded in the siege as if he were a youth, being so resolved to conquer; even when the brave garrison (then found with amazement to be not two hundred people, including several ladies) were starved and beaten out and were made to submit on their knees, and with every form of disgrace that could aggravate their sufferings; even then, when there was not a ray of hope in Scotland, William Wallace was as proud and firm as if he had beheld the powerful and relentless Edward lying dead at his feet.

In the spring of the year 1303, the King sent Sir John Segrave, whom he appointed as Governor of Scotland, with twenty thousand men to deal with the rebels. Sir John wasn't as cautious as he should have been and set up camp at Rosslyn, near Edinburgh, with his army split into three parts. The Scottish forces saw their chance, attacked each part separately, defeated them, and killed all the prisoners. Then, the King himself returned as soon as he could gather a large army; he swept through northern Scotland, destroying everything in his path, and took up his winter quarters at Dunfermline. The Scottish cause now seemed so hopeless that Comyn and the other nobles surrendered and received pardons. Only Wallace held out. He was invited to surrender without any guarantee of his life being spared; yet he still defied the furious King, living among the steep cliffs of the Highlands, where eagles nested and mountain torrents roared, where deep snow lay and bitter winds whipped around his exposed head as he spent many dark nights wrapped in his plaid. Nothing could break his spirit; nothing could weaken his courage; nothing could make him forget or forgive the wrongs done to his country. Even when the Castle of Stirling, which had held out for a long time, was besieged by the King using every kind of military equipment available; even when lead from cathedral roofs was taken down to aid in making them; even when the King, though old, commanded the siege with the zeal of youth, determined to conquer; even when the brave garrison (shockingly found to be fewer than two hundred people, including several women) was starved, beaten, and forced to submit on their knees in the most humiliating conditions; even then, when there was no glimmer of hope in Scotland, William Wallace remained as proud and resolute as if he had seen the powerful and unyielding Edward lying dead at his feet.

Who betrayed William Wallace in the end, is not quite certain. That he was betrayed—probably by an attendant—is too true. He was taken to the Castle of Dumbarton, under Sir John Menteith, and thence to London, where the great fame of his bravery and resolution attracted immense concourses of people to behold him. He was tried in Westminster Hall, with a crown of laurel on his head—it is supposed because he was reported to have said that he ought to wear, or that he would wear, a crown there and was found guilty as a robber, a murderer, and a traitor. What they called a robber (he said to those who tried him) he was, because he had taken spoil from the King’s men. What they called a murderer, he was, because he had slain an insolent Englishman. What they called a traitor, he was not, for he had never sworn allegiance to the King, and had ever scorned to do it. He was dragged at the tails of horses to West Smithfield, and there hanged on a high gallows, torn open before he was dead, beheaded, and quartered. His head was set upon a pole on London Bridge, his right arm was sent to Newcastle, his left arm to Berwick, his legs to Perth and Aberdeen. But, if King Edward had had his body cut into inches, and had sent every separate inch into a separate town, he could not have dispersed it half so far and wide as his fame. Wallace will be remembered in songs and stories, while there are songs and stories in the English tongue, and Scotland will hold him dear while her lakes and mountains last.

Who betrayed William Wallace in the end isn’t completely clear. What is true is that he was definitely betrayed—probably by someone close to him. He was taken to Dumbarton Castle by Sir John Menteith, and then brought to London, where his legendary bravery drew huge crowds who came to see him. He was tried in Westminster Hall, wearing a crown of laurel on his head—it's believed he claimed he should wear one there—and was found guilty of robbery, murder, and treason. He told those judging him that he was considered a robber because he had taken spoils from the King’s men. They called him a murderer because he had killed an arrogant Englishman. But he argued he was not a traitor, since he had never sworn allegiance to the King and had always rejected the idea. He was dragged by horses to West Smithfield, where he was hanged on a high gallows, disemboweled before dying, beheaded, and quartered. His head was displayed on a pole on London Bridge, his right arm was sent to Newcastle, his left to Berwick, and his legs to Perth and Aberdeen. Yet, even if King Edward had cut his body into tiny pieces and sent each piece to different towns, it wouldn’t have spread his legacy as far and wide as his fame. Wallace will be remembered in songs and stories as long as the English language exists, and Scotland will cherish him as long as her lakes and mountains endure.

Released from this dreaded enemy, the King made a fairer plan of Government for Scotland, divided the offices of honour among Scottish gentlemen and English gentlemen, forgave past offences, and thought, in his old age, that his work was done.

Released from this feared enemy, the King created a better plan for governing Scotland, distributed positions of honor among Scottish and English gentlemen, forgave previous offenses, and believed, in his old age, that his work was complete.

But he deceived himself. Comyn and Bruce conspired, and made an appointment to meet at Dumfries, in the church of the Minorites. There is a story that Comyn was false to Bruce, and had informed against him to the King; that Bruce was warned of his danger and the necessity of flight, by receiving, one night as he sat at supper, from his friend the Earl of Gloucester, twelve pennies and a pair of spurs; that as he was riding angrily to keep his appointment (through a snow-storm, with his horse’s shoes reversed that he might not be tracked), he met an evil-looking serving man, a messenger of Comyn, whom he killed, and concealed in whose dress he found letters that proved Comyn’s treachery. However this may be, they were likely enough to quarrel in any case, being hot-headed rivals; and, whatever they quarrelled about, they certainly did quarrel in the church where they met, and Bruce drew his dagger and stabbed Comyn, who fell upon the pavement. When Bruce came out, pale and disturbed, the friends who were waiting for him asked what was the matter? ‘I think I have killed Comyn,’ said he. ‘You only think so?’ returned one of them; ‘I will make sure!’ and going into the church, and finding him alive, stabbed him again and again. Knowing that the King would never forgive this new deed of violence, the party then declared Bruce King of Scotland: got him crowned at Scone—without the chair; and set up the rebellious standard once again.

But he was fooling himself. Comyn and Bruce plotted together and arranged to meet at Dumfries, in the church of the Minorites. There’s a story that Comyn betrayed Bruce by informing the King about him; Bruce was warned of his danger and the need to escape when he received, one night as he was having dinner, twelve pennies and a pair of spurs from his friend, the Earl of Gloucester. As he rode angrily to keep his appointment (through a snowstorm, with his horse's shoes reversed so he wouldn’t be tracked), he encountered a sinister-looking servant, a messenger from Comyn, whom he killed. In the man's clothing, he found letters that proved Comyn’s treachery. Regardless of the details, it was highly likely they would have ended up quarreling since they were both hot-headed rivals; and whatever they argued about, they definitely did fight in the church where they met. Bruce drew his dagger and stabbed Comyn, who collapsed onto the floor. When Bruce came out, pale and shaken, his friends who were waiting asked him what happened. "I think I killed Comyn," he replied. "You only think so?" one of them said; “I’ll make sure!” and went into the church, finding Comyn still alive, he stabbed him over and over. Knowing the King would never forgive this act of violence, the group then declared Bruce the King of Scotland and had him crowned at Scone—without the chair—and raised the banner of rebellion once more.

When the King heard of it he kindled with fiercer anger than he had ever shown yet. He caused the Prince of Wales and two hundred and seventy of the young nobility to be knighted—the trees in the Temple Gardens were cut down to make room for their tents, and they watched their armour all night, according to the old usage: some in the Temple Church: some in Westminster Abbey—and at the public Feast which then took place, he swore, by Heaven, and by two swans covered with gold network which his minstrels placed upon the table, that he would avenge the death of Comyn, and would punish the false Bruce. And before all the company, he charged the Prince his son, in case that he should die before accomplishing his vow, not to bury him until it was fulfilled. Next morning the Prince and the rest of the young Knights rode away to the Border-country to join the English army; and the King, now weak and sick, followed in a horse-litter.

When the King heard about it, he became angrier than he had ever been before. He had the Prince of Wales and two hundred seventy young nobles knighted—the trees in the Temple Gardens were cut down to make space for their tents, and they watched over their armor all night, following the old custom: some in the Temple Church, some in Westminster Abbey. During the public Feast that followed, he swore, by Heaven and by two swans covered in gold netting placed on the table by his minstrels, that he would avenge Comyn's death and punish the false Bruce. In front of everyone, he told his son the Prince that if he died before fulfilling his vow, he was not to be buried until it was done. The next morning, the Prince and the other young knights rode out to the Border country to join the English army, while the now weak and sick King followed in a horse-litter.

Bruce, after losing a battle and undergoing many dangers and much misery, fled to Ireland, where he lay concealed through the winter. That winter, Edward passed in hunting down and executing Bruce’s relations and adherents, sparing neither youth nor age, and showing no touch of pity or sign of mercy. In the following spring, Bruce reappeared and gained some victories. In these frays, both sides were grievously cruel. For instance—Bruce’s two brothers, being taken captives desperately wounded, were ordered by the King to instant execution. Bruce’s friend Sir John Douglas, taking his own Castle of Douglas out of the hands of an English Lord, roasted the dead bodies of the slaughtered garrison in a great fire made of every movable within it; which dreadful cookery his men called the Douglas Larder. Bruce, still successful, however, drove the Earl of Pembroke and the Earl of Gloucester into the Castle of Ayr and laid siege to it.

Bruce, after losing a battle and facing many dangers and hardships, fled to Ireland, where he stayed hidden throughout the winter. During that winter, Edward spent his time hunting down and executing Bruce’s relatives and supporters, showing no mercy to either the young or the old. The following spring, Bruce returned and achieved some victories. In these battles, both sides committed brutal acts. For example, Bruce’s two brothers, who were captured and severely wounded, were ordered by the King to be executed on the spot. Bruce’s friend Sir John Douglas, taking back his Castle of Douglas from an English Lord, burned the bodies of the slain garrison in a large fire made from everything movable inside; his men referred to this gruesome act as the Douglas Larder. Nevertheless, Bruce continued to be successful, driving the Earl of Pembroke and the Earl of Gloucester into the Castle of Ayr and laying siege to it.

The King, who had been laid up all the winter, but had directed the army from his sick-bed, now advanced to Carlisle, and there, causing the litter in which he had travelled to be placed in the Cathedral as an offering to Heaven, mounted his horse once more, and for the last time. He was now sixty-nine years old, and had reigned thirty-five years. He was so ill, that in four days he could go no more than six miles; still, even at that pace, he went on and resolutely kept his face towards the Border. At length, he lay down at the village of Burgh-upon-Sands; and there, telling those around him to impress upon the Prince that he was to remember his father’s vow, and was never to rest until he had thoroughly subdued Scotland, he yielded up his last breath.

The King, who had been sick all winter but had led the army from his sickbed, now moved to Carlisle. He had his travel litter placed in the Cathedral as an offering to Heaven and mounted his horse once more, for the last time. He was now sixty-nine years old and had reigned for thirty-five years. He was so ill that in four days he could only manage six miles; still, even at that slow pace, he continued and resolutely faced the Border. Finally, he lay down at the village of Burgh-upon-Sands, where he asked those around him to remind the Prince that he needed to remember his father's vow and never rest until he had fully conquered Scotland. He then took his last breath.

CHAPTER XVII—ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SECOND

King Edward the Second, the first Prince of Wales, was twenty-three years old when his father died. There was a certain favourite of his, a young man from Gascony, named Piers Gaveston, of whom his father had so much disapproved that he had ordered him out of England, and had made his son swear by the side of his sick-bed, never to bring him back. But, the Prince no sooner found himself King, than he broke his oath, as so many other Princes and Kings did (they were far too ready to take oaths), and sent for his dear friend immediately.

King Edward the Second, the first Prince of Wales, was twenty-three years old when his father passed away. There was a certain favorite of his, a young man from Gascony named Piers Gaveston, whom his father had disapproved of so strongly that he ordered him out of England and made his son swear by his sickbed never to bring him back. But as soon as the Prince became King, he broke his oath, like so many other Princes and Kings did (they were far too eager to take oaths), and immediately sent for his dear friend.

Now, this same Gaveston was handsome enough, but was a reckless, insolent, audacious fellow. He was detested by the proud English Lords: not only because he had such power over the King, and made the Court such a dissipated place, but, also, because he could ride better than they at tournaments, and was used, in his impudence, to cut very bad jokes on them; calling one, the old hog; another, the stage-player; another, the Jew; another, the black dog of Ardenne. This was as poor wit as need be, but it made those Lords very wroth; and the surly Earl of Warwick, who was the black dog, swore that the time should come when Piers Gaveston should feel the black dog’s teeth.

Now, this same Gaveston was quite handsome, but he was also reckless, arrogant, and bold. He was hated by the proud English Lords, not only because he had so much influence over the King and turned the Court into such a wild place, but also because he could outride them in tournaments and, in his arrogance, made really bad jokes about them; calling one the old hog, another the stage-actor, another the Jew, and another the black dog of Ardenne. His jokes were pretty weak, but they made those Lords extremely angry; and the grumpy Earl of Warwick, who was known as the black dog, swore that a day would come when Piers Gaveston would feel the bite of the black dog.

It was not come yet, however, nor did it seem to be coming. The King made him Earl of Cornwall, and gave him vast riches; and, when the King went over to France to marry the French Princess, Isabella, daughter of Philip le Bel: who was said to be the most beautiful woman in the world: he made Gaveston, Regent of the Kingdom. His splendid marriage-ceremony in the Church of Our Lady at Boulogne, where there were four Kings and three Queens present (quite a pack of Court Cards, for I dare say the Knaves were not wanting), being over, he seemed to care little or nothing for his beautiful wife; but was wild with impatience to meet Gaveston again.

It hadn't arrived yet, though it didn't seem like it was on the way. The King made him the Earl of Cornwall and gave him a fortune; and when the King went to France to marry the French Princess, Isabella, the daughter of Philip IV: who was said to be the most beautiful woman in the world: he appointed Gaveston as Regent of the Kingdom. After his lavish wedding ceremony at the Church of Our Lady in Boulogne, where there were four Kings and three Queens present (quite a deck of Court Cards, I’m sure the Jacks were around too), he seemed to care very little for his beautiful wife; instead, he was almost frantic to see Gaveston again.

When he landed at home, he paid no attention to anybody else, but ran into the favourite’s arms before a great concourse of people, and hugged him, and kissed him, and called him his brother. At the coronation which soon followed, Gaveston was the richest and brightest of all the glittering company there, and had the honour of carrying the crown. This made the proud Lords fiercer than ever; the people, too, despised the favourite, and would never call him Earl of Cornwall, however much he complained to the King and asked him to punish them for not doing so, but persisted in styling him plain Piers Gaveston.

When he got home, he ignored everyone else and ran straight into the favorite's arms in front of a large crowd, hugging him, kissing him, and calling him his brother. At the coronation that followed, Gaveston was the richest and most dazzling of all the glittering company there and had the honor of carrying the crown. This made the proud Lords even more furious; the people also looked down on the favorite and refused to call him Earl of Cornwall, no matter how much he complained to the King and asked him to punish them for not doing so, insisting on referring to him simply as Piers Gaveston.

The Barons were so unceremonious with the King in giving him to understand that they would not bear this favourite, that the King was obliged to send him out of the country. The favourite himself was made to take an oath (more oaths!) that he would never come back, and the Barons supposed him to be banished in disgrace, until they heard that he was appointed Governor of Ireland. Even this was not enough for the besotted King, who brought him home again in a year’s time, and not only disgusted the Court and the people by his doting folly, but offended his beautiful wife too, who never liked him afterwards.

The Barons were extremely blunt with the King, making it clear that they wouldn’t tolerate his favorite, so the King had no choice but to exile him. The favorite had to take an oath (more oaths!) promising he would never return, and the Barons thought he was banished in shame until they found out he was appointed Governor of Ireland. Even that wasn’t enough for the infatuated King, who brought him back after a year, causing not only the Court and the people to be disgusted by his foolishness but also upsetting his beautiful wife, who never liked him again.

He had now the old Royal want—of money—and the Barons had the new power of positively refusing to let him raise any. He summoned a Parliament at York; the Barons refused to make one, while the favourite was near him. He summoned another Parliament at Westminster, and sent Gaveston away. Then, the Barons came, completely armed, and appointed a committee of themselves to correct abuses in the state and in the King’s household. He got some money on these conditions, and directly set off with Gaveston to the Border-country, where they spent it in idling away the time, and feasting, while Bruce made ready to drive the English out of Scotland. For, though the old King had even made this poor weak son of his swear (as some say) that he would not bury his bones, but would have them boiled clean in a caldron, and carried before the English army until Scotland was entirely subdued, the second Edward was so unlike the first that Bruce gained strength and power every day.

He now faced the old royal need for money, while the Barons had the new ability to flat-out refuse to let him raise any. He called a Parliament in York, but the Barons declined to participate while his favorite was around. He held another Parliament in Westminster and sent Gaveston away. Then, the Barons showed up, fully armed, and set up a committee among themselves to address issues in the state and in the King’s household. He managed to get some money under these conditions and immediately left with Gaveston for the Border country, where they spent it on leisure and feasting while Bruce prepared to drive the English out of Scotland. Although the old King had reportedly made this weak son of his swear that he wouldn’t bury his bones but would have them boiled clean in a cauldron and carried before the English army until Scotland was completely conquered, the second Edward was so different from the first that Bruce grew stronger and more powerful every day.

The committee of Nobles, after some months of deliberation, ordained that the King should henceforth call a Parliament together, once every year, and even twice if necessary, instead of summoning it only when he chose. Further, that Gaveston should once more be banished, and, this time, on pain of death if he ever came back. The King’s tears were of no avail; he was obliged to send his favourite to Flanders. As soon as he had done so, however, he dissolved the Parliament, with the low cunning of a mere fool, and set off to the North of England, thinking to get an army about him to oppose the Nobles. And once again he brought Gaveston home, and heaped upon him all the riches and titles of which the Barons had deprived him.

The committee of nobles, after several months of discussions, decided that the King should now call a Parliament every year, and even twice if necessary, instead of only summoning it when he wanted. Additionally, they decreed that Gaveston should be banished again, this time under the threat of death if he returned. The King’s tears didn’t help; he had to send his favorite to Flanders. However, as soon as he did that, he dissolved the Parliament, with the sneaky cleverness of a fool, and headed to Northern England, hoping to gather an army to oppose the nobles. Once again, he brought Gaveston back and showered him with all the wealth and titles that the barons had taken away.

The Lords saw, now, that there was nothing for it but to put the favourite to death. They could have done so, legally, according to the terms of his banishment; but they did so, I am sorry to say, in a shabby manner. Led by the Earl of Lancaster, the King’s cousin, they first of all attacked the King and Gaveston at Newcastle. They had time to escape by sea, and the mean King, having his precious Gaveston with him, was quite content to leave his lovely wife behind. When they were comparatively safe, they separated; the King went to York to collect a force of soldiers; and the favourite shut himself up, in the meantime, in Scarborough Castle overlooking the sea. This was what the Barons wanted. They knew that the Castle could not hold out; they attacked it, and made Gaveston surrender. He delivered himself up to the Earl of Pembroke—that Lord whom he had called the Jew—on the Earl’s pledging his faith and knightly word, that no harm should happen to him and no violence be done him.

The lords realized they had no choice but to execute the favorite. They could have done it legally, based on the terms of his banishment, but unfortunately, they resorted to a cowardly method. Led by the Earl of Lancaster, the King’s cousin, they first attacked the King and Gaveston in Newcastle. They had a chance to escape by sea, and the mean King, wanting to keep his precious Gaveston safe, was perfectly fine with leaving his beautiful wife behind. Once they were relatively safe, they split up; the King went to York to gather a group of soldiers, while the favorite locked himself in Scarborough Castle, which overlooks the sea. This was exactly what the Barons wanted. They knew the Castle couldn’t withstand a siege; they attacked it and forced Gaveston to surrender. He gave himself up to the Earl of Pembroke—the Lord he had previously called the Jew—after the Earl promised on his honor that no harm would come to him and no violence would be inflicted upon him.

Now, it was agreed with Gaveston that he should be taken to the Castle of Wallingford, and there kept in honourable custody. They travelled as far as Dedington, near Banbury, where, in the Castle of that place, they stopped for a night to rest. Whether the Earl of Pembroke left his prisoner there, knowing what would happen, or really left him thinking no harm, and only going (as he pretended) to visit his wife, the Countess, who was in the neighbourhood, is no great matter now; in any case, he was bound as an honourable gentleman to protect his prisoner, and he did not do it. In the morning, while the favourite was yet in bed, he was required to dress himself and come down into the court-yard. He did so without any mistrust, but started and turned pale when he found it full of strange armed men. ‘I think you know me?’ said their leader, also armed from head to foot. ‘I am the black dog of Ardenne!’ The time was come when Piers Gaveston was to feel the black dog’s teeth indeed. They set him on a mule, and carried him, in mock state and with military music, to the black dog’s kennel—Warwick Castle—where a hasty council, composed of some great noblemen, considered what should be done with him. Some were for sparing him, but one loud voice—it was the black dog’s bark, I dare say—sounded through the Castle Hall, uttering these words: ‘You have the fox in your power. Let him go now, and you must hunt him again.’

Now, it was agreed with Gaveston that he would be taken to Wallingford Castle and kept there under honorable custody. They traveled as far as Dedington, near Banbury, where they stopped for a night at the castle to rest. Whether the Earl of Pembroke left his prisoner there, knowing what would happen, or genuinely thought no harm would come and was only going (as he claimed) to visit his wife, the Countess, who was nearby, isn’t really important now; in any case, he was supposed to protect his prisoner as an honorable gentleman, and he failed to do so. In the morning, while the favorite was still in bed, he was asked to get dressed and come down to the courtyard. He did so without any suspicion but was shocked and turned pale when he saw it filled with strange armed men. “I think you know me?” said their leader, who was also fully armed. “I am the black dog of Ardenne!” The time had come for Piers Gaveston to truly feel the black dog’s bite. They placed him on a mule and paraded him, mockingly, with military music, to the black dog’s lair—Warwick Castle—where a hastily convened council of several noblemen discussed what to do with him. Some advocated for sparing him, but one loud voice—it was surely the black dog’s bark—echoed through the Castle Hall, declaring, “You have the fox in your grasp. Let him go now, and you will have to hunt him down again.”

They sentenced him to death. He threw himself at the feet of the Earl of Lancaster—the old hog—but the old hog was as savage as the dog. He was taken out upon the pleasant road, leading from Warwick to Coventry, where the beautiful river Avon, by which, long afterwards, William Shakespeare was born and now lies buried, sparkled in the bright landscape of the beautiful May-day; and there they struck off his wretched head, and stained the dust with his blood.

They sentenced him to death. He fell at the feet of the Earl of Lancaster—the old pig—but the old pig was as brutal as the dog. He was taken out on the nice road, leading from Warwick to Coventry, where the lovely river Avon, where, long after, Will Shakespeare was born and now lies buried, sparkled in the bright landscape of a beautiful May day; and there they chopped off his miserable head, staining the dust with his blood.

When the King heard of this black deed, in his grief and rage he denounced relentless war against his Barons, and both sides were in arms for half a year. But, it then became necessary for them to join their forces against Bruce, who had used the time well while they were divided, and had now a great power in Scotland.

When the King heard about this terrible act, he was filled with grief and anger, and he declared an unyielding war against his Barons. Both sides prepared for battle for six months. However, it soon became essential for them to unite their forces against Bruce, who had taken advantage of their division and had now gained significant power in Scotland.

Intelligence was brought that Bruce was then besieging Stirling Castle, and that the Governor had been obliged to pledge himself to surrender it, unless he should be relieved before a certain day. Hereupon, the King ordered the nobles and their fighting-men to meet him at Berwick; but, the nobles cared so little for the King, and so neglected the summons, and lost time, that only on the day before that appointed for the surrender, did the King find himself at Stirling, and even then with a smaller force than he had expected. However, he had, altogether, a hundred thousand men, and Bruce had not more than forty thousand; but, Bruce’s army was strongly posted in three square columns, on the ground lying between the Burn or Brook of Bannock and the walls of Stirling Castle.

Intelligence reported that Bruce was besieging Stirling Castle and that the Governor had been forced to promise to surrender unless he was relieved before a certain day. In response, the King ordered the nobles and their soldiers to meet him in Berwick. However, the nobles cared little for the King, ignored the call, and wasted time, so that only the day before the surrender was scheduled did the King arrive at Stirling, and even then with a smaller force than he had anticipated. Nevertheless, he had a total of one hundred thousand men, while Bruce had no more than forty thousand; but Bruce’s army was well-positioned in three square columns on the land between the Burn or Brook of Bannock and the walls of Stirling Castle.

On the very evening, when the King came up, Bruce did a brave act that encouraged his men. He was seen by a certain Henry de Bohun, an English Knight, riding about before his army on a little horse, with a light battle-axe in his hand, and a crown of gold on his head. This English Knight, who was mounted on a strong war-horse, cased in steel, strongly armed, and able (as he thought) to overthrow Bruce by crushing him with his mere weight, set spurs to his great charger, rode on him, and made a thrust at him with his heavy spear. Bruce parried the thrust, and with one blow of his battle-axe split his skull.

On the very evening that the King arrived, Bruce performed a courageous act that inspired his men. He was noticed by a certain Henry de Bohun, an English Knight, who was riding in front of his army on a small horse, holding a light battle-axe and wearing a crown of gold. This English Knight, mounted on a powerful war-horse, heavily armored in steel, confidently believed he could defeat Bruce by simply overpowering him with his weight. He spurred his massive horse forward, charged at Bruce, and attempted to strike him with his heavy spear. Bruce blocked the attack and, with a single swing of his battle-axe, split the Knight's skull.

The Scottish men did not forget this, next day when the battle raged. Randolph, Bruce’s valiant Nephew, rode, with the small body of men he commanded, into such a host of the English, all shining in polished armour in the sunlight, that they seemed to be swallowed up and lost, as if they had plunged into the sea. But, they fought so well, and did such dreadful execution, that the English staggered. Then came Bruce himself upon them, with all the rest of his army. While they were thus hard pressed and amazed, there appeared upon the hills what they supposed to be a new Scottish army, but what were really only the camp followers, in number fifteen thousand: whom Bruce had taught to show themselves at that place and time. The Earl of Gloucester, commanding the English horse, made a last rush to change the fortune of the day; but Bruce (like Jack the Giant-killer in the story) had had pits dug in the ground, and covered over with turfs and stakes. Into these, as they gave way beneath the weight of the horses, riders and horses rolled by hundreds. The English were completely routed; all their treasure, stores, and engines, were taken by the Scottish men; so many waggons and other wheeled vehicles were seized, that it is related that they would have reached, if they had been drawn out in a line, one hundred and eighty miles. The fortunes of Scotland were, for the time, completely changed; and never was a battle won, more famous upon Scottish ground, than this great battle of Bannockburn.

The Scottish men didn’t forget this the next day when the battle broke out. Randolph, Bruce’s brave nephew, led the small group of men he commanded into a massive crowd of English soldiers, all gleaming in polished armor under the sun, making them look like they had plunged into the sea. But they fought valiantly and caused such chaos that the English were thrown off balance. Then Bruce himself came to face them with the rest of his army. While they were under heavy attack and confused, what appeared on the hills looked like a new Scottish army, but they were actually just the camp followers, numbering fifteen thousand, whom Bruce had instructed to show up at that time and place. The Earl of Gloucester, in charge of the English cavalry, made a final charge to turn the tide of battle; but Bruce, like Jack the Giant-killer from the story, had pits dug in the ground and covered with grass and stakes. As the ground gave way under the weight of the horses, both riders and horses fell into these pits by the hundreds. The English were totally defeated; all their treasure, supplies, and equipment were captured by the Scots, and the number of wagons and other vehicles seized was so great that it's said if they were lined up, they would stretch for one hundred and eighty miles. The fate of Scotland was completely transformed at that moment, and no battle won on Scottish soil was as famous as this great battle of Bannockburn.

Plague and famine succeeded in England; and still the powerless King and his disdainful Lords were always in contention. Some of the turbulent chiefs of Ireland made proposals to Bruce, to accept the rule of that country. He sent his brother Edward to them, who was crowned King of Ireland. He afterwards went himself to help his brother in his Irish wars, but his brother was defeated in the end and killed. Robert Bruce, returning to Scotland, still increased his strength there.

Plague and famine hit England hard, and the helpless King and his scornful Lords were constantly in conflict. Some of Ireland's rebellious leaders approached Bruce with an offer to accept their rule. He sent his brother Edward to them, who was then crowned King of Ireland. Bruce later went himself to support his brother in the Irish battles, but ultimately his brother was defeated and killed. Robert Bruce returned to Scotland, continuing to build his power there.

As the King’s ruin had begun in a favourite, so it seemed likely to end in one. He was too poor a creature to rely at all upon himself; and his new favourite was one Hugh le Despenser, the son of a gentleman of ancient family. Hugh was handsome and brave, but he was the favourite of a weak King, whom no man cared a rush for, and that was a dangerous place to hold. The Nobles leagued against him, because the King liked him; and they lay in wait, both for his ruin and his father’s. Now, the King had married him to the daughter of the late Earl of Gloucester, and had given both him and his father great possessions in Wales. In their endeavours to extend these, they gave violent offence to an angry Welsh gentleman, named John de Mowbray, and to divers other angry Welsh gentlemen, who resorted to arms, took their castles, and seized their estates. The Earl of Lancaster had first placed the favourite (who was a poor relation of his own) at Court, and he considered his own dignity offended by the preference he received and the honours he acquired; so he, and the Barons who were his friends, joined the Welshmen, marched on London, and sent a message to the King demanding to have the favourite and his father banished. At first, the King unaccountably took it into his head to be spirited, and to send them a bold reply; but when they quartered themselves around Holborn and Clerkenwell, and went down, armed, to the Parliament at Westminster, he gave way, and complied with their demands.

As the King’s downfall had started with a favorite, it seemed likely to end with one too. He was too weak to depend on himself; his new favorite was a guy named Hugh le Despenser, the son of an old noble family. Hugh was handsome and brave, but he was favored by a weak King, whom no one respected, and that was a risky position to be in. The nobles banded together against him because the King liked him, waiting for both his and his father’s downfall. The King had married Hugh to the daughter of the late Earl of Gloucester and had granted both him and his father large lands in Wales. In their efforts to expand these lands, they seriously angered a Welsh gentleman named John de Mowbray, along with several other irate Welsh gentlemen, who took up arms, captured their castles, and seized their estates. The Earl of Lancaster had initially placed the favorite (who was a distant relative of his) at Court, and he felt his own status was slighted by the favor and honors Hugh received; so, he and the Barons who supported him allied with the Welsh, marched on London, and sent a message to the King, demanding that the favorite and his father be banished. At first, the King surprisingly decided to be defiant and sent a bold reply; but when the rebels set up camp around Holborn and Clerkenwell and marched armed to the Parliament in Westminster, he backed down and agreed to their demands.

His turn of triumph came sooner than he expected. It arose out of an accidental circumstance. The beautiful Queen happening to be travelling, came one night to one of the royal castles, and demanded to be lodged and entertained there until morning. The governor of this castle, who was one of the enraged lords, was away, and in his absence, his wife refused admission to the Queen; a scuffle took place among the common men on either side, and some of the royal attendants were killed. The people, who cared nothing for the King, were very angry that their beautiful Queen should be thus rudely treated in her own dominions; and the King, taking advantage of this feeling, besieged the castle, took it, and then called the two Despensers home. Upon this, the confederate lords and the Welshmen went over to Bruce. The King encountered them at Boroughbridge, gained the victory, and took a number of distinguished prisoners; among them, the Earl of Lancaster, now an old man, upon whose destruction he was resolved. This Earl was taken to his own castle of Pontefract, and there tried and found guilty by an unfair court appointed for the purpose; he was not even allowed to speak in his own defence. He was insulted, pelted, mounted on a starved pony without saddle or bridle, carried out, and beheaded. Eight-and-twenty knights were hanged, drawn, and quartered. When the King had despatched this bloody work, and had made a fresh and a long truce with Bruce, he took the Despensers into greater favour than ever, and made the father Earl of Winchester.

His moment of victory came sooner than he thought. It happened by chance. The beautiful Queen was traveling and one night arrived at one of the royal castles, requesting to be accommodated and entertained there until morning. The governor of this castle, who was one of the upset lords, was away, and in his absence, his wife refused to let the Queen in; a fight broke out between the common men on both sides, and some of the royal attendants were killed. The people, who didn’t care about the King, were furious that their beautiful Queen was treated so badly in her own lands; taking advantage of this anger, the King besieged the castle, captured it, and then summoned the two Despensers back home. As a result, the allied lords and the Welsh people sided with Bruce. The King confronted them at Boroughbridge, won the battle, and took several prominent prisoners, including the Earl of Lancaster, now an old man, whom he was determined to destroy. This Earl was taken to his own castle in Pontefract, where he was tried and found guilty by a biased court assembled for this purpose; he wasn’t even allowed to defend himself. He was humiliated, verbally assaulted, placed on a starved pony without a saddle or bridle, carried out, and beheaded. Twenty-eight knights were hanged, disemboweled, and drawn and quartered. After the King completed this bloody task and established a new, lengthy truce with Bruce, he favored the Despensers more than ever and made the father the Earl of Winchester.

One prisoner, and an important one, who was taken at Boroughbridge, made his escape, however, and turned the tide against the King. This was Roger Mortimer, always resolutely opposed to him, who was sentenced to death, and placed for safe custody in the Tower of London. He treated his guards to a quantity of wine into which he had put a sleeping potion; and, when they were insensible, broke out of his dungeon, got into a kitchen, climbed up the chimney, let himself down from the roof of the building with a rope-ladder, passed the sentries, got down to the river, and made away in a boat to where servants and horses were waiting for him. He finally escaped to France, where Charles le Bel, the brother of the beautiful Queen, was King. Charles sought to quarrel with the King of England, on pretence of his not having come to do him homage at his coronation. It was proposed that the beautiful Queen should go over to arrange the dispute; she went, and wrote home to the King, that as he was sick and could not come to France himself, perhaps it would be better to send over the young Prince, their son, who was only twelve years old, who could do homage to her brother in his stead, and in whose company she would immediately return. The King sent him: but, both he and the Queen remained at the French Court, and Roger Mortimer became the Queen’s lover.

One prisoner, and a significant one, who was captured at Boroughbridge managed to escape and turned the tide against the King. This was Roger Mortimer, who had always been firmly against him. He was sentenced to death and kept in secure custody in the Tower of London. He got his guards drunk on wine laced with a sleeping potion; once they were out cold, he broke out of his cell, made his way to the kitchen, climbed up the chimney, and lowered himself down from the roof with a rope ladder. He slipped past the guards, got down to the river, and took off in a boat where servants and horses were waiting for him. He eventually escaped to France, where Charles the Bald, the brother of the beautiful Queen, was king. Charles wanted to pick a fight with the King of England, claiming that he hadn't paid him homage during his coronation. It was suggested that the beautiful Queen should go over to sort out the dispute; she went and wrote back to the King, saying that since he was sick and couldn't come to France himself, it might be better to send their young son, who was just twelve years old, to pay homage to her brother on his behalf, and she would return with him immediately. The King agreed, but both the boy and the Queen ended up staying at the French Court, and Roger Mortimer became the Queen’s lover.

When the King wrote, again and again, to the Queen to come home, she did not reply that she despised him too much to live with him any more (which was the truth), but said she was afraid of the two Despensers. In short, her design was to overthrow the favourites’ power, and the King’s power, such as it was, and invade England. Having obtained a French force of two thousand men, and being joined by all the English exiles then in France, she landed, within a year, at Orewell, in Suffolk, where she was immediately joined by the Earls of Kent and Norfolk, the King’s two brothers; by other powerful noblemen; and lastly, by the first English general who was despatched to check her: who went over to her with all his men. The people of London, receiving these tidings, would do nothing for the King, but broke open the Tower, let out all his prisoners, and threw up their caps and hurrahed for the beautiful Queen.

When the King wrote repeatedly to the Queen asking her to come home, she didn’t say that she couldn’t stand him anymore (which was the truth), but claimed she was afraid of the two Despensers. In short, her plan was to take down the favorites’ power, the King’s power, whatever little there was, and invade England. After getting a French force of two thousand men and being joined by all the English exiles in France, she landed in Orewell, Suffolk, within a year. There, she was quickly joined by the Earls of Kent and Norfolk, the King’s two brothers, other powerful nobles, and finally, by the first English general sent to stop her, who switched sides with all his men. The people of London, hearing this news, refused to support the King, broke open the Tower, freed all his prisoners, and cheered for the beautiful Queen.

The King, with his two favourites, fled to Bristol, where he left old Despenser in charge of the town and castle, while he went on with the son to Wales. The Bristol men being opposed to the King, and it being impossible to hold the town with enemies everywhere within the walls, Despenser yielded it up on the third day, and was instantly brought to trial for having traitorously influenced what was called ‘the King’s mind’—though I doubt if the King ever had any. He was a venerable old man, upwards of ninety years of age, but his age gained no respect or mercy. He was hanged, torn open while he was yet alive, cut up into pieces, and thrown to the dogs. His son was soon taken, tried at Hereford before the same judge on a long series of foolish charges, found guilty, and hanged upon a gallows fifty feet high, with a chaplet of nettles round his head. His poor old father and he were innocent enough of any worse crimes than the crime of having been friends of a King, on whom, as a mere man, they would never have deigned to cast a favourable look. It is a bad crime, I know, and leads to worse; but, many lords and gentlemen—I even think some ladies, too, if I recollect right—have committed it in England, who have neither been given to the dogs, nor hanged up fifty feet high.

The King, along with his two favorites, escaped to Bristol, where he left old Despenser in charge of the town and castle while he went on to Wales with his son. The people of Bristol were against the King, and it became impossible to retain control of the town with enemies everywhere inside its walls. Despenser surrendered it on the third day and was immediately put on trial for allegedly having traitorously influenced what they called ‘the King’s mind’—though I'm not sure the King ever had one. He was a venerable old man, over ninety years old, but his age brought him no respect or mercy. He was hanged, ripped open while still alive, cut into pieces, and thrown to the dogs. His son was soon captured, tried in Hereford by the same judge on a long list of ridiculous charges, found guilty, and hanged on a fifty-foot tall gallows, with a wreath of nettles around his head. Both he and his poor old father were innocent of any worse crimes than being friends with a King, whom they would never have considered worthy of a positive glance if he weren't a royal. It’s a terrible crime, I know, and it leads to worse; yet, many lords and gentlemen—I even think some ladies too, if I recall correctly—have committed it in England, and they were neither fed to the dogs nor hanged fifty feet high.

The wretched King was running here and there, all this time, and never getting anywhere in particular, until he gave himself up, and was taken off to Kenilworth Castle. When he was safely lodged there, the Queen went to London and met the Parliament. And the Bishop of Hereford, who was the most skilful of her friends, said, What was to be done now? Here was an imbecile, indolent, miserable King upon the throne; wouldn’t it be better to take him off, and put his son there instead? I don’t know whether the Queen really pitied him at this pass, but she began to cry; so, the Bishop said, Well, my Lords and Gentlemen, what do you think, upon the whole, of sending down to Kenilworth, and seeing if His Majesty (God bless him, and forbid we should depose him!) won’t resign?

The miserable King was running around aimlessly, never really getting anywhere, until he gave up and was taken to Kenilworth Castle. Once he was safely settled there, the Queen went to London to meet with Parliament. The Bishop of Hereford, who was the most capable of her allies, asked what should be done next. Here was a foolish, lazy, and unfortunate King sitting on the throne; wouldn’t it be better to remove him and put his son in his place? I’m not sure if the Queen truly felt sorry for him at this point, but she started to cry. So, the Bishop said, "Well, my Lords and Gentlemen, what do you think about sending someone to Kenilworth to see if His Majesty (God bless him, and may we never think of dethroning him!) might resign?"

My Lords and Gentlemen thought it a good notion, so a deputation of them went down to Kenilworth; and there the King came into the great hall of the Castle, commonly dressed in a poor black gown; and when he saw a certain bishop among them, fell down, poor feeble-headed man, and made a wretched spectacle of himself. Somebody lifted him up, and then Sir William Trussel, the Speaker of the House of Commons, almost frightened him to death by making him a tremendous speech to the effect that he was no longer a King, and that everybody renounced allegiance to him. After which, Sir Thomas Blount, the Steward of the Household, nearly finished him, by coming forward and breaking his white wand—which was a ceremony only performed at a King’s death. Being asked in this pressing manner what he thought of resigning, the King said he thought it was the best thing he could do. So, he did it, and they proclaimed his son next day.

My Lords and Gentlemen thought it was a good idea, so a group of them went down to Kenilworth; and there the King came into the great hall of the Castle, usually dressed in a plain black robe; and when he saw a certain bishop among them, he fell down, a poor weak-minded man, and made a pathetic scene. Someone helped him up, and then Sir William Trussel, the Speaker of the House of Commons, nearly scared him to death with a huge speech declaring that he was no longer a King and that everyone renounced their loyalty to him. After that, Sir Thomas Blount, the Steward of the Household, nearly finished him off by stepping forward and breaking his white wand—which was a ceremony only done at a King’s death. When asked in such a demanding way what he thought about resigning, the King said he believed it was the best thing he could do. So, he did, and they proclaimed his son the next day.

I wish I could close his history by saying that he lived a harmless life in the Castle and the Castle gardens at Kenilworth, many years—that he had a favourite, and plenty to eat and drink—and, having that, wanted nothing. But he was shamefully humiliated. He was outraged, and slighted, and had dirty water from ditches given him to shave with, and wept and said he would have clean warm water, and was altogether very miserable. He was moved from this castle to that castle, and from that castle to the other castle, because this lord or that lord, or the other lord, was too kind to him: until at last he came to Berkeley Castle, near the River Severn, where (the Lord Berkeley being then ill and absent) he fell into the hands of two black ruffians, called Thomas Gournay and William Ogle.

I wish I could wrap up his story by saying that he lived a harmless life in the Castle and the Castle gardens at Kenilworth for many years—that he had a favorite and enough to eat and drink—and, with that, wanted for nothing. But he was sadly humiliated. He was insulted, ignored, and forced to use dirty ditch water to shave with, which made him cry and say he wanted clean warm water, and he was just very miserable. He was moved from this castle to that castle, and from one castle to another, because this lord or that lord, or another lord, was too kind to him: until finally, he ended up at Berkeley Castle, near the River Severn, where (with Lord Berkeley being ill and absent) he fell into the hands of two cruel thugs, named Thomas Gournay and William Ogle.

One night—it was the night of September the twenty-first, one thousand three hundred and twenty-seven—dreadful screams were heard, by the startled people in the neighbouring town, ringing through the thick walls of the Castle, and the dark, deep night; and they said, as they were thus horribly awakened from their sleep, ‘May Heaven be merciful to the King; for those cries forbode that no good is being done to him in his dismal prison!’ Next morning he was dead—not bruised, or stabbed, or marked upon the body, but much distorted in the face; and it was whispered afterwards, that those two villains, Gournay and Ogle, had burnt up his inside with a red-hot iron.

One night—it was the night of September 21, 1327—terrible screams were heard by the shocked people in the nearby town, echoing through the thick walls of the Castle and the dark, deep night. They said, as they were jolted awake, “May Heaven be merciful to the King; those cries suggest he is not being treated well in his grim prison!” The next morning, he was found dead—not bruised, stabbed, or marked on his body, but with his face severely distorted; and it was rumored later that those two villains, Gournay and Ogle, had burned his insides with a red-hot iron.

If you ever come near Gloucester, and see the centre tower of its beautiful Cathedral, with its four rich pinnacles, rising lightly in the air; you may remember that the wretched Edward the Second was buried in the old abbey of that ancient city, at forty-three years old, after being for nineteen years and a half a perfectly incapable King.

If you ever find yourself near Gloucester and see the central tower of its stunning Cathedral, with its four elaborate pinnacles soaring into the sky, you might recall that the unfortunate Edward the Second was buried in the old abbey of that historic city at the age of forty-three, after being a completely ineffective King for nineteen and a half years.

CHAPTER XVIII—ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE THIRD

Roger Mortimer, the Queen’s lover (who escaped to France in the last chapter), was far from profiting by the examples he had had of the fate of favourites. Having, through the Queen’s influence, come into possession of the estates of the two Despensers, he became extremely proud and ambitious, and sought to be the real ruler of England. The young King, who was crowned at fourteen years of age with all the usual solemnities, resolved not to bear this, and soon pursued Mortimer to his ruin.

Roger Mortimer, the Queen’s lover (who escaped to France in the last chapter), did not learn from the fates of other favorites. After gaining control of the estates of the two Despensers thanks to the Queen's influence, he became very proud and ambitious, aiming to be the real ruler of England. The young King, who was crowned at fourteen with all the usual ceremonies, decided he wouldn't tolerate this and quickly set out to bring Mortimer down.

The people themselves were not fond of Mortimer—first, because he was a Royal favourite; secondly, because he was supposed to have helped to make a peace with Scotland which now took place, and in virtue of which the young King’s sister Joan, only seven years old, was promised in marriage to David, the son and heir of Robert Bruce, who was only five years old. The nobles hated Mortimer because of his pride, riches, and power. They went so far as to take up arms against him; but were obliged to submit. The Earl of Kent, one of those who did so, but who afterwards went over to Mortimer and the Queen, was made an example of in the following cruel manner:

The people didn't really like Mortimer—first, because he was a favorite of the royal family; second, because he was believed to have helped arrange a peace deal with Scotland, which was now in effect. As part of this, the young King’s sister Joan, who was only seven, was promised in marriage to David, the son and heir of Robert Bruce, who was only five years old. The nobles despised Mortimer due to his arrogance, wealth, and power. They even took up arms against him but had to back down. The Earl of Kent, one of the nobles who did this but later switched sides to support Mortimer and the Queen, was made an example of in a particularly harsh way:

He seems to have been anything but a wise old earl; and he was persuaded by the agents of the favourite and the Queen, that poor King Edward the Second was not really dead; and thus was betrayed into writing letters favouring his rightful claim to the throne. This was made out to be high treason, and he was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to be executed. They took the poor old lord outside the town of Winchester, and there kept him waiting some three or four hours until they could find somebody to cut off his head. At last, a convict said he would do it, if the government would pardon him in return; and they gave him the pardon; and at one blow he put the Earl of Kent out of his last suspense.

He seemed anything but a wise old earl; he was convinced by the favorite’s agents and the Queen that poor King Edward the Second wasn't really dead. Because of this, he got tricked into writing letters supporting the King's claim to the throne. This was declared high treason, and he was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to execution. They took the poor old lord outside the town of Winchester, where they made him wait for about three or four hours until they could find someone to behead him. Finally, a convict said he would do it if the government would grant him a pardon in return; they gave him the pardon, and with one swift stroke, he ended the Earl of Kent’s final uncertainty.

While the Queen was in France, she had found a lovely and good young lady, named Philippa, who she thought would make an excellent wife for her son. The young King married this lady, soon after he came to the throne; and her first child, Edward, Prince of Wales, afterwards became celebrated, as we shall presently see, under the famous title of Edward the Black Prince.

While the Queen was in France, she discovered a lovely and kind young woman named Philippa, whom she believed would be a great wife for her son. The young King married her soon after he ascended the throne, and their first child, Edward, Prince of Wales, would later become renowned, as we will soon see, under the famous title of Edward the Black Prince.

The young King, thinking the time ripe for the downfall of Mortimer, took counsel with Lord Montacute how he should proceed. A Parliament was going to be held at Nottingham, and that lord recommended that the favourite should be seized by night in Nottingham Castle, where he was sure to be. Now, this, like many other things, was more easily said than done; because, to guard against treachery, the great gates of the Castle were locked every night, and the great keys were carried up-stairs to the Queen, who laid them under her own pillow. But the Castle had a governor, and the governor being Lord Montacute’s friend, confided to him how he knew of a secret passage underground, hidden from observation by the weeds and brambles with which it was overgrown; and how, through that passage, the conspirators might enter in the dead of the night, and go straight to Mortimer’s room. Accordingly, upon a certain dark night, at midnight, they made their way through this dismal place: startling the rats, and frightening the owls and bats: and came safely to the bottom of the main tower of the Castle, where the King met them, and took them up a profoundly-dark staircase in a deep silence. They soon heard the voice of Mortimer in council with some friends; and bursting into the room with a sudden noise, took him prisoner. The Queen cried out from her bed-chamber, ‘Oh, my sweet son, my dear son, spare my gentle Mortimer!’ They carried him off, however; and, before the next Parliament, accused him of having made differences between the young King and his mother, and of having brought about the death of the Earl of Kent, and even of the late King; for, as you know by this time, when they wanted to get rid of a man in those old days, they were not very particular of what they accused him. Mortimer was found guilty of all this, and was sentenced to be hanged at Tyburn. The King shut his mother up in genteel confinement, where she passed the rest of her life; and now he became King in earnest.

The young King, seeing the moment was right to take down Mortimer, consulted with Lord Montacute about how to move forward. A Parliament was set to take place in Nottingham, and that lord suggested they should capture the favorite at night in Nottingham Castle, where he would definitely be. However, this was one of those things that sounded easier than it really was; to prevent betrayal, the massive gates of the Castle were locked each night, and the keys were taken upstairs to the Queen, who kept them under her pillow. But the Castle had a governor, and since he was a friend of Lord Montacute, he shared that he knew of a secret underground passage, concealed by overgrown weeds and brambles. Through this passage, the conspirators could sneak in during the dead of night and head straight to Mortimer's room. So, on a particularly dark night at midnight, they made their way through this gloomy place, startling rats and scaring off owls and bats, and finally reached the bottom of the main tower of the Castle, where the King met them and led them up a pitch-black staircase in complete silence. They soon heard Mortimer talking with some associates, and bursting into the room with a sudden noise, captured him. The Queen called out from her chamber, “Oh, my sweet son, my dear son, spare my gentle Mortimer!” However, they took him away; and before the next Parliament, they accused him of causing a rift between the young King and his mother, as well as orchestrating the deaths of the Earl of Kent and even the late King. As you might have guessed by now, back in those days, when they wanted to get rid of someone, they didn’t care much about the truth of what they accused him of. Mortimer was found guilty of all charges and sentenced to be hanged at Tyburn. The King placed his mother in comfortable confinement, where she spent the rest of her life; and from then on, he truly became King.

The first effort he made was to conquer Scotland. The English lords who had lands in Scotland, finding that their rights were not respected under the late peace, made war on their own account: choosing for their general, Edward, the son of John Baliol, who made such a vigorous fight, that in less than two months he won the whole Scottish Kingdom. He was joined, when thus triumphant, by the King and Parliament; and he and the King in person besieged the Scottish forces in Berwick. The whole Scottish army coming to the assistance of their countrymen, such a furious battle ensued, that thirty thousand men are said to have been killed in it. Baliol was then crowned King of Scotland, doing homage to the King of England; but little came of his successes after all, for the Scottish men rose against him, within no very long time, and David Bruce came back within ten years and took his kingdom.

The first thing he tried to do was take over Scotland. The English lords who owned land in Scotland, realizing their rights were being ignored after the recent peace, decided to go to war on their own. They chose Edward, the son of John Baliol, as their leader. He fought so hard that in under two months, he captured the entire Scottish Kingdom. After his victory, he was joined by the King and Parliament; both he and the King personally laid siege to the Scottish forces in Berwick. When the entire Scottish army came to support their fellow countrymen, a fierce battle broke out, resulting in the deaths of about thirty thousand men. Baliol was then crowned King of Scotland, swearing loyalty to the King of England, but his victories didn't amount to much. Before long, the Scottish turned against him, and within ten years, David Bruce returned and took back his kingdom.

France was a far richer country than Scotland, and the King had a much greater mind to conquer it. So, he let Scotland alone, and pretended that he had a claim to the French throne in right of his mother. He had, in reality, no claim at all; but that mattered little in those times. He brought over to his cause many little princes and sovereigns, and even courted the alliance of the people of Flanders—a busy, working community, who had very small respect for kings, and whose head man was a brewer. With such forces as he raised by these means, Edward invaded France; but he did little by that, except run into debt in carrying on the war to the extent of three hundred thousand pounds. The next year he did better; gaining a great sea-fight in the harbour of Sluys. This success, however, was very shortlived, for the Flemings took fright at the siege of Saint Omer and ran away, leaving their weapons and baggage behind them. Philip, the French King, coming up with his army, and Edward being very anxious to decide the war, proposed to settle the difference by single combat with him, or by a fight of one hundred knights on each side. The French King said, he thanked him; but being very well as he was, he would rather not. So, after some skirmishing and talking, a short peace was made.

France was a much wealthier country than Scotland, and the King had a much stronger desire to conquer it. So, he left Scotland alone and pretended that he had a claim to the French throne through his mother. He had no real claim at all, but that didn’t matter much back then. He gathered support from many small princes and rulers, and even sought an alliance with the people of Flanders—a busy, working community that had little respect for kings, led by a brewer. With the forces he mobilized this way, Edward invaded France, but all he really did was rack up a debt of three hundred thousand pounds to fund the war. The next year went better for him; he won a major sea battle in the harbor of Sluys. However, this victory was short-lived, as the Flemings panicked during the siege of Saint Omer and fled, leaving their weapons and baggage behind. Philip, the French King, arrived with his army, and since Edward was eager to resolve the conflict, he proposed settling their differences through single combat or a battle between one hundred knights on each side. The French King politely declined, saying he was happy as he was. So, after a bit of skirmishing and discussion, a brief peace was established.

It was soon broken by King Edward’s favouring the cause of John, Earl of Montford; a French nobleman, who asserted a claim of his own against the French King, and offered to do homage to England for the Crown of France, if he could obtain it through England’s help. This French lord, himself, was soon defeated by the French King’s son, and shut up in a tower in Paris; but his wife, a courageous and beautiful woman, who is said to have had the courage of a man, and the heart of a lion, assembled the people of Brittany, where she then was; and, showing them her infant son, made many pathetic entreaties to them not to desert her and their young Lord. They took fire at this appeal, and rallied round her in the strong castle of Hennebon. Here she was not only besieged without by the French under Charles de Blois, but was endangered within by a dreary old bishop, who was always representing to the people what horrors they must undergo if they were faithful—first from famine, and afterwards from fire and sword. But this noble lady, whose heart never failed her, encouraged her soldiers by her own example; went from post to post like a great general; even mounted on horseback fully armed, and, issuing from the castle by a by-path, fell upon the French camp, set fire to the tents, and threw the whole force into disorder. This done, she got safely back to Hennebon again, and was received with loud shouts of joy by the defenders of the castle, who had given her up for lost. As they were now very short of provisions, however, and as they could not dine off enthusiasm, and as the old bishop was always saying, ‘I told you what it would come to!’ they began to lose heart, and to talk of yielding the castle up. The brave Countess retiring to an upper room and looking with great grief out to sea, where she expected relief from England, saw, at this very time, the English ships in the distance, and was relieved and rescued! Sir Walter Manning, the English commander, so admired her courage, that, being come into the castle with the English knights, and having made a feast there, he assaulted the French by way of dessert, and beat them off triumphantly. Then he and the knights came back to the castle with great joy; and the Countess who had watched them from a high tower, thanked them with all her heart, and kissed them every one.

It wasn’t long before King Edward started supporting John, the Earl of Montford, a French nobleman who claimed a right to the French throne. He promised to pledge loyalty to England for the Crown of France if he could get their help. The French nobleman was quickly defeated by the French King’s son and was imprisoned in a tower in Paris. However, his wife, a brave and beautiful woman said to possess the heart of a lion, rallied the people of Brittany, where she was at the time. Showing them her infant son, she made an emotional plea for them to stand by her and their young Lord. Inspired by her words, they gathered around her in the stronghold of Hennebon. But they faced a dual threat: the French forces led by Charles de Blois besieged them from the outside, and an old bishop, constantly warning them about the horrors of remaining loyal—first famine, then fire and sword—threatened their morale from within. Nevertheless, this noble lady remained steadfast, inspiring her soldiers with her courage. She moved around the castle like a skilled general, even riding out fully armed through a secret path to attack the French camp. She set their tents on fire, throwing their forces into chaos. After this successful raid, she returned safely to Hennebon, where the defenders, who had thought her lost, welcomed her with joyful cheers. Yet, with supplies running low and with the old bishop constantly reminding them, “I told you this would happen!” the defenders began to feel discouraged and talked about surrendering the castle. The brave Countess, retreating to an upper room and sorrowfully gazing out to sea for help from England, spotted English ships in the distance at that very moment and felt a surge of hope! Sir Walter Manning, the English commander, admired her courage so much that once he and the English knights entered the castle and threw a feast, he attacked the French as if it were part of dessert and drove them back successfully. He and the knights then returned to the castle in high spirits, and the Countess, who had been watching from a tall tower, expressed her heartfelt gratitude and kissed each of them.

This noble lady distinguished herself afterwards in a sea-fight with the French off Guernsey, when she was on her way to England to ask for more troops. Her great spirit roused another lady, the wife of another French lord (whom the French King very barbarously murdered), to distinguish herself scarcely less. The time was fast coming, however, when Edward, Prince of Wales, was to be the great star of this French and English war.

This noble lady later made a name for herself in a naval battle against the French off Guernsey while she was en route to England to request more troops. Her fierce courage inspired another lady, the wife of a different French lord (who was brutally murdered by the French King), to stand out as well. However, the time was quickly approaching when Edward, Prince of Wales, would become the standout figure in this French and English war.

It was in the month of July, in the year one thousand three hundred and forty-six, when the King embarked at Southampton for France, with an army of about thirty thousand men in all, attended by the Prince of Wales and by several of the chief nobles. He landed at La Hogue in Normandy; and, burning and destroying as he went, according to custom, advanced up the left bank of the River Seine, and fired the small towns even close to Paris; but, being watched from the right bank of the river by the French King and all his army, it came to this at last, that Edward found himself, on Saturday the twenty-sixth of August, one thousand three hundred and forty-six, on a rising ground behind the little French village of Crecy, face to face with the French King’s force. And, although the French King had an enormous army—in number more than eight times his—he there resolved to beat him or be beaten.

It was July in 1346 when the King set sail from Southampton to France with an army of about thirty thousand men, accompanied by the Prince of Wales and several prominent nobles. He landed at La Hogue in Normandy and, as was customary, burned and destroyed everything in his path while moving up the left bank of the River Seine, attacking even the small towns near Paris. However, the French King and his entire army kept a close watch from the right bank of the river. Eventually, on Saturday, August 26, 1346, Edward found himself on rising ground behind the small French village of Crecy, facing the French King’s forces. Despite the fact that the French King had an army more than eight times his size, Edward resolved to either defeat them or be defeated.

The young Prince, assisted by the Earl of Oxford and the Earl of Warwick, led the first division of the English army; two other great Earls led the second; and the King, the third. When the morning dawned, the King received the sacrament, and heard prayers, and then, mounted on horseback with a white wand in his hand, rode from company to company, and rank to rank, cheering and encouraging both officers and men. Then the whole army breakfasted, each man sitting on the ground where he had stood; and then they remained quietly on the ground with their weapons ready.

The young Prince, with the help of the Earl of Oxford and the Earl of Warwick, led the first division of the English army; two other prominent Earls led the second division, and the King led the third. When morning broke, the King took communion and listened to prayers, and then, mounted on horseback with a white stick in his hand, rode from company to company, and from rank to rank, motivating and uplifting both the officers and the troops. After that, the entire army had breakfast, each soldier sitting on the ground where they stood; then they stayed quietly on the ground with their weapons ready.

Up came the French King with all his great force. It was dark and angry weather; there was an eclipse of the sun; there was a thunder-storm, accompanied with tremendous rain; the frightened birds flew screaming above the soldiers’ heads. A certain captain in the French army advised the French King, who was by no means cheerful, not to begin the battle until the morrow. The King, taking this advice, gave the word to halt. But, those behind not understanding it, or desiring to be foremost with the rest, came pressing on. The roads for a great distance were covered with this immense army, and with the common people from the villages, who were flourishing their rude weapons, and making a great noise. Owing to these circumstances, the French army advanced in the greatest confusion; every French lord doing what he liked with his own men, and putting out the men of every other French lord.

Up came the French King with all his massive force. It was dark and stormy weather; there was a solar eclipse; a thunderstorm rolled in, pouring down heavy rain; the scared birds flew screaming above the soldiers’ heads. A certain captain in the French army advised the French King, who was definitely not cheerful, not to start the battle until the next day. The King, following this advice, ordered a halt. But those behind, not understanding it or wanting to get ahead with the rest, kept pushing forward. The roads stretched for miles, covered with this huge army and the local villagers, brandishing their makeshift weapons and making a lot of noise. Because of this, the French army advanced in total chaos; every French lord did as he pleased with his own men, disregarding the others.

Now, their King relied strongly upon a great body of cross-bowmen from Genoa; and these he ordered to the front to begin the battle, on finding that he could not stop it. They shouted once, they shouted twice, they shouted three times, to alarm the English archers; but, the English would have heard them shout three thousand times and would have never moved. At last the cross-bowmen went forward a little, and began to discharge their bolts; upon which, the English let fly such a hail of arrows, that the Genoese speedily made off—for their cross-bows, besides being heavy to carry, required to be wound up with a handle, and consequently took time to re-load; the English, on the other hand, could discharge their arrows almost as fast as the arrows could fly.

Now, their King heavily depended on a large group of crossbowmen from Genoa, whom he ordered to the front to start the battle when he realized he couldn't stop it. They shouted once, twice, three times to scare the English archers, but the English would have ignored their shouts even if they had heard them three thousand times. Eventually, the crossbowmen moved forward a bit and began to shoot their bolts; in response, the English unleashed such a barrage of arrows that the Genoese quickly retreated—because their crossbows, besides being heavy to carry, needed to be wound with a handle, which took time to reload. The English, on the other hand, could shoot their arrows almost as fast as the arrows could fly.

When the French King saw the Genoese turning, he cried out to his men to kill those scoundrels, who were doing harm instead of service. This increased the confusion. Meanwhile the English archers, continuing to shoot as fast as ever, shot down great numbers of the French soldiers and knights; whom certain sly Cornish-men and Welshmen, from the English army, creeping along the ground, despatched with great knives.

When the French King saw the Genoese turning, he shouted to his men to kill those scoundrels, who were causing harm instead of helping. This only added to the chaos. Meanwhile, the English archers kept shooting as quickly as ever, taking down a large number of French soldiers and knights. Some sneaky Cornishmen and Welshmen from the English army, creeping along the ground, finished them off with big knives.

The Prince and his division were at this time so hard-pressed, that the Earl of Warwick sent a message to the King, who was overlooking the battle from a windmill, beseeching him to send more aid.

The Prince and his unit were under such heavy pressure that the Earl of Warwick sent a message to the King, who was watching the battle from a windmill, pleading with him to send more support.

‘Is my son killed?’ said the King.

‘Is my son dead?’ said the King.

‘No, sire, please God,’ returned the messenger.

'No, sir, please God,' replied the messenger.

‘Is he wounded?’ said the King.

'Is he hurt?' asked the King.

‘No, sire.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Is he thrown to the ground?’ said the King.

‘Is he thrown to the ground?’ asked the King.

‘No, sire, not so; but, he is very hard-pressed.’

‘No, sir, that's not it; but he is extremely stressed.’

‘Then,’ said the King, ‘go back to those who sent you, and tell them I shall send no aid; because I set my heart upon my son proving himself this day a brave knight, and because I am resolved, please God, that the honour of a great victory shall be his!’

‘Then,’ said the King, ‘go back to those who sent you, and tell them I won’t offer any help; because I am determined that my son will prove himself a brave knight today, and I am resolved, God willing, that the honor of a great victory will be his!’

These bold words, being reported to the Prince and his division, so raised their spirits, that they fought better than ever. The King of France charged gallantly with his men many times; but it was of no use. Night closing in, his horse was killed under him by an English arrow, and the knights and nobles who had clustered thick about him early in the day, were now completely scattered. At last, some of his few remaining followers led him off the field by force since he would not retire of himself, and they journeyed away to Amiens. The victorious English, lighting their watch-fires, made merry on the field, and the King, riding to meet his gallant son, took him in his arms, kissed him, and told him that he had acted nobly, and proved himself worthy of the day and of the crown. While it was yet night, King Edward was hardly aware of the great victory he had gained; but, next day, it was discovered that eleven princes, twelve hundred knights, and thirty thousand common men lay dead upon the French side. Among these was the King of Bohemia, an old blind man; who, having been told that his son was wounded in the battle, and that no force could stand against the Black Prince, called to him two knights, put himself on horse-back between them, fastened the three bridles together, and dashed in among the English, where he was presently slain. He bore as his crest three white ostrich feathers, with the motto Ich dien, signifying in English ‘I serve.’ This crest and motto were taken by the Prince of Wales in remembrance of that famous day, and have been borne by the Prince of Wales ever since.

These bold words, being reported to the Prince and his division, lifted their spirits so much that they fought better than ever. The King of France charged bravely with his men several times, but it was pointless. As night fell, his horse was shot out from under him by an English arrow, and the knights and nobles who had grouped around him early in the day were now completely scattered. Ultimately, some of his remaining followers had to pull him off the field because he refused to leave on his own, and they made their way to Amiens. The victorious English, lighting their watch-fires, celebrated on the battlefield, while the King rode to meet his brave son, embraced him, kissed him, and told him that he had acted nobly and proved himself worthy of the day and the crown. While it was still night, King Edward barely realized the significant victory he had achieved; however, the next day, it was discovered that eleven princes, twelve hundred knights, and thirty thousand common men lay dead on the French side. Among them was the King of Bohemia, an old blind man, who, upon hearing that his son was wounded in the battle and that no force could withstand the Black Prince, called two knights to him, mounted his horse with their help, tied the three bridles together, and charged into the English ranks, where he was soon killed. He carried a crest of three white ostrich feathers, with the motto Ich dien, meaning in English ‘I serve.’ This crest and motto were adopted by the Prince of Wales in memory of that famous day and have been carried by the Prince of Wales ever since.

Five days after this great battle, the King laid siege to Calais. This siege—ever afterwards memorable—lasted nearly a year. In order to starve the inhabitants out, King Edward built so many wooden houses for the lodgings of his troops, that it is said their quarters looked like a second Calais suddenly sprung around the first. Early in the siege, the governor of the town drove out what he called the useless mouths, to the number of seventeen hundred persons, men and women, young and old. King Edward allowed them to pass through his lines, and even fed them, and dismissed them with money; but, later in the siege, he was not so merciful—five hundred more, who were afterwards driven out, dying of starvation and misery. The garrison were so hard-pressed at last, that they sent a letter to King Philip, telling him that they had eaten all the horses, all the dogs, and all the rats and mice that could be found in the place; and, that if he did not relieve them, they must either surrender to the English, or eat one another. Philip made one effort to give them relief; but they were so hemmed in by the English power, that he could not succeed, and was fain to leave the place. Upon this they hoisted the English flag, and surrendered to King Edward. ‘Tell your general,’ said he to the humble messengers who came out of the town, ‘that I require to have sent here, six of the most distinguished citizens, bare-legged, and in their shirts, with ropes about their necks; and let those six men bring with them the keys of the castle and the town.’

Five days after this major battle, the King laid siege to Calais. This siege—which would be remembered for years—lasted nearly a year. To starve the inhabitants out, King Edward built so many wooden houses for his troops that it’s said their camp looked like a second Calais suddenly sprung up around the first. Early in the siege, the governor of the town expelled what he considered the useless mouths, totaling around seventeen hundred people, men and women, young and old. King Edward allowed them to pass through his lines, even fed them, and sent them away with money; however, later in the siege, he wasn't so merciful—five hundred more were expelled, dying from starvation and suffering. The garrison was so desperate that they sent a letter to King Philip, saying they had eaten all the horses, dogs, and any rats and mice they could find; and if he didn’t help them, they would either surrender to the English or resort to cannibalism. Philip made one attempt to help them, but they were so trapped by the English forces that he couldn’t succeed and had to leave. At this point, they raised the English flag and surrendered to King Edward. “Tell your general,” he said to the humble messengers who came from the town, “that I require six of the most distinguished citizens to be sent here, bare-legged and in their shirts, with ropes around their necks; and let those six men bring with them the keys to the castle and the town.”

When the Governor of Calais related this to the people in the Market-place, there was great weeping and distress; in the midst of which, one worthy citizen, named Eustace de Saint Pierre, rose up and said, that if the six men required were not sacrificed, the whole population would be; therefore, he offered himself as the first. Encouraged by this bright example, five other worthy citizens rose up one after another, and offered themselves to save the rest. The Governor, who was too badly wounded to be able to walk, mounted a poor old horse that had not been eaten, and conducted these good men to the gate, while all the people cried and mourned.

When the Governor of Calais shared this with the people in the Market-place, there was a lot of crying and distress; in the midst of this, a brave citizen named Eustace de Saint Pierre stood up and said that if the six men were not sacrificed, the entire population would be at risk; therefore, he offered himself as the first. Inspired by this courageous act, five other honorable citizens stepped up one by one and volunteered to save the rest. The Governor, who was too badly injured to walk, got on a poor old horse that hadn’t been eaten and led these good men to the gate, while the crowd wept and mourned.

Edward received them wrathfully, and ordered the heads of the whole six to be struck off. However, the good Queen fell upon her knees, and besought the King to give them up to her. The King replied, ‘I wish you had been somewhere else; but I cannot refuse you.’ So she had them properly dressed, made a feast for them, and sent them back with a handsome present, to the great rejoicing of the whole camp. I hope the people of Calais loved the daughter to whom she gave birth soon afterwards, for her gentle mother’s sake.

Edward received them angrily and ordered the execution of all six. However, the good Queen fell to her knees and pleaded with the King to spare them. The King responded, “I wish you were somewhere else, but I can’t say no to you.” So, she had them properly dressed, prepared a feast for them, and sent them back with a generous gift, much to the delight of the entire camp. I hope the people of Calais loved the daughter she gave birth to soon after, for her kind mother’s sake.

Now came that terrible disease, the Plague, into Europe, hurrying from the heart of China; and killed the wretched people—especially the poor—in such enormous numbers, that one-half of the inhabitants of England are related to have died of it. It killed the cattle, in great numbers, too; and so few working men remained alive, that there were not enough left to till the ground.

Now the terrible disease, the Plague, arrived in Europe, rushing in from central China, and it devastated the population—especially the poor—at such a staggering rate that it’s said half of England's residents perished from it. It also wiped out a significant number of livestock, and so few workers survived that there weren’t enough left to farm the land.

After eight years of differing and quarrelling, the Prince of Wales again invaded France with an army of sixty thousand men. He went through the south of the country, burning and plundering wheresoever he went; while his father, who had still the Scottish war upon his hands, did the like in Scotland, but was harassed and worried in his retreat from that country by the Scottish men, who repaid his cruelties with interest.

After eight years of disagreements and fighting, the Prince of Wales once again invaded France with an army of sixty thousand men. He moved through the south of the country, burning and looting wherever he went; while his father, still dealing with the war in Scotland, did the same in Scotland but was chased and bothered in his retreat by the Scots, who paid him back for his cruelty.

The French King, Philip, was now dead, and was succeeded by his son John. The Black Prince, called by that name from the colour of the armour he wore to set off his fair complexion, continuing to burn and destroy in France, roused John into determined opposition; and so cruel had the Black Prince been in his campaign, and so severely had the French peasants suffered, that he could not find one who, for love, or money, or the fear of death, would tell him what the French King was doing, or where he was. Thus it happened that he came upon the French King’s forces, all of a sudden, near the town of Poitiers, and found that the whole neighbouring country was occupied by a vast French army. ‘God help us!’ said the Black Prince, ‘we must make the best of it.’

The French King, Philip, had now died and was succeeded by his son John. The Black Prince, known by that name because of the color of his armor that contrasted with his fair complexion, continued to wreak havoc in France, spurring John into strong resistance. The Black Prince had been so ruthless in his campaign, and the French peasants had suffered so greatly, that he couldn't find anyone who, for love, money, or even the fear of death, would tell him what the French King was up to or where he was located. As a result, he unexpectedly encountered the French King's forces near the town of Poitiers and discovered that the entire surrounding area was occupied by a massive French army. "God help us!" said the Black Prince, "we must make the best of it."

So, on a Sunday morning, the eighteenth of September, the Prince whose army was now reduced to ten thousand men in all—prepared to give battle to the French King, who had sixty thousand horse alone. While he was so engaged, there came riding from the French camp, a Cardinal, who had persuaded John to let him offer terms, and try to save the shedding of Christian blood. ‘Save my honour,’ said the Prince to this good priest, ‘and save the honour of my army, and I will make any reasonable terms.’ He offered to give up all the towns, castles, and prisoners, he had taken, and to swear to make no war in France for seven years; but, as John would hear of nothing but his surrender, with a hundred of his chief knights, the treaty was broken off, and the Prince said quietly—‘God defend the right; we shall fight to-morrow.’

So, on a Sunday morning, September 18th, the Prince, whose army was now down to ten thousand men, got ready to battle the French King, who had sixty thousand cavalry alone. While he was preparing, a Cardinal rode over from the French camp. He had convinced John to let him propose terms to try to avoid the spilling of Christian blood. "Save my honor," the Prince told this kind priest, "and save the honor of my army, and I'll agree to any reasonable terms." He offered to give up all the towns, castles, and prisoners he had taken and to promise not to wage war in France for seven years. However, since John would only consider his surrender, the talks fell apart, and the Prince calmly said, "God defend the right; we shall fight tomorrow."

Therefore, on the Monday morning, at break of day, the two armies prepared for battle. The English were posted in a strong place, which could only be approached by one narrow lane, skirted by hedges on both sides. The French attacked them by this lane; but were so galled and slain by English arrows from behind the hedges, that they were forced to retreat. Then went six hundred English bowmen round about, and, coming upon the rear of the French army, rained arrows on them thick and fast. The French knights, thrown into confusion, quitted their banners and dispersed in all directions. Said Sir John Chandos to the Prince, ‘Ride forward, noble Prince, and the day is yours. The King of France is so valiant a gentleman, that I know he will never fly, and may be taken prisoner.’ Said the Prince to this, ‘Advance, English banners, in the name of God and St. George!’ and on they pressed until they came up with the French King, fighting fiercely with his battle-axe, and, when all his nobles had forsaken him, attended faithfully to the last by his youngest son Philip, only sixteen years of age. Father and son fought well, and the King had already two wounds in his face, and had been beaten down, when he at last delivered himself to a banished French knight, and gave him his right-hand glove in token that he had done so.

Therefore, on that Monday morning, at dawn, the two armies got ready for battle. The English were positioned in a strong spot that could only be accessed by a narrow lane lined with hedges on both sides. The French attacked through this lane, but they were pounded and killed by English arrows coming from behind the hedges, forcing them to retreat. Then six hundred English archers went around and, hitting the rear of the French army, showered them with arrows. The French knights, thrown into disarray, abandoned their banners and scattered in all directions. Sir John Chandos said to the Prince, "Charge ahead, noble Prince, and victory will be yours. The King of France is such a brave man that I know he will never run away and may be captured." The Prince replied, "Advance, English banners, in the name of God and St. George!" and they pushed on until they caught up with the French King, who was fiercely fighting with his battle-axe, accompanied to the very end by his youngest son Philip, who was only sixteen years old, after all his nobles had left him. Father and son fought valiantly, and the King had already taken two wounds to his face and had been knocked down when he finally surrendered to a banished French knight, giving him his right-hand glove as a sign that he had done so.

The Black Prince was generous as well as brave, and he invited his royal prisoner to supper in his tent, and waited upon him at table, and, when they afterwards rode into London in a gorgeous procession, mounted the French King on a fine cream-coloured horse, and rode at his side on a little pony. This was all very kind, but I think it was, perhaps, a little theatrical too, and has been made more meritorious than it deserved to be; especially as I am inclined to think that the greatest kindness to the King of France would have been not to have shown him to the people at all. However, it must be said, for these acts of politeness, that, in course of time, they did much to soften the horrors of war and the passions of conquerors. It was a long, long time before the common soldiers began to have the benefit of such courtly deeds; but they did at last; and thus it is possible that a poor soldier who asked for quarter at the battle of Waterloo, or any other such great fight, may have owed his life indirectly to Edward the Black Prince.

The Black Prince was both generous and brave. He invited his royal prisoner to dinner in his tent and served him at the table. Later, when they rode into London in a grand procession, he placed the French King on a beautiful cream-colored horse and rode beside him on a small pony. While this was very kind, it might also have been a bit theatrical, and it seems to be viewed as more commendable than it truly was. I think the greatest kindness to the King of France would have been to not display him to the people at all. However, it should be noted that these acts of politeness eventually helped soften the horrors of war and the emotions of conquerors. It took a long time for regular soldiers to benefit from such courteous actions, but they eventually did. So, it’s possible that a poor soldier who asked for mercy at the Battle of Waterloo, or other significant battles, might have indirectly owed his life to Edward the Black Prince.

At this time there stood in the Strand, in London, a palace called the Savoy, which was given up to the captive King of France and his son for their residence. As the King of Scotland had now been King Edward’s captive for eleven years too, his success was, at this time, tolerably complete. The Scottish business was settled by the prisoner being released under the title of Sir David, King of Scotland, and by his engaging to pay a large ransom. The state of France encouraged England to propose harder terms to that country, where the people rose against the unspeakable cruelty and barbarity of its nobles; where the nobles rose in turn against the people; where the most frightful outrages were committed on all sides; and where the insurrection of the peasants, called the insurrection of the Jacquerie, from Jacques, a common Christian name among the country people of France, awakened terrors and hatreds that have scarcely yet passed away. A treaty called the Great Peace, was at last signed, under which King Edward agreed to give up the greater part of his conquests, and King John to pay, within six years, a ransom of three million crowns of gold. He was so beset by his own nobles and courtiers for having yielded to these conditions—though they could help him to no better—that he came back of his own will to his old palace-prison of the Savoy, and there died.

At this time, there was a palace called the Savoy in the Strand, London, which was given to the captive King of France and his son to live in. The King of Scotland had also been captive under King Edward for eleven years, so his situation was fairly complete at this point. The Scottish issue was resolved by the prisoner being released under the title of Sir David, King of Scotland, and by his agreeing to pay a large ransom. The state of France pushed England to offer tougher terms to that country, where people were rising up against the unimaginable cruelty and brutality of their nobles; the nobles, in turn, rose against the people; the most horrific acts were happening everywhere; and the peasant uprising, known as the Jacquerie—named after Jacques, a common Christian name among rural people in France—sparked fears and hatreds that still linger today. A treaty called the Great Peace was finally signed, under which King Edward agreed to give up most of his conquests, and King John was to pay a ransom of three million crowns of gold within six years. He was so pressured by his own nobles and courtiers for giving in to these terms—despite their inability to propose anything better—that he willingly returned to his old palace-prison at the Savoy, where he died.

There was a Sovereign of Castile at that time, called Pedro the Cruel, who deserved the name remarkably well: having committed, among other cruelties, a variety of murders. This amiable monarch being driven from his throne for his crimes, went to the province of Bordeaux, where the Black Prince—now married to his cousin Joan, a pretty widow—was residing, and besought his help. The Prince, who took to him much more kindly than a prince of such fame ought to have taken to such a ruffian, readily listened to his fair promises, and agreeing to help him, sent secret orders to some troublesome disbanded soldiers of his and his father’s, who called themselves the Free Companions, and who had been a pest to the French people, for some time, to aid this Pedro. The Prince, himself, going into Spain to head the army of relief, soon set Pedro on his throne again—where he no sooner found himself, than, of course, he behaved like the villain he was, broke his word without the least shame, and abandoned all the promises he had made to the Black Prince.

There was a King of Castile at that time, called Pedro the Terrible, who truly earned that name: he had committed many murders and other brutal acts. This charming monarch, driven from his throne because of his crimes, went to the province of

Now, it had cost the Prince a good deal of money to pay soldiers to support this murderous King; and finding himself, when he came back disgusted to Bordeaux, not only in bad health, but deeply in debt, he began to tax his French subjects to pay his creditors. They appealed to the French King, Charles; war again broke out; and the French town of Limoges, which the Prince had greatly benefited, went over to the French King. Upon this he ravaged the province of which it was the capital; burnt, and plundered, and killed in the old sickening way; and refused mercy to the prisoners, men, women, and children taken in the offending town, though he was so ill and so much in need of pity himself from Heaven, that he was carried in a litter. He lived to come home and make himself popular with the people and Parliament, and he died on Trinity Sunday, the eighth of June, one thousand three hundred and seventy-six, at forty-six years old.

Now, it had cost the Prince a lot of money to pay soldiers to support this ruthless King; and when he returned to Bordeaux feeling disgusted, he found himself not only in poor health but also heavily in debt. He started taxing his French subjects to pay back his creditors. They appealed to the French King, Charles; war broke out again, and the French town of Limoges, which the Prince had greatly benefited from, sided with the French King. In response, he ravaged the province where it was the capital, burning, looting, and killing in the same dreadful manner as before; and he showed no mercy to the prisoners, men, women, and children taken from the rebellious town, even though he was so ill and needed compassion himself from Heaven that he had to be carried in a litter. He lived to return home and gain popularity with the people and Parliament, and he died on Trinity Sunday, June 8, 1376, at the age of forty-six.

The whole nation mourned for him as one of the most renowned and beloved princes it had ever had; and he was buried with great lamentations in Canterbury Cathedral. Near to the tomb of Edward the Confessor, his monument, with his figure, carved in stone, and represented in the old black armour, lying on its back, may be seen at this day, with an ancient coat of mail, a helmet, and a pair of gauntlets hanging from a beam above it, which most people like to believe were once worn by the Black Prince.

The entire country mourned for him as one of the most famous and loved princes it had ever known, and he was buried with great sorrow in Canterbury Cathedral. Close to the tomb of Edward the Confessor, his monument, featuring his figure carved in stone and dressed in old black armor, lies on its back and can still be seen today, along with an ancient coat of mail, a helmet, and a pair of gauntlets hanging from a beam above it, which many people like to believe were once worn by the Black Prince.

King Edward did not outlive his renowned son, long. He was old, and one Alice Perrers, a beautiful lady, had contrived to make him so fond of her in his old age, that he could refuse her nothing, and made himself ridiculous. She little deserved his love, or—what I dare say she valued a great deal more—the jewels of the late Queen, which he gave her among other rich presents. She took the very ring from his finger on the morning of the day when he died, and left him to be pillaged by his faithless servants. Only one good priest was true to him, and attended him to the last.

King Edward didn't live long after his famous son. He was old, and a beautiful lady named Alice Perrers had managed to capture his heart in his old age, to the point where he couldn't say no to her and ended up looking foolish. She didn't really deserve his affection, or—what I bet she valued even more—the jewels from the late Queen, which he gave her along with other lavish gifts. She even took the very ring off his finger on the morning he died and left him to be robbed by his unfaithful servants. Only one good priest remained loyal to him and stayed by his side until the end.

Besides being famous for the great victories I have related, the reign of King Edward the Third was rendered memorable in better ways, by the growth of architecture and the erection of Windsor Castle. In better ways still, by the rising up of Wickliffe, originally a poor parish priest: who devoted himself to exposing, with wonderful power and success, the ambition and corruption of the Pope, and of the whole church of which he was the head.

Besides being known for the great victories I've mentioned, King Edward the Third's reign is memorable for even better reasons, like the growth of architecture and the building of Windsor Castle. Even more significantly, it was marked by the rise of Wickliffe, who started as a humble parish priest. He dedicated himself to powerfully revealing the ambition and corruption of the Pope and the entire church he led.

Some of those Flemings were induced to come to England in this reign too, and to settle in Norfolk, where they made better woollen cloths than the English had ever had before. The Order of the Garter (a very fine thing in its way, but hardly so important as good clothes for the nation) also dates from this period. The King is said to have picked ‘up a lady’s garter at a ball, and to have said, Honi soit qui mal y pense—in English, ‘Evil be to him who evil thinks of it.’ The courtiers were usually glad to imitate what the King said or did, and hence from a slight incident the Order of the Garter was instituted, and became a great dignity. So the story goes.

Some of those Flemings were encouraged to move to England during this reign as well, and they settled in Norfolk, where they produced better woolen cloth than the English had ever made before. The Order of the Garter (a notable honor, but not as crucial as high-quality clothing for the nation) also originates from this time. It's said that the King picked up a lady's garter at a ball and stated, Honi soit qui mal y pense—which means ‘Evil be to him who evil thinks of it.’ The courtiers usually enjoyed mimicking what the King said or did, leading from a minor event to the establishment of the Order of the Garter, which became a significant honor. So the story goes.

CHAPTER XIX—ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE SECOND

Richard, son of the Black Prince, a boy eleven years of age, succeeded to the Crown under the title of King Richard the Second. The whole English nation were ready to admire him for the sake of his brave father. As to the lords and ladies about the Court, they declared him to be the most beautiful, the wisest, and the best—even of princes—whom the lords and ladies about the Court, generally declare to be the most beautiful, the wisest, and the best of mankind. To flatter a poor boy in this base manner was not a very likely way to develop whatever good was in him; and it brought him to anything but a good or happy end.

Richard, the son of the Black Prince, was an eleven-year-old boy who became King Richard the Second. The entire English nation was eager to admire him because of his brave father. As for the lords and ladies at Court, they proclaimed him to be the most handsome, the smartest, and the best—even among princes—who are usually described this way by those in the Court. Flattering a young boy in such a way was unlikely to foster any real goodness within him, and it ultimately led to anything but a good or happy outcome.

The Duke of Lancaster, the young King’s uncle—commonly called John of Gaunt, from having been born at Ghent, which the common people so pronounced—was supposed to have some thoughts of the throne himself; but, as he was not popular, and the memory of the Black Prince was, he submitted to his nephew.

The Duke of Lancaster, the young King’s uncle—often referred to as John of Gaunt because he was born in Ghent, which is how the common people pronounced it—was believed to have ambitions for the throne himself; however, since he wasn't popular and the Black Prince was remembered fondly, he went along with his nephew.

The war with France being still unsettled, the Government of England wanted money to provide for the expenses that might arise out of it; accordingly a certain tax, called the Poll-tax, which had originated in the last reign, was ordered to be levied on the people. This was a tax on every person in the kingdom, male and female, above the age of fourteen, of three groats (or three four-penny pieces) a year; clergymen were charged more, and only beggars were exempt.

The war with France still unresolved, the Government of England needed funds to cover potential expenses. As a result, they decided to impose a tax known as the Poll-tax, which had started in the previous reign. This tax was applied to everyone in the kingdom, male and female, over the age of fourteen, amounting to three groats (or three four-penny pieces) a year; clergymen had to pay more, and only beggars were exempt.

I have no need to repeat that the common people of England had long been suffering under great oppression. They were still the mere slaves of the lords of the land on which they lived, and were on most occasions harshly and unjustly treated. But, they had begun by this time to think very seriously of not bearing quite so much; and, probably, were emboldened by that French insurrection I mentioned in the last chapter.

I don’t need to say again that the common people of England had been suffering under severe oppression for a long time. They were still basically the slaves of the landowners they lived under, and they were often treated poorly and unfairly. However, by this point, they had started to seriously consider not putting up with it any longer; they were likely inspired by that French uprising I talked about in the last chapter.

The people of Essex rose against the Poll-tax, and being severely handled by the government officers, killed some of them. At this very time one of the tax-collectors, going his rounds from house to house, at Dartford in Kent came to the cottage of one Wat, a tiler by trade, and claimed the tax upon his daughter. Her mother, who was at home, declared that she was under the age of fourteen; upon that, the collector (as other collectors had already done in different parts of England) behaved in a savage way, and brutally insulted Wat Tyler’s daughter. The daughter screamed, the mother screamed. Wat the Tiler, who was at work not far off, ran to the spot, and did what any honest father under such provocation might have done—struck the collector dead at a blow.

The people of Essex revolted against the Poll Tax, and after being treated harshly by government officials, they killed some of them. At that same time, one of the tax collectors was going door to door in Dartford, Kent, when he came to the cottage of a guy named What, who was a tiler. He demanded the tax for Wat's daughter. Her mother, who was at home, said she was under fourteen. In response, the collector (like other collectors had done in different parts of England) acted violently and brutally insulted Wat Tyler's daughter. The daughter screamed, and the mother screamed. Wat the Tiler, who was working not far away, rushed to the scene and did what any decent father would do under such provocation—he struck the collector dead with one blow.

Instantly the people of that town uprose as one man. They made Wat Tyler their leader; they joined with the people of Essex, who were in arms under a priest called Jack Straw; they took out of prison another priest named John Ball; and gathering in numbers as they went along, advanced, in a great confused army of poor men, to Blackheath. It is said that they wanted to abolish all property, and to declare all men equal. I do not think this very likely; because they stopped the travellers on the roads and made them swear to be true to King Richard and the people. Nor were they at all disposed to injure those who had done them no harm, merely because they were of high station; for, the King’s mother, who had to pass through their camp at Blackheath, on her way to her young son, lying for safety in the Tower of London, had merely to kiss a few dirty-faced rough-bearded men who were noisily fond of royalty, and so got away in perfect safety. Next day the whole mass marched on to London Bridge.

Instantly, the people of that town rose up together. They made Wat Tyler their leader and joined forces with the people of Essex, who were armed under a priest named Jack Straw. They freed another priest called John Ball from prison, and as they gathered more supporters, they moved forward as a large, disorganized army of poor men toward Blackheath. It's said that they wanted to eliminate all property and declare all men equal. I find that hard to believe because they stopped travelers on the roads, making them pledge loyalty to King Richard and the people. They were also not inclined to harm those who had done them no wrong just because of their social status; for instance, the King’s mother, passing through their camp at Blackheath on her way to her young son, who was hiding for safety in the Tower of London, simply had to greet a few dirty-faced, rough-bearded men who were loudly supportive of royalty, and she was able to leave unharmed. The next day, the entire group marched on to London Bridge.

There was a drawbridge in the middle, which William Walworth the Mayor caused to be raised to prevent their coming into the city; but they soon terrified the citizens into lowering it again, and spread themselves, with great uproar, over the streets. They broke open the prisons; they burned the papers in Lambeth Palace; they destroyed the Duke of Lancaster’s Palace, the Savoy, in the Strand, said to be the most beautiful and splendid in England; they set fire to the books and documents in the Temple; and made a great riot. Many of these outrages were committed in drunkenness; since those citizens, who had well-filled cellars, were only too glad to throw them open to save the rest of their property; but even the drunken rioters were very careful to steal nothing. They were so angry with one man, who was seen to take a silver cup at the Savoy Palace, and put it in his breast, that they drowned him in the river, cup and all.

There was a drawbridge in the middle, which William Walworth, the Mayor, had raised to stop them from entering the city; but they quickly frightened the citizens into lowering it again and rushed into the streets with a great commotion. They broke open the prisons, burned the documents in Lambeth Palace, destroyed the Duke of Lancaster Palace, the Savoy, in the Strand, which was said to be the most beautiful and impressive in England; they set fire to the books and papers in the Temple and caused a major riot. Many of these acts of violence were fueled by drunkenness; those citizens with well-stocked cellars were eager to open them up to protect the rest of their belongings; but even the drunk rioters were careful not to steal anything. They were so furious with one man who was seen taking a silver cup from the Savoy Palace and stuffing it in his shirt that they drowned him in the river, cup and all.

The young King had been taken out to treat with them before they committed these excesses; but, he and the people about him were so frightened by the riotous shouts, that they got back to the Tower in the best way they could. This made the insurgents bolder; so they went on rioting away, striking off the heads of those who did not, at a moment’s notice, declare for King Richard and the people; and killing as many of the unpopular persons whom they supposed to be their enemies as they could by any means lay hold of. In this manner they passed one very violent day, and then proclamation was made that the King would meet them at Mile-end, and grant their requests.

The young King had been brought out to negotiate with them before they went too far; however, he and his companions were so terrified by the chaotic shouts that they hurried back to the Tower as best as they could. This gave the rioters more courage, so they continued their rampage, beheading anyone who didn't immediately support King Richard and the people, and killing as many of the unpopular individuals they thought were their enemies as they could capture. In this way, they spent a very tumultuous day, and then an announcement was made that the King would meet them at Mile-end to address their demands.

The rioters went to Mile-end to the number of sixty thousand, and the King met them there, and to the King the rioters peaceably proposed four conditions. First, that neither they, nor their children, nor any coming after them, should be made slaves any more. Secondly, that the rent of land should be fixed at a certain price in money, instead of being paid in service. Thirdly, that they should have liberty to buy and sell in all markets and public places, like other free men. Fourthly, that they should be pardoned for past offences. Heaven knows, there was nothing very unreasonable in these proposals! The young King deceitfully pretended to think so, and kept thirty clerks up, all night, writing out a charter accordingly.

The rioters gathered at Mile-end with about sixty thousand people, and the King met them there. The rioters calmly presented four demands to the King. First, that neither they, nor their children, nor anyone after them, should be made slaves again. Second, that the rent for land should be set at a specific price in money instead of being paid through labor. Third, that they should have the freedom to buy and sell in all markets and public spaces like other free people. Fourth, that they should be forgiven for past wrongdoings. Honestly, there was nothing unreasonable about these demands! The young King pretended to agree while secretly keeping thirty clerks up all night to draft a charter accordingly.

Now, Wat Tyler himself wanted more than this. He wanted the entire abolition of the forest laws. He was not at Mile-end with the rest, but, while that meeting was being held, broke into the Tower of London and slew the archbishop and the treasurer, for whose heads the people had cried out loudly the day before. He and his men even thrust their swords into the bed of the Princess of Wales while the Princess was in it, to make certain that none of their enemies were concealed there.

Now, Wat Tyler wanted more than just that. He wanted the complete abolition of the forest laws. While the others were at Mile-end, he broke into the Tower of London and killed the archbishop and the treasurer, whose heads the people had demanded just the day before. He and his men even pushed their swords into the bed of the Princess of Wales while she was in it, to be sure that none of their enemies were hiding there.

So, Wat and his men still continued armed, and rode about the city. Next morning, the King with a small train of some sixty gentlemen—among whom was Walworth the Mayor—rode into Smithfield, and saw Wat and his people at a little distance. Says Wat to his men, ‘There is the King. I will go speak with him, and tell him what we want.’

So, Wat and his men stayed armed and rode around the city. The next morning, the King, accompanied by about sixty gentlemen— including Walworth the Mayor—rode into Smithfield and spotted Wat and his group a short distance away. Wat said to his men, "There’s the King. I'm going to go talk to him and tell him what we want."

Straightway Wat rode up to him, and began to talk. ‘King,’ says Wat, ‘dost thou see all my men there?’

Straight away, Wat rode up to him and started to talk. “King,” says Wat, “do you see all my men over there?”

‘Ah,’ says the King. ‘Why?’

‘Oh,’ says the King. ‘Why?’

‘Because,’ says Wat, ‘they are all at my command, and have sworn to do whatever I bid them.’

‘Because,’ says Wat, ‘they all follow my orders and have promised to do whatever I tell them.’

Some declared afterwards that as Wat said this, he laid his hand on the King’s bridle. Others declared that he was seen to play with his own dagger. I think, myself, that he just spoke to the King like a rough, angry man as he was, and did nothing more. At any rate he was expecting no attack, and preparing for no resistance, when Walworth the Mayor did the not very valiant deed of drawing a short sword and stabbing him in the throat. He dropped from his horse, and one of the King’s people speedily finished him. So fell Wat Tyler. Fawners and flatterers made a mighty triumph of it, and set up a cry which will occasionally find an echo to this day. But Wat was a hard-working man, who had suffered much, and had been foully outraged; and it is probable that he was a man of a much higher nature and a much braver spirit than any of the parasites who exulted then, or have exulted since, over his defeat.

Some people later said that when Wat said this, he laid his hand on the King’s bridle. Others claimed he was seen fiddling with his own dagger. Personally, I think he just spoke to the King like the rough, angry man he was, and didn’t do anything more. In any case, he wasn’t expecting an attack or preparing for any resistance when Walworth the Mayor cowardly pulled out a short sword and stabbed him in the throat. He fell off his horse, and one of the King’s men quickly finished him off. That was the end of Wat Tyler. The sycophants and flatterers celebrated it like crazy and raised a shout that still resonates occasionally today. But Wat was a hard-working man who had endured a lot and had been horribly wronged; it's likely he was a person of much higher character and greater bravery than any of the parasites who rejoiced then, or have rejoiced since, over his downfall.

Seeing Wat down, his men immediately bent their bows to avenge his fall. If the young King had not had presence of mind at that dangerous moment, both he and the Mayor to boot, might have followed Tyler pretty fast. But the King riding up to the crowd, cried out that Tyler was a traitor, and that he would be their leader. They were so taken by surprise, that they set up a great shouting, and followed the boy until he was met at Islington by a large body of soldiers.

Seeing Wat down, his men quickly readied their bows to avenge his fall. If the young King hadn't kept his cool in that dangerous moment, both he and the Mayor could have met the same fate as Tyler. But the King rode up to the crowd and shouted that Tyler was a traitor and that he would lead them. They were so caught off guard that they started shouting loudly and followed the boy until he was met at Islington by a large group of soldiers.

The end of this rising was the then usual end. As soon as the King found himself safe, he unsaid all he had said, and undid all he had done; some fifteen hundred of the rioters were tried (mostly in Essex) with great rigour, and executed with great cruelty. Many of them were hanged on gibbets, and left there as a terror to the country people; and, because their miserable friends took some of the bodies down to bury, the King ordered the rest to be chained up—which was the beginning of the barbarous custom of hanging in chains. The King’s falsehood in this business makes such a pitiful figure, that I think Wat Tyler appears in history as beyond comparison the truer and more respectable man of the two.

The end of this uprising was the usual outcome. As soon as the King felt safe, he reversed everything he had said and done; about fifteen hundred of the rioters were tried (mostly in Essex) with harshness and executed brutally. Many of them were hanged on gibbets and left there to scare the local people, and because their grieving friends took some of the bodies down to bury them, the King ordered the rest to be chained up—this marked the start of the cruel practice of hanging in chains. The King's dishonesty in this situation is so pathetic that Wat Tyler appears in history as by far the more honorable and respectable figure of the two.

Richard was now sixteen years of age, and married Anne of Bohemia, an excellent princess, who was called ‘the good Queen Anne.’ She deserved a better husband; for the King had been fawned and flattered into a treacherous, wasteful, dissolute, bad young man.

Richard was now sixteen years old and married to Anne of Bohemia, a wonderful princess known as 'the good Queen Anne.' She deserved a better husband because the King had been coddled and flattered into becoming a deceitful, wasteful, reckless, and irresponsible young man.

There were two Popes at this time (as if one were not enough!), and their quarrels involved Europe in a great deal of trouble. Scotland was still troublesome too; and at home there was much jealousy and distrust, and plotting and counter-plotting, because the King feared the ambition of his relations, and particularly of his uncle, the Duke of Lancaster, and the duke had his party against the King, and the King had his party against the duke. Nor were these home troubles lessened when the duke went to Castile to urge his claim to the crown of that kingdom; for then the Duke of Gloucester, another of Richard’s uncles, opposed him, and influenced the Parliament to demand the dismissal of the King’s favourite ministers. The King said in reply, that he would not for such men dismiss the meanest servant in his kitchen. But, it had begun to signify little what a King said when a Parliament was determined; so Richard was at last obliged to give way, and to agree to another Government of the kingdom, under a commission of fourteen nobles, for a year. His uncle of Gloucester was at the head of this commission, and, in fact, appointed everybody composing it.

There were two Popes at this time (as if one wasn't enough!), and their conflicts dragged Europe into a lot of trouble. Scotland was still causing issues too; and back home, there was a lot of jealousy and distrust, along with plotting and counter-plotting, because the King feared the ambition of his relatives, especially his uncle, the Duke of Lancaster. The duke had his supporters against the King, and the King had his supporters against the duke. These domestic troubles didn't ease when the duke went to Castile to push his claim to the crown of that kingdom; because then the Duke of Gloucester, another one of Richard’s uncles, opposed him and influenced Parliament to demand the dismissal of the King’s favorite ministers. The King responded by saying he wouldn’t dismiss even the lowest servant in his kitchen for such men. However, it had begun to matter little what a King said when Parliament was determined; so Richard was eventually forced to concede and agree to another government of the kingdom, under a commission of fourteen nobles, for a year. His uncle of Gloucester led this commission and effectively appointed everyone on it.

Having done all this, the King declared as soon as he saw an opportunity that he had never meant to do it, and that it was all illegal; and he got the judges secretly to sign a declaration to that effect. The secret oozed out directly, and was carried to the Duke of Gloucester. The Duke of Gloucester, at the head of forty thousand men, met the King on his entering into London to enforce his authority; the King was helpless against him; his favourites and ministers were impeached and were mercilessly executed. Among them were two men whom the people regarded with very different feelings; one, Robert Tresilian, Chief Justice, who was hated for having made what was called ‘the bloody circuit’ to try the rioters; the other, Sir Simon Burley, an honourable knight, who had been the dear friend of the Black Prince, and the governor and guardian of the King. For this gentleman’s life the good Queen even begged of Gloucester on her knees; but Gloucester (with or without reason) feared and hated him, and replied, that if she valued her husband’s crown, she had better beg no more. All this was done under what was called by some the wonderful—and by others, with better reason, the merciless—Parliament.

Having done all this, the King announced as soon as he got the chance that he never intended to do it and that it was all illegal; he even had the judges secretly sign a statement to that effect. The secret leaked right away and reached the Duke of Gloucester. The Duke of Gloucester, leading forty thousand men, confronted the King as he entered London to assert his authority; the King was powerless against him. His favorites and ministers were impeached and brutally executed. Among them were two men whom the public felt very differently about; one was Robert Tresilian, Chief Justice, who was hated for conducting what was called ‘the bloody circuit’ to try the rioters; the other was Sir Simon Burley, an honorable knight and dear friend of the Black Prince, who had been the King’s governor and guardian. The good Queen even begged Gloucester on her knees for this gentleman’s life; but Gloucester, whether justified or not, feared and hated him and replied that if she valued her husband’s crown, she should stop begging. All this occurred under what some called the wonderful—and others, with more justification, the merciless—Parliament.

But Gloucester’s power was not to last for ever. He held it for only a year longer; in which year the famous battle of Otterbourne, sung in the old ballad of Chevy Chase, was fought. When the year was out, the King, turning suddenly to Gloucester, in the midst of a great council said, ‘Uncle, how old am I?’ ‘Your highness,’ returned the Duke, ‘is in your twenty-second year.’ ‘Am I so much?’ said the King; ‘then I will manage my own affairs! I am much obliged to you, my good lords, for your past services, but I need them no more.’ He followed this up, by appointing a new Chancellor and a new Treasurer, and announced to the people that he had resumed the Government. He held it for eight years without opposition. Through all that time, he kept his determination to revenge himself some day upon his uncle Gloucester, in his own breast.

But Gloucester's power wasn't going to last forever. He held it for just a year longer; during that year, the famous battle of Otterbourne, celebrated in the old ballad of Chevy Chase, took place. Once the year was up, the King suddenly turned to Gloucester in the middle of a big council and asked, “Uncle, how old am I?” “Your highness,” replied the Duke, “is in your twenty-second year.” “Am I that old?” said the King; “then I’ll handle my own affairs! I really appreciate your past services, my good lords, but I don’t need them anymore.” He followed this by appointing a new Chancellor and a new Treasurer and announced to the people that he had taken back control of the Government. He held it for eight years without any opposition. Throughout that time, he kept his determination to someday get revenge on his uncle Gloucester to himself.

At last the good Queen died, and then the King, desiring to take a second wife, proposed to his council that he should marry Isabella, of France, the daughter of Charles the Sixth: who, the French courtiers said (as the English courtiers had said of Richard), was a marvel of beauty and wit, and quite a phenomenon—of seven years old. The council were divided about this marriage, but it took place. It secured peace between England and France for a quarter of a century; but it was strongly opposed to the prejudices of the English people. The Duke of Gloucester, who was anxious to take the occasion of making himself popular, declaimed against it loudly, and this at length decided the King to execute the vengeance he had been nursing so long.

At last the good Queen passed away, and then the King, wanting to take a second wife, suggested to his council that he should marry Isabella of France, the daughter of Charles the Sixth. The French courtiers claimed (just as the English courtiers had said about Richard) that she was incredibly beautiful and clever, and quite a sensation—even at just seven years old. The council was split on this marriage, but it went ahead. It brought peace between England and France for twenty-five years; however, it was met with strong opposition from the English public. The Duke of Gloucester, eager to win favor, spoke out against it loudly, and this ultimately led the King to carry out the revenge he had been planning for so long.

He went with a gay company to the Duke of Gloucester’s house, Pleshey Castle, in Essex, where the Duke, suspecting nothing, came out into the court-yard to receive his royal visitor. While the King conversed in a friendly manner with the Duchess, the Duke was quietly seized, hurried away, shipped for Calais, and lodged in the castle there. His friends, the Earls of Arundel and Warwick, were taken in the same treacherous manner, and confined to their castles. A few days after, at Nottingham, they were impeached of high treason. The Earl of Arundel was condemned and beheaded, and the Earl of Warwick was banished. Then, a writ was sent by a messenger to the Governor of Calais, requiring him to send the Duke of Gloucester over to be tried. In three days he returned an answer that he could not do that, because the Duke of Gloucester had died in prison. The Duke was declared a traitor, his property was confiscated to the King, a real or pretended confession he had made in prison to one of the Justices of the Common Pleas was produced against him, and there was an end of the matter. How the unfortunate duke died, very few cared to know. Whether he really died naturally; whether he killed himself; whether, by the King’s order, he was strangled, or smothered between two beds (as a serving-man of the Governor’s named Hall, did afterwards declare), cannot be discovered. There is not much doubt that he was killed, somehow or other, by his nephew’s orders. Among the most active nobles in these proceedings were the King’s cousin, Henry Bolingbroke, whom the King had made Duke of Hereford to smooth down the old family quarrels, and some others: who had in the family-plotting times done just such acts themselves as they now condemned in the duke. They seem to have been a corrupt set of men; but such men were easily found about the court in such days.

He went with a cheerful group to the Duke of Gloucester’s house, Pleshey Castle, in Essex, where the Duke, unaware of anything wrong, came out into the courtyard to greet his royal guest. While the King chatted amicably with the Duchess, the Duke was quietly captured, hurried away, sent off to Calais, and locked up in the castle there. His friends, the Earls of Arundel and Warwick, were taken in the same deceitful way and confined to their own castles. A few days later, in Nottingham, they were charged with high treason. The Earl of Arundel was sentenced to death and executed, while the Earl of Warwick was exiled. Then, a writ was dispatched by a messenger to the Governor of Calais, instructing him to send the Duke of Gloucester over for trial. Three days later, he replied that he couldn’t do that because the Duke of Gloucester had died in prison. The Duke was declared a traitor, his belongings were taken by the King, and a supposed confession he made in prison to one of the Justices of the Common Pleas was presented against him, wrapping up the case. Very few cared to know how the unfortunate duke died. Whether he really died of natural causes, took his own life, or was strangled or smothered by the King’s orders (as a servant of the Governor named Hall later claimed) remains unknown. There's little doubt that, in one way or another, he was killed on his nephew's orders. Among the most involved nobles in these events were the King’s cousin, Henry Bolingbroke, whom the King had made Duke of Hereford to ease old family disputes, along with others who had committed similar acts themselves during the family plotting times, which they now condemned in the duke. They appeared to be a corrupt group of men, and such individuals were readily found around the court in those days.

The people murmured at all this, and were still very sore about the French marriage. The nobles saw how little the King cared for law, and how crafty he was, and began to be somewhat afraid for themselves. The King’s life was a life of continued feasting and excess; his retinue, down to the meanest servants, were dressed in the most costly manner, and caroused at his tables, it is related, to the number of ten thousand persons every day. He himself, surrounded by a body of ten thousand archers, and enriched by a duty on wool which the Commons had granted him for life, saw no danger of ever being otherwise than powerful and absolute, and was as fierce and haughty as a King could be.

The people whispered about all this and were still very upset about the French marriage. The nobles noticed how little the King cared about the law and how cunning he was, and they started to feel a bit fearful for themselves. The King’s life was one of constant feasting and indulgence; his entourage, right down to the lowest servants, was dressed in the most expensive clothes and reportedly partied at his tables with around ten thousand people every day. He himself, surrounded by a guard of ten thousand archers and bolstered by a lifelong duty on wool granted to him by the Commons, saw no risk of ever losing his power and was as fierce and proud as a King could be.

He had two of his old enemies left, in the persons of the Dukes of Hereford and Norfolk. Sparing these no more than the others, he tampered with the Duke of Hereford until he got him to declare before the Council that the Duke of Norfolk had lately held some treasonable talk with him, as he was riding near Brentford; and that he had told him, among other things, that he could not believe the King’s oath—which nobody could, I should think. For this treachery he obtained a pardon, and the Duke of Norfolk was summoned to appear and defend himself. As he denied the charge and said his accuser was a liar and a traitor, both noblemen, according to the manner of those times, were held in custody, and the truth was ordered to be decided by wager of battle at Coventry. This wager of battle meant that whosoever won the combat was to be considered in the right; which nonsense meant in effect, that no strong man could ever be wrong. A great holiday was made; a great crowd assembled, with much parade and show; and the two combatants were about to rush at each other with their lances, when the King, sitting in a pavilion to see fair, threw down the truncheon he carried in his hand, and forbade the battle. The Duke of Hereford was to be banished for ten years, and the Duke of Norfolk was to be banished for life. So said the King. The Duke of Hereford went to France, and went no farther. The Duke of Norfolk made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and afterwards died at Venice of a broken heart.

He had two of his old enemies left, the Dukes of Hereford and Norfolk. Not holding back any more than with the others, he plotted against the Duke of Hereford until he got him to state before the Council that the Duke of Norfolk had recently spoken treasonous words with him while riding near Brentford. He claimed that Norfolk told him, among other things, that he couldn’t trust the King’s oath—which, honestly, who could? Because of this betrayal, he received a pardon, and the Duke of Norfolk was summoned to appear and defend himself. Norfolk denied the accusation and called his accuser a liar and a traitor. In keeping with the customs of the time, both noblemen were held in custody, and the truth was to be decided by a duel at Coventry. This duel meant that whoever won the fight would be considered correct, which was ridiculous since it implied that no strong man could ever be wrong. A huge event was organized; a big crowd gathered, with a lot of fanfare; and just as the two fighters were about to charge at each other with their lances, the King, sitting in a pavilion to ensure fairness, dropped the baton he was holding and stopped the battle. The Duke of Hereford was banished for ten years, and the Duke of Norfolk was banished for life. So said the King. The Duke of Hereford went to France and didn’t go any further. The Duke of Norfolk made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and later died in Venice from a broken heart.

Faster and fiercer, after this, the King went on in his career. The Duke of Lancaster, who was the father of the Duke of Hereford, died soon after the departure of his son; and, the King, although he had solemnly granted to that son leave to inherit his father’s property, if it should come to him during his banishment, immediately seized it all, like a robber. The judges were so afraid of him, that they disgraced themselves by declaring this theft to be just and lawful. His avarice knew no bounds. He outlawed seventeen counties at once, on a frivolous pretence, merely to raise money by way of fines for misconduct. In short, he did as many dishonest things as he could; and cared so little for the discontent of his subjects—though even the spaniel favourites began to whisper to him that there was such a thing as discontent afloat—that he took that time, of all others, for leaving England and making an expedition against the Irish.

Faster and more intense, the King continued his reign. The Duke of Lancaster, father to the Duke of Hereford, died soon after his son left; even though the King had formally allowed that son to inherit his father’s estate if it came to him during his exile, he quickly seized everything, acting like a thief. The judges were so intimidated that they embarrassed themselves by declaring this robbery to be fair and legal. His greed was limitless. He outlawed seventeen counties at once on a trivial excuse, just to collect fines for supposed misdeeds. In short, he engaged in as many dishonest acts as possible and showed little concern for his subjects' anger—though even his favored attendants started to hint that there was rising discontent—that he chose that moment, above all, to leave England and launch a campaign against the Irish.

He was scarcely gone, leaving the Duke of York Regent in his absence, when his cousin, Henry of Hereford, came over from France to claim the rights of which he had been so monstrously deprived. He was immediately joined by the two great Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland; and his uncle, the Regent, finding the King’s cause unpopular, and the disinclination of the army to act against Henry, very strong, withdrew with the Royal forces towards Bristol. Henry, at the head of an army, came from Yorkshire (where he had landed) to London and followed him. They joined their forces—how they brought that about, is not distinctly understood—and proceeded to Bristol Castle, whither three noblemen had taken the young Queen. The castle surrendering, they presently put those three noblemen to death. The Regent then remained there, and Henry went on to Chester.

He had hardly left, leaving the Duke of York in charge while he was away, when his cousin, Henry of Hereford, arrived from France to reclaim the rights he had been unfairly stripped of. He was quickly joined by the powerful Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland. The Regent, realizing the King's cause was unpopular and the army was strongly against fighting Henry, pulled back with the Royal forces towards Bristol. Henry, leading an army, came from Yorkshire (where he had landed) to London and followed him. They combined their forces—how they managed to do that is not entirely clear—and headed to Bristol Castle, where three noblemen had taken the young Queen. After the castle surrendered, they executed those three noblemen. The Regent stayed there, while Henry continued on to Chester.

All this time, the boisterous weather had prevented the King from receiving intelligence of what had occurred. At length it was conveyed to him in Ireland, and he sent over the Earl of Salisbury, who, landing at Conway, rallied the Welshmen, and waited for the King a whole fortnight; at the end of that time the Welshmen, who were perhaps not very warm for him in the beginning, quite cooled down and went home. When the King did land on the coast at last, he came with a pretty good power, but his men cared nothing for him, and quickly deserted. Supposing the Welshmen to be still at Conway, he disguised himself as a priest, and made for that place in company with his two brothers and some few of their adherents. But, there were no Welshmen left—only Salisbury and a hundred soldiers. In this distress, the King’s two brothers, Exeter and Surrey, offered to go to Henry to learn what his intentions were. Surrey, who was true to Richard, was put into prison. Exeter, who was false, took the royal badge, which was a hart, off his shield, and assumed the rose, the badge of Henry. After this, it was pretty plain to the King what Henry’s intentions were, without sending any more messengers to ask.

All this time, the rough weather had kept the King from finding out what had happened. Finally, he received news in Ireland, and he sent the Earl of Salisbury, who landed at Conway, rallied the Welshmen, and waited for the King for two whole weeks. By the end of that time, the Welshmen, who weren't very enthusiastic about him at the beginning, completely lost interest and went home. When the King finally arrived on the coast, he came with a decent force, but his men didn’t care about him and quickly deserted. Assuming the Welshmen were still at Conway, he disguised himself as a priest and headed there with his two brothers and a few of their followers. But there were no Welshmen left—just Salisbury and a hundred soldiers. In this tough situation, the King’s two brothers, Exeter and Surrey, offered to go to Henry to find out his plans. Surrey, who remained loyal to Richard, was imprisoned. Exeter, who betrayed him, took the royal badge, a hart, off his shield and put on the rose, Henry’s badge. After this, it was pretty clear to the King what Henry’s intentions were, without needing to send any more messengers to ask.

The fallen King, thus deserted—hemmed in on all sides, and pressed with hunger—rode here and rode there, and went to this castle, and went to that castle, endeavouring to obtain some provisions, but could find none. He rode wretchedly back to Conway, and there surrendered himself to the Earl of Northumberland, who came from Henry, in reality to take him prisoner, but in appearance to offer terms; and whose men were hidden not far off. By this earl he was conducted to the castle of Flint, where his cousin Henry met him, and dropped on his knee as if he were still respectful to his sovereign.

The fallen king, completely abandoned—trapped on all sides and starving—rode from place to place, visiting this castle and that castle, trying to find some food, but none was to be found. He made a miserable return to Conway and surrendered himself to the Earl of Northumberland, who had come from Henry with the real intention of capturing him but pretended to offer terms; his men were hiding not far away. The earl took him to the castle of Flint, where his cousin Henry met him and knelt as if he still respected his sovereign.

‘Fair cousin of Lancaster,’ said the King, ‘you are very welcome’ (very welcome, no doubt; but he would have been more so, in chains or without a head).

‘My lord,’ replied Henry, ‘I am come a little before my time; but, with your good pleasure, I will show you the reason. Your people complain with some bitterness, that you have ruled them rigorously for two-and-twenty years. Now, if it please God, I will help you to govern them better in future.’

‘My lord,’ Henry replied, ‘I’ve come a bit earlier than expected, but if you don’t mind, I’ll explain why. Your people are expressing some frustration, saying you’ve ruled them harshly for twenty-two years. Now, with God’s help, I’m here to assist you in governing them better moving forward.’

‘Fair cousin,’ replied the abject King, ‘since it pleaseth you, it pleaseth me mightily.’

‘Fair cousin,’ replied the submissive King, ‘if it pleases you, it pleases me greatly.’

After this, the trumpets sounded, and the King was stuck on a wretched horse, and carried prisoner to Chester, where he was made to issue a proclamation, calling a Parliament. From Chester he was taken on towards London. At Lichfield he tried to escape by getting out of a window and letting himself down into a garden; it was all in vain, however, and he was carried on and shut up in the Tower, where no one pitied him, and where the whole people, whose patience he had quite tired out, reproached him without mercy. Before he got there, it is related, that his very dog left him and departed from his side to lick the hand of Henry.

After that, the trumpets sounded, and the King found himself on a miserable horse, taken prisoner to Chester, where he was forced to announce a Parliament. From Chester, he was moved toward London. At Lichfield, he tried to escape by climbing out of a window and lowering himself into a garden, but it was all for nothing, and he was taken on and locked up in the Tower, where no one felt sorry for him, and where the entire populace, who he had worn out with his antics, harshly criticized him. Before reaching there, it’s said that even his dog abandoned him to go lick Henry's hand.

The day before the Parliament met, a deputation went to this wrecked King, and told him that he had promised the Earl of Northumberland at Conway Castle to resign the crown. He said he was quite ready to do it, and signed a paper in which he renounced his authority and absolved his people from their allegiance to him. He had so little spirit left that he gave his royal ring to his triumphant cousin Henry with his own hand, and said, that if he could have had leave to appoint a successor, that same Henry was the man of all others whom he would have named. Next day, the Parliament assembled in Westminster Hall, where Henry sat at the side of the throne, which was empty and covered with a cloth of gold. The paper just signed by the King was read to the multitude amid shouts of joy, which were echoed through all the streets; when some of the noise had died away, the King was formally deposed. Then Henry arose, and, making the sign of the cross on his forehead and breast, challenged the realm of England as his right; the archbishops of Canterbury and York seated him on the throne.

The day before Parliament met, a group went to see the defeated King and told him that he had promised the Earl of Northumberland at Conway Castle to give up the crown. He said he was completely willing to do it and signed a document renouncing his authority and releasing his people from their loyalty to him. He was so defeated that he handed his royal ring to his victorious cousin Henry himself and said that if he had been allowed to choose a successor, Henry was the one he would have picked above all others. The next day, Parliament gathered in Westminster Hall, where Henry sat by the empty throne covered with a gold cloth. The document just signed by the King was read to the crowd amid cheers of joy that echoed through the streets; when some of the noise settled, the King was officially deposed. Then Henry stood up, made the sign of the cross on his forehead and chest, and claimed the realm of England as his right; the archbishops of Canterbury and York then placed him on the throne.

The multitude shouted again, and the shouts re-echoed throughout all the streets. No one remembered, now, that Richard the Second had ever been the most beautiful, the wisest, and the best of princes; and he now made living (to my thinking) a far more sorry spectacle in the Tower of London, than Wat Tyler had made, lying dead, among the hoofs of the royal horses in Smithfield.

The crowd shouted again, and the shouts echoed through all the streets. No one remembered now that Richard the Second had ever been the most beautiful, the wisest, and the best of princes; and to me, he made a much sadder sight in the Tower of London than Wat Tyler did, lying dead among the hooves of the royal horses in Smithfield.

The Poll-tax died with Wat. The Smiths to the King and Royal Family, could make no chains in which the King could hang the people’s recollection of him; so the Poll-tax was never collected.

The Poll-tax ended with Wat. The Smiths to the King and Royal Family couldn't create any bonds that would tie the people's memory of him; therefore, the Poll-tax was never collected.

CHAPTER XX—ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FOURTH, CALLED BOLINGBROKE

During the last reign, the preaching of Wickliffe against the pride and cunning of the Pope and all his men, had made a great noise in England. Whether the new King wished to be in favour with the priests, or whether he hoped, by pretending to be very religious, to cheat Heaven itself into the belief that he was not a usurper, I don’t know. Both suppositions are likely enough. It is certain that he began his reign by making a strong show against the followers of Wickliffe, who were called Lollards, or heretics—although his father, John of Gaunt, had been of that way of thinking, as he himself had been more than suspected of being. It is no less certain that he first established in England the detestable and atrocious custom, brought from abroad, of burning those people as a punishment for their opinions. It was the importation into England of one of the practices of what was called the Holy Inquisition: which was the most unholy and the most infamous tribunal that ever disgraced mankind, and made men more like demons than followers of Our Saviour.

During the last reign, Wickliffe's preaching against the pride and trickery of the Pope and his followers had created quite a stir in England. Whether the new King wanted to gain the favor of the priests, or if he thought he could fool Heaven into believing he wasn’t a usurper by acting very religious, I can’t say. Both possibilities seem plausible. What’s clear is that he kicked off his reign by making a strong show against the followers of Wickliffe, known as Lollards or heretics—even though his father, John of Gaunt, had shared those beliefs, and he himself had been suspected of them as well. It’s also undeniable that he was the first to establish in England the vile and cruel practice, imported from abroad, of burning people for their beliefs. This was the introduction of one of the methods of what was called the Holy Inquisition, which was the most unholy and infamous tribunal that ever shamed humanity, making people more like demons than true followers of Our Savior.

No real right to the crown, as you know, was in this King. Edward Mortimer, the young Earl of March—who was only eight or nine years old, and who was descended from the Duke of Clarence, the elder brother of Henry’s father—was, by succession, the real heir to the throne. However, the King got his son declared Prince of Wales; and, obtaining possession of the young Earl of March and his little brother, kept them in confinement (but not severely) in Windsor Castle. He then required the Parliament to decide what was to be done with the deposed King, who was quiet enough, and who only said that he hoped his cousin Henry would be ‘a good lord’ to him. The Parliament replied that they would recommend his being kept in some secret place where the people could not resort, and where his friends could not be admitted to see him. Henry accordingly passed this sentence upon him, and it now began to be pretty clear to the nation that Richard the Second would not live very long.

No real claim to the crown, as you know, belonged to this King. Edward Mortimer, the young Earl of March—who was only eight or nine years old and descended from the Duke of Clarence, the older brother of Henry’s father—was, by succession, the true heir to the throne. However, the King had his son declared Prince of Wales and took possession of the young Earl of March and his little brother, keeping them in confinement (but not harshly) at Windsor Castle. He then asked Parliament to decide what to do with the deposed King, who was quite calm and only said that he hoped his cousin Henry would be ‘a good lord’ to him. Parliament responded that they would suggest keeping him in a secret location where the public couldn’t go and where his friends wouldn’t be allowed to visit him. Henry then issued this order, and it started to become clear to the country that Richard the Second wouldn’t live much longer.

It was a noisy Parliament, as it was an unprincipled one, and the Lords quarrelled so violently among themselves as to which of them had been loyal and which disloyal, and which consistent and which inconsistent, that forty gauntlets are said to have been thrown upon the floor at one time as challenges to as many battles: the truth being that they were all false and base together, and had been, at one time with the old King, and at another time with the new one, and seldom true for any length of time to any one. They soon began to plot again. A conspiracy was formed to invite the King to a tournament at Oxford, and then to take him by surprise and kill him. This murderous enterprise, which was agreed upon at secret meetings in the house of the Abbot of Westminster, was betrayed by the Earl of Rutland—one of the conspirators. The King, instead of going to the tournament or staying at Windsor (where the conspirators suddenly went, on finding themselves discovered, with the hope of seizing him), retired to London, proclaimed them all traitors, and advanced upon them with a great force. They retired into the west of England, proclaiming Richard King; but, the people rose against them, and they were all slain. Their treason hastened the death of the deposed monarch. Whether he was killed by hired assassins, or whether he was starved to death, or whether he refused food on hearing of his brothers being killed (who were in that plot), is very doubtful. He met his death somehow; and his body was publicly shown at St. Paul’s Cathedral with only the lower part of the face uncovered. I can scarcely doubt that he was killed by the King’s orders.

It was a noisy Parliament and an unprincipled one, with the Lords fighting so fiercely over who among them had been loyal or disloyal, consistent or inconsistent, that forty gauntlets were reportedly thrown on the floor at one time as challenges to as many battles. The truth is, they were all deceitful and scheming together, having at one time been with the old King and at another with the new one, and rarely loyal to anyone for long. They soon started plotting again. A conspiracy was formed to invite the King to a tournament at Oxford and then to surprise and kill him. This murderous plan, which was decided in secret meetings at the Abbot of Westminster’s house, was exposed by the Earl of Rutland—one of the conspirators. The King, instead of attending the tournament or staying at Windsor (where the conspirators rushed, having discovered they were found out, hoping to capture him), went back to London, declared them all traitors, and advanced upon them with a large force. They retreated to the west of England, proclaiming Richard as King; however, the people rose against them, and they were all killed. Their treason hastened the death of the deposed monarch. It’s unclear whether he was killed by hired assassins, starved to death, or refused food after hearing about his brothers being killed (who were involved in that plot). He met his end somehow, and his body was publicly displayed at St. Paul’s Cathedral with only the lower part of his face uncovered. I can hardly believe he wasn’t killed by the King’s orders.

The French wife of the miserable Richard was now only ten years old; and, when her father, Charles of France, heard of her misfortunes and of her lonely condition in England, he went mad: as he had several times done before, during the last five or six years. The French Dukes of Burgundy and Bourbon took up the poor girl’s cause, without caring much about it, but on the chance of getting something out of England. The people of Bordeaux, who had a sort of superstitious attachment to the memory of Richard, because he was born there, swore by the Lord that he had been the best man in all his kingdom—which was going rather far—and promised to do great things against the English. Nevertheless, when they came to consider that they, and the whole people of France, were ruined by their own nobles, and that the English rule was much the better of the two, they cooled down again; and the two dukes, although they were very great men, could do nothing without them. Then, began negotiations between France and England for the sending home to Paris of the poor little Queen with all her jewels and her fortune of two hundred thousand francs in gold. The King was quite willing to restore the young lady, and even the jewels; but he said he really could not part with the money. So, at last she was safely deposited at Paris without her fortune, and then the Duke of Burgundy (who was cousin to the French King) began to quarrel with the Duke of Orleans (who was brother to the French King) about the whole matter; and those two dukes made France even more wretched than ever.

The French wife of the unfortunate Richard was now only ten years old; and when her father, Charles of France, learned about her misfortunes and lonely situation in England, he went mad, just like he had several times over the past five or six years. The French Dukes of Burgundy and Bourbon took up the poor girl’s cause, not really caring about her, but hoping to gain something from England. The people of Bordeaux, who felt a superstitious connection to Richard because he was born there, swore that he was the best man in all his kingdom—which was an exaggeration—and promised to do great things against the English. However, once they reflected on the fact that they, and all of France, were suffering because of their own nobles, and that English rule was actually better, they lost enthusiasm. The two dukes, even though they were very powerful, couldn’t do anything without the support of the people. Negotiations then started between France and England to send the poor little Queen back to Paris with all her jewels and her fortune of two hundred thousand francs in gold. The King was willing to return the young lady and even the jewels, but he insisted he just couldn’t part with the money. Ultimately, she was safely returned to Paris without her fortune, and then the Duke of Burgundy (who was the cousin of the French King) started arguing with the Duke of Orleans (who was the brother of the French King) about the entire situation; and those two dukes made France even more miserable than before.

As the idea of conquering Scotland was still popular at home, the King marched to the river Tyne and demanded homage of the King of that country. This being refused, he advanced to Edinburgh, but did little there; for, his army being in want of provisions, and the Scotch being very careful to hold him in check without giving battle, he was obliged to retire. It is to his immortal honour that in this sally he burnt no villages and slaughtered no people, but was particularly careful that his army should be merciful and harmless. It was a great example in those ruthless times.

As the idea of taking over Scotland was still popular back home, the King marched to the River Tyne and demanded allegiance from the King of that country. When this was refused, he moved on to Edinburgh, but didn’t achieve much there; his army was short on supplies, and the Scots were very cautious about keeping him in check without engaging in battle, so he had to pull back. It’s a lasting honor that during this campaign he didn’t burn any villages or kill any people, but made sure his army was merciful and harmless. It was a remarkable example in those brutal times.

A war among the border people of England and Scotland went on for twelve months, and then the Earl of Northumberland, the nobleman who had helped Henry to the crown, began to rebel against him—probably because nothing that Henry could do for him would satisfy his extravagant expectations. There was a certain Welsh gentleman, named Owen Glendower, who had been a student in one of the Inns of Court, and had afterwards been in the service of the late King, whose Welsh property was taken from him by a powerful lord related to the present King, who was his neighbour. Appealing for redress, and getting none, he took up arms, was made an outlaw, and declared himself sovereign of Wales. He pretended to be a magician; and not only were the Welsh people stupid enough to believe him, but, even Henry believed him too; for, making three expeditions into Wales, and being three times driven back by the wildness of the country, the bad weather, and the skill of Glendower, he thought he was defeated by the Welshman’s magic arts. However, he took Lord Grey and Sir Edmund Mortimer, prisoners, and allowed the relatives of Lord Grey to ransom him, but would not extend such favour to Sir Edmund Mortimer. Now, Henry Percy, called Hotspur, son of the Earl of Northumberland, who was married to Mortimer’s sister, is supposed to have taken offence at this; and, therefore, in conjunction with his father and some others, to have joined Owen Glendower, and risen against Henry. It is by no means clear that this was the real cause of the conspiracy; but perhaps it was made the pretext. It was formed, and was very powerful; including Scroop, Archbishop of York, and the Earl of Douglas, a powerful and brave Scottish nobleman. The King was prompt and active, and the two armies met at Shrewsbury.

A war between the border people of England and Scotland lasted for twelve months, and then the Earl of Northumberland, the nobleman who helped Henry become king, started to rebel against him—likely because nothing Henry did could meet his lofty expectations. There was a Welsh gentleman named Owen Glendower, who had studied at one of the Inns of Court and later served the late King. His Welsh lands were taken from him by a powerful lord related to the current King and living nearby. After seeking justice and getting none, he took up arms, was declared an outlaw, and proclaimed himself sovereign of Wales. He claimed to be a magician; not only did the Welsh people foolishly believe him, but even Henry did, as he attempted three campaigns into Wales and was pushed back each time due to the rugged terrain, the bad weather, and Glendower’s skill. He thought he was being defeated by the Welshman’s magical powers. However, he captured Lord Grey and Sir Edmund Mortimer, allowing Lord Grey’s family to pay for his release but refusing to show the same mercy to Sir Edmund Mortimer. Henry Percy, known as Hotspur, the son of the Earl of Northumberland and married to Mortimer’s sister, was likely offended by this and, along with his father and some others, decided to join Owen Glendower and rise up against Henry. It's not entirely clear if this was the true reason behind the conspiracy, but it may have served as a pretext. The group was formed and gained significant power, including Scroop, Archbishop of York, and the Duke of Douglas, a strong and brave Scottish nobleman. The King was quick to act, and the two armies faced off at Shrewsbury.

There were about fourteen thousand men in each. The old Earl of Northumberland being sick, the rebel forces were led by his son. The King wore plain armour to deceive the enemy; and four noblemen, with the same object, wore the royal arms. The rebel charge was so furious, that every one of those gentlemen was killed, the royal standard was beaten down, and the young Prince of Wales was severely wounded in the face. But he was one of the bravest and best soldiers that ever lived, and he fought so well, and the King’s troops were so encouraged by his bold example, that they rallied immediately, and cut the enemy’s forces all to pieces. Hotspur was killed by an arrow in the brain, and the rout was so complete that the whole rebellion was struck down by this one blow. The Earl of Northumberland surrendered himself soon after hearing of the death of his son, and received a pardon for all his offences.

There were about fourteen thousand men in each group. The old Earl of Northumberland was sick, so his son led the rebel forces. The King wore plain armor to trick the enemy, and four noblemen, aiming for the same goal, wore the royal insignia. The rebel charge was so intense that every one of those nobles was killed, the royal standard was knocked down, and the young Prince of Wales was seriously injured in the face. But he was one of the bravest and best soldiers ever, and he fought so valiantly that the King’s troops were inspired by his example, rallied immediately, and completely dismantled the enemy's forces. Hotspur was killed by an arrow to the head, and the defeat was so thorough that the entire rebellion was crushed by this one blow. The Earl of Northumberland surrendered soon after hearing about his son’s death and was granted a pardon for all his offenses.

There were some lingerings of rebellion yet: Owen Glendower being retired to Wales, and a preposterous story being spread among the ignorant people that King Richard was still alive. How they could have believed such nonsense it is difficult to imagine; but they certainly did suppose that the Court fool of the late King, who was something like him, was he, himself; so that it seemed as if, after giving so much trouble to the country in his life, he was still to trouble it after his death. This was not the worst. The young Earl of March and his brother were stolen out of Windsor Castle. Being retaken, and being found to have been spirited away by one Lady Spencer, she accused her own brother, that Earl of Rutland who was in the former conspiracy and was now Duke of York, of being in the plot. For this he was ruined in fortune, though not put to death; and then another plot arose among the old Earl of Northumberland, some other lords, and that same Scroop, Archbishop of York, who was with the rebels before. These conspirators caused a writing to be posted on the church doors, accusing the King of a variety of crimes; but, the King being eager and vigilant to oppose them, they were all taken, and the Archbishop was executed. This was the first time that a great churchman had been slain by the law in England; but the King was resolved that it should be done, and done it was.

There were still some signs of rebellion: Owen Glendower had retreated to Wales, and a ridiculous rumor was spreading among the uninformed that King Richard was still alive. It's hard to believe anyone could think such nonsense, but they genuinely believed that the late King’s fool, who looked a bit like him, was actually him. It felt as if, after causing so much trouble for the country while he was alive, he continued to do so even after his death. This wasn’t the worst of it. The young Earl of March and his brother were taken from Windsor Castle. When they were recaptured, it turned out they had been taken away by a woman named Lady Spencer, who then accused her own brother, the Earl of Rutland (who had been part of a previous conspiracy and was now Duke of York), of being involved in the plot. As a result, he lost his fortune, though he wasn't executed; then another conspiracy emerged involving the old Earl of Northumberland, some other lords, and the same Scroop, Archbishop of York, who had sided with the rebels before. These conspirators posted a declaration on church doors, accusing the King of various crimes. However, the King was determined and quick to counter them, and they were all captured, with the Archbishop being executed. This marked the first time a high-ranking church official had been killed by law in England, but the King was resolute that it should happen, and it did.

The next most remarkable event of this time was the seizure, by Henry, of the heir to the Scottish throne—James, a boy of nine years old. He had been put aboard-ship by his father, the Scottish King Robert, to save him from the designs of his uncle, when, on his way to France, he was accidentally taken by some English cruisers. He remained a prisoner in England for nineteen years, and became in his prison a student and a famous poet.

The next most notable event during this period was when Henry captured the heir to the Scottish throne—James, a nine-year-old boy. His father, King Robert of Scotland, had put him on a ship to protect him from his uncle's plans. However, while heading to France, he was accidentally taken by some English cruisers. He stayed a prisoner in England for nineteen years, where he became a student and a well-known poet while in captivity.

With the exception of occasional troubles with the Welsh and with the French, the rest of King Henry’s reign was quiet enough. But, the King was far from happy, and probably was troubled in his conscience by knowing that he had usurped the crown, and had occasioned the death of his miserable cousin. The Prince of Wales, though brave and generous, is said to have been wild and dissipated, and even to have drawn his sword on Gascoigne, the Chief Justice of the King’s Bench, because he was firm in dealing impartially with one of his dissolute companions. Upon this the Chief Justice is said to have ordered him immediately to prison; the Prince of Wales is said to have submitted with a good grace; and the King is said to have exclaimed, ‘Happy is the monarch who has so just a judge, and a son so willing to obey the laws.’ This is all very doubtful, and so is another story (of which Shakespeare has made beautiful use), that the Prince once took the crown out of his father’s chamber as he was sleeping, and tried it on his own head.

Aside from some occasional issues with the Welsh and the French, most of King Henry’s reign was relatively calm. However, the King was far from content, likely feeling guilty for having taken the crown and for causing the death of his unfortunate cousin. The Prince of Wales, though brave and generous, was rumored to be reckless and indulgent, even drawing his sword on Gascoigne, the Chief Justice of the King’s Bench, because he was fair with one of the Prince's unruly friends. As a result, the Chief Justice supposedly ordered him straight to prison; the Prince is said to have accepted this without complaint, and the King reportedly exclaimed, ‘Blessed is the ruler who has such a fair judge, and a son so eager to follow the law.’ This account is highly questionable, as is another story (which Shakespeare beautifully adapted), about the Prince once taking the crown from his father’s room while he was asleep and trying it on his own head.

The King’s health sank more and more, and he became subject to violent eruptions on the face and to bad epileptic fits, and his spirits sank every day. At last, as he was praying before the shrine of St. Edward at Westminster Abbey, he was seized with a terrible fit, and was carried into the Abbot’s chamber, where he presently died. It had been foretold that he would die at Jerusalem, which certainly is not, and never was, Westminster. But, as the Abbot’s room had long been called the Jerusalem chamber, people said it was all the same thing, and were quite satisfied with the prediction.

The King’s health continued to deteriorate, and he suffered from severe facial breakouts and terrible epileptic seizures, leading to a decline in his spirits each day. Finally, while he was praying at the shrine of St. Edward in Westminster Abbey, he was struck by a severe seizure and was taken into the Abbot’s chamber, where he soon died. It had been predicted that he would die in Jerusalem, which definitely isn’t and never was Westminster. However, since the Abbot’s room had long been referred to as the Jerusalem chamber, people thought it was the same thing, and they were perfectly satisfied with the prediction.

The King died on the 20th of March, 1413, in the forty-seventh year of his age, and the fourteenth of his reign. He was buried in Canterbury Cathedral. He had been twice married, and had, by his first wife, a family of four sons and two daughters. Considering his duplicity before he came to the throne, his unjust seizure of it, and above all, his making that monstrous law for the burning of what the priests called heretics, he was a reasonably good king, as kings went.

The King died on March 20, 1413, at the age of 47, and in the fourteenth year of his reign. He was buried in Canterbury Cathedral. He had been married twice and had four sons and two daughters with his first wife. Despite his deceit before assuming the throne, his unjust takeover of it, and especially his creation of the terrible law for burning those the priests called heretics, he was a reasonably good king by the standards of kingship.

CHAPTER XXI—ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FIFTH

FIRST PART

The Prince of Wales began his reign like a generous and honest man. He set the young Earl of March free; he restored their estates and their honours to the Percy family, who had lost them by their rebellion against his father; he ordered the imbecile and unfortunate Richard to be honourably buried among the Kings of England; and he dismissed all his wild companions, with assurances that they should not want, if they would resolve to be steady, faithful, and true.

The Prince of Wales started his reign as a kind and truthful man. He released the young Earl of March and returned the lands and titles to the Percy family, who had lost them due to their rebellion against his father. He instructed that the unfortunate and troubled Richard be given a proper burial among the Kings of England. He also let go of all his reckless friends, assuring them that they would be taken care of if they chose to be steady, loyal, and honest.

It is much easier to burn men than to burn their opinions; and those of the Lollards were spreading every day. The Lollards were represented by the priests—probably falsely for the most part—to entertain treasonable designs against the new King; and Henry, suffering himself to be worked upon by these representations, sacrificed his friend Sir John Oldcastle, the Lord Cobham, to them, after trying in vain to convert him by arguments. He was declared guilty, as the head of the sect, and sentenced to the flames; but he escaped from the Tower before the day of execution (postponed for fifty days by the King himself), and summoned the Lollards to meet him near London on a certain day. So the priests told the King, at least. I doubt whether there was any conspiracy beyond such as was got up by their agents. On the day appointed, instead of five-and-twenty thousand men, under the command of Sir John Oldcastle, in the meadows of St. Giles, the King found only eighty men, and no Sir John at all. There was, in another place, an addle-headed brewer, who had gold trappings to his horses, and a pair of gilt spurs in his breast—expecting to be made a knight next day by Sir John, and so to gain the right to wear them—but there was no Sir John, nor did anybody give information respecting him, though the King offered great rewards for such intelligence. Thirty of these unfortunate Lollards were hanged and drawn immediately, and were then burnt, gallows and all; and the various prisons in and around London were crammed full of others. Some of these unfortunate men made various confessions of treasonable designs; but, such confessions were easily got, under torture and the fear of fire, and are very little to be trusted. To finish the sad story of Sir John Oldcastle at once, I may mention that he escaped into Wales, and remained there safely, for four years. When discovered by Lord Powis, it is very doubtful if he would have been taken alive—so great was the old soldier’s bravery—if a miserable old woman had not come behind him and broken his legs with a stool. He was carried to London in a horse-litter, was fastened by an iron chain to a gibbet, and so roasted to death.

It's much easier to execute people than to erase their beliefs; and the Lollards' views were spreading every day. The priests—probably exaggerating for the most part—accused the Lollards of plotting against the new King. Henry, influenced by these claims, sacrificed his friend Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham, after unsuccessfully trying to convince him with arguments. He was found guilty as the leader of the group and sentenced to be burned; however, he escaped from the Tower before his execution date (which the King had postponed for fifty days) and called on the Lollards to gather near London on a specific day. At least, that’s what the priests told the King. I doubt there was any real conspiracy beyond what those agents cooked up. On the designated day, instead of the twenty-five thousand men under Sir John Oldcastle's command in the meadows of St. Giles, the King found only eighty men, and no Sir John at all. There was, elsewhere, a foolish brewer adorned with golden decorations for his horses and gilt spurs on his chest—expecting to be knighted by Sir John the next day to earn the right to wear them—but there was no Sir John, and no one provided information about him, even though the King offered significant rewards for such news. Thirty of these unfortunate Lollards were hanged, drawn, and burned without delay, gallows and all; and the various prisons in and around London were packed with others. Some of these men made various confessions of treasonous plots; however, such confessions were easily obtained under torture and the threat of fire, and are not very reliable. To conclude the tragic tale of Sir John Oldcastle, I should mention that he escaped to Wales and remained safe there for four years. When discovered by Lord Powis, it’s doubtful he would have been captured alive—given the old soldier’s courage—if it hadn't been for a wretched old woman who came up behind him and broke his legs with a stool. He was transported to London in a horse-litter, chained to a gibbet, and burned to death.

To make the state of France as plain as I can in a few words, I should tell you that the Duke of Orleans, and the Duke of Burgundy, commonly called ‘John without fear,’ had had a grand reconciliation of their quarrel in the last reign, and had appeared to be quite in a heavenly state of mind. Immediately after which, on a Sunday, in the public streets of Paris, the Duke of Orleans was murdered by a party of twenty men, set on by the Duke of Burgundy—according to his own deliberate confession. The widow of King Richard had been married in France to the eldest son of the Duke of Orleans. The poor mad King was quite powerless to help her, and the Duke of Burgundy became the real master of France. Isabella dying, her husband (Duke of Orleans since the death of his father) married the daughter of the Count of Armagnac, who, being a much abler man than his young son-in-law, headed his party; thence called after him Armagnacs. Thus, France was now in this terrible condition, that it had in it the party of the King’s son, the Dauphin Louis; the party of the Duke of Burgundy, who was the father of the Dauphin’s ill-used wife; and the party of the Armagnacs; all hating each other; all fighting together; all composed of the most depraved nobles that the earth has ever known; and all tearing unhappy France to pieces.

To sum up the situation in France as clearly as I can in just a few words, I should mention that the Duke of Orleans and the Duke of Burgundy, who is often called ‘John without Fear,’ had settled their feud in the previous reign and seemed to be in a peaceful state of mind. However, right after that, on a Sunday, the Duke of Orleans was assassinated in the streets of Paris by a group of twenty men, supposedly sent by the Duke of Burgundy—according to his own admission. The widow of King Richard had married the eldest son of the Duke of Orleans in France. The poor insane King was totally powerless to assist her, and the Duke of Burgundy essentially became the real ruler of France. After Isabella died, her husband (the Duke of Orleans since his father’s death) married the daughter of the Count of Armagnac, who was a much more competent man than his young son-in-law and led his faction; hence, they were called Armagnacs. As a result, France was in a terrible situation, divided among the party of the King’s son, the Dauphin Louis; the party of the Duke of Burgundy, who was the father of the Dauphin’s mistreated wife; and the Armagnacs; all of them despising each other, all fighting among themselves, all made up of the most corrupt nobles ever known, and all tearing unfortunate France apart.

The late King had watched these dissensions from England, sensible (like the French people) that no enemy of France could injure her more than her own nobility. The present King now advanced a claim to the French throne. His demand being, of course, refused, he reduced his proposal to a certain large amount of French territory, and to demanding the French princess, Catherine, in marriage, with a fortune of two millions of golden crowns. He was offered less territory and fewer crowns, and no princess; but he called his ambassadors home and prepared for war. Then, he proposed to take the princess with one million of crowns. The French Court replied that he should have the princess with two hundred thousand crowns less; he said this would not do (he had never seen the princess in his life), and assembled his army at Southampton. There was a short plot at home just at that time, for deposing him, and making the Earl of March king; but the conspirators were all speedily condemned and executed, and the King embarked for France.

The late King had observed these conflicts from England, aware (like the French people) that no enemy of France could harm her more than her own nobility. The current King then made a claim to the French throne. When his demand was understandably rejected, he scaled down his proposal to include a significant portion of French territory and the request to marry the French princess, Catherine, along with a dowry of two million gold crowns. He was offered less territory, fewer crowns, and no princess; however, he recalled his ambassadors and prepared for war. Next, he proposed marrying the princess for one million crowns. The French Court responded that he could have the princess for two hundred thousand crowns less; he insisted that this was unacceptable (having never seen the princess in his life), and gathered his army at Southampton. At that time, there was a brief plot at home to depose him and make the Earl of March king, but the conspirators were quickly tried and executed, and the King set sail for France.

It is dreadful to observe how long a bad example will be followed; but, it is encouraging to know that a good example is never thrown away. The King’s first act on disembarking at the mouth of the river Seine, three miles from Harfleur, was to imitate his father, and to proclaim his solemn orders that the lives and property of the peaceable inhabitants should be respected on pain of death. It is agreed by French writers, to his lasting renown, that even while his soldiers were suffering the greatest distress from want of food, these commands were rigidly obeyed.

It’s awful to see how long a bad example can be followed; but, it’s good to know that a good example is never wasted. The King’s first action upon arriving at the mouth of the Seine River, three miles from Harfleur, was to follow in his father’s footsteps and announce his serious orders that the lives and property of the peaceful townsfolk should be respected under penalty of death. French writers agree, to his lasting fame, that even when his soldiers were facing severe food shortages, these orders were strictly followed.

With an army in all of thirty thousand men, he besieged the town of Harfleur both by sea and land for five weeks; at the end of which time the town surrendered, and the inhabitants were allowed to depart with only fivepence each, and a part of their clothes. All the rest of their possessions was divided amongst the English army. But, that army suffered so much, in spite of its successes, from disease and privation, that it was already reduced one half. Still, the King was determined not to retire until he had struck a greater blow. Therefore, against the advice of all his counsellors, he moved on with his little force towards Calais. When he came up to the river Somme he was unable to cross, in consequence of the fort being fortified; and, as the English moved up the left bank of the river looking for a crossing, the French, who had broken all the bridges, moved up the right bank, watching them, and waiting to attack them when they should try to pass it. At last the English found a crossing and got safely over. The French held a council of war at Rouen, resolved to give the English battle, and sent heralds to King Henry to know by which road he was going. ‘By the road that will take me straight to Calais!’ said the King, and sent them away with a present of a hundred crowns.

With an army of thirty thousand men, he besieged the town of Harfleur by both sea and land for five weeks; at the end of that time, the town surrendered, and the inhabitants were allowed to leave with only five pence each and part of their clothing. Everything else they owned was divided among the English army. However, that army suffered greatly, despite its victories, from disease and hardship, which had already cut its numbers in half. Still, the King was determined not to retreat until he had dealt a more significant blow. Therefore, against the advice of all his advisors, he moved on with his small force toward Calais. When he reached the river Somme, he was unable to cross due to the fortifications; as the English advanced along the left bank searching for a crossing, the French, who had destroyed all the bridges, moved up the right bank, watching them and waiting to strike when they attempted to cross. Eventually, the English found a crossing and got safely over. The French held a war council in Rouen and decided to confront the English in battle. They sent messengers to King Henry to ask which route he was taking. "The route that leads me straight to Calais!" the King replied, sending them away with a gift of a hundred crowns.

The English moved on, until they beheld the French, and then the King gave orders to form in line of battle. The French not coming on, the army broke up after remaining in battle array till night, and got good rest and refreshment at a neighbouring village. The French were now all lying in another village, through which they knew the English must pass. They were resolved that the English should begin the battle. The English had no means of retreat, if their King had any such intention; and so the two armies passed the night, close together.

The English moved forward until they saw the French, and then the King ordered them to line up for battle. The French didn’t advance, so the army dispersed after staying in formation until nightfall, and they got a good rest and some food in a nearby village. The French were now resting in another village where they knew the English would have to pass through. They were determined that the English should start the fight. The English had no way to retreat, if their King had any plan to do so; and so, the two armies spent the night close to each other.

To understand these armies well, you must bear in mind that the immense French army had, among its notable persons, almost the whole of that wicked nobility, whose debauchery had made France a desert; and so besotted were they by pride, and by contempt for the common people, that they had scarcely any bowmen (if indeed they had any at all) in their whole enormous number: which, compared with the English army, was at least as six to one. For these proud fools had said that the bow was not a fit weapon for knightly hands, and that France must be defended by gentlemen only. We shall see, presently, what hand the gentlemen made of it.

To really understand these armies, you need to remember that the massive French army included nearly all of that corrupt nobility, whose excesses had turned France into a wasteland; they were so blinded by pride and disdain for the common people that they hardly had any archers (if they even had any) in their huge ranks, which were at least six times larger than the English army. These arrogant fools believed that the bow wasn’t a proper weapon for knights and that France should only be defended by gentlemen. Soon, we’ll see how well those gentlemen handled it.

Now, on the English side, among the little force, there was a good proportion of men who were not gentlemen by any means, but who were good stout archers for all that. Among them, in the morning—having slept little at night, while the French were carousing and making sure of victory—the King rode, on a grey horse; wearing on his head a helmet of shining steel, surmounted by a crown of gold, sparkling with precious stones; and bearing over his armour, embroidered together, the arms of England and the arms of France. The archers looked at the shining helmet and the crown of gold and the sparkling jewels, and admired them all; but, what they admired most was the King’s cheerful face, and his bright blue eye, as he told them that, for himself, he had made up his mind to conquer there or to die there, and that England should never have a ransom to pay for him. There was one brave knight who chanced to say that he wished some of the many gallant gentlemen and good soldiers, who were then idle at home in England, were there to increase their numbers. But the King told him that, for his part, he did not wish for one more man. ‘The fewer we have,’ said he, ‘the greater will be the honour we shall win!’ His men, being now all in good heart, were refreshed with bread and wine, and heard prayers, and waited quietly for the French. The King waited for the French, because they were drawn up thirty deep (the little English force was only three deep), on very difficult and heavy ground; and he knew that when they moved, there must be confusion among them.

Now, on the English side, among the small force, there were quite a few men who weren't gentlemen by any means, but they were still excellent archers. Among them, in the morning—having barely slept at night while the French were celebrating and feeling confident about victory—the King rode on a grey horse, wearing a shiny steel helmet topped with a gold crown studded with precious stones. Over his armor, he displayed the combined arms of England and France. The archers admired the shiny helmet, the golden crown, and the sparkling jewels, but what they admired most was the King’s cheerful face and bright blue eyes as he told them that he had decided to either conquer or die there, and that England wouldn’t have to pay a ransom for him. There was a brave knight who remarked that he wished some of the many gallant gentlemen and good soldiers who were sitting idle at home in England could be there to bolster their numbers. But the King replied that he, for his part, didn’t want one more man. “The fewer we have,” he said, “the greater the honor we’ll win!” His men, now in good spirits, were refreshed with bread and wine, heard prayers, and waited quietly for the French. The King waited for the French because they were formed up thirty ranks deep (while the small English force was only three deep) on very challenging and heavy ground, and he knew that when they moved, there would be chaos among them.

As they did not move, he sent off two parties:—one to lie concealed in a wood on the left of the French: the other, to set fire to some houses behind the French after the battle should be begun. This was scarcely done, when three of the proud French gentlemen, who were to defend their country without any help from the base peasants, came riding out, calling upon the English to surrender. The King warned those gentlemen himself to retire with all speed if they cared for their lives, and ordered the English banners to advance. Upon that, Sir Thomas Erpingham, a great English general, who commanded the archers, threw his truncheon into the air, joyfully, and all the English men, kneeling down upon the ground and biting it as if they took possession of the country, rose up with a great shout and fell upon the French.

As they didn’t move, he sent out two groups: one to hide in a forest on the left side of the French, and the other to set fire to some houses behind the French once the battle had started. Hardly had they completed this when three arrogant French knights, who were determined to defend their country without help from the lowly peasants, rode out, demanding that the English surrender. The King personally warned those knights to retreat quickly if they valued their lives, and ordered the English banners to move forward. At that, Sir Thomas Erpingham, a prominent English general in charge of the archers, joyfully tossed his baton into the air, and all the Englishmen, kneeling on the ground and biting it as if claiming the land, stood up with a loud cheer and charged at the French.

Every archer was furnished with a great stake tipped with iron; and his orders were, to thrust this stake into the ground, to discharge his arrow, and then to fall back, when the French horsemen came on. As the haughty French gentlemen, who were to break the English archers and utterly destroy them with their knightly lances, came riding up, they were received with such a blinding storm of arrows, that they broke and turned. Horses and men rolled over one another, and the confusion was terrific. Those who rallied and charged the archers got among the stakes on slippery and boggy ground, and were so bewildered that the English archers—who wore no armour, and even took off their leathern coats to be more active—cut them to pieces, root and branch. Only three French horsemen got within the stakes, and those were instantly despatched. All this time the dense French army, being in armour, were sinking knee-deep into the mire; while the light English archers, half-naked, were as fresh and active as if they were fighting on a marble floor.

Every archer was equipped with a large iron-tipped stake; their instructions were to drive this stake into the ground, shoot their arrows, and then retreat as the French horsemen advanced. As the proud French knights, who aimed to break the English archers and completely annihilate them with their lances, charged in, they were met with a blinding storm of arrows that caused them to break and turn away. Horses and men tumbled over each other, creating chaos. Those who regrouped and charged at the archers stumbled among the stakes in the muddy, slippery ground and were so disoriented that the unarmored English archers—who even removed their leather coats to be more agile—mowed them down completely. Only three French horsemen managed to enter the stakes, and they were swiftly taken out. Meanwhile, the heavily-armored French army was sinking knee-deep in the sludge, while the lightly-clad English archers, nearly half-naked, were as fresh and nimble as if they were fighting on a marble floor.

But now, the second division of the French coming to the relief of the first, closed up in a firm mass; the English, headed by the King, attacked them; and the deadliest part of the battle began. The King’s brother, the Duke of Clarence, was struck down, and numbers of the French surrounded him; but, King Henry, standing over the body, fought like a lion until they were beaten off.

But now, the second division of the French, coming to support the first, tightened their formation; the English, led by the King, charged at them, and the most intense part of the battle began. The King’s brother, the Duke of Clarence, was knocked down, and many of the French surrounded him; but King Henry, standing over his brother’s body, fought fiercely until they were driven back.

Presently, came up a band of eighteen French knights, bearing the banner of a certain French lord, who had sworn to kill or take the English King. One of them struck him such a blow with a battle-axe that he reeled and fell upon his knees; but, his faithful men, immediately closing round him, killed every one of those eighteen knights, and so that French lord never kept his oath.

Currently, a group of eighteen French knights appeared, carrying the banner of a specific French lord who had vowed to either kill or capture the English King. One of them struck him with a battle-axe hard enough that he stumbled and fell to his knees; however, his loyal men quickly surrounded him and killed all eighteen knights, so that French lord never fulfilled his vow.

The French Duke of Alençon, seeing this, made a desperate charge, and cut his way close up to the Royal Standard of England. He beat down the Duke of York, who was standing near it; and, when the King came to his rescue, struck off a piece of the crown he wore. But, he never struck another blow in this world; for, even as he was in the act of saying who he was, and that he surrendered to the King; and even as the King stretched out his hand to give him a safe and honourable acceptance of the offer; he fell dead, pierced by innumerable wounds.

The French Duke of Alençon, seeing this, made a desperate charge and fought his way right up to the Royal Standard of England. He knocked down the Duke of York, who was standing nearby; and when the King came to help, he even struck off a piece of the crown the King was wearing. But he never landed another blow in this world; for just as he was about to announce who he was and that he was surrendering to the King, and just as the King reached out his hand to accept his offer safely and honorably, he fell dead, pierced by countless wounds.

The death of this nobleman decided the battle. The third division of the French army, which had never struck a blow yet, and which was, in itself, more than double the whole English power, broke and fled. At this time of the fight, the English, who as yet had made no prisoners, began to take them in immense numbers, and were still occupied in doing so, or in killing those who would not surrender, when a great noise arose in the rear of the French—their flying banners were seen to stop—and King Henry, supposing a great reinforcement to have arrived, gave orders that all the prisoners should be put to death. As soon, however, as it was found that the noise was only occasioned by a body of plundering peasants, the terrible massacre was stopped.

The death of this nobleman changed the course of the battle. The third division of the French army, which had yet to engage, and which was itself more than twice the size of the entire English force, broke and ran. At this point in the fight, the English, who had not yet taken any prisoners, began capturing them in huge numbers, and were still busy doing that or killing those who wouldn’t surrender, when a loud commotion erupted in the rear of the French—their fleeing banners came to a halt—and King Henry, thinking that a major reinforcement had arrived, ordered that all prisoners be executed. However, as soon as it was discovered that the noise was merely caused by a group of looting peasants, the brutal massacre was halted.

Then King Henry called to him the French herald, and asked him to whom the victory belonged.

Then King Henry called over the French herald and asked him who had won the victory.

The herald replied, ‘To the King of England.’

The messenger replied, "To the King of England."

‘We have not made this havoc and slaughter,’ said the King. ‘It is the wrath of Heaven on the sins of France. What is the name of that castle yonder?’

‘We didn’t cause this destruction and killing,’ said the King. ‘It is the anger of Heaven against the sins of France. What’s the name of that castle over there?’

The herald answered him, ‘My lord, it is the castle of Azincourt.’ Said the King, ‘From henceforth this battle shall be known to posterity, by the name of the battle of Azincourt.’

The herald replied, "My lord, it's the castle of Azincourt." The King said, "From now on, this battle will be remembered by future generations as the battle of Azincourt."

Our English historians have made it Agincourt; but, under that name, it will ever be famous in English annals.

Our English historians have named it Agincourt; but, under that name, it will always be famous in English history.

The loss upon the French side was enormous. Three Dukes were killed, two more were taken prisoners, seven Counts were killed, three more were taken prisoners, and ten thousand knights and gentlemen were slain upon the field. The English loss amounted to sixteen hundred men, among whom were the Duke of York and the Earl of Suffolk.

The loss on the French side was massive. Three Dukes were killed, two more were captured, seven Counts were killed, three more were captured, and ten thousand knights and gentlemen were slain on the field. The English loss totaled sixteen hundred men, including the Duke of York and the Earl of Suffolk.

War is a dreadful thing; and it is appalling to know how the English were obliged, next morning, to kill those prisoners mortally wounded, who yet writhed in agony upon the ground; how the dead upon the French side were stripped by their own countrymen and countrywomen, and afterwards buried in great pits; how the dead upon the English side were piled up in a great barn, and how their bodies and the barn were all burned together. It is in such things, and in many more much too horrible to relate, that the real desolation and wickedness of war consist. Nothing can make war otherwise than horrible. But the dark side of it was little thought of and soon forgotten; and it cast no shade of trouble on the English people, except on those who had lost friends or relations in the fight. They welcomed their King home with shouts of rejoicing, and plunged into the water to bear him ashore on their shoulders, and flocked out in crowds to welcome him in every town through which he passed, and hung rich carpets and tapestries out of the windows, and strewed the streets with flowers, and made the fountains run with wine, as the great field of Agincourt had run with blood.

War is a terrible thing, and it's shocking to know that the English had to kill the mortally wounded prisoners the next morning, who were still writhing in pain on the ground. The dead on the French side were stripped by their fellow countrymen and women and then buried in mass graves. On the English side, the bodies were piled up in a large barn, which was later burned along with the bodies. It’s in these horrors, and many others that are too awful to mention, that the true devastation and evil of war are found. There’s nothing that can make war anything but horrific. But the darker aspects were soon forgotten, and they hardly troubled the English people, except for those who had lost loved ones in the battle. They welcomed their King home with cheers, carried him ashore on their shoulders into the water, and turned out in droves to greet him in every town he passed through. They hung beautiful carpets and tapestries from the windows, covered the streets with flowers, and made the fountains flow with wine, just as the great field of Agincourt had flowed with blood.

SECOND PART

That proud and wicked French nobility who dragged their country to destruction, and who were every day and every year regarded with deeper hatred and detestation in the hearts of the French people, learnt nothing, even from the defeat of Agincourt. So far from uniting against the common enemy, they became, among themselves, more violent, more bloody, and more false—if that were possible—than they had been before. The Count of Armagnac persuaded the French king to plunder of her treasures Queen Isabella of Bavaria, and to make her a prisoner. She, who had hitherto been the bitter enemy of the Duke of Burgundy, proposed to join him, in revenge. He carried her off to Troyes, where she proclaimed herself Regent of France, and made him her lieutenant. The Armagnac party were at that time possessed of Paris; but, one of the gates of the city being secretly opened on a certain night to a party of the duke’s men, they got into Paris, threw into the prisons all the Armagnacs upon whom they could lay their hands, and, a few nights afterwards, with the aid of a furious mob of sixty thousand people, broke the prisons open, and killed them all. The former Dauphin was now dead, and the King’s third son bore the title. Him, in the height of this murderous scene, a French knight hurried out of bed, wrapped in a sheet, and bore away to Poitiers. So, when the revengeful Isabella and the Duke of Burgundy entered Paris in triumph after the slaughter of their enemies, the Dauphin was proclaimed at Poitiers as the real Regent.

That arrogant and corrupt French nobility who led their country to ruin, and who were increasingly despised by the French people every day and every year, learned nothing, even from the defeat at Agincourt. Instead of coming together against the common enemy, they became even more violent, ruthless, and deceitful—if that was possible—than they had been before. The Count of Armagnac convinced the French king to rob Queen Isabella of Bavaria of her treasures and imprison her. She, who had previously been a fierce enemy of the Duke of Burgundy, decided to ally with him for revenge. He took her to Troyes, where she declared herself Regent of France and made him her lieutenant. At that time, the Armagnac party controlled Paris; however, one night, a gate of the city was secretly opened to a group of the duke’s men. They entered Paris, imprisoned as many Armagnacs as they could find, and a few nights later, with the support of an enraged mob of sixty thousand people, broke open the prisons and killed them all. The former Dauphin was dead, and the King’s third son held the title. In the midst of this violent chaos, a French knight rushed out of bed, wrapped in a sheet, and took him away to Poitiers. Thus, when the vengeful Isabella and the Duke of Burgundy triumphantly entered Paris after the massacre of their foes, the Dauphin was proclaimed the true Regent in Poitiers.

King Henry had not been idle since his victory of Agincourt, but had repulsed a brave attempt of the French to recover Harfleur; had gradually conquered a great part of Normandy; and, at this crisis of affairs, took the important town of Rouen, after a siege of half a year. This great loss so alarmed the French, that the Duke of Burgundy proposed that a meeting to treat of peace should be held between the French and the English kings in a plain by the river Seine. On the appointed day, King Henry appeared there, with his two brothers, Clarence and Gloucester, and a thousand men. The unfortunate French King, being more mad than usual that day, could not come; but the Queen came, and with her the Princess Catherine: who was a very lovely creature, and who made a real impression on King Henry, now that he saw her for the first time. This was the most important circumstance that arose out of the meeting.

King Henry had been busy since his victory at Agincourt. He successfully pushed back a bold attempt by the French to reclaim Harfleur, gradually conquered much of Normandy, and at this crucial moment, captured the important town of Rouen after a six-month siege. This significant loss shocked the French so much that the Duke of Burgundy suggested a meeting to discuss peace between the French and English kings in a field by the river Seine. On the agreed day, King Henry showed up with his two brothers, Clarence and Gloucester, along with a thousand men. The unfortunate French King, being more unstable than usual that day, couldn’t attend, but the Queen came, accompanied by Princess Catherine, who was truly beautiful and made a genuine impression on King Henry when he saw her for the first time. This was the most important development that came out of the meeting.

As if it were impossible for a French nobleman of that time to be true to his word of honour in anything, Henry discovered that the Duke of Burgundy was, at that very moment, in secret treaty with the Dauphin; and he therefore abandoned the negotiation.

As if it were impossible for a French nobleman of that time to be true to his word of honor in anything, Henry found out that the Duke of Burgundy was secretly negotiating with the Dauphin; so he gave up on the talks.

The Duke of Burgundy and the Dauphin, each of whom with the best reason distrusted the other as a noble ruffian surrounded by a party of noble ruffians, were rather at a loss how to proceed after this; but, at length they agreed to meet, on a bridge over the river Yonne, where it was arranged that there should be two strong gates put up, with an empty space between them; and that the Duke of Burgundy should come into that space by one gate, with ten men only; and that the Dauphin should come into that space by the other gate, also with ten men, and no more.

The Duke of Burgundy and the Dauphin, each justifiably suspicious of the other as a noble thug among a group of noble thugs, weren’t quite sure how to go forward after this; but eventually, they decided to meet on a bridge over the river Yonne. It was arranged to set up two strong gates with an empty space between them. The Duke of Burgundy would enter that space through one gate with only ten men, and the Dauphin would enter through the other gate, also with ten men, no more.

So far the Dauphin kept his word, but no farther. When the Duke of Burgundy was on his knee before him in the act of speaking, one of the Dauphin’s noble ruffians cut the said duke down with a small axe, and others speedily finished him.

So far the Dauphin kept his promise, but not beyond that. When the Duke of Burgundy was kneeling before him to speak, one of the Dauphin's rogue nobles hacked the duke down with a small axe, and others quickly finished him off.

It was in vain for the Dauphin to pretend that this base murder was not done with his consent; it was too bad, even for France, and caused a general horror. The duke’s heir hastened to make a treaty with King Henry, and the French Queen engaged that her husband should consent to it, whatever it was. Henry made peace, on condition of receiving the Princess Catherine in marriage, and being made Regent of France during the rest of the King’s lifetime, and succeeding to the French crown at his death. He was soon married to the beautiful Princess, and took her proudly home to England, where she was crowned with great honour and glory.

It was useless for the Dauphin to pretend that this terrible murder happened without his approval; it was too awful, even for France, and it caused everyone to be horrified. The duke’s heir quickly moved to make a deal with King Henry, and the French Queen promised that her husband would agree to it, no matter what it was. Henry made peace, on the condition that he would marry Princess Catherine and be made Regent of France for the rest of the King’s life, eventually taking the French crown upon the King’s death. He soon married the beautiful Princess and proudly brought her back to England, where she was crowned with great honor and glory.

This peace was called the Perpetual Peace; we shall soon see how long it lasted. It gave great satisfaction to the French people, although they were so poor and miserable, that, at the time of the celebration of the Royal marriage, numbers of them were dying with starvation, on the dunghills in the streets of Paris. There was some resistance on the part of the Dauphin in some few parts of France, but King Henry beat it all down.

This agreement was known as the Perpetual Peace; we will soon see how long it lasted. It brought a lot of joy to the French people, even though they were so poor and desperate that, during the celebration of the royal wedding, many were dying of starvation, lying on the garbage in the streets of Paris. There was some resistance from the Dauphin in a few areas of France, but King Henry crushed it all.

And now, with his great possessions in France secured, and his beautiful wife to cheer him, and a son born to give him greater happiness, all appeared bright before him. But, in the fulness of his triumph and the height of his power, Death came upon him, and his day was done. When he fell ill at Vincennes, and found that he could not recover, he was very calm and quiet, and spoke serenely to those who wept around his bed. His wife and child, he said, he left to the loving care of his brother the Duke of Bedford, and his other faithful nobles. He gave them his advice that England should establish a friendship with the new Duke of Burgundy, and offer him the regency of France; that it should not set free the royal princes who had been taken at Agincourt; and that, whatever quarrel might arise with France, England should never make peace without holding Normandy. Then, he laid down his head, and asked the attendant priests to chant the penitential psalms. Amid which solemn sounds, on the thirty-first of August, one thousand four hundred and twenty-two, in only the thirty-fourth year of his age and the tenth of his reign, King Henry the Fifth passed away.

And now, with his vast holdings in France secured, a beautiful wife to support him, and a son born to bring him even more joy, everything seemed bright ahead. But, in the fullness of his triumph and the peak of his power, Death arrived, and his time was over. When he fell ill in Vincennes and realized he would not recover, he remained calm and quiet, speaking peacefully to those who were crying around his bedside. He entrusted his wife and child to the loving care of his brother, the Duke of Bedford, and his other loyal nobles. He advised them to seek friendship with the new Duke of Burgundy and to offer him the regency of France; he urged them not to release the royal princes captured at Agincourt; and he insisted that, whatever disputes might arise with France, England should never make peace without retaining Normandy. Then, he rested his head and asked the attending priests to chant the penitential psalms. Amid those solemn sounds, on August 31, 1422, at just thirty-four years old and ten years into his reign, King Henry the Fifth passed away.

Slowly and mournfully they carried his embalmed body in a procession of great state to Paris, and thence to Rouen where his Queen was: from whom the sad intelligence of his death was concealed until he had been dead some days. Thence, lying on a bed of crimson and gold, with a golden crown upon the head, and a golden ball and sceptre lying in the nerveless hands, they carried it to Calais, with such a great retinue as seemed to dye the road black. The King of Scotland acted as chief mourner, all the Royal Household followed, the knights wore black armour and black plumes of feathers, crowds of men bore torches, making the night as light as day; and the widowed Princess followed last of all. At Calais there was a fleet of ships to bring the funeral host to Dover. And so, by way of London Bridge, where the service for the dead was chanted as it passed along, they brought the body to Westminster Abbey, and there buried it with great respect.

Slowly and mournfully, they carried his embalmed body in a grand procession to Paris, and then to Rouen where his Queen was, from whom the heartbreaking news of his death was kept hidden until he had already been dead for several days. From there, resting on a bed of crimson and gold, with a golden crown on his head and a golden ball and scepter in his lifeless hands, they transported him to Calais, accompanied by such a large retinue that it seemed to darken the road. The King of Scotland served as the chief mourner, with the entire Royal Household following, knights donned in black armor and black feathered plumes, and crowds of men carrying torches that lit up the night like day; the widowed Princess brought up the rear. At Calais, a fleet of ships awaited to take the funeral procession to Dover. Thus, via London Bridge, where a service for the dead was sung as they passed, they brought the body to Westminster Abbey and buried it there with great reverence.

CHAPTER XXII—ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SIXTH

PART THE FIRST

It had been the wish of the late King, that while his infant son King Henry the Sixth, at this time only nine months old, was under age, the Duke of Gloucester should be appointed Regent. The English Parliament, however, preferred to appoint a Council of Regency, with the Duke of Bedford at its head: to be represented, in his absence only, by the Duke of Gloucester. The Parliament would seem to have been wise in this, for Gloucester soon showed himself to be ambitious and troublesome, and, in the gratification of his own personal schemes, gave dangerous offence to the Duke of Burgundy, which was with difficulty adjusted.

It was the late King's wish that while his infant son King Henry VI, who was only nine months old at the time, was still a minor, the Duke of Gloucester should be appointed as Regent. However, the English Parliament preferred to establish a Council of Regency, with the Duke of Bedford leading it, and the Duke of Gloucester would only represent him in his absence. The Parliament seemed to be wise in this decision, as Gloucester soon revealed himself to be ambitious and troublesome, and in pursuing his own personal interests, he offended the Duke of Burgundy, which took a lot of effort to resolve.

As that duke declined the Regency of France, it was bestowed by the poor French King upon the Duke of Bedford. But, the French King dying within two months, the Dauphin instantly asserted his claim to the French throne, and was actually crowned under the title of Charles the Seventh. The Duke of Bedford, to be a match for him, entered into a friendly league with the Dukes of Burgundy and Brittany, and gave them his two sisters in marriage. War with France was immediately renewed, and the Perpetual Peace came to an untimely end.

As that duke rejected the Regency of France, it was given by the unfortunate French King to the Duke of Bedford. However, the French King passed away within two months, and the Dauphin quickly claimed his right to the French throne, being crowned as Charles VII. To counter him, the Duke of Bedford formed an alliance with the Dukes of Burgundy and Brittany, marrying off his two sisters to them. War with France resumed right away, and the Perpetual Peace was abruptly terminated.

In the first campaign, the English, aided by this alliance, were speedily successful. As Scotland, however, had sent the French five thousand men, and might send more, or attack the North of England while England was busy with France, it was considered that it would be a good thing to offer the Scottish King, James, who had been so long imprisoned, his liberty, on his paying forty thousand pounds for his board and lodging during nineteen years, and engaging to forbid his subjects from serving under the flag of France. It is pleasant to know, not only that the amiable captive at last regained his freedom upon these terms, but, that he married a noble English lady, with whom he had been long in love, and became an excellent King. I am afraid we have met with some Kings in this history, and shall meet with some more, who would have been very much the better, and would have left the world much happier, if they had been imprisoned nineteen years too.

In the first campaign, the English, with the help of this alliance, quickly succeeded. However, since Scotland had sent five thousand men to the French and could send more or attack Northern England while England was occupied with France, it was thought to be wise to offer the Scottish King, James, who had been imprisoned for so long, his freedom, on the condition that he pay forty thousand pounds for his room and board over the nineteen years, and agree to stop his subjects from fighting for France. It's nice to know that the kind prisoner eventually gained his freedom under these conditions, married a noble Englishwoman he had loved for a long time, and became a great King. I'm afraid we've encountered some Kings in this story, and we'll encounter more, who would have been much better off and would have made the world a happier place if they had been imprisoned for nineteen years too.

In the second campaign, the English gained a considerable victory at Verneuil, in a battle which was chiefly remarkable, otherwise, for their resorting to the odd expedient of tying their baggage-horses together by the heads and tails, and jumbling them up with the baggage, so as to convert them into a sort of live fortification—which was found useful to the troops, but which I should think was not agreeable to the horses. For three years afterwards very little was done, owing to both sides being too poor for war, which is a very expensive entertainment; but, a council was then held in Paris, in which it was decided to lay siege to the town of Orleans, which was a place of great importance to the Dauphin’s cause. An English army of ten thousand men was despatched on this service, under the command of the Earl of Salisbury, a general of fame. He being unfortunately killed early in the siege, the Earl of Suffolk took his place; under whom (reinforced by Sir John Falstaff, who brought up four hundred waggons laden with salt herrings and other provisions for the troops, and, beating off the French who tried to intercept him, came victorious out of a hot skirmish, which was afterwards called in jest the Battle of the Herrings) the town of Orleans was so completely hemmed in, that the besieged proposed to yield it up to their countryman the Duke of Burgundy. The English general, however, replied that his English men had won it, so far, by their blood and valour, and that his English men must have it. There seemed to be no hope for the town, or for the Dauphin, who was so dismayed that he even thought of flying to Scotland or to Spain—when a peasant girl rose up and changed the whole state of affairs.

In the second campaign, the English achieved a significant victory at Verneuil, which was mostly notable for their unusual tactic of tying their baggage-horses together by the heads and tails and mixing them in with the supplies to create a sort of living barricade. This strategy proved useful for the troops, though I doubt it was pleasant for the horses. For the next three years, not much happened since both sides were too broke for war, which is quite an expensive affair. However, a council was then held in Paris, where it was decided to lay siege to the city of Orleans, a key location for the Dauphin’s cause. An English army of ten thousand men was sent on this mission, led by the renowned Earl of Salisbury. Unfortunately, he was killed early in the siege, and the Earl of Suffolk took over. Under him, and with reinforcements from Sir John Falstaff, who arrived with four hundred wagons loaded with salt herring and other supplies for the troops—successfully fending off the French who tried to stop him in a fierce skirmish, which was later jokingly called the Battle of the Herrings—the town of Orleans was completely surrounded. The besieged even suggested surrendering to their fellow countryman, the Duke of Burgundy. However, the English general replied that his English men had taken it with their blood and bravery, and that it must remain theirs. The situation seemed hopeless for the town and the Dauphin, who was so frightened that he even considered fleeing to Scotland or Spain—until a peasant girl emerged and changed everything.

The story of this peasant girl I have now to tell.

The story of this peasant girl I’m about to share.

PART THE SECOND: THE STORY OF JOAN OF ARC

In a remote village among some wild hills in the province of Lorraine, there lived a countryman whose name was Jacques d’Arc. He had a daughter, Joan of Arc, who was at this time in her twentieth year. She had been a solitary girl from her childhood; she had often tended sheep and cattle for whole days where no human figure was seen or human voice heard; and she had often knelt, for hours together, in the gloomy, empty, little village chapel, looking up at the altar and at the dim lamp burning before it, until she fancied that she saw shadowy figures standing there, and even that she heard them speak to her. The people in that part of France were very ignorant and superstitious, and they had many ghostly tales to tell about what they had dreamed, and what they saw among the lonely hills when the clouds and the mists were resting on them. So, they easily believed that Joan saw strange sights, and they whispered among themselves that angels and spirits talked to her.

In a remote village nestled among wild hills in the province of Lorraine, there lived a farmer named Jacques d'Arc. He had a daughter, Joan of Arc, who was twenty years old at the time. She had been a solitary girl since childhood; often, she spent entire days tending sheep and cattle in places where no one else could be seen or heard. Many times, she knelt for hours in the dark, empty little village chapel, gazing at the altar and the dim lamp flickering before it, until she imagined she saw shadowy figures standing there and even heard them speaking to her. The people in that part of France were quite ignorant and superstitious, filled with ghostly tales about their dreams and what they claimed to see among the lonely hills when the clouds and mists settled over them. So, they readily believed that Joan witnessed unusual sights, whispering among themselves that angels and spirits spoke to her.

At last, Joan told her father that she had one day been surprised by a great unearthly light, and had afterwards heard a solemn voice, which said it was Saint Michael’s voice, telling her that she was to go and help the Dauphin. Soon after this (she said), Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret had appeared to her with sparkling crowns upon their heads, and had encouraged her to be virtuous and resolute. These visions had returned sometimes; but the Voices very often; and the voices always said, ‘Joan, thou art appointed by Heaven to go and help the Dauphin!’ She almost always heard them while the chapel bells were ringing.

At last, Joan told her father that one day she was surprised by a bright, otherworldly light and then heard a serious voice that claimed to be Saint Michael’s, telling her that she was to go and help the Dauphin. Soon after that, she said, Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret appeared to her with sparkling crowns on their heads and encouraged her to be virtuous and determined. These visions had come back sometimes, but the Voices appeared very often; and the voices always said, "Joan, you are chosen by Heaven to go and help the Dauphin!" She almost always heard them while the chapel bells were ringing.

There is no doubt, now, that Joan believed she saw and heard these things. It is very well known that such delusions are a disease which is not by any means uncommon. It is probable enough that there were figures of Saint Michael, and Saint Catherine, and Saint Margaret, in the little chapel (where they would be very likely to have shining crowns upon their heads), and that they first gave Joan the idea of those three personages. She had long been a moping, fanciful girl, and, though she was a very good girl, I dare say she was a little vain, and wishful for notoriety.

There's no doubt that Joan genuinely believed she saw and heard these things. It's well known that such delusions are a condition that isn’t uncommon. It's quite probable that there were figures of Saint Michael, Saint Catherine, and Saint Margaret in the small chapel (where they'd likely have shining crowns on their heads), and that they first inspired Joan's vision of those three figures. She had long been a dreamy, imaginative girl, and while she was certainly a good person, I would say she was a bit vain and eager for recognition.

Her father, something wiser than his neighbours, said, ‘I tell thee, Joan, it is thy fancy. Thou hadst better have a kind husband to take care of thee, girl, and work to employ thy mind!’ But Joan told him in reply, that she had taken a vow never to have a husband, and that she must go as Heaven directed her, to help the Dauphin.

Her father, who was a bit wiser than his neighbors, said, “I tell you, Joan, this is just your imagination. You’d be better off with a kind husband to take care of you, girl, and find some work to occupy your mind!” But Joan replied that she had vowed never to marry and that she had to follow where Heaven directed her, to help the Dauphin.

It happened, unfortunately for her father’s persuasions, and most unfortunately for the poor girl, too, that a party of the Dauphin’s enemies found their way into the village while Joan’s disorder was at this point, and burnt the chapel, and drove out the inhabitants. The cruelties she saw committed, touched Joan’s heart and made her worse. She said that the voices and the figures were now continually with her; that they told her she was the girl who, according to an old prophecy, was to deliver France; and she must go and help the Dauphin, and must remain with him until he should be crowned at Rheims: and that she must travel a long way to a certain lord named Baudricourt, who could and would, bring her into the Dauphin’s presence.

It unfortunately happened, despite her father’s attempts to convince her otherwise, and sadly for the poor girl as well, that a group of the Dauphin’s enemies entered the village while Joan was in a troubled state. They burned the chapel and forced the villagers to flee. The brutal acts she witnessed deeply affected Joan’s heart and worsened her condition. She claimed that the voices and visions were always with her; they told her she was the girl destined, according to an old prophecy, to save France. She needed to go and assist the Dauphin and stay by his side until he was crowned in Rheims. They said she had to journey a long distance to meet a certain lord named Baudricourt, who could and would introduce her to the Dauphin.

As her father still said, ‘I tell thee, Joan, it is thy fancy,’ she set off to find out this lord, accompanied by an uncle, a poor village wheelwright and cart-maker, who believed in the reality of her visions. They travelled a long way and went on and on, over a rough country, full of the Duke of Burgundy’s men, and of all kinds of robbers and marauders, until they came to where this lord was.

As her father continued to say, “I tell you, Joan, it’s just your imagination,” she set off to find this lord, accompanied by an uncle, a poor village wheelwright and cart-maker, who believed in the truth of her visions. They traveled a long way and kept going, over a tough landscape, filled with the Duke of Burgundy’s soldiers, along with all sorts of thieves and raiders, until they reached where this lord was.

When his servants told him that there was a poor peasant girl named Joan of Arc, accompanied by nobody but an old village wheelwright and cart-maker, who wished to see him because she was commanded to help the Dauphin and save France, Baudricourt burst out a-laughing, and bade them send the girl away. But, he soon heard so much about her lingering in the town, and praying in the churches, and seeing visions, and doing harm to no one, that he sent for her, and questioned her. As she said the same things after she had been well sprinkled with holy water as she had said before the sprinkling, Baudricourt began to think there might be something in it. At all events, he thought it worth while to send her on to the town of Chinon, where the Dauphin was. So, he bought her a horse, and a sword, and gave her two squires to conduct her. As the Voices had told Joan that she was to wear a man’s dress, now, she put one on, and girded her sword to her side, and bound spurs to her heels, and mounted her horse and rode away with her two squires. As to her uncle the wheelwright, he stood staring at his niece in wonder until she was out of sight—as well he might—and then went home again. The best place, too.

When his servants told him that there was a poor peasant girl named Joan of Arc, who was accompanied only by an old village wheelwright and cart-maker, and that she wanted to see him because she had been commanded to help the Dauphin and save France, Baudricourt burst out laughing and told them to send the girl away. But soon, he heard so much about her hanging around the town, praying in the churches, having visions, and doing no harm to anyone, that he summoned her and questioned her. Since she repeated the same things after being sprinkled with holy water, just as she had said before, Baudricourt began to think there might be something to it. In any case, he decided it was worth sending her on to the town of Chinon, where the Dauphin was. So, he bought her a horse and a sword and gave her two squires to escort her. Because the Voices had told Joan that she should wear a man’s clothing, she put one on, strapped her sword to her side, attached spurs to her heels, and mounted her horse to ride away with her two squires. As for her uncle the wheelwright, he stood there staring at his niece in awe until she was out of sight—understandably so—and then went back home. The best place for him, too.

Joan and her two squires rode on and on, until they came to Chinon, where she was, after some doubt, admitted into the Dauphin’s presence. Picking him out immediately from all his court, she told him that she came commanded by Heaven to subdue his enemies and conduct him to his coronation at Rheims. She also told him (or he pretended so afterwards, to make the greater impression upon his soldiers) a number of his secrets known only to himself, and, furthermore, she said there was an old, old sword in the cathedral of Saint Catherine at Fierbois, marked with five old crosses on the blade, which Saint Catherine had ordered her to wear.

Joan and her two squires rode on and on until they reached Chinon, where she was, after some hesitation, allowed into the Dauphin's presence. Spotting him immediately among his court, she told him that she was sent by Heaven to defeat his enemies and lead him to his coronation in Rheims. She also revealed (or he later claimed to make a bigger impact on his soldiers) several of his secrets known only to him, and she added that there was an ancient sword in the cathedral of Saint Catherine at Fierbois, marked with five old crosses on the blade, which Saint Catherine had instructed her to use.

Now, nobody knew anything about this old, old sword, but when the cathedral came to be examined—which was immediately done—there, sure enough, the sword was found! The Dauphin then required a number of grave priests and bishops to give him their opinion whether the girl derived her power from good spirits or from evil spirits, which they held prodigiously long debates about, in the course of which several learned men fell fast asleep and snored loudly. At last, when one gruff old gentleman had said to Joan, ‘What language do your Voices speak?’ and when Joan had replied to the gruff old gentleman, ‘A pleasanter language than yours,’ they agreed that it was all correct, and that Joan of Arc was inspired from Heaven. This wonderful circumstance put new heart into the Dauphin’s soldiers when they heard of it, and dispirited the English army, who took Joan for a witch.

Now, nobody knew anything about this really old sword, but when the cathedral was examined—which happened right away—there it was, just as expected! The Dauphin then asked several serious priests and bishops for their opinions on whether the girl got her power from good spirits or evil ones. They debated for a really long time, during which several learned men dozed off and snored loudly. Finally, when one grumpy old man asked Joan, ‘What language do your Voices speak?’ and Joan replied, ‘A nicer language than yours,’ they all agreed that it was legitimate, and that Joan of Arc was inspired from Heaven. This amazing news boosted the Dauphin’s soldiers when they heard about it, while it discouraged the English army, who thought Joan was a witch.

So Joan mounted horse again, and again rode on and on, until she came to Orleans. But she rode now, as never peasant girl had ridden yet. She rode upon a white war-horse, in a suit of glittering armour; with the old, old sword from the cathedral, newly burnished, in her belt; with a white flag carried before her, upon which were a picture of God, and the words Jesus Maria. In this splendid state, at the head of a great body of troops escorting provisions of all kinds for the starving inhabitants of Orleans, she appeared before that beleaguered city.

So Joan got on her horse again and rode on and on until she arrived in Orleans. But she rode like no peasant girl ever had before. She was on a white war-horse, wearing shining armor; with the old sword from the cathedral, freshly polished, at her side; and a white flag held before her, featuring a picture of God and the words Jesus, Mary. In this magnificent state, leading a large group of troops delivering supplies of all kinds to the starving people of Orleans, she appeared before that besieged city.

When the people on the walls beheld her, they cried out ‘The Maid is come! The Maid of the Prophecy is come to deliver us!’ And this, and the sight of the Maid fighting at the head of their men, made the French so bold, and made the English so fearful, that the English line of forts was soon broken, the troops and provisions were got into the town, and Orleans was saved.

When the people on the walls saw her, they shouted, “The Maid has come! The Maid from the Prophecy has come to save us!” This, along with the sight of the Maid leading their soldiers into battle, gave the French a surge of courage and filled the English with fear, causing the English line of forts to quickly fall apart. The troops and supplies were brought into the town, and Orleans was saved.

Joan, henceforth called The Maid of Orleans, remained within the walls for a few days, and caused letters to be thrown over, ordering Lord Suffolk and his Englishmen to depart from before the town according to the will of Heaven. As the English general very positively declined to believe that Joan knew anything about the will of Heaven (which did not mend the matter with his soldiers, for they stupidly said if she were not inspired she was a witch, and it was of no use to fight against a witch), she mounted her white war-horse again, and ordered her white banner to advance.

Joan, now known as Joan of Arc, stayed within the city walls for a few days and sent letters demanding that Lord Suffolk and his English troops leave the area as per the will of Heaven. Since the English general firmly refused to believe that Joan had any insight into the will of Heaven (which didn’t help the situation with his soldiers, who foolishly claimed that if she wasn’t inspired, she must be a witch, and it was pointless to fight against a witch), she mounted her white warhorse again and commanded her white banner to move forward.

The besiegers held the bridge, and some strong towers upon the bridge; and here the Maid of Orleans attacked them. The fight was fourteen hours long. She planted a scaling ladder with her own hands, and mounted a tower wall, but was struck by an English arrow in the neck, and fell into the trench. She was carried away and the arrow was taken out, during which operation she screamed and cried with the pain, as any other girl might have done; but presently she said that the Voices were speaking to her and soothing her to rest. After a while, she got up, and was again foremost in the fight. When the English who had seen her fall and supposed her dead, saw this, they were troubled with the strangest fears, and some of them cried out that they beheld Saint Michael on a white horse (probably Joan herself) fighting for the French. They lost the bridge, and lost the towers, and next day set their chain of forts on fire, and left the place.

The attackers controlled the bridge and some strong towers on it, and that’s where the Maid of Orleans confronted them. The battle lasted fourteen hours. She set up a scaling ladder herself and climbed up a tower wall, but she was hit by an English arrow in the neck and fell into the trench. She was carried away and the arrow was removed, during which she screamed and cried from the pain, just like any other girl would. But soon after, she said the Voices were speaking to her and comforting her to rest. After a while, she stood up and was once again at the frontlines of the fight. When the English, who had witnessed her fall and thought she was dead, saw this, they were overcome with strange fears, and some of them shouted that they saw Saint Michael on a white horse (likely it was Joan herself) fighting for the French. They lost the bridge, lost the towers, and the next day they set their chain of forts on fire and abandoned the place.

But as Lord Suffolk himself retired no farther than the town of Jargeau, which was only a few miles off, the Maid of Orleans besieged him there, and he was taken prisoner. As the white banner scaled the wall, she was struck upon the head with a stone, and was again tumbled down into the ditch; but, she only cried all the more, as she lay there, ‘On, on, my countrymen! And fear nothing, for the Lord hath delivered them into our hands!’ After this new success of the Maid’s, several other fortresses and places which had previously held out against the Dauphin were delivered up without a battle; and at Patay she defeated the remainder of the English army, and set up her victorious white banner on a field where twelve hundred Englishmen lay dead.

But when Lord Suffolk pulled back to the town of Jargeau, which was just a few miles away, the Maid of Orleans laid siege to him there, and he was captured. As the white banner climbed the wall, she was hit on the head with a stone and fell back into the ditch; yet, laying there, she shouted even louder, “On, on, my countrymen! And fear nothing, for the Lord has delivered them into our hands!” Following this new victory for the Maid, several other forts and locations that had previously resisted the Dauphin surrendered without a fight; and at Patay, she defeated the rest of the English army, raising her victorious white banner on a field where twelve hundred English soldiers lay dead.

She now urged the Dauphin (who always kept out of the way when there was any fighting) to proceed to Rheims, as the first part of her mission was accomplished; and to complete the whole by being crowned there. The Dauphin was in no particular hurry to do this, as Rheims was a long way off, and the English and the Duke of Burgundy were still strong in the country through which the road lay. However, they set forth, with ten thousand men, and again the Maid of Orleans rode on and on, upon her white war-horse, and in her shining armour. Whenever they came to a town which yielded readily, the soldiers believed in her; but, whenever they came to a town which gave them any trouble, they began to murmur that she was an impostor. The latter was particularly the case at Troyes, which finally yielded, however, through the persuasion of one Richard, a friar of the place. Friar Richard was in the old doubt about the Maid of Orleans, until he had sprinkled her well with holy water, and had also well sprinkled the threshold of the gate by which she came into the city. Finding that it made no change in her or the gate, he said, as the other grave old gentlemen had said, that it was all right, and became her great ally.

She pushed the Dauphin (who always avoided any fighting) to head to Rheims since the first part of her mission was done; and to finish it all by getting crowned there. The Dauphin wasn't in a rush to do this, as Rheims was far away, and the English and the Duke of Burgundy were still strong in the area they had to travel through. However, they set out with ten thousand men, and once again, the Maid of Orleans rode on and on on her white war horse, dressed in her shining armor. Whenever they reached a town that surrendered easily, the soldiers believed in her; but when they encountered a town that resisted, they started to grumble that she was a fraud. This was especially true at Troyes, which eventually gave in thanks to the persuasion of a local friar named Richard. Friar Richard had his doubts about the Maid of Orleans until he sprinkled her with holy water and also doused the threshold of the gate she entered through. When he saw that nothing changed about her or the gate, he declared, just like the other serious old men had done, that everything was fine, and he became her staunch ally.

So, at last, by dint of riding on and on, the Maid of Orleans, and the Dauphin, and the ten thousand sometimes believing and sometimes unbelieving men, came to Rheims. And in the great cathedral of Rheims, the Dauphin actually was crowned Charles the Seventh in a great assembly of the people. Then, the Maid, who with her white banner stood beside the King in that hour of his triumph, kneeled down upon the pavement at his feet, and said, with tears, that what she had been inspired to do, was done, and that the only recompense she asked for, was, that she should now have leave to go back to her distant home, and her sturdily incredulous father, and her first simple escort the village wheelwright and cart-maker. But the King said ‘No!’ and made her and her family as noble as a King could, and settled upon her the income of a Count.

So, finally, after riding on and on, the Maid of Orleans, the Dauphin, and the ten thousand men who sometimes believed and sometimes didn't, arrived in Rheims. In the grand cathedral of Rheims, the Dauphin was actually crowned Charles the Seventh in a great gathering of the people. Then, the Maid, who stood beside the King with her white banner during this moment of triumph, knelt on the floor at his feet and, with tears, said that what she had been inspired to do was accomplished, and the only reward she wanted was to go back to her faraway home, to her skeptical father, and to her first simple escort, the village wheelwright and cart-maker. But the King said "No!" and made her and her family as noble as a King could, granting her the income of a Count.

Ah! happy had it been for the Maid of Orleans, if she had resumed her rustic dress that day, and had gone home to the little chapel and the wild hills, and had forgotten all these things, and had been a good man’s wife, and had heard no stranger voices than the voices of little children!

Ah! How happy it would have been for the Maid of Orleans if she had put on her simple dress that day, gone back to the small chapel and the untamed hills, forgotten everything, become a good man's wife, and heard no voices but those of little children!

It was not to be, and she continued helping the King (she did a world for him, in alliance with Friar Richard), and trying to improve the lives of the coarse soldiers, and leading a religious, an unselfish, and a modest life, herself, beyond any doubt. Still, many times she prayed the King to let her go home; and once she even took off her bright armour and hung it up in a church, meaning never to wear it more. But, the King always won her back again—while she was of any use to him—and so she went on and on and on, to her doom.

It just wasn’t meant to be, and she continued supporting the King (she did a lot for him, alongside Friar Richard), trying to improve the lives of the rough soldiers, and leading a life that was religious, selfless, and modest, without a doubt. Still, many times she begged the King to let her go home; once, she even took off her shiny armor and hung it up in a church, intending never to wear it again. But the King always got her back—while she was still useful to him—and so she kept going on and on, toward her fate.

When the Duke of Bedford, who was a very able man, began to be active for England, and, by bringing the war back into France and by holding the Duke of Burgundy to his faith, to distress and disturb Charles very much, Charles sometimes asked the Maid of Orleans what the Voices said about it? But, the Voices had become (very like ordinary voices in perplexed times) contradictory and confused, so that now they said one thing, and now said another, and the Maid lost credit every day. Charles marched on Paris, which was opposed to him, and attacked the suburb of Saint Honoré. In this fight, being again struck down into the ditch, she was abandoned by the whole army. She lay unaided among a heap of dead, and crawled out how she could. Then, some of her believers went over to an opposition Maid, Catherine of La Rochelle, who said she was inspired to tell where there were treasures of buried money—though she never did—and then Joan accidentally broke the old, old sword, and others said that her power was broken with it. Finally, at the siege of Compiègne, held by the Duke of Burgundy, where she did valiant service, she was basely left alone in a retreat, though facing about and fighting to the last; and an archer pulled her off her horse.

When the Duke of Bedford, a very capable man, started taking action for England, pushing the war back into France and keeping the Duke of Burgundy loyal, he caused Charles a lot of trouble. Charles sometimes asked the Maid of Orleans what the Voices were saying about it. But the Voices had become (like ordinary voices during confusing times) contradictory and unclear, saying one thing one moment and something different the next, which made the Maid lose credibility every day. Charles advanced on Paris, which opposed him, and attacked the suburb of Saint Honoré. During this fight, she was once again knocked into a ditch and abandoned by the entire army. She lay there among a pile of dead, struggling to crawl out. Then, some of her supporters switched to an opposing Maid, Catherine of La Rochelle, who claimed to be inspired to reveal hidden treasures of buried money—though she never did—and then Joan accidentally broke the old sword, leading others to say that her power was shattered with it. Finally, during the siege of Compiègne, held by the Duke of Burgundy, where she fought bravely, she was shamefully left alone during a retreat, still turning and fighting to the very end; an archer pulled her off her horse.

O the uproar that was made, and the thanksgivings that were sung, about the capture of this one poor country-girl! O the way in which she was demanded to be tried for sorcery and heresy, and anything else you like, by the Inquisitor-General of France, and by this great man, and by that great man, until it is wearisome to think of! She was bought at last by the Bishop of Beauvais for ten thousand francs, and was shut up in her narrow prison: plain Joan of Arc again, and Maid of Orleans no more.

Oh, the commotion that erupted and the praises that were sung about the capture of this one poor country girl! Oh, the way she was demanded to be put on trial for witchcraft, heresy, and whatever else by the Inquisitor-General of France, along with this important figure and that important figure, until it becomes exhausting to think about! In the end, she was purchased by the Bishop of Beauvais for ten thousand francs and was locked away in her tiny prison: just plain Joan of Arc again, and no longer the Maid of Orleans.

I should never have done if I were to tell you how they had Joan out to examine her, and cross-examine her, and re-examine her, and worry her into saying anything and everything; and how all sorts of scholars and doctors bestowed their utmost tediousness upon her. Sixteen times she was brought out and shut up again, and worried, and entrapped, and argued with, until she was heart-sick of the dreary business. On the last occasion of this kind she was brought into a burial-place at Rouen, dismally decorated with a scaffold, and a stake and faggots, and the executioner, and a pulpit with a friar therein, and an awful sermon ready. It is very affecting to know that even at that pass the poor girl honoured the mean vermin of a King, who had so used her for his purposes and so abandoned her; and, that while she had been regardless of reproaches heaped upon herself, she spoke out courageously for him.

I should never have done if I were to tell you how they had Joan out to examine her, and cross-examine her, and re-examine her, and worry her into saying anything and everything; and how all sorts of scholars and doctors put her through their endless, boring questioning. Sixteen times she was brought out and put away again, constantly worried, trapped, and debated with, until she was heart-sick of the dreary business. On the last occasion of this kind, she was brought into a burial place in Rouen, grimly decorated with a scaffold, a stake, firewood, the executioner, and a pulpit with a friar in it, ready to deliver a terrible sermon. It’s really moving to know that even at that point, the poor girl still honored the lowly king who had used her for his own purposes and abandoned her; and that while she had ignored the insults thrown at her, she spoke out bravely on his behalf.

It was natural in one so young to hold to life. To save her life, she signed a declaration prepared for her—signed it with a cross, for she couldn’t write—that all her visions and Voices had come from the Devil. Upon her recanting the past, and protesting that she would never wear a man’s dress in future, she was condemned to imprisonment for life, ‘on the bread of sorrow and the water of affliction.’

It was understandable for someone so young to cling to life. To save herself, she signed a declaration prepared for her—she made her mark with a cross, since she couldn’t write—that all her visions and Voices had come from the Devil. After she retracted her previous statements and insisted that she would never again wear men's clothing, she was sentenced to life imprisonment, ‘on the bread of sorrow and the water of affliction.’

But, on the bread of sorrow and the water of affliction, the visions and the Voices soon returned. It was quite natural that they should do so, for that kind of disease is much aggravated by fasting, loneliness, and anxiety of mind. It was not only got out of Joan that she considered herself inspired again, but, she was taken in a man’s dress, which had been left—to entrap her—in her prison, and which she put on, in her solitude; perhaps, in remembrance of her past glories, perhaps, because the imaginary Voices told her. For this relapse into the sorcery and heresy and anything else you like, she was sentenced to be burnt to death. And, in the market-place of Rouen, in the hideous dress which the monks had invented for such spectacles; with priests and bishops sitting in a gallery looking on, though some had the Christian grace to go away, unable to endure the infamous scene; this shrieking girl—last seen amidst the smoke and fire, holding a crucifix between her hands; last heard, calling upon Christ—was burnt to ashes. They threw her ashes into the river Seine; but they will rise against her murderers on the last day.

But, on the bread of sorrow and the water of suffering, the visions and the Voices soon came back. It made sense that they would, because that kind of illness is made worse by fasting, loneliness, and anxiety. It wasn't just that Joan believed she was inspired again, but she also put on a man’s outfit that had been left behind—in her prison, designed to trap her—and she wore it in her solitude; maybe as a nod to her past glories, or perhaps because the imaginary Voices told her to. For this return to sorcery, heresy, and anything else you could think of, she was sentenced to be burned at the stake. In the marketplace of Rouen, dressed in the grotesque outfit that the monks had created for such events; with priests and bishops watching from a balcony—though some had the decency to leave, unable to bear the shameful spectacle; this screaming girl—last seen amid the smoke and flames, holding a crucifix between her hands; last heard, calling upon Christ—was reduced to ashes. They scattered her ashes into the Seine, but they will rise against her murderers on the last day.

From the moment of her capture, neither the French King nor one single man in all his court raised a finger to save her. It is no defence of them that they may have never really believed in her, or that they may have won her victories by their skill and bravery. The more they pretended to believe in her, the more they had caused her to believe in herself; and she had ever been true to them, ever brave, ever nobly devoted. But, it is no wonder, that they, who were in all things false to themselves, false to one another, false to their country, false to Heaven, false to Earth, should be monsters of ingratitude and treachery to a helpless peasant girl.

From the moment she was captured, neither the French King nor anyone in his court lifted a finger to save her. It’s not a good excuse for them that they might have never truly believed in her, or that they may have achieved her victories through their own skill and bravery. The more they pretended to believe in her, the more they made her believe in herself; and she had always been loyal to them, always brave, always nobly devoted. But it's no surprise that those who were false to themselves, false to each other, false to their country, false to Heaven, and false to Earth would be monsters of ingratitude and betrayal towards a helpless peasant girl.

In the picturesque old town of Rouen, where weeds and grass grow high on the cathedral towers, and the venerable Norman streets are still warm in the blessed sunlight though the monkish fires that once gleamed horribly upon them have long grown cold, there is a statue of Joan of Arc, in the scene of her last agony, the square to which she has given its present name. I know some statues of modern times—even in the World’s metropolis, I think—which commemorate less constancy, less earnestness, smaller claims upon the world’s attention, and much greater impostors.

In the charming old town of Rouen, where weeds and grass grow high on the cathedral towers, and the ancient Norman streets still soak up the warm sunlight, even though the fires that once burned fiercely there have long gone out, stands a statue of Joan of Arc, capturing the moment of her final struggle, in the square that now bears her name. I've seen some modern statues—even in the world's biggest cities, I think—that honor less dedication, less seriousness, smaller claims to the world's attention, and much bigger frauds.

PART THE THIRD

Bad deeds seldom prosper, happily for mankind; and the English cause gained no advantage from the cruel death of Joan of Arc. For a long time, the war went heavily on. The Duke of Bedford died; the alliance with the Duke of Burgundy was broken; and Lord Talbot became a great general on the English side in France. But, two of the consequences of wars are, Famine—because the people cannot peacefully cultivate the ground—and Pestilence, which comes of want, misery, and suffering. Both these horrors broke out in both countries, and lasted for two wretched years. Then, the war went on again, and came by slow degrees to be so badly conducted by the English government, that, within twenty years from the execution of the Maid of Orleans, of all the great French conquests, the town of Calais alone remained in English hands.

Bad deeds rarely succeed, thankfully for humanity; and the English cause gained no benefit from the brutal death of Joan of Arc. For a long time, the war dragged on. The Duke of Bedford died; the alliance with the Duke of Burgundy fell apart; and Lord Talbot emerged as a prominent general for the English in France. However, two of the outcomes of war are Famine—because people can't peacefully farm their land—and Pestilence, which arises from need, misery, and suffering. Both of these horrors erupted in both countries, lasting for two miserable years. Then, the war resumed and gradually became so poorly managed by the English government that, within twenty years of the execution of the Maid of Orleans, only the town of Calais remained in English hands from all the significant French conquests.

While these victories and defeats were taking place in the course of time, many strange things happened at home. The young King, as he grew up, proved to be very unlike his great father, and showed himself a miserable puny creature. There was no harm in him—he had a great aversion to shedding blood: which was something—but, he was a weak, silly, helpless young man, and a mere shuttlecock to the great lordly battledores about the Court.

While these wins and losses occurred over time, a lot of strange things happened at home. The young King, as he grew older, turned out to be very different from his great father and revealed himself to be a miserable, frail person. There was no malice in him—he had a strong dislike for shedding blood, which was something—but he was a weak, foolish, helpless young man, easily manipulated by the powerful figures at the Court.

Of these battledores, Cardinal Beaufort, a relation of the King, and the Duke of Gloucester, were at first the most powerful. The Duke of Gloucester had a wife, who was nonsensically accused of practising witchcraft to cause the King’s death and lead to her husband’s coming to the throne, he being the next heir. She was charged with having, by the help of a ridiculous old woman named Margery (who was called a witch), made a little waxen doll in the King’s likeness, and put it before a slow fire that it might gradually melt away. It was supposed, in such cases, that the death of the person whom the doll was made to represent, was sure to happen. Whether the duchess was as ignorant as the rest of them, and really did make such a doll with such an intention, I don’t know; but, you and I know very well that she might have made a thousand dolls, if she had been stupid enough, and might have melted them all, without hurting the King or anybody else. However, she was tried for it, and so was old Margery, and so was one of the duke’s chaplains, who was charged with having assisted them. Both he and Margery were put to death, and the duchess, after being taken on foot and bearing a lighted candle, three times round the City, as a penance, was imprisoned for life. The duke, himself, took all this pretty quietly, and made as little stir about the matter as if he were rather glad to be rid of the duchess.

Of these factions, Cardinal Beaufort, a relative of the King, and the Duke of Gloucester were initially the most powerful. The Duke of Gloucester had a wife who was absurdly accused of practicing witchcraft to cause the King’s death and help her husband take the throne, as he was the next in line. She was accused of making a little wax doll resembling the King, with the help of a silly old woman named Margery (who was labeled a witch), and placing it in front of a slow fire to melt it away. It was believed that in such cases, the person the doll represented would surely die. Whether the duchess was as clueless as the others and actually made such a doll with that intention, I don’t know; but we both understand that she could have made a thousand dolls if she were foolish enough and melted them all without harming the King or anyone else. Still, she was put on trial for it, along with old Margery and one of the duke’s chaplains, who was accused of assisting them. Both he and Margery were executed, while the duchess, after being forced to walk three times around the city carrying a lit candle as a penance, was imprisoned for life. The duke himself took all this pretty calmly and made as little fuss about it as if he were secretly glad to be rid of the duchess.

But, he was not destined to keep himself out of trouble long. The royal shuttlecock being three-and-twenty, the battledores were very anxious to get him married. The Duke of Gloucester wanted him to marry a daughter of the Count of Armagnac; but, the Cardinal and the Earl of Suffolk were all for Margaret, the daughter of the King of Sicily, who they knew was a resolute, ambitious woman and would govern the King as she chose. To make friends with this lady, the Earl of Suffolk, who went over to arrange the match, consented to accept her for the King’s wife without any fortune, and even to give up the two most valuable possessions England then had in France. So, the marriage was arranged, on terms very advantageous to the lady; and Lord Suffolk brought her to England, and she was married at Westminster. On what pretence this queen and her party charged the Duke of Gloucester with high treason within a couple of years, it is impossible to make out, the matter is so confused; but, they pretended that the King’s life was in danger, and they took the duke prisoner. A fortnight afterwards, he was found dead in bed (they said), and his body was shown to the people, and Lord Suffolk came in for the best part of his estates. You know by this time how strangely liable state prisoners were to sudden death.

But he wasn’t going to avoid trouble for long. The royal heir was twenty-three, and the battledores were really eager to get him married off. The Duke of Gloucester wanted him to marry a daughter of the Count of Armagnac, but the Cardinal and the Earl of Suffolk were all for Margaret, the daughter of the King of Sicily, who they knew was a determined and ambitious woman who would control the King as she wished. To make friends with this lady, the Earl of Suffolk, who went over to finalize the match, agreed to take her as the King’s wife without any dowry and even to give up the two most valuable territories England held in France at that time. So, the marriage was set up on terms very favorable to her; Lord Suffolk brought her to England, and she got married at Westminster. It’s impossible to figure out the exact reasons why this queen and her supporters accused the Duke of Gloucester of high treason within a couple of years, as the situation is so unclear; but they claimed that the King’s life was in danger and captured the duke. Two weeks later, he was found dead in bed (or so they said), and his body was displayed to the public, and Lord Suffolk inherited most of his estates. By now, you know how oddly common sudden deaths were among state prisoners.

If Cardinal Beaufort had any hand in this matter, it did him no good, for he died within six weeks; thinking it very hard and curious—at eighty years old!—that he could not live to be Pope.

If Cardinal Beaufort played any role in this situation, it didn’t benefit him at all, because he passed away six weeks later, feeling it was very unfair and strange—at eighty years old!—that he couldn’t live long enough to become Pope.

This was the time when England had completed her loss of all her great French conquests. The people charged the loss principally upon the Earl of Suffolk, now a duke, who had made those easy terms about the Royal Marriage, and who, they believed, had even been bought by France. So he was impeached as a traitor, on a great number of charges, but chiefly on accusations of having aided the French King, and of designing to make his own son King of England. The Commons and the people being violent against him, the King was made (by his friends) to interpose to save him, by banishing him for five years, and proroguing the Parliament. The duke had much ado to escape from a London mob, two thousand strong, who lay in wait for him in St. Giles’s fields; but, he got down to his own estates in Suffolk, and sailed away from Ipswich. Sailing across the Channel, he sent into Calais to know if he might land there; but, they kept his boat and men in the harbour, until an English ship, carrying a hundred and fifty men and called the Nicholas of the Tower, came alongside his little vessel, and ordered him on board. ‘Welcome, traitor, as men say,’ was the captain’s grim and not very respectful salutation. He was kept on board, a prisoner, for eight-and-forty hours, and then a small boat appeared rowing toward the ship. As this boat came nearer, it was seen to have in it a block, a rusty sword, and an executioner in a black mask. The duke was handed down into it, and there his head was cut off with six strokes of the rusty sword. Then, the little boat rowed away to Dover beach, where the body was cast out, and left until the duchess claimed it. By whom, high in authority, this murder was committed, has never appeared. No one was ever punished for it.

This was when England had completely lost all her major French conquests. The people blamed this loss mainly on the Earl of Suffolk, now a duke, who had negotiated easy terms regarding the Royal Marriage and whom they believed had been bribed by France. He was impeached as a traitor on numerous charges, mainly for allegedly aiding the French King and planning to make his own son King of England. The Commons and the public were enraged against him, prompting the King (thanks to his friends) to intervene to save him by banishing him for five years and suspending Parliament. The duke struggled to escape a London mob, two thousand strong, waiting for him in St. Giles’s fields; however, he managed to get to his estates in Suffolk and sailed away from Ipswich. After crossing the Channel, he sent word to Calais to see if he could land there, but they retained his boat and crew in the harbor until an English ship, carrying a hundred and fifty men and named the Nicholas of the Tower, approached his vessel and ordered him aboard. “Welcome, traitor, as they say,” the captain greeted him grimly and rather disrespectfully. He was held onboard as a prisoner for forty-eight hours, after which a small boat appeared rowing toward the ship. As it drew closer, it became clear that it contained a block, a rusty sword, and an executioner in a black mask. The duke was transferred to the boat, where his head was chopped off with six blows of the rusty sword. Then, the little boat rowed away to Dover beach, where the body was dumped and left until the duchess claimed it. Who, among those in power, ordered this murder has never been revealed. No one was ever punished for it.

There now arose in Kent an Irishman, who gave himself the name of Mortimer, but whose real name was Jack Cade. Jack, in imitation of Wat Tyler, though he was a very different and inferior sort of man, addressed the Kentish men upon their wrongs, occasioned by the bad government of England, among so many battledores and such a poor shuttlecock; and the Kentish men rose up to the number of twenty thousand. Their place of assembly was Blackheath, where, headed by Jack, they put forth two papers, which they called ‘The Complaint of the Commons of Kent,’ and ‘The Requests of the Captain of the Great Assembly in Kent.’ They then retired to Sevenoaks. The royal army coming up with them here, they beat it and killed their general. Then, Jack dressed himself in the dead general’s armour, and led his men to London.

There arose in Kent an Irishman who called himself Mortimer, but his real name was Jack Cade. Jack, trying to follow in Wat Tyler's footsteps, even though he was a very different and lesser man, spoke to the people of Kent about their grievances caused by England's poor governance. This motivated the people of Kent to gather, and they rose up to about twenty thousand. They met at Blackheath, where, led by Jack, they issued two documents titled ‘The Complaint of the Commons of Kent’ and ‘The Requests of the Captain of the Great Assembly in Kent.’ They then moved to Sevenoaks. When the royal army caught up with them there, they defeated it and killed its general. Afterwards, Jack put on the dead general’s armor and led his men to London.

Jack passed into the City from Southwark, over the bridge, and entered it in triumph, giving the strictest orders to his men not to plunder. Having made a show of his forces there, while the citizens looked on quietly, he went back into Southwark in good order, and passed the night. Next day, he came back again, having got hold in the meantime of Lord Say, an unpopular nobleman. Says Jack to the Lord Mayor and judges: ‘Will you be so good as to make a tribunal in Guildhall, and try me this nobleman?’ The court being hastily made, he was found guilty, and Jack and his men cut his head off on Cornhill. They also cut off the head of his son-in-law, and then went back in good order to Southwark again.

Jack entered the City from Southwark, crossed the bridge, and came in victorious, giving his men strict orders not to loot. After displaying his forces there, while the citizens watched quietly, he returned to Southwark in good order and spent the night. The next day, he came back, having captured Lord Say, an unpopular nobleman. Jack said to the Lord Mayor and judges: “Could you please set up a tribunal in Guildhall to try this nobleman?” The court was quickly convened, and he was found guilty. Jack and his men executed him on Cornhill. They also beheaded his son-in-law and then returned to Southwark in good order.

But, although the citizens could bear the beheading of an unpopular lord, they could not bear to have their houses pillaged. And it did so happen that Jack, after dinner—perhaps he had drunk a little too much—began to plunder the house where he lodged; upon which, of course, his men began to imitate him. Wherefore, the Londoners took counsel with Lord Scales, who had a thousand soldiers in the Tower; and defended London Bridge, and kept Jack and his people out. This advantage gained, it was resolved by divers great men to divide Jack’s army in the old way, by making a great many promises on behalf of the state, that were never intended to be performed. This did divide them; some of Jack’s men saying that they ought to take the conditions which were offered, and others saying that they ought not, for they were only a snare; some going home at once; others staying where they were; and all doubting and quarrelling among themselves.

But even though the citizens could handle the beheading of an unpopular lord, they couldn’t stand to have their homes looted. It so happened that Jack, after dinner—perhaps he had a bit too much to drink—started to ransack the house where he was staying; naturally, his men began to follow his lead. So, the people of London consulted with Lord Scales, who had a thousand soldiers in the Tower; he defended London Bridge and kept Jack and his crew out. With this advantage, several prominent figures decided to split Jack’s army in the usual way, by making a lot of promises on behalf of the state that were never meant to be kept. This did divide them; some of Jack’s men argued that they should accept the offered terms while others insisted they shouldn’t, claiming it was just a trap; some went home immediately, others stayed where they were, and all were filled with doubt and fighting among themselves.

Jack, who was in two minds about fighting or accepting a pardon, and who indeed did both, saw at last that there was nothing to expect from his men, and that it was very likely some of them would deliver him up and get a reward of a thousand marks, which was offered for his apprehension. So, after they had travelled and quarrelled all the way from Southwark to Blackheath, and from Blackheath to Rochester, he mounted a good horse and galloped away into Sussex. But, there galloped after him, on a better horse, one Alexander Iden, who came up with him, had a hard fight with him, and killed him. Jack’s head was set aloft on London Bridge, with the face looking towards Blackheath, where he had raised his flag; and Alexander Iden got the thousand marks.

Jack was torn between fighting and accepting a pardon, and he ended up doing both. Eventually, he realized that he couldn’t count on his men and that some of them might turn him in for the thousand marks reward that was offered for his capture. So, after they traveled and bickered all the way from Southwark to Blackheath and then from Blackheath to Rochester, he jumped on a good horse and took off into Sussex. But chasing after him on a faster horse was Alexander Iden, who caught up with him, had a tough fight, and killed him. Jack’s head was displayed on London Bridge, facing Blackheath, where he had raised his flag, and Alexander Iden received the thousand marks.

It is supposed by some, that the Duke of York, who had been removed from a high post abroad through the Queen’s influence, and sent out of the way, to govern Ireland, was at the bottom of this rising of Jack and his men, because he wanted to trouble the government. He claimed (though not yet publicly) to have a better right to the throne than Henry of Lancaster, as one of the family of the Earl of March, whom Henry the Fourth had set aside. Touching this claim, which, being through female relationship, was not according to the usual descent, it is enough to say that Henry the Fourth was the free choice of the people and the Parliament, and that his family had now reigned undisputed for sixty years. The memory of Henry the Fifth was so famous, and the English people loved it so much, that the Duke of York’s claim would, perhaps, never have been thought of (it would have been so hopeless) but for the unfortunate circumstance of the present King’s being by this time quite an idiot, and the country very ill governed. These two circumstances gave the Duke of York a power he could not otherwise have had.

Some people believe that the Duke of York, who was removed from a high position abroad because of the Queen's influence and sent away to govern Ireland, was behind the uprising of Jack and his men because he wanted to disrupt the government. He claimed (though not publicly yet) that he had a stronger right to the throne than Henry of Lancaster, as he was part of the family of the Earl of March, whom Henry the Fourth had set aside. Regarding this claim, which was through a female line and not in line with the usual succession, it's important to note that Henry the Fourth was the people's and Parliament's free choice, and his family had ruled without dispute for sixty years. The memory of Henry the Fifth was so renowned and beloved by the English people that the Duke of York’s claim might have been completely overlooked (as it seemed hopeless) if it weren’t for the unfortunate situation of the current King being quite an idiot and the country being poorly governed. These two factors gave the Duke of York influence he wouldn’t have had otherwise.

Whether the Duke knew anything of Jack Cade, or not, he came over from Ireland while Jack’s head was on London Bridge; being secretly advised that the Queen was setting up his enemy, the Duke of Somerset, against him. He went to Westminster, at the head of four thousand men, and on his knees before the King, represented to him the bad state of the country, and petitioned him to summon a Parliament to consider it. This the King promised. When the Parliament was summoned, the Duke of York accused the Duke of Somerset, and the Duke of Somerset accused the Duke of York; and, both in and out of Parliament, the followers of each party were full of violence and hatred towards the other. At length the Duke of York put himself at the head of a large force of his tenants, and, in arms, demanded the reformation of the Government. Being shut out of London, he encamped at Dartford, and the royal army encamped at Blackheath. According as either side triumphed, the Duke of York was arrested, or the Duke of Somerset was arrested. The trouble ended, for the moment, in the Duke of York renewing his oath of allegiance, and going in peace to one of his own castles.

Whether the Duke knew anything about Jack Cade or not, he came over from Ireland while Jack’s head was on London Bridge, having been secretly informed that the Queen was backing his rival, the Duke of Somerset. He went to Westminster with four thousand men and knelt before the King, explaining the poor state of the country and asking him to call a Parliament to address it. The King agreed. When Parliament was convened, the Duke of York accused the Duke of Somerset, and the Duke of Somerset accused the Duke of York; both in and out of Parliament, the supporters of each side were full of violence and animosity towards the other. Eventually, the Duke of York gathered a large force of his tenants and, armed, demanded changes in the Government. Being blocked from entering London, he set up camp at Dartford, while the royal army camped at Blackheath. Depending on which side gained the upper hand, either the Duke of York was arrested or the Duke of Somerset was arrested. The conflict ended, for the time being, when the Duke of York renewed his oath of loyalty and returned peacefully to one of his castles.

Half a year afterwards the Queen gave birth to a son, who was very ill received by the people, and not believed to be the son of the King. It shows the Duke of York to have been a moderate man, unwilling to involve England in new troubles, that he did not take advantage of the general discontent at this time, but really acted for the public good. He was made a member of the cabinet, and the King being now so much worse that he could not be carried about and shown to the people with any decency, the duke was made Lord Protector of the kingdom, until the King should recover, or the Prince should come of age. At the same time the Duke of Somerset was committed to the Tower. So, now the Duke of Somerset was down, and the Duke of York was up. By the end of the year, however, the King recovered his memory and some spark of sense; upon which the Queen used her power—which recovered with him—to get the Protector disgraced, and her favourite released. So now the Duke of York was down, and the Duke of Somerset was up.

Half a year later, the Queen had a son who was poorly received by the people, and they doubted he was really the King's child. This shows that the Duke of York was a reasonable man, not wanting to drag England into new conflicts; he didn't exploit the widespread discontent but genuinely worked for the public's benefit. He became a member of the cabinet, and since the King had worsened to the point where he couldn't be shown to the public decently, the Duke was appointed Lord Protector of the kingdom until the King recovered or the Prince came of age. At the same time, the Duke of Somerset was imprisoned in the Tower. So, the Duke of Somerset was out and the Duke of York was in. However, by the end of the year, the King regained his memory and some sense; as a result, the Queen used her influence— which returned along with him—to have the Protector removed from power and her favorite released. So now the Duke of York was out, and the Duke of Somerset was back in.

These ducal ups and downs gradually separated the whole nation into the two parties of York and Lancaster, and led to those terrible civil wars long known as the Wars of the Red and White Roses, because the red rose was the badge of the House of Lancaster, and the white rose was the badge of the House of York.

These changes in the dukes gradually split the entire nation into two factions: York and Lancaster. This division led to the brutal civil wars known as the Wars of the Red and White Roses, named because the red rose symbolized the House of Lancaster and the white rose represented the House of York.

The Duke of York, joined by some other powerful noblemen of the White Rose party, and leading a small army, met the King with another small army at St. Alban’s, and demanded that the Duke of Somerset should be given up. The poor King, being made to say in answer that he would sooner die, was instantly attacked. The Duke of Somerset was killed, and the King himself was wounded in the neck, and took refuge in the house of a poor tanner. Whereupon, the Duke of York went to him, led him with great submission to the Abbey, and said he was very sorry for what had happened. Having now the King in his possession, he got a Parliament summoned and himself once more made Protector, but, only for a few months; for, on the King getting a little better again, the Queen and her party got him into their possession, and disgraced the Duke once more. So, now the Duke of York was down again.

The Duke of York, along with several other influential noblemen from the White Rose faction, led a small army to meet the King, who had gathered another small army at St. Alban’s. They demanded that the Duke of Somerset be handed over. The unfortunate King, forced to respond that he would rather die, was immediately attacked. The Duke of Somerset was killed, and the King himself was wounded in the neck and sought refuge in a poor tanner's house. Later, the Duke of York approached him, brought him to the Abbey with great respect, and expressed his regret for what had occurred. Now having the King under his control, he called for a Parliament and became Protector once again, but only for a few months. When the King started to recover, the Queen and her supporters regained control and ousted the Duke once more. Thus, the Duke of York found himself down again.

Some of the best men in power, seeing the danger of these constant changes, tried even then to prevent the Red and the White Rose Wars. They brought about a great council in London between the two parties. The White Roses assembled in Blackfriars, the Red Roses in Whitefriars; and some good priests communicated between them, and made the proceedings known at evening to the King and the judges. They ended in a peaceful agreement that there should be no more quarrelling; and there was a great royal procession to St. Paul’s, in which the Queen walked arm-in-arm with her old enemy, the Duke of York, to show the people how comfortable they all were. This state of peace lasted half a year, when a dispute between the Earl of Warwick (one of the Duke’s powerful friends) and some of the King’s servants at Court, led to an attack upon that Earl—who was a White Rose—and to a sudden breaking out of all old animosities. So, here were greater ups and downs than ever.

Some of the best leaders, recognizing the threat of these ongoing changes, tried to prevent the conflicts between the Red and White Rose factions. They organized a significant council in London to bring the two sides together. The White Roses gathered in Blackfriars, while the Red Roses met in Whitefriars; a few good priests facilitated communication between them and reported back to the King and the judges each evening. They reached a peaceful agreement to stop the fighting, culminating in a grand royal procession to St. Paul’s, where the Queen walked arm-in-arm with her former enemy, the Duke of York, to show everyone how unified they were. This peace lasted for about six months until a disagreement between the Earl of Warwick—one of the Duke’s influential allies—and some of the King’s Court servants led to an attack on the Earl, who was a White Rose, causing old hostilities to flare up again. So, the turmoil was even greater than before.

There were even greater ups and downs than these, soon after. After various battles, the Duke of York fled to Ireland, and his son the Earl of March to Calais, with their friends the Earls of Salisbury and Warwick; and a Parliament was held declaring them all traitors. Little the worse for this, the Earl of Warwick presently came back, landed in Kent, was joined by the Archbishop of Canterbury and other powerful noblemen and gentlemen, engaged the King’s forces at Northampton, signally defeated them, and took the King himself prisoner, who was found in his tent. Warwick would have been glad, I dare say, to have taken the Queen and Prince too, but they escaped into Wales and thence into Scotland.

There were even bigger ups and downs soon after. After several battles, the Duke of York fled to Ireland, and his son the Earl of March went to Calais, along with their allies the Earls of Salisbury and Warwick. A Parliament was held that declared them all traitors. Not much worse for this, the Earl of Warwick soon returned, landed in Kent, got support from the Archbishop of Canterbury and other powerful nobles and gentlemen, confronted the King’s forces at Northampton, soundly defeated them, and captured the King, who was found in his tent. Warwick would have been happy, I bet, to also capture the Queen and Prince, but they managed to escape to Wales and then to Scotland.

The King was carried by the victorious force straight to London, and made to call a new Parliament, which immediately declared that the Duke of York and those other noblemen were not traitors, but excellent subjects. Then, back comes the Duke from Ireland at the head of five hundred horsemen, rides from London to Westminster, and enters the House of Lords. There, he laid his hand upon the cloth of gold which covered the empty throne, as if he had half a mind to sit down in it—but he did not. On the Archbishop of Canterbury, asking him if he would visit the King, who was in his palace close by, he replied, ‘I know no one in this country, my lord, who ought not to visit me.’ None of the lords present spoke a single word; so, the duke went out as he had come in, established himself royally in the King’s palace, and, six days afterwards, sent in to the Lords a formal statement of his claim to the throne. The lords went to the King on this momentous subject, and after a great deal of discussion, in which the judges and the other law officers were afraid to give an opinion on either side, the question was compromised. It was agreed that the present King should retain the crown for his life, and that it should then pass to the Duke of York and his heirs.

The King was taken by the victorious army straight to London, where he was made to call a new Parliament, which quickly declared that the Duke of York and other noblemen were not traitors, but loyal subjects. Then, the Duke returned from Ireland with five hundred horsemen, rode from London to Westminster, and entered the House of Lords. He placed his hand on the gold cloth covering the empty throne, almost as if he intended to sit in it—but he didn’t. When the Archbishop of Canterbury asked him if he would visit the King, who was nearby in his palace, he replied, “I know no one in this country, my lord, who should not visit me.” None of the lords present said a word, so the duke left as he had arrived, settled himself comfortably in the King’s palace, and six days later sent a formal statement of his claim to the throne to the Lords. The lords approached the King about this significant issue, and after much debate, during which the judges and other legal officers were hesitant to offer opinions, they reached a compromise. It was decided that the current King would keep the crown for life, and then it would pass to the Duke of York and his heirs.

But, the resolute Queen, determined on asserting her son’s right, would hear of no such thing. She came from Scotland to the north of England, where several powerful lords armed in her cause. The Duke of York, for his part, set off with some five thousand men, a little time before Christmas Day, one thousand four hundred and sixty, to give her battle. He lodged at Sandal Castle, near Wakefield, and the Red Roses defied him to come out on Wakefield Green, and fight them then and there. His generals said, he had best wait until his gallant son, the Earl of March, came up with his power; but, he was determined to accept the challenge. He did so, in an evil hour. He was hotly pressed on all sides, two thousand of his men lay dead on Wakefield Green, and he himself was taken prisoner. They set him down in mock state on an ant-hill, and twisted grass about his head, and pretended to pay court to him on their knees, saying, ‘O King, without a kingdom, and Prince without a people, we hope your gracious Majesty is very well and happy!’ They did worse than this; they cut his head off, and handed it on a pole to the Queen, who laughed with delight when she saw it (you recollect their walking so religiously and comfortably to St. Paul’s!), and had it fixed, with a paper crown upon its head, on the walls of York. The Earl of Salisbury lost his head, too; and the Duke of York’s second son, a handsome boy who was flying with his tutor over Wakefield Bridge, was stabbed in the heart by a murderous, lord—Lord Clifford by name—whose father had been killed by the White Roses in the fight at St. Alban’s. There was awful sacrifice of life in this battle, for no quarter was given, and the Queen was wild for revenge. When men unnaturally fight against their own countrymen, they are always observed to be more unnaturally cruel and filled with rage than they are against any other enemy.

But the determined Queen, set on claiming her son’s rights, refused to consider any other option. She traveled from Scotland to northern England, where several powerful lords joined her cause. The Duke of York, for his part, left with about five thousand men shortly before Christmas Day in 1460, to confront her in battle. He set up camp at Sandal Castle, near Wakefield, and the Red Roses challenged him to come out on Wakefield Green and fight them right then and there. His generals advised him to wait for his brave son, the Earl of March, to arrive with reinforcements; however, he was resolved to accept the challenge. He did so, at a terrible cost. He faced intense pressure from all sides, losing two thousand of his men on Wakefield Green, and he himself was captured. They placed him down in mock glory on an anthill, wrapped grass around his head, and pretended to honor him on their knees, saying, "O King, without a kingdom, and Prince without a people, we hope your gracious Majesty is very well and happy!" They went further; they beheaded him and presented his head on a pole to the Queen, who laughed with joy at the sight (you remember how piously and comfortably they walked to St. Paul’s!), and had it displayed, with a paper crown on its head, on the walls of York. The Earl of Salisbury lost his head too, and the Duke of York’s second son, a handsome boy who was fleeing with his tutor over Wakefield Bridge, was stabbed in the heart by a murderous lord—Lord Clifford, by name—whose father had been killed by the White Roses in the battle at St. Alban’s. There was a horrific loss of life in this battle, with no mercy shown, and the Queen was driven by a thirst for revenge. When people fight unbelievably against their own countrymen, they tend to be more cruel and filled with rage than they are against any other enemy.

But, Lord Clifford had stabbed the second son of the Duke of York—not the first. The eldest son, Edward Earl of March, was at Gloucester; and, vowing vengeance for the death of his father, his brother, and their faithful friends, he began to march against the Queen. He had to turn and fight a great body of Welsh and Irish first, who worried his advance. These he defeated in a great fight at Mortimer’s Cross, near Hereford, where he beheaded a number of the Red Roses taken in battle, in retaliation for the beheading of the White Roses at Wakefield. The Queen had the next turn of beheading. Having moved towards London, and falling in, between St. Alban’s and Barnet, with the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Norfolk, White Roses both, who were there with an army to oppose her, and had got the King with them; she defeated them with great loss, and struck off the heads of two prisoners of note, who were in the King’s tent with him, and to whom the King had promised his protection. Her triumph, however, was very short. She had no treasure, and her army subsisted by plunder. This caused them to be hated and dreaded by the people, and particularly by the London people, who were wealthy. As soon as the Londoners heard that Edward, Earl of March, united with the Earl of Warwick, was advancing towards the city, they refused to send the Queen supplies, and made a great rejoicing.

But Lord Clifford had stabbed the Duke of York’s second son—not the first. The oldest son, Edward, Earl of March, was at Gloucester, and, swearing revenge for the deaths of his father, his brother, and their loyal friends, he began to march against the Queen. First, he had to fight a large group of Welsh and Irish who hindered his progress. He defeated them in a major battle at Mortimer’s Cross, near Hereford, where he beheaded several Red Roses captured in battle, in revenge for the beheading of the White Roses at Wakefield. The Queen had her turn next. After moving towards London and encountering the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Norfolk, both White Roses, who were there with an army to oppose her and had the King with them, she defeated them with significant losses and beheaded two notable prisoners who were in the King’s tent and to whom the King had promised protection. However, her victory was very short-lived. She had no treasure, and her army survived by plundering. This made them hated and feared by the people, especially the wealthy citizens of London. As soon as the Londoners heard that Edward, Earl of March, in alliance with the Earl of Warwick, was advancing toward the city, they refused to send the Queen any supplies and celebrated instead.

The Queen and her men retreated with all speed, and Edward and Warwick came on, greeted with loud acclamations on every side. The courage, beauty, and virtues of young Edward could not be sufficiently praised by the whole people. He rode into London like a conqueror, and met with an enthusiastic welcome. A few days afterwards, Lord Falconbridge and the Bishop of Exeter assembled the citizens in St. John’s Field, Clerkenwell, and asked them if they would have Henry of Lancaster for their King? To this they all roared, ‘No, no, no!’ and ‘King Edward! King Edward!’ Then, said those noblemen, would they love and serve young Edward? To this they all cried, ‘Yes, yes!’ and threw up their caps and clapped their hands, and cheered tremendously.

The Queen and her men hurried away, while Edward and Warwick advanced, receiving loud cheers from all around. The entire crowd couldn’t praise the courage, charm, and qualities of young Edward enough. He rode into London like a conqueror and was met with an enthusiastic reception. A few days later, Lord Falconbridge and the Bishop of Exeter gathered the citizens in St. John’s Field, Clerkenwell, and asked them if they wanted Henry of Lancaster to be their King. Everyone shouted, ‘No, no, no!’ and ‘King Edward! King Edward!’ Then, the noblemen asked if they would love and serve young Edward. They all responded with ‘Yes, yes!’ while tossing their caps in the air, clapping their hands, and cheering loudly.

Therefore, it was declared that by joining the Queen and not protecting those two prisoners of note, Henry of Lancaster had forfeited the crown; and Edward of York was proclaimed King. He made a great speech to the applauding people at Westminster, and sat down as sovereign of England on that throne, on the golden covering of which his father—worthy of a better fate than the bloody axe which cut the thread of so many lives in England, through so many years—had laid his hand.

Therefore, it was announced that by siding with the Queen and failing to protect those two important prisoners, Henry of Lancaster had lost the crown; and Edward of York was declared King. He gave an inspiring speech to the cheering crowd at Westminster and took his seat as the ruler of England on that throne, the golden covering of which his father—who deserved a better fate than the bloody axe that ended so many lives in England over the years—had touched.

CHAPTER XXIII—ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FOURTH

King Edward the Fourth was not quite twenty-one years of age when he took that unquiet seat upon the throne of England. The Lancaster party, the Red Roses, were then assembling in great numbers near York, and it was necessary to give them battle instantly. But, the stout Earl of Warwick leading for the young King, and the young King himself closely following him, and the English people crowding round the Royal standard, the White and the Red Roses met, on a wild March day when the snow was falling heavily, at Towton; and there such a furious battle raged between them, that the total loss amounted to forty thousand men—all Englishmen, fighting, upon English ground, against one another. The young King gained the day, took down the heads of his father and brother from the walls of York, and put up the heads of some of the most famous noblemen engaged in the battle on the other side. Then, he went to London and was crowned with great splendour.

King Edward the Fourth was not even twenty-one when he took the troubled throne of England. The Lancaster party, known as the Red Roses, was gathering in large numbers near York, and it was vital to confront them immediately. However, with the brave Earl of Warwick leading for the young King, and the young King closely following, along with the English people rallying around the Royal standard, the White and Red Roses clashed on a wild March day filled with heavy snowfall at Towton. A fierce battle erupted, resulting in a staggering loss of forty thousand men—all Englishmen, fighting against each other on English soil. The young King emerged victorious, removed the heads of his father and brother from the walls of York, and displayed the heads of some of the most notable nobles from the opposing side. He then proceeded to London and was crowned in great splendor.

A new Parliament met. No fewer than one hundred and fifty of the principal noblemen and gentlemen on the Lancaster side were declared traitors, and the King—who had very little humanity, though he was handsome in person and agreeable in manners—resolved to do all he could, to pluck up the Red Rose root and branch.

A new Parliament convened. No less than one hundred and fifty of the leading noblemen and gentlemen on the Lancaster side were labeled traitors, and the King—who had very little compassion, even though he was good-looking and charming—decided to do everything he could to completely wipe out the Red Rose.

Queen Margaret, however, was still active for her young son. She obtained help from Scotland and from Normandy, and took several important English castles. But, Warwick soon retook them; the Queen lost all her treasure on board ship in a great storm; and both she and her son suffered great misfortunes. Once, in the winter weather, as they were riding through a forest, they were attacked and plundered by a party of robbers; and, when they had escaped from these men and were passing alone and on foot through a thick dark part of the wood, they came, all at once, upon another robber. So the Queen, with a stout heart, took the little Prince by the hand, and going straight up to that robber, said to him, ‘My friend, this is the young son of your lawful King! I confide him to your care.’ The robber was surprised, but took the boy in his arms, and faithfully restored him and his mother to their friends. In the end, the Queen’s soldiers being beaten and dispersed, she went abroad again, and kept quiet for the present.

Queen Margaret was still working hard for her young son. She got help from Scotland and Normandy and captured several important English castles. But Warwick quickly took them back; the Queen lost all her treasure on a ship during a huge storm, and both she and her son faced serious hardships. Once, in the winter, while they were riding through a forest, they were attacked and robbed by a group of thieves. After escaping those men, as they were walking alone on foot through a dark part of the woods, they suddenly came across another robber. So the Queen, staying brave, took the little Prince by the hand and approached that robber, saying to him, “My friend, this is the young son of your rightful King! I trust him to your care.” The robber was taken aback but took the boy in his arms and safely returned him and his mother to their friends. In the end, with the Queen's soldiers defeated and scattered, she went abroad again and kept a low profile for the time being.

Now, all this time, the deposed King Henry was concealed by a Welsh knight, who kept him close in his castle. But, next year, the Lancaster party recovering their spirits, raised a large body of men, and called him out of his retirement, to put him at their head. They were joined by some powerful noblemen who had sworn fidelity to the new King, but who were ready, as usual, to break their oaths, whenever they thought there was anything to be got by it. One of the worst things in the history of the war of the Red and White Roses, is the ease with which these noblemen, who should have set an example of honour to the people, left either side as they took slight offence, or were disappointed in their greedy expectations, and joined the other. Well! Warwick’s brother soon beat the Lancastrians, and the false noblemen, being taken, were beheaded without a moment’s loss of time. The deposed King had a narrow escape; three of his servants were taken, and one of them bore his cap of estate, which was set with pearls and embroidered with two golden crowns. However, the head to which the cap belonged, got safely into Lancashire, and lay pretty quietly there (the people in the secret being very true) for more than a year. At length, an old monk gave such intelligence as led to Henry’s being taken while he was sitting at dinner in a place called Waddington Hall. He was immediately sent to London, and met at Islington by the Earl of Warwick, by whose directions he was put upon a horse, with his legs tied under it, and paraded three times round the pillory. Then, he was carried off to the Tower, where they treated him well enough.

Now, all this time, the deposed King Henry was hidden by a Welsh knight, who kept him safe in his castle. But, the following year, the Lancaster supporters regained their confidence, gathered a large group of men, and called him out of hiding to lead them. They were joined by some powerful nobles who had promised loyalty to the new King but were always ready to break their oaths whenever they thought they could gain something from it. One of the worst aspects of the War of the Roses is how easily these nobles, who should have set an example of honor, switched sides over minor offenses or because their greedy expectations were unmet, joining the other side. Well! Warwick’s brother quickly defeated the Lancastrians, and the betraying nobles were captured and executed without delay. The deposed King narrowly escaped; three of his servants were caught, and one of them was holding his cap of estate, which was adorned with pearls and embroidered with two golden crowns. However, the head that wore the cap safely made it to Lancashire and stayed there relatively quietly (the locals who knew were very trustworthy) for over a year. Eventually, an old monk provided information that led to Henry’s capture while he was having dinner at a place called Waddington Hall. He was immediately taken to London and met at Islington by the Earl of Warwick, who ordered him to be put on a horse with his legs tied underneath and paraded three times around the pillory. Then, he was taken to the Tower, where he was treated fairly well.

The White Rose being so triumphant, the young King abandoned himself entirely to pleasure, and led a jovial life. But, thorns were springing up under his bed of roses, as he soon found out. For, having been privately married to Elizabeth Woodville, a young widow lady, very beautiful and very captivating; and at last resolving to make his secret known, and to declare her his Queen; he gave some offence to the Earl of Warwick, who was usually called the King-Maker, because of his power and influence, and because of his having lent such great help to placing Edward on the throne. This offence was not lessened by the jealousy with which the Nevil family (the Earl of Warwick’s) regarded the promotion of the Woodville family. For, the young Queen was so bent on providing for her relations, that she made her father an earl and a great officer of state; married her five sisters to young noblemen of the highest rank; and provided for her younger brother, a young man of twenty, by marrying him to an immensely rich old duchess of eighty. The Earl of Warwick took all this pretty graciously for a man of his proud temper, until the question arose to whom the King’s sister, Margaret, should be married. The Earl of Warwick said, ‘To one of the French King’s sons,’ and was allowed to go over to the French King to make friendly proposals for that purpose, and to hold all manner of friendly interviews with him. But, while he was so engaged, the Woodville party married the young lady to the Duke of Burgundy! Upon this he came back in great rage and scorn, and shut himself up discontented, in his Castle of Middleham.

The White Rose was thriving, and the young King fully embraced a life of pleasure and revelry. However, he soon discovered that there were issues lurking beneath his bed of roses. He had secretly married Elizabeth Woodville, a stunning and charming young widow, and eventually decided to reveal his secret and declare her as his Queen. This choice upset the Earl of Warwick, known as the King-Maker due to his considerable power and influence, and for his crucial role in placing Edward on the throne. The situation was made worse by the jealousy felt by the Nevil family (to which the Earl belonged) towards the rising Woodville family. The young Queen was intent on advancing her family, making her father an earl and a high-ranking official, marrying her five sisters off to prominent young nobles, and securing a match for her younger brother, only twenty, with a very wealthy eighty-year-old duchess. The Earl of Warwick tolerated this quite well for someone with his pride until the matter of the King’s sister, Margaret, came up for marriage. The Earl suggested that she should marry one of the French King’s sons and was permitted to travel to France to make friendly proposals and hold various discussions. But while he was away, the Woodville faction married the young lady to the Duke of Burgundy! Furious and disdainful, he returned and withdrew in anger to his Castle of Middleham.

A reconciliation, though not a very sincere one, was patched up between the Earl of Warwick and the King, and lasted until the Earl married his daughter, against the King’s wishes, to the Duke of Clarence. While the marriage was being celebrated at Calais, the people in the north of England, where the influence of the Nevil family was strongest, broke out into rebellion; their complaint was, that England was oppressed and plundered by the Woodville family, whom they demanded to have removed from power. As they were joined by great numbers of people, and as they openly declared that they were supported by the Earl of Warwick, the King did not know what to do. At last, as he wrote to the earl beseeching his aid, he and his new son-in-law came over to England, and began to arrange the business by shutting the King up in Middleham Castle in the safe keeping of the Archbishop of York; so England was not only in the strange position of having two kings at once, but they were both prisoners at the same time.

A reconciliation, though not entirely genuine, was made between the Earl of Warwick and the King, and it lasted until the Earl went against the King’s wishes and married his daughter to the Duke of Clarence. While the wedding was being celebrated in Calais, people in northern England, where the Nevil family had the most influence, rebelled; their complaint was that England was being oppressed and plundered by the Woodville family, whom they demanded be removed from power. As they were joined by many others and openly declared their support from the Earl of Warwick, the King felt uncertain about what to do. Eventually, after writing to the Earl pleading for help, he and his new son-in-law returned to England and began to take control of the situation by imprisoning the King in Middleham Castle under the protection of the Archbishop of York; so England found itself in the unusual situation of having two kings at the same time, and both were prisoners.

Even as yet, however, the King-Maker was so far true to the King, that he dispersed a new rising of the Lancastrians, took their leader prisoner, and brought him to the King, who ordered him to be immediately executed. He presently allowed the King to return to London, and there innumerable pledges of forgiveness and friendship were exchanged between them, and between the Nevils and the Woodvilles; the King’s eldest daughter was promised in marriage to the heir of the Nevil family; and more friendly oaths were sworn, and more friendly promises made, than this book would hold.

Even so, the King-Maker remained loyal to the King by breaking up a new uprising of the Lancastrians, capturing their leader, and bringing him to the King, who ordered his immediate execution. He soon let the King return to London, where countless gestures of forgiveness and friendship were shared between them, as well as between the Nevils and the Woodvilles. The King’s oldest daughter was promised in marriage to the heir of the Nevil family, and more friendly oaths were sworn and more friendly promises made than this book could contain.

They lasted about three months. At the end of that time, the Archbishop of York made a feast for the King, the Earl of Warwick, and the Duke of Clarence, at his house, the Moor, in Hertfordshire. The King was washing his hands before supper, when some one whispered him that a body of a hundred men were lying in ambush outside the house. Whether this were true or untrue, the King took fright, mounted his horse, and rode through the dark night to Windsor Castle. Another reconciliation was patched up between him and the King-Maker, but it was a short one, and it was the last. A new rising took place in Lincolnshire, and the King marched to repress it. Having done so, he proclaimed that both the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Clarence were traitors, who had secretly assisted it, and who had been prepared publicly to join it on the following day. In these dangerous circumstances they both took ship and sailed away to the French court.

They lasted about three months. At the end of that time, the Archbishop of York held a feast for the King, the Earl of Warwick, and the Duke of Clarence at his place, the Moor, in Hertfordshire. The King was washing his hands before dinner when someone whispered to him that a group of a hundred men was lying in ambush outside the house. Whether this was true or not, the King got scared, hopped on his horse, and rode through the dark night to Windsor Castle. Another truce was quickly made between him and the King-Maker, but it was brief and the last one. A new uprising occurred in Lincolnshire, and the King marched to suppress it. After doing so, he announced that both the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Clarence were traitors who had secretly supported it and were planning to publicly join it the next day. In these dangerous circumstances, they both took a ship and sailed away to the French court.

And here a meeting took place between the Earl of Warwick and his old enemy, the Dowager Queen Margaret, through whom his father had had his head struck off, and to whom he had been a bitter foe. But, now, when he said that he had done with the ungrateful and perfidious Edward of York, and that henceforth he devoted himself to the restoration of the House of Lancaster, either in the person of her husband or of her little son, she embraced him as if he had ever been her dearest friend. She did more than that; she married her son to his second daughter, the Lady Anne. However agreeable this marriage was to the new friends, it was very disagreeable to the Duke of Clarence, who perceived that his father-in-law, the King-Maker, would never make him King, now. So, being but a weak-minded young traitor, possessed of very little worth or sense, he readily listened to an artful court lady sent over for the purpose, and promised to turn traitor once more, and go over to his brother, King Edward, when a fitting opportunity should come.

And here a meeting happened between the Earl of Warwick and his old enemy, the Dowager Queen Margaret, through whom his father had lost his head, and to whom he had been a bitter rival. But now, when he declared that he was done with the ungrateful and deceitful Edward of York, and that from now on he was committed to restoring the House of Lancaster, either through her husband or her young son, she embraced him as if he had always been her closest friend. She did more than that; she arranged for her son to marry his second daughter, Lady Anne. While this marriage pleased the new allies, it was very upsetting to the Duke of Clarence, who realized that his father-in-law, the King-Maker, would never make him King now. So, being a weak-minded young traitor with very little value or sense, he easily listened to a clever court lady sent for this purpose, and promised to betray once again and side with his brother, King Edward, when the right opportunity arose.

The Earl of Warwick, knowing nothing of this, soon redeemed his promise to the Dowager Queen Margaret, by invading England and landing at Plymouth, where he instantly proclaimed King Henry, and summoned all Englishmen between the ages of sixteen and sixty, to join his banner. Then, with his army increasing as he marched along, he went northward, and came so near King Edward, who was in that part of the country, that Edward had to ride hard for it to the coast of Norfolk, and thence to get away in such ships as he could find, to Holland. Thereupon, the triumphant King-Maker and his false son-in-law, the Duke of Clarence, went to London, took the old King out of the Tower, and walked him in a great procession to Saint Paul’s Cathedral with the crown upon his head. This did not improve the temper of the Duke of Clarence, who saw himself farther off from being King than ever; but he kept his secret, and said nothing. The Nevil family were restored to all their honours and glories, and the Woodvilles and the rest were disgraced. The King-Maker, less sanguinary than the King, shed no blood except that of the Earl of Worcester, who had been so cruel to the people as to have gained the title of the Butcher. Him they caught hidden in a tree, and him they tried and executed. No other death stained the King-Maker’s triumph.

The Earl of Warwick, unaware of the situation, quickly fulfilled his promise to the Dowager Queen Margaret by invading England and landing at Plymouth. There, he immediately proclaimed King Henry and called upon all Englishmen aged sixteen to sixty to join his cause. As his army grew during his march northward, he got so close to King Edward, who was in that area, that Edward had to make a hurried escape to the Norfolk coast and find whatever ships he could to flee to Holland. After that, the victorious King-Maker and his false son-in-law, the Duke of Clarence, went to London, took the old King out of the Tower, and led him in a grand procession to Saint Paul’s Cathedral with the crown on his head. This didn’t sit well with the Duke of Clarence, who found his chances of becoming King slipping away, but he kept his thoughts to himself and said nothing. The Nevil family was restored to all their honors and glory, while the Woodvilles and others faced disgrace. The King-Maker, less bloodthirsty than the King, only shed blood in the case of the Earl of Worcester, who had been so brutal to the people that he earned the nickname the Butcher. They caught him hiding in a tree, tried him, and executed him. No other deaths marred the King-Maker’s victory.

To dispute this triumph, back came King Edward again, next year, landing at Ravenspur, coming on to York, causing all his men to cry ‘Long live King Henry!’ and swearing on the altar, without a blush, that he came to lay no claim to the crown. Now was the time for the Duke of Clarence, who ordered his men to assume the White Rose, and declare for his brother. The Marquis of Montague, though the Earl of Warwick’s brother, also declining to fight against King Edward, he went on successfully to London, where the Archbishop of York let him into the City, and where the people made great demonstrations in his favour. For this they had four reasons. Firstly, there were great numbers of the King’s adherents hiding in the City and ready to break out; secondly, the King owed them a great deal of money, which they could never hope to get if he were unsuccessful; thirdly, there was a young prince to inherit the crown; and fourthly, the King was gay and handsome, and more popular than a better man might have been with the City ladies. After a stay of only two days with these worthy supporters, the King marched out to Barnet Common, to give the Earl of Warwick battle. And now it was to be seen, for the last time, whether the King or the King-Maker was to carry the day.

To contest this victory, King Edward returned the following year, landing at Ravenspur and making his way to York, where his men shouted ‘Long live King Henry!’ and swore on the altar, without any shame, that he had no intention of claiming the crown. Now was the moment for the Duke of Clarence, who instructed his men to wear the White Rose and support his brother. The Marquis of Montague, despite being the Earl of Warwick’s brother, also chose not to fight against King Edward. He proceeded successfully to London, where the Archbishop of York admitted him into the City, and the people showed significant support for him. They had four reasons for this. Firstly, many of the King’s supporters were hiding in the City and ready to rebel; secondly, the King owed them a considerable amount of money, which they could never hope to recover if he failed; thirdly, there was a young prince who would inherit the crown; and fourthly, the King was charming and attractive, and more popular with the City ladies than a more deserving man might have been. After only two days with these loyal supporters, the King marched out to Barnet Common to face the Earl of Warwick in battle. It was now time to see, for the last time, whether the King or the King-Maker would secure victory.

While the battle was yet pending, the fainthearted Duke of Clarence began to repent, and sent over secret messages to his father-in-law, offering his services in mediation with the King. But, the Earl of Warwick disdainfully rejected them, and replied that Clarence was false and perjured, and that he would settle the quarrel by the sword. The battle began at four o’clock in the morning and lasted until ten, and during the greater part of the time it was fought in a thick mist—absurdly supposed to be raised by a magician. The loss of life was very great, for the hatred was strong on both sides. The King-Maker was defeated, and the King triumphed. Both the Earl of Warwick and his brother were slain, and their bodies lay in St. Paul’s, for some days, as a spectacle to the people.

While the battle was still hanging in the balance, the cowardly Duke of Clarence started to have second thoughts and sent secret messages to his father-in-law, offering to mediate with the King. However, the Earl of Warwick scornfully rejected them, stating that Clarence was treacherous and untrustworthy, and that he would resolve the conflict through battle. The fight commenced at four in the morning and continued until ten, largely taking place in a thick fog—foolishly believed to have been conjured by a magician. The casualties were significant, as the animosity was intense on both sides. The King-Maker was defeated, and the King emerged victorious. Both the Earl of Warwick and his brother were killed, and their bodies were displayed in St. Paul’s for several days as a grim spectacle for the public.

Margaret’s spirit was not broken even by this great blow. Within five days she was in arms again, and raised her standard in Bath, whence she set off with her army, to try and join Lord Pembroke, who had a force in Wales. But, the King, coming up with her outside the town of Tewkesbury, and ordering his brother, the Duke of Gloucester, who was a brave soldier, to attack her men, she sustained an entire defeat, and was taken prisoner, together with her son, now only eighteen years of age. The conduct of the King to this poor youth was worthy of his cruel character. He ordered him to be led into his tent. ‘And what,’ said he, ‘brought you to England?’ ‘I came to England,’ replied the prisoner, with a spirit which a man of spirit might have admired in a captive, ‘to recover my father’s kingdom, which descended to him as his right, and from him descends to me, as mine.’ The King, drawing off his iron gauntlet, struck him with it in the face; and the Duke of Clarence and some other lords, who were there, drew their noble swords, and killed him.

Margaret's spirit wasn't crushed even by this huge setback. Within five days, she was back in action and raised her banner in Bath, setting off with her army to try and join Lord Pembroke, who had troops in Wales. But the King caught up with her outside the town of Tewkesbury and ordered his brother, the Duke of Gloucester, a skilled soldier, to attack her men. She faced a complete defeat and was taken prisoner along with her son, who was only eighteen at the time. The King's treatment of this poor youth was typical of his cruel nature. He had him brought into his tent. "And what," he asked, "brought you to England?" "I came to England," the young prisoner replied, with a spirit that anyone could admire in a captive, "to reclaim my father's kingdom, which rightfully belongs to him and has now passed down to me." The King, removing his iron gauntlet, struck him in the face, and the Duke of Clarence along with some other lords present drew their noble swords and killed him.

His mother survived him, a prisoner, for five years; after her ransom by the King of France, she survived for six years more. Within three weeks of this murder, Henry died one of those convenient sudden deaths which were so common in the Tower; in plainer words, he was murdered by the King’s order.

His mother outlived him as a captive for five years; after her release by the King of France, she lived for another six years. Within three weeks of this murder, Henry died one of those conveniently sudden deaths that were so common in the Tower; in simpler terms, he was murdered on the King’s orders.

Having no particular excitement on his hands after this great defeat of the Lancaster party, and being perhaps desirous to get rid of some of his fat (for he was now getting too corpulent to be handsome), the King thought of making war on France. As he wanted more money for this purpose than the Parliament could give him, though they were usually ready enough for war, he invented a new way of raising it, by sending for the principal citizens of London, and telling them, with a grave face, that he was very much in want of cash, and would take it very kind in them if they would lend him some. It being impossible for them safely to refuse, they complied, and the moneys thus forced from them were called—no doubt to the great amusement of the King and the Court—as if they were free gifts, ‘Benevolences.’ What with grants from Parliament, and what with Benevolences, the King raised an army and passed over to Calais. As nobody wanted war, however, the French King made proposals of peace, which were accepted, and a truce was concluded for seven long years. The proceedings between the Kings of France and England on this occasion, were very friendly, very splendid, and very distrustful. They finished with a meeting between the two Kings, on a temporary bridge over the river Somme, where they embraced through two holes in a strong wooden grating like a lion’s cage, and made several bows and fine speeches to one another.

Having no real excitement after the big defeat of the Lancaster party and perhaps wanting to shed some weight (since he was becoming too overweight to be attractive), the King considered going to war with France. Needing more funds for this than the Parliament could provide—though they usually supported war—he came up with a new way to raise money. He summoned the leading citizens of London and, with a serious expression, told them he was in urgent need of cash and would greatly appreciate it if they could lend him some. Since refusing was not a safe option for them, they agreed, and the money extracted from them was humorously called 'Benevolences,' as if they were voluntary gifts, much to the amusement of the King and the Court. With grants from Parliament and the Benevolences, the King assembled an army and crossed over to Calais. However, as no one really wanted war, the French King proposed peace, which was accepted, resulting in a truce for seven long years. The interactions between the Kings of France and England during this time were quite cordial, quite grand, and very suspicious. They concluded with a meeting between the two Kings on a temporary bridge over the river Somme, where they embraced through two holes in a sturdy wooden grid, much like a lion’s cage, and exchanged several bows and flattering speeches.

It was time, now, that the Duke of Clarence should be punished for his treacheries; and Fate had his punishment in store. He was, probably, not trusted by the King—for who could trust him who knew him!—and he had certainly a powerful opponent in his brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester, who, being avaricious and ambitious, wanted to marry that widowed daughter of the Earl of Warwick’s who had been espoused to the deceased young Prince, at Calais. Clarence, who wanted all the family wealth for himself, secreted this lady, whom Richard found disguised as a servant in the City of London, and whom he married; arbitrators appointed by the King, then divided the property between the brothers. This led to ill-will and mistrust between them. Clarence’s wife dying, and he wishing to make another marriage, which was obnoxious to the King, his ruin was hurried by that means, too. At first, the Court struck at his retainers and dependents, and accused some of them of magic and witchcraft, and similar nonsense. Successful against this small game, it then mounted to the Duke himself, who was impeached by his brother the King, in person, on a variety of such charges. He was found guilty, and sentenced to be publicly executed. He never was publicly executed, but he met his death somehow, in the Tower, and, no doubt, through some agency of the King or his brother Gloucester, or both. It was supposed at the time that he was told to choose the manner of his death, and that he chose to be drowned in a butt of Malmsey wine. I hope the story may be true, for it would have been a becoming death for such a miserable creature.

It was time for the Duke of Clarence to face consequences for his betrayals, and fate had plans for him. He likely wasn’t trusted by the King—who could really trust him if they knew him!—and he certainly had a strong adversary in his brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester, who, being greedy and ambitious, wanted to marry the widowed daughter of the Earl of Warwick who had been promised to the late young Prince in Calais. Clarence, wanting all the family wealth for himself, hid this lady, whom Richard found disguised as a servant in London, and married her. Arbitrators appointed by the King then split the property between the brothers, leading to resentment and distrust between them. When Clarence’s wife died and he sought to remarry against the King’s wishes, this hastened his downfall as well. Initially, the Court went after his retainers and accused some of them of magic and witchcraft, and other absurd nonsense. Having succeeded with this minor issue, they then targeted the Duke himself, who was personally accused by his brother the King on various charges. He was found guilty and sentenced to be publicly executed. However, he was never publicly executed; instead, he died somehow in the Tower, likely through the involvement of the King or his brother Gloucester, or both. It was rumored that he was given the option to choose how to die and that he chose to be drowned in a barrel of Malmsey wine. I hope that story is true, as it would have been a fitting end for such a wretched individual.

The King survived him some five years. He died in the forty-second year of his life, and the twenty-third of his reign. He had a very good capacity and some good points, but he was selfish, careless, sensual, and cruel. He was a favourite with the people for his showy manners; and the people were a good example to him in the constancy of their attachment. He was penitent on his death-bed for his ‘benevolences,’ and other extortions, and ordered restitution to be made to the people who had suffered from them. He also called about his bed the enriched members of the Woodville family, and the proud lords whose honours were of older date, and endeavoured to reconcile them, for the sake of the peaceful succession of his son and the tranquillity of England.

The King lived for about five more years after him. He died at the age of 42, in the 23rd year of his reign. He had a lot of potential and some good qualities, but he was selfish, reckless, indulgent, and cruel. He was popular with the people for his flashy behavior, and they showed him loyalty in return. On his deathbed, he felt regret for his “benefits” and other wrongdoings, and he instructed that compensation be given to those who had been harmed. He also gathered the wealthy members of the Woodville family and the proud nobles with older titles around his bed, trying to bring them together for the sake of ensuring a smooth succession for his son and maintaining peace in England.

CHAPTER XXIV—ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FIFTH

The late King’s eldest son, the Prince of Wales, called Edward after him, was only thirteen years of age at his father’s death. He was at Ludlow Castle with his uncle, the Earl of Rivers. The prince’s brother, the Duke of York, only eleven years of age, was in London with his mother. The boldest, most crafty, and most dreaded nobleman in England at that time was their uncle Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and everybody wondered how the two poor boys would fare with such an uncle for a friend or a foe.

The late King’s oldest son, the Prince of Wales, named Edward after him, was just thirteen when his father died. He was at Ludlow Castle with his uncle, the Earl of Rivers. The prince's younger brother, the Duke of York, who was only eleven, was in London with their mother. At that time, the most daring, cunning, and feared nobleman in England was their uncle Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and everyone wondered how the two helpless boys would manage with such an uncle, whether as an ally or an enemy.

The Queen, their mother, being exceedingly uneasy about this, was anxious that instructions should be sent to Lord Rivers to raise an army to escort the young King safely to London. But, Lord Hastings, who was of the Court party opposed to the Woodvilles, and who disliked the thought of giving them that power, argued against the proposal, and obliged the Queen to be satisfied with an escort of two thousand horse. The Duke of Gloucester did nothing, at first, to justify suspicion. He came from Scotland (where he was commanding an army) to York, and was there the first to swear allegiance to his nephew. He then wrote a condoling letter to the Queen-Mother, and set off to be present at the coronation in London.

The Queen, their mother, was really worried about this and wanted instructions sent to Lord Rivers to gather an army to safely escort the young King to London. However, Lord Hastings, who was part of the Court faction against the Woodvilles and didn't like the idea of giving them that kind of power, argued against her idea and forced the Queen to settle for an escort of two thousand cavalry. The Duke of Gloucester initially did nothing to raise any suspicion. He came from Scotland, where he was in command of an army, to York, and was the first to pledge loyalty to his nephew. He then wrote a letter expressing his condolences to the Queen-Mother and set off to attend the coronation in London.

Now, the young King, journeying towards London too, with Lord Rivers and Lord Gray, came to Stony Stratford, as his uncle came to Northampton, about ten miles distant; and when those two lords heard that the Duke of Gloucester was so near, they proposed to the young King that they should go back and greet him in his name. The boy being very willing that they should do so, they rode off and were received with great friendliness, and asked by the Duke of Gloucester to stay and dine with him. In the evening, while they were merry together, up came the Duke of Buckingham with three hundred horsemen; and next morning the two lords and the two dukes, and the three hundred horsemen, rode away together to rejoin the King. Just as they were entering Stony Stratford, the Duke of Gloucester, checking his horse, turned suddenly on the two lords, charged them with alienating from him the affections of his sweet nephew, and caused them to be arrested by the three hundred horsemen and taken back. Then, he and the Duke of Buckingham went straight to the King (whom they had now in their power), to whom they made a show of kneeling down, and offering great love and submission; and then they ordered his attendants to disperse, and took him, alone with them, to Northampton.

Now, the young King, traveling towards London with Lord Rivers and Lord Gray, arrived at Stony Stratford, just ten miles away from where his uncle reached Northampton. When the two lords heard that the Duke of Gloucester was so close, they suggested to the young King that they should turn back and greet him on his behalf. The boy happily agreed, so they rode off and were warmly welcomed, with the Duke of Gloucester inviting them to stay and have dinner with him. In the evening, while they were enjoying themselves, the Duke of Buckingham showed up with three hundred horsemen. The next morning, the lords, the dukes, and the three hundred horsemen all rode off together to rejoin the King. Just as they were entering Stony Stratford, the Duke of Gloucester suddenly pulled his horse to a stop, confronted the two lords, accused them of winning over the affections of his dear nephew, and had them arrested by the three hundred horsemen and taken back. Then, he and the Duke of Buckingham went straight to the King (whom they now controlled), pretended to kneel down, and offered him great affection and submission; they then ordered his attendants to disperse and took him away alone with them to Northampton.

A few days afterwards they conducted him to London, and lodged him in the Bishop’s Palace. But, he did not remain there long; for, the Duke of Buckingham with a tender face made a speech expressing how anxious he was for the Royal boy’s safety, and how much safer he would be in the Tower until his coronation, than he could be anywhere else. So, to the Tower he was taken, very carefully, and the Duke of Gloucester was named Protector of the State.

A few days later, they took him to London and put him up in the Bishop’s Palace. However, he didn’t stay there long because the Duke of Buckingham, with a concerned expression, gave a speech about how worried he was for the young prince’s safety and how much safer he would be in the Tower until his coronation than anywhere else. So, he was taken to the Tower very carefully, and the Duke of Gloucester was appointed as Protector of the State.

Although Gloucester had proceeded thus far with a very smooth countenance—and although he was a clever man, fair of speech, and not ill-looking, in spite of one of his shoulders being something higher than the other—and although he had come into the City riding bare-headed at the King’s side, and looking very fond of him—he had made the King’s mother more uneasy yet; and when the Royal boy was taken to the Tower, she became so alarmed that she took sanctuary in Westminster with her five daughters.

Although Gloucester had carried himself quite well thus far— and even though he was smart, articulate, and not bad-looking, despite one shoulder being a bit higher than the other— and although he had entered the City riding next to the King, with a very affectionate demeanor—he had made the King’s mother even more anxious. When the Royal boy was taken to the Tower, she became so frightened that she sought refuge in Westminster with her five daughters.

Nor did she do this without reason, for, the Duke of Gloucester, finding that the lords who were opposed to the Woodville family were faithful to the young King nevertheless, quickly resolved to strike a blow for himself. Accordingly, while those lords met in council at the Tower, he and those who were in his interest met in separate council at his own residence, Crosby Palace, in Bishopsgate Street. Being at last quite prepared, he one day appeared unexpectedly at the council in the Tower, and appeared to be very jocular and merry. He was particularly gay with the Bishop of Ely: praising the strawberries that grew in his garden on Holborn Hill, and asking him to have some gathered that he might eat them at dinner. The Bishop, quite proud of the honour, sent one of his men to fetch some; and the Duke, still very jocular and gay, went out; and the council all said what a very agreeable duke he was! In a little time, however, he came back quite altered—not at all jocular—frowning and fierce—and suddenly said,—

Nor did she act without reason, because the Duke of Gloucester, realizing that the lords who opposed the Woodville family were still loyal to the young King, quickly decided to take action for himself. So, while those lords gathered for a council at the Tower, he and his supporters held a separate meeting at his residence, Crosby Palace, in Bishopsgate Street. Once fully prepared, he unexpectedly showed up at the council in the Tower one day, appearing very cheerful and lighthearted. He was especially jovial with the Bishop of Ely, complimenting the strawberries from his garden on Holborn Hill, and asking him to have some picked so he could enjoy them at dinner. The Bishop, quite pleased with the recognition, sent one of his men to fetch some; and the Duke, still very cheerful, stepped outside, while the council members remarked on what a delightful duke he was! However, after a little while, he returned completely changed—not cheerful at all—frowning and fierce—and abruptly said, —

‘What do those persons deserve who have compassed my destruction; I being the King’s lawful, as well as natural, protector?’

‘What do those people deserve who have plotted my downfall; I being the King’s legal, as well as natural, protector?’

To this strange question, Lord Hastings replied, that they deserved death, whosoever they were.

To this strange question, Lord Hastings replied that they deserved death, whoever they were.

‘Then,’ said the Duke, ‘I tell you that they are that sorceress my brother’s wife;’ meaning the Queen: ‘and that other sorceress, Jane Shore. Who, by witchcraft, have withered my body, and caused my arm to shrink as I now show you.’

‘Then,’ said the Duke, ‘I’m telling you that they are that sorceress, my brother’s wife;’ meaning the Queen: ‘and that other sorceress, Jane Shore. Who, by witchcraft, have withered my body and made my arm shrink as I’m showing you now.’

He then pulled up his sleeve and showed them his arm, which was shrunken, it is true, but which had been so, as they all very well knew, from the hour of his birth.

He then rolled up his sleeve and showed them his arm, which was small, it's true, but everyone knew it had been that way since the moment he was born.

Jane Shore, being then the lover of Lord Hastings, as she had formerly been of the late King, that lord knew that he himself was attacked. So, he said, in some confusion, ‘Certainly, my Lord, if they have done this, they be worthy of punishment.’

Jane Shore, at that time the lover of Lord Hastings, just as she had once been with the late King, knew that he was under threat. So, he said, a bit flustered, ‘Of course, my Lord, if they did this, they deserve to be punished.’

‘If?’ said the Duke of Gloucester; ‘do you talk to me of ifs? I tell you that they have so done, and I will make it good upon thy body, thou traitor!’

‘If?’ said the Duke of Gloucester; ‘are you talking to me about ifs? I’m telling you that they have done it, and I will prove it to you, you traitor!’

With that, he struck the table a great blow with his fist. This was a signal to some of his people outside to cry ‘Treason!’ They immediately did so, and there was a rush into the chamber of so many armed men that it was filled in a moment.

With that, he hit the table hard with his fist. This was a signal to some of his people outside to shout 'Treason!' They immediately did so, and a rush of armed men filled the chamber in an instant.

‘First,’ said the Duke of Gloucester to Lord Hastings, ‘I arrest thee, traitor! And let him,’ he added to the armed men who took him, ‘have a priest at once, for by St. Paul I will not dine until I have seen his head of!’

‘First,’ said the Duke of Gloucester to Lord Hastings, ‘I arrest you, traitor! And let him,’ he added to the armed men who seized him, ‘get a priest right away, because by St. Paul I won’t eat until I see his head off!’

Lord Hastings was hurried to the green by the Tower chapel, and there beheaded on a log of wood that happened to be lying on the ground. Then, the Duke dined with a good appetite, and after dinner summoning the principal citizens to attend him, told them that Lord Hastings and the rest had designed to murder both himself and the Duke if Buckingham, who stood by his side, if he had not providentially discovered their design. He requested them to be so obliging as to inform their fellow-citizens of the truth of what he said, and issued a proclamation (prepared and neatly copied out beforehand) to the same effect.

Lord Hastings was rushed to the green by the Tower chapel, where he was beheaded on a log that happened to be on the ground. After that, the Duke had a hearty meal, and after dinner, he called the main citizens to meet him. He told them that Lord Hastings and others had planned to kill both him and the Duke, but Buckingham, who was standing by him, had providentially uncovered their plot. He asked them to kindly inform their fellow citizens about the truth of what he had said and issued a proclamation (prepared and neatly written out beforehand) to the same effect.

On the same day that the Duke did these things in the Tower, Sir Richard Ratcliffe, the boldest and most undaunted of his men, went down to Pontefract; arrested Lord Rivers, Lord Gray, and two other gentlemen; and publicly executed them on the scaffold, without any trial, for having intended the Duke’s death. Three days afterwards the Duke, not to lose time, went down the river to Westminster in his barge, attended by divers bishops, lords, and soldiers, and demanded that the Queen should deliver her second son, the Duke of York, into his safe keeping. The Queen, being obliged to comply, resigned the child after she had wept over him; and Richard of Gloucester placed him with his brother in the Tower. Then, he seized Jane Shore, and, because she had been the lover of the late King, confiscated her property, and got her sentenced to do public penance in the streets by walking in a scanty dress, with bare feet, and carrying a lighted candle, to St. Paul’s Cathedral, through the most crowded part of the City.

On the same day that the Duke did these things in the Tower, Sir Richard Ratcliffe, the bravest and most fearless of his men, went down to Pontefract, arrested Lord Rivers, Lord Gray, and two other gentlemen, and publicly executed them on the scaffold, without any trial, for allegedly plotting the Duke’s death. Three days later, the Duke, eager to act quickly, traveled down the river to Westminster in his barge, accompanied by various bishops, lords, and soldiers, and demanded that the Queen hand over her second son, the Duke of York, for his protection. The Queen, forced to comply, surrendered the child after shedding tears over him; Richard of Gloucester placed him with his brother in the Tower. Then, he captured Jane Shore, and since she had been the lover of the late King, confiscated her property and got her sentenced to do public penance in the streets by walking in a revealing dress, barefoot, and carrying a lighted candle to St. Paul’s Cathedral, through the busiest part of the City.

Having now all things ready for his own advancement, he caused a friar to preach a sermon at the cross which stood in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral, in which he dwelt upon the profligate manners of the late King, and upon the late shame of Jane Shore, and hinted that the princes were not his children. ‘Whereas, good people,’ said the friar, whose name was Shaw, ‘my Lord the Protector, the noble Duke of Gloucester, that sweet prince, the pattern of all the noblest virtues, is the perfect image and express likeness of his father.’ There had been a little plot between the Duke and the friar, that the Duke should appear in the crowd at this moment, when it was expected that the people would cry ‘Long live King Richard!’ But, either through the friar saying the words too soon, or through the Duke’s coming too late, the Duke and the words did not come together, and the people only laughed, and the friar sneaked off ashamed.

Having everything set for his own rise, he had a friar give a sermon at the cross in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral, where he talked about the reckless behavior of the late King and the recent disgrace of Jane Shore, suggesting the princes might not actually be his kids. ‘Now, good people,’ said the friar, whose name was Shaw, ‘my Lord the Protector, the noble Duke of Gloucester, that wonderful prince, the embodiment of all the highest virtues, is the exact image and likeness of his father.’ There had been a little scheme between the Duke and the friar, planning for the Duke to show up in the crowd at that moment, expecting the people to shout ‘Long live King Richard!’ But, either because the friar spoke too soon or the Duke arrived too late, the Duke and the words didn't coincide, and the crowd just laughed, while the friar slipped away, embarrassed.

The Duke of Buckingham was a better hand at such business than the friar, so he went to the Guildhall the next day, and addressed the citizens in the Lord Protector’s behalf. A few dirty men, who had been hired and stationed there for the purpose, crying when he had done, ‘God save King Richard!’ he made them a great bow, and thanked them with all his heart. Next day, to make an end of it, he went with the mayor and some lords and citizens to Bayard Castle, by the river, where Richard then was, and read an address, humbly entreating him to accept the Crown of England. Richard, who looked down upon them out of a window and pretended to be in great uneasiness and alarm, assured them there was nothing he desired less, and that his deep affection for his nephews forbade him to think of it. To this the Duke of Buckingham replied, with pretended warmth, that the free people of England would never submit to his nephew’s rule, and that if Richard, who was the lawful heir, refused the Crown, why then they must find some one else to wear it. The Duke of Gloucester returned, that since he used that strong language, it became his painful duty to think no more of himself, and to accept the Crown.

The Duke of Buckingham was better at this kind of thing than the friar, so he went to the Guildhall the next day and spoke to the citizens on behalf of the Lord Protector. A few hired men, who had been planted there for the occasion, shouted when he was done, "God save King Richard!" He bowed deeply and thanked them sincerely. The next day, to wrap things up, he went with the mayor and some lords and citizens to Bayard Castle by the river, where Richard was, and read an address, politely asking him to accept the Crown of England. Richard, looking down at them from a window and pretending to be very troubled and anxious, assured them that he wanted nothing less and that his deep love for his nephews prevented him from considering it. The Duke of Buckingham replied, with feigned passion, that the free people of England would never accept his nephew's rule, and that if Richard, who was the rightful heir, refused the Crown, then they would have to find someone else to wear it. The Duke of Gloucester responded that since he used such strong words, it was now his painful duty to think of himself no more and to accept the Crown.

Upon that, the people cheered and dispersed; and the Duke of Gloucester and the Duke of Buckingham passed a pleasant evening, talking over the play they had just acted with so much success, and every word of which they had prepared together.

Upon that, the crowd cheered and broke up; and the Duke of Gloucester and the Duke of Buckingham enjoyed a nice evening, discussing the play they had just performed so successfully, and every line of which they had prepared together.

CHAPTER XXV—ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE THIRD

King Richard the Third was up betimes in the morning, and went to Westminster Hall. In the Hall was a marble seat, upon which he sat himself down between two great noblemen, and told the people that he began the new reign in that place, because the first duty of a sovereign was to administer the laws equally to all, and to maintain justice. He then mounted his horse and rode back to the City, where he was received by the clergy and the crowd as if he really had a right to the throne, and really were a just man. The clergy and the crowd must have been rather ashamed of themselves in secret, I think, for being such poor-spirited knaves.

King Richard the Third got up early in the morning and went to Westminster Hall. In the Hall was a marble seat, where he sat down between two important noblemen and told the people that he was starting the new reign in that place because the first duty of a ruler was to apply the laws fairly to everyone and to uphold justice. He then got on his horse and rode back to the City, where he was welcomed by the clergy and the crowd as if he truly had a right to the throne and was indeed a just man. I think the clergy and the crowd must have felt a bit ashamed of themselves secretly for being such cowardly fools.

The new King and his Queen were soon crowned with a great deal of show and noise, which the people liked very much; and then the King set forth on a royal progress through his dominions. He was crowned a second time at York, in order that the people might have show and noise enough; and wherever he went was received with shouts of rejoicing—from a good many people of strong lungs, who were paid to strain their throats in crying, ‘God save King Richard!’ The plan was so successful that I am told it has been imitated since, by other usurpers, in other progresses through other dominions.

The new King and his Queen were soon crowned with a lot of fanfare and noise, which the people really enjoyed; and then the King set out on a royal tour through his kingdom. He was crowned a second time in York, so that the people could have plenty of excitement and celebration; and everywhere he went, he was welcomed with cheers from a lot of enthusiastic people who were paid to shout, ‘God save King Richard!’ The strategy was so effective that I’ve heard it has been copied since by other usurpers on their own tours through other realms.

While he was on this journey, King Richard stayed a week at Warwick. And from Warwick he sent instructions home for one of the wickedest murders that ever was done—the murder of the two young princes, his nephews, who were shut up in the Tower of London.

While he was on this journey, King Richard stayed a week at Warwick. And from Warwick he sent instructions home for one of the most despicable murders that ever happened—the murder of the two young princes, his nephews, who were locked up in the Tower of London.

Sir Robert Brackenbury was at that time Governor of the Tower. To him, by the hands of a messenger named John Green, did King Richard send a letter, ordering him by some means to put the two young princes to death. But Sir Robert—I hope because he had children of his own, and loved them—sent John Green back again, riding and spurring along the dusty roads, with the answer that he could not do so horrible a piece of work. The King, having frowningly considered a little, called to him Sir James Tyrrel, his master of the horse, and to him gave authority to take command of the Tower, whenever he would, for twenty-four hours, and to keep all the keys of the Tower during that space of time. Tyrrel, well knowing what was wanted, looked about him for two hardened ruffians, and chose John Dighton, one of his own grooms, and Miles Forest, who was a murderer by trade. Having secured these two assistants, he went, upon a day in August, to the Tower, showed his authority from the King, took the command for four-and-twenty hours, and obtained possession of the keys. And when the black night came he went creeping, creeping, like a guilty villain as he was, up the dark, stone winding stairs, and along the dark stone passages, until he came to the door of the room where the two young princes, having said their prayers, lay fast asleep, clasped in each other’s arms. And while he watched and listened at the door, he sent in those evil demons, John Dighton and Miles Forest, who smothered the two princes with the bed and pillows, and carried their bodies down the stairs, and buried them under a great heap of stones at the staircase foot. And when the day came, he gave up the command of the Tower, and restored the keys, and hurried away without once looking behind him; and Sir Robert Brackenbury went with fear and sadness to the princes’ room, and found the princes gone for ever.

Sir Robert Brackenbury was the Governor of the Tower at that time. King Richard sent a letter to him through a messenger named John Green, instructing him to find a way to kill the two young princes. But Sir Robert—I hope it was because he had children of his own and loved them—sent John Green back, racing along the dusty roads, with the message that he couldn’t carry out such a terrible act. The King, after frowning for a moment, called over Sir James Tyrrell, his master of the horse, and gave him the authority to take control of the Tower for twenty-four hours and to hold all the keys during that time. Tyrrel, knowing exactly what was needed, looked for two ruthless men and chose John Dighton, one of his own grooms, and Miles Forest, a professional killer. Once he had secured their help, he went to the Tower one day in August, showed his authority from the King, took command for twenty-four hours, and got the keys. When night fell, he crept up the dark, stone winding stairs and along the shadowy stone corridors, until he reached the door of the room where the two young princes lay fast asleep in each other’s arms after saying their prayers. While he listened at the door, he sent in those evil men, John Dighton and Miles Forest, who smothered the princes with the bed and pillows and carried their bodies down the stairs, burying them under a large pile of stones at the bottom of the staircase. When day broke, he handed back control of the Tower, returned the keys, and rushed away without looking back; Sir Robert Brackenbury went to the princes’ room in fear and sadness, only to find that the princes were gone forever.

You know, through all this history, how true it is that traitors are never true, and you will not be surprised to learn that the Duke of Buckingham soon turned against King Richard, and joined a great conspiracy that was formed to dethrone him, and to place the crown upon its rightful owner’s head. Richard had meant to keep the murder secret; but when he heard through his spies that this conspiracy existed, and that many lords and gentlemen drank in secret to the healths of the two young princes in the Tower, he made it known that they were dead. The conspirators, though thwarted for a moment, soon resolved to set up for the crown against the murderous Richard, Henry Earl of Richmond, grandson of Catherine: that widow of Henry the Fifth who married Owen Tudor. And as Henry was of the house of Lancaster, they proposed that he should marry the Princess Elizabeth, the eldest daughter of the late King, now the heiress of the house of York, and thus by uniting the rival families put an end to the fatal wars of the Red and White Roses. All being settled, a time was appointed for Henry to come over from Brittany, and for a great rising against Richard to take place in several parts of England at the same hour. On a certain day, therefore, in October, the revolt took place; but unsuccessfully. Richard was prepared, Henry was driven back at sea by a storm, his followers in England were dispersed, and the Duke of Buckingham was taken, and at once beheaded in the market-place at Salisbury.

You know, throughout all this history, how true it is that traitors are never genuine, and you won’t be surprised to find out that the Duke of Buckingham soon turned against King Richard and joined a big conspiracy that was formed to overthrow him and place the crown on its rightful owner’s head. Richard intended to keep the murder a secret; but when he learned through his spies that this conspiracy was happening, and that many lords and gentlemen were secretly toasting to the health of the two young princes in the Tower, he announced that they were dead. The conspirators, although momentarily thwarted, quickly decided to rally for the crown against the murderous Richard, Henry Earl of Richmond, grandson of Catherine: the widow of Henry the Fifth who married Owen Tudor. Since Henry was from the house of Lancaster, they proposed that he should marry Princess Elizabeth, the oldest daughter of the late King, now the heir of the house of York, thus uniting the rival families to end the deadly wars of the Red and White Roses. Once everything was settled, a time was scheduled for Henry to come over from Brittany, and for a major uprising against Richard to happen in several parts of England at the same hour. On a certain day in October, the revolt took place; but it was unsuccessful. Richard was prepared, Henry was pushed back at sea by a storm, his supporters in England were scattered, and the Duke of Buckingham was captured and immediately beheaded in the market place at Salisbury.

The time of his success was a good time, Richard thought, for summoning a Parliament and getting some money. So, a Parliament was called, and it flattered and fawned upon him as much as he could possibly desire, and declared him to be the rightful King of England, and his only son Edward, then eleven years of age, the next heir to the throne.

The moment of his success seemed like the perfect opportunity, Richard figured, to gather a Parliament and secure some funds. So, a Parliament was summoned, and it praised and flattered him as much as he could want, declaring him the rightful King of England, and his only son Edward, who was eleven at the time, the next in line for the throne.

Richard knew full well that, let the Parliament say what it would, the Princess Elizabeth was remembered by people as the heiress of the house of York; and having accurate information besides, of its being designed by the conspirators to marry her to Henry of Richmond, he felt that it would much strengthen him and weaken them, to be beforehand with them, and marry her to his son. With this view he went to the Sanctuary at Westminster, where the late King’s widow and her daughter still were, and besought them to come to Court: where (he swore by anything and everything) they should be safely and honourably entertained. They came, accordingly, but had scarcely been at Court a month when his son died suddenly—or was poisoned—and his plan was crushed to pieces.

Richard knew very well that, no matter what Parliament claimed, people remembered Princess Elizabeth as the rightful heir of the house of York. He also had reliable information that the conspirators intended to marry her off to Henry of Richmond. He believed that if he acted first and married her to his son, it would significantly strengthen his position and weaken theirs. With this goal in mind, he went to the Sanctuary at Westminster, where the late king's widow and her daughter were still residing, and urged them to come to Court, assuring them (swearing on anything and everything) that they would be treated safely and honorably. They came, but barely a month later, his son died suddenly—or was poisoned—and his plans were shattered.

In this extremity, King Richard, always active, thought, ‘I must make another plan.’ And he made the plan of marrying the Princess Elizabeth himself, although she was his niece. There was one difficulty in the way: his wife, the Queen Anne, was alive. But, he knew (remembering his nephews) how to remove that obstacle, and he made love to the Princess Elizabeth, telling her he felt perfectly confident that the Queen would die in February. The Princess was not a very scrupulous young lady, for, instead of rejecting the murderer of her brothers with scorn and hatred, she openly declared she loved him dearly; and, when February came and the Queen did not die, she expressed her impatient opinion that she was too long about it. However, King Richard was not so far out in his prediction, but, that she died in March—he took good care of that—and then this precious pair hoped to be married. But they were disappointed, for the idea of such a marriage was so unpopular in the country, that the King’s chief counsellors, Ratcliffe and Catesby, would by no means undertake to propose it, and the King was even obliged to declare in public that he had never thought of such a thing.

In this situation, King Richard, always energetic, thought, ‘I need to come up with another plan.’ So he decided to marry Princess Elizabeth himself, even though she was his niece. There was one problem: his wife, Queen Anne, was still alive. But he knew (thinking about his nephews) how to eliminate that obstacle, and he pursued Princess Elizabeth, claiming he was sure the Queen would die in February. The Princess wasn’t very principled, since instead of rejecting the murderer of her brothers with disgust and hatred, she openly stated she loved him dearly; and when February arrived and the Queen didn’t die, she impatiently remarked that she was taking too long. However, King Richard wasn’t entirely wrong in his prediction, as she did die in March—he made sure of that—and then this lovely couple looked forward to getting married. But they were let down, because the idea of such a marriage was so unpopular in the country, that the King’s main advisors, Ratcliffe and Catesby, absolutely refused to propose it, and the King even had to publicly state that he had never considered such a thing.

He was, by this time, dreaded and hated by all classes of his subjects. His nobles deserted every day to Henry’s side; he dared not call another Parliament, lest his crimes should be denounced there; and for want of money, he was obliged to get Benevolences from the citizens, which exasperated them all against him. It was said too, that, being stricken by his conscience, he dreamed frightful dreams, and started up in the night-time, wild with terror and remorse. Active to the last, through all this, he issued vigorous proclamations against Henry of Richmond and all his followers, when he heard that they were coming against him with a Fleet from France; and took the field as fierce and savage as a wild boar—the animal represented on his shield.

He was, by now, feared and hated by all classes of his subjects. His nobles deserted him every day to side with Henry; he was too scared to call another Parliament, fearing his crimes would be exposed there; and due to a lack of money, he had to collect Benevolences from the citizens, which only made them angrier with him. It was also said that, tormented by his conscience, he had terrible nightmares and would wake up in the night, frantic with fear and regret. Even in his last days, he was active and issued strong proclamations against Henry of Richmond and all his supporters when he learned they were coming at him with a fleet from France; he took to the field as fierce and savage as a wild boar—the animal depicted on his shield.

Henry of Richmond landed with six thousand men at Milford Haven, and came on against King Richard, then encamped at Leicester with an army twice as great, through North Wales. On Bosworth Field the two armies met; and Richard, looking along Henry’s ranks, and seeing them crowded with the English nobles who had abandoned him, turned pale when he beheld the powerful Lord Stanley and his son (whom he had tried hard to retain) among them. But, he was as brave as he was wicked, and plunged into the thickest of the fight. He was riding hither and thither, laying about him in all directions, when he observed the Earl of Northumberland—one of his few great allies—to stand inactive, and the main body of his troops to hesitate. At the same moment, his desperate glance caught Henry of Richmond among a little group of his knights. Riding hard at him, and crying ‘Treason!’ he killed his standard-bearer, fiercely unhorsed another gentleman, and aimed a powerful stroke at Henry himself, to cut him down. But, Sir William Stanley parried it as it fell, and before Richard could raise his arm again, he was borne down in a press of numbers, unhorsed, and killed. Lord Stanley picked up the crown, all bruised and trampled, and stained with blood, and put it upon Richmond’s head, amid loud and rejoicing cries of ‘Long live King Henry!’

Henry of Richmond landed with six thousand men at Milford Haven and marched against King Richard, who was then camped at Leicester with an army twice as large, through North Wales. The two armies met at Bosworth Field; Richard, scanning Henry’s ranks and seeing they were filled with English nobles who had deserted him, turned pale when he spotted the powerful Lord Stanley and his son (whom he had tried hard to keep loyal) among them. However, he was as courageous as he was wicked and plunged into the thickest part of the fight. He was riding back and forth, attacking in all directions when he noticed the Earl of Northumberland—one of his few major allies—standing still, while the main body of his troops hesitated. At the same moment, his desperate gaze landed on Henry of Richmond among a small group of his knights. Riding fiercely toward him and shouting ‘Treason!’ he killed his standard-bearer, violently unhorsed another knight, and aimed a powerful blow at Henry himself to strike him down. But Sir William Stanley blocked it just in time, and before Richard could swing his arm again, he was overwhelmed by numbers, unhorsed, and killed. Lord Stanley picked up the crown, all battered and trampled, stained with blood, and placed it on Richmond’s head amidst loud and joyous cries of ‘Long live King Henry!’

That night, a horse was led up to the church of the Grey Friars at Leicester; across whose back was tied, like some worthless sack, a naked body brought there for burial. It was the body of the last of the Plantagenet line, King Richard the Third, usurper and murderer, slain at the battle of Bosworth Field in the thirty-second year of his age, after a reign of two years.

That night, a horse was brought to the church of the Grey Friars in Leicester, carrying a naked body tied across its back like a useless sack. It was the body of the last of the Plantagenet line, King Richard the Third, a usurper and murderer, who was killed at the battle of Bosworth Field at the age of thirty-two, after reigning for two years.

CHAPTER XXVI—ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SEVENTH

King Henry the Seventh did not turn out to be as fine a fellow as the nobility and people hoped, in the first joy of their deliverance from Richard the Third. He was very cold, crafty, and calculating, and would do almost anything for money. He possessed considerable ability, but his chief merit appears to have been that he was not cruel when there was nothing to be got by it.

King Henry the Seventh didn’t turn out to be the great guy that the nobility and people hoped for in the early excitement of their freedom from Richard the Third. He was pretty cold, cunning, and strategic, and would do just about anything for money. He had quite a bit of talent, but his main quality seemed to be that he wasn’t cruel when there was nothing to gain from it.

The new King had promised the nobles who had espoused his cause that he would marry the Princess Elizabeth. The first thing he did, was, to direct her to be removed from the castle of Sheriff Hutton in Yorkshire, where Richard had placed her, and restored to the care of her mother in London. The young Earl of Warwick, Edward Plantagenet, son and heir of the late Duke of Clarence, had been kept a prisoner in the same old Yorkshire Castle with her. This boy, who was now fifteen, the new King placed in the Tower for safety. Then he came to London in great state, and gratified the people with a fine procession; on which kind of show he often very much relied for keeping them in good humour. The sports and feasts which took place were followed by a terrible fever, called the Sweating Sickness; of which great numbers of people died. Lord Mayors and Aldermen are thought to have suffered most from it; whether, because they were in the habit of over-eating themselves, or because they were very jealous of preserving filth and nuisances in the City (as they have been since), I don’t know.

The new King had promised the nobles who supported him that he would marry Princess Elizabeth. The first thing he did was order her to be taken from the castle of Sheriff Hutton in Yorkshire, where Richard had kept her, and returned to the care of her mother in London. The young Earl of Warwick, Edward Plantagenet, son and heir of the late Duke of Clarence, had also been held prisoner in the same old Yorkshire castle with her. This boy, who was now fifteen, the new King placed in the Tower for his safety. Then he came to London in grand style, delighting the people with a spectacular procession, which he often relied on to keep them happy. The sports and feasts that followed were soon overshadowed by a terrible fever known as the Sweating Sickness, which caused many deaths. Lord Mayors and Aldermen seemed to suffer the most from it; whether it was because they tended to overeat or because they were very focused on keeping the City clean from filth and nuisances (as they have been ever since), I can’t say.

The King’s coronation was postponed on account of the general ill-health, and he afterwards deferred his marriage, as if he were not very anxious that it should take place: and, even after that, deferred the Queen’s coronation so long that he gave offence to the York party. However, he set these things right in the end, by hanging some men and seizing on the rich possessions of others; by granting more popular pardons to the followers of the late King than could, at first, be got from him; and, by employing about his Court, some very scrupulous persons who had been employed in the previous reign.

The King’s coronation was delayed due to widespread illness, and he later postponed his marriage, seeming not very eager for it to happen. Even after that, he delayed the Queen’s coronation so long that it upset the York faction. Ultimately, he fixed these issues by executing some people and confiscating the wealthy estates of others; by offering more lenient pardons to the supporters of the late King than could initially be obtained from him; and by surrounding himself at Court with some very careful individuals who had served in the previous reign.

As this reign was principally remarkable for two very curious impostures which have become famous in history, we will make those two stories its principal feature.

As this reign was mainly notable for two very interesting hoaxes that have become well-known in history, we will make those two stories its main focus.

There was a priest at Oxford of the name of Simons, who had for a pupil a handsome boy named Lambert Simnel, the son of a baker. Partly to gratify his own ambitious ends, and partly to carry out the designs of a secret party formed against the King, this priest declared that his pupil, the boy, was no other than the young Earl of Warwick; who (as everybody might have known) was safely locked up in the Tower of London. The priest and the boy went over to Ireland; and, at Dublin, enlisted in their cause all ranks of the people: who seem to have been generous enough, but exceedingly irrational. The Earl of Kildare, the governor of Ireland, declared that he believed the boy to be what the priest represented; and the boy, who had been well tutored by the priest, told them such things of his childhood, and gave them so many descriptions of the Royal Family, that they were perpetually shouting and hurrahing, and drinking his health, and making all kinds of noisy and thirsty demonstrations, to express their belief in him. Nor was this feeling confined to Ireland alone, for the Earl of Lincoln—whom the late usurper had named as his successor—went over to the young Pretender; and, after holding a secret correspondence with the Dowager Duchess of Burgundy—the sister of Edward the Fourth, who detested the present King and all his race—sailed to Dublin with two thousand German soldiers of her providing. In this promising state of the boy’s fortunes, he was crowned there, with a crown taken off the head of a statue of the Virgin Mary; and was then, according to the Irish custom of those days, carried home on the shoulders of a big chieftain possessing a great deal more strength than sense. Father Simons, you may be sure, was mighty busy at the coronation.

There was a priest at Oxford named Simons, who had a handsome pupil named Lambert Simnel, the son of a baker. Partly to fulfill his own ambitious goals and partly to support a secret group formed against the King, this priest claimed that his pupil was actually the young Earl of Warwick—who everyone knew was safely locked up in the Tower of London. The priest and the boy went to Ireland, where in Dublin, they rallied support from all walks of life. The people seemed generous but were incredibly irrational. The Earl of Kildare, the governor of Ireland, said he believed the boy was who the priest claimed he was; the boy, well-coached by the priest, shared stories from his childhood and gave detailed accounts of the Royal Family, causing the crowds to continually shout, cheer, and drink to his health, demonstrating their belief in him. This excitement wasn't limited to Ireland; the Earl of Lincoln—whom the former usurper had named as his successor—joined the young Pretender. After secretly corresponding with the Dowager Duchess of Burgundy—the sister of Edward the Fourth, who hated the current King and his family—he sailed to Dublin with two thousand German soldiers provided by her. With the boy's fortunes looking promising, he was crowned there with a crown taken from a statue of the Virgin Mary; then, in accordance with the Irish customs of the time, he was carried home on the shoulders of a strong chieftain who had more muscle than sense. Father Simons, you can be sure, was very involved in the coronation.

Ten days afterwards, the Germans, and the Irish, and the priest, and the boy, and the Earl of Lincoln, all landed in Lancashire to invade England. The King, who had good intelligence of their movements, set up his standard at Nottingham, where vast numbers resorted to him every day; while the Earl of Lincoln could gain but very few. With his small force he tried to make for the town of Newark; but the King’s army getting between him and that place, he had no choice but to risk a battle at Stoke. It soon ended in the complete destruction of the Pretender’s forces, one half of whom were killed; among them, the Earl himself. The priest and the baker’s boy were taken prisoners. The priest, after confessing the trick, was shut up in prison, where he afterwards died—suddenly perhaps. The boy was taken into the King’s kitchen and made a turnspit. He was afterwards raised to the station of one of the King’s falconers; and so ended this strange imposition.

Ten days later, the Germans, the Irish, the priest, the boy, and the Earl of Lincoln all landed in Lancashire to invade England. The King, who was well-informed about their movements, raised his standard in Nottingham, where large crowds gathered to support him every day; meanwhile, the Earl of Lincoln could attract only a few followers. With his small army, he attempted to reach the town of Newark, but the King’s forces positioned themselves between him and the town, leaving him no choice but to risk a battle at Stoke. It quickly resulted in the complete defeat of the Pretender’s troops, half of whom were killed, including the Earl himself. The priest and the baker’s boy were captured. The priest, after admitting to the deception, was imprisoned, where he later died—perhaps unexpectedly. The boy was taken into the King’s kitchen and became a turnspit. He was later promoted to one of the King’s falconers; thus, this strange deception came to an end.

There seems reason to suspect that the Dowager Queen—always a restless and busy woman—had had some share in tutoring the baker’s son. The King was very angry with her, whether or no. He seized upon her property, and shut her up in a convent at Bermondsey.

There seems to be a reason to believe that the Dowager Queen—always an active and busy woman—had some involvement in mentoring the baker’s son. The King was quite upset with her, regardless of the situation. He confiscated her property and confined her to a convent in Bermondsey.

One might suppose that the end of this story would have put the Irish people on their guard; but they were quite ready to receive a second impostor, as they had received the first, and that same troublesome Duchess of Burgundy soon gave them the opportunity. All of a sudden there appeared at Cork, in a vessel arriving from Portugal, a young man of excellent abilities, of very handsome appearance and most winning manners, who declared himself to be Richard, Duke of York, the second son of King Edward the Fourth. ‘O,’ said some, even of those ready Irish believers, ‘but surely that young Prince was murdered by his uncle in the Tower!’—‘It is supposed so,’ said the engaging young man; ‘and my brother was killed in that gloomy prison; but I escaped—it don’t matter how, at present—and have been wandering about the world for seven long years.’ This explanation being quite satisfactory to numbers of the Irish people, they began again to shout and to hurrah, and to drink his health, and to make the noisy and thirsty demonstrations all over again. And the big chieftain in Dublin began to look out for another coronation, and another young King to be carried home on his back.

One might think that the conclusion of this story would have made the Irish people cautious, but they were completely ready to accept a second fraud just like they did the first, and that same troublesome Duchess of Burgundy soon gave them the chance. Suddenly, a young man with great abilities, good looks, and charming manners arrived in Cork on a ship from Portugal, claiming to be Richard, Duke of York, the second son of King Edward the Fourth. “Oh,” said some of the gullible Irish, “but wasn’t that young prince murdered by his uncle in the Tower?” “That’s what’s believed,” replied the charming young man, “and my brother was killed in that dark prison; but I escaped—no need to go into details now—and have been wandering the world for seven long years.” This explanation satisfied many of the Irish, prompting them to shout, cheer, and toast to his health, starting the noisy and thirsty celebrations all over again. Meanwhile, the big chieftain in Dublin began looking for another coronation and another young king to carry home on his back.

Now, King Henry being then on bad terms with France, the French King, Charles the Eighth, saw that, by pretending to believe in the handsome young man, he could trouble his enemy sorely. So, he invited him over to the French Court, and appointed him a body-guard, and treated him in all respects as if he really were the Duke of York. Peace, however, being soon concluded between the two Kings, the pretended Duke was turned adrift, and wandered for protection to the Duchess of Burgundy. She, after feigning to inquire into the reality of his claims, declared him to be the very picture of her dear departed brother; gave him a body-guard at her Court, of thirty halberdiers; and called him by the sounding name of the White Rose of England.

Now, King Henry was on bad terms with France, so the French King, Charles the Eighth, realized that by pretending to believe in the handsome young man, he could severely annoy his enemy. So, he invited him to the French Court, provided him with a bodyguard, and treated him as if he really were the Duke of York. However, when peace was soon established between the two kings, the supposed Duke was dismissed and sought protection from the Duchess of Burgundy. She, after pretending to investigate the validity of his claims, declared him to be the exact likeness of her dearly departed brother; gave him a bodyguard of thirty halberdiers at her Court; and called him the impressive name of the White Rose of England.

The leading members of the White Rose party in England sent over an agent, named Sir Robert Clifford, to ascertain whether the White Rose’s claims were good: the King also sent over his agents to inquire into the Rose’s history. The White Roses declared the young man to be really the Duke of York; the King declared him to be Perkin Warbeck, the son of a merchant of the city of Tournay, who had acquired his knowledge of England, its language and manners, from the English merchants who traded in Flanders; it was also stated by the Royal agents that he had been in the service of Lady Brompton, the wife of an exiled English nobleman, and that the Duchess of Burgundy had caused him to be trained and taught, expressly for this deception. The King then required the Archduke Philip—who was the sovereign of Burgundy—to banish this new Pretender, or to deliver him up; but, as the Archduke replied that he could not control the Duchess in her own land, the King, in revenge, took the market of English cloth away from Antwerp, and prevented all commercial intercourse between the two countries.

The main members of the White Rose party in England sent an agent named Sir Robert Clifford to find out if the White Rose’s claims were legit. The King also sent his agents to investigate the Rose’s background. The White Roses claimed the young man was actually the Duke of York; the King insisted he was Perkin Warbeck, the son of a merchant from Tournay, who had learned about England, its language, and customs from English merchants trading in Flanders. The King’s agents noted that he had worked for Lady Brompton, the wife of an exiled English nobleman, and that the Duchess of Burgundy had trained him specifically for this deception. The King then asked Archduke Philip—who ruled Burgundy—to either banish this new Pretender or hand him over. However, when the Archduke responded that he couldn’t control the Duchess in her own territory, the King retaliated by taking the English cloth market away from Antwerp and cutting off all trade between the two countries.

He also, by arts and bribes, prevailed on Sir Robert Clifford to betray his employers; and he denouncing several famous English noblemen as being secretly the friends of Perkin Warbeck, the King had three of the foremost executed at once. Whether he pardoned the remainder because they were poor, I do not know; but it is only too probable that he refused to pardon one famous nobleman against whom the same Clifford soon afterwards informed separately, because he was rich. This was no other than Sir William Stanley, who had saved the King’s life at the battle of Bosworth Field. It is very doubtful whether his treason amounted to much more than his having said, that if he were sure the young man was the Duke of York, he would not take arms against him. Whatever he had done he admitted, like an honourable spirit; and he lost his head for it, and the covetous King gained all his wealth.

He also, through manipulative tactics and bribes, convinced Sir Robert Clifford to betray his employers. Clifford accused several well-known English noblemen of secretly supporting Perkin Warbeck, leading the King to execute three of the most prominent ones at once. Whether he pardoned the others because they were poor, I can't say; however, it's quite likely that he refused to pardon one notable nobleman whom Clifford later informed against separately because he was wealthy. This was none other than Sir William Stanley, who had saved the King’s life at the battle of Bosworth Field. It's very questionable whether his betrayal amounted to much more than saying that if he was sure the young man was the Duke of York, he wouldn’t take up arms against him. Whatever he did, he admitted it like an honorable person; and he lost his head for it, while the greedy King reaped all his wealth.

Perkin Warbeck kept quiet for three years; but, as the Flemings began to complain heavily of the loss of their trade by the stoppage of the Antwerp market on his account, and as it was not unlikely that they might even go so far as to take his life, or give him up, he found it necessary to do something. Accordingly he made a desperate sally, and landed, with only a few hundred men, on the coast of Deal. But he was soon glad to get back to the place from whence he came; for the country people rose against his followers, killed a great many, and took a hundred and fifty prisoners: who were all driven to London, tied together with ropes, like a team of cattle. Every one of them was hanged on some part or other of the sea-shore; in order, that if any more men should come over with Perkin Warbeck, they might see the bodies as a warning before they landed.

Perkin Warbeck kept silent for three years. However, as the Flemish traders grew increasingly upset about losing their business because the Antwerp market was closed due to him, and since it was possible they might even try to kill him or hand him over, he realized he had to take action. So, he made a desperate move and landed with just a few hundred men on the coast of Deal. But he quickly wished he hadn't, as the locals rose up against his followers, killed many of them, and captured a hundred and fifty. These prisoners were all marched to London, tied together with ropes like cattle. Every single one of them was hanged at various spots along the shoreline, so that if any more men arrived with Perkin Warbeck, they would see the bodies as a warning before they landed.

Then the wary King, by making a treaty of commerce with the Flemings, drove Perkin Warbeck out of that country; and, by completely gaining over the Irish to his side, deprived him of that asylum too. He wandered away to Scotland, and told his story at that Court. King James the Fourth of Scotland, who was no friend to King Henry, and had no reason to be (for King Henry had bribed his Scotch lords to betray him more than once; but had never succeeded in his plots), gave him a great reception, called him his cousin, and gave him in marriage the Lady Catherine Gordon, a beautiful and charming creature related to the royal house of Stuart.

Then the cautious King signed a trade treaty with the Flemings, which pushed Perkin Warbeck out of that region; and by fully winning over the Irish, he lost that refuge as well. He wandered off to Scotland and shared his story at the royal court. King James the Fourth of Scotland, who was not an ally of King Henry and had good reason not to be (since King Henry had bribed his Scottish lords to betray him multiple times, but had never succeeded in his schemes), gave him a warm welcome, called him his cousin, and arranged his marriage to Lady Catherine Gordon, a beautiful and charming woman related to the royal house of Stuart.

Alarmed by this successful reappearance of the Pretender, the King still undermined, and bought, and bribed, and kept his doings and Perkin Warbeck’s story in the dark, when he might, one would imagine, have rendered the matter clear to all England. But, for all this bribing of the Scotch lords at the Scotch King’s Court, he could not procure the Pretender to be delivered up to him. James, though not very particular in many respects, would not betray him; and the ever-busy Duchess of Burgundy so provided him with arms, and good soldiers, and with money besides, that he had soon a little army of fifteen hundred men of various nations. With these, and aided by the Scottish King in person, he crossed the border into England, and made a proclamation to the people, in which he called the King ‘Henry Tudor;’ offered large rewards to any who should take or distress him; and announced himself as King Richard the Fourth come to receive the homage of his faithful subjects. His faithful subjects, however, cared nothing for him, and hated his faithful troops: who, being of different nations, quarrelled also among themselves. Worse than this, if worse were possible, they began to plunder the country; upon which the White Rose said, that he would rather lose his rights, than gain them through the miseries of the English people. The Scottish King made a jest of his scruples; but they and their whole force went back again without fighting a battle.

Alarmed by the Pretender's successful return, the King still undermined, bought off, bribed, and kept his actions and Perkin Warbeck's story hidden, when one would think he could have made everything clear to all of England. However, despite all the bribing of the Scottish lords at the Scottish King’s Court, he couldn’t get the Pretender delivered to him. James, even though he wasn't very particular about many things, wouldn't betray him; and the ever-active Duchess of Burgundy supplied him with arms, good soldiers, and money, so he quickly gathered a little army of fifteen hundred men from various nations. With these forces, and with the Scottish King’s personal support, he crossed into England and made a proclamation to the people, where he referred to the King as ‘Henry Tudor,’ offered large rewards for anyone who captured or harmed him, and declared himself King Richard the Fourth, come to claim the loyalty of his faithful subjects. However, his so-called loyal subjects didn’t care about him and despised his loyal troops, who, being from different nations, also argued among themselves. To make matters worse, they began to plunder the countryside; upon which the White Rose declared that he would rather give up his rights than obtain them through the suffering of the English people. The Scottish King laughed off his concerns, but they all retreated without fighting a single battle.

The worst consequence of this attempt was, that a rising took place among the people of Cornwall, who considered themselves too heavily taxed to meet the charges of the expected war. Stimulated by Flammock, a lawyer, and Joseph, a blacksmith, and joined by Lord Audley and some other country gentlemen, they marched on all the way to Deptford Bridge, where they fought a battle with the King’s army. They were defeated—though the Cornish men fought with great bravery—and the lord was beheaded, and the lawyer and the blacksmith were hanged, drawn, and quartered. The rest were pardoned. The King, who believed every man to be as avaricious as himself, and thought that money could settle anything, allowed them to make bargains for their liberty with the soldiers who had taken them.

The worst result of this attempt was that a rebellion broke out among the people of Cornwall, who felt they were being taxed too heavily to cover the costs of the upcoming war. Encouraged by Flammock, a lawyer, and Joseph, a blacksmith, and joined by Lord Audley and some other local gentlemen, they marched all the way to Deptford Bridge, where they clashed with the King’s army. They were defeated—though the Cornish men fought bravely—and the lord was beheaded, while the lawyer and the blacksmith were hanged, drawn, and quartered. The others were pardoned. The King, who believed that everyone was as greedy as he was and thought that money could solve anything, allowed them to negotiate for their freedom with the soldiers who had captured them.

Perkin Warbeck, doomed to wander up and down, and never to find rest anywhere—a sad fate: almost a sufficient punishment for an imposture, which he seems in time to have half believed himself—lost his Scottish refuge through a truce being made between the two Kings; and found himself, once more, without a country before him in which he could lay his head. But James (always honourable and true to him, alike when he melted down his plate, and even the great gold chain he had been used to wear, to pay soldiers in his cause; and now, when that cause was lost and hopeless) did not conclude the treaty, until he had safely departed out of the Scottish dominions. He, and his beautiful wife, who was faithful to him under all reverses, and left her state and home to follow his poor fortunes, were put aboard ship with everything necessary for their comfort and protection, and sailed for Ireland.

Perkin Warbeck, forced to wander endlessly and never able to find peace anywhere—a tragic fate: almost a fitting punishment for a deception that he seemed to partially believe in himself—lost his refuge in Scotland due to a truce between the two Kings and found himself once again without a place to call home. But James, always honorable and true to him, whether he was melting down his silverware or even the large gold chain he used to wear to pay soldiers for his cause, did not finalize the treaty until Warbeck had safely left Scottish territory. He, along with his beautiful wife, who stood by him through all their hardships and gave up her status and home to follow his uncertain journey, were put on a ship with everything they needed for comfort and protection, and sailed for Ireland.

But, the Irish people had had enough of counterfeit Earls of Warwick and Dukes of York, for one while; and would give the White Rose no aid. So, the White Rose—encircled by thorns indeed—resolved to go with his beautiful wife to Cornwall as a forlorn resource, and see what might be made of the Cornish men, who had risen so valiantly a little while before, and who had fought so bravely at Deptford Bridge.

But the Irish people were fed up with fake Earls of Warwick and Dukes of York for the time being, and weren't going to support the White Rose. So, the White Rose—surrounded by thorns for sure—decided to take his beautiful wife to Cornwall as a last resort and see what could be made of the Cornish men, who had bravely risen up not long ago and fought fiercely at Deptford Bridge.

To Whitsand Bay, in Cornwall, accordingly, came Perkin Warbeck and his wife; and the lovely lady he shut up for safety in the Castle of St. Michael’s Mount, and then marched into Devonshire at the head of three thousand Cornishmen. These were increased to six thousand by the time of his arrival in Exeter; but, there the people made a stout resistance, and he went on to Taunton, where he came in sight of the King’s army. The stout Cornish men, although they were few in number, and badly armed, were so bold, that they never thought of retreating; but bravely looked forward to a battle on the morrow. Unhappily for them, the man who was possessed of so many engaging qualities, and who attracted so many people to his side when he had nothing else with which to tempt them, was not as brave as they. In the night, when the two armies lay opposite to each other, he mounted a swift horse and fled. When morning dawned, the poor confiding Cornish men, discovering that they had no leader, surrendered to the King’s power. Some of them were hanged, and the rest were pardoned and went miserably home.

To Whitsand Bay in Cornwall came Perkin Warbeck and his wife. He safely locked away the beautiful lady in the Castle of St. Michael’s Mount and then marched into Devonshire, leading three thousand Cornishmen. By the time he reached Exeter, that number had grown to six thousand, but the people there put up a strong resistance. So he continued on to Taunton, where he spotted the King’s army. The brave Cornishmen, despite being few and poorly armed, were so bold that they didn’t even consider retreating; they confidently looked forward to a battle the next day. Unfortunately for them, the man who had so many appealing qualities and attracted so many followers without offering them anything else was not as courageous as they were. That night, while the two armies faced off, he mounted a fast horse and fled. When morning came, the trusting Cornishmen realized they had no leader and surrendered to the King’s forces. Some were hanged, while the others were pardoned and returned home in despair.

Before the King pursued Perkin Warbeck to the sanctuary of Beaulieu in the New Forest, where it was soon known that he had taken refuge, he sent a body of horsemen to St. Michael’s Mount, to seize his wife. She was soon taken and brought as a captive before the King. But she was so beautiful, and so good, and so devoted to the man in whom she believed, that the King regarded her with compassion, treated her with great respect, and placed her at Court, near the Queen’s person. And many years after Perkin Warbeck was no more, and when his strange story had become like a nursery tale, she was called the White Rose, by the people, in remembrance of her beauty.

Before the King went after Perkin Warbeck to the sanctuary of Beaulieu in the New Forest, where it quickly became known that he had taken refuge, he dispatched a group of horsemen to St. Michael’s Mount to capture his wife. She was soon seized and brought before the King as a captive. But she was incredibly beautiful, kind, and devoted to the man she believed in, so the King felt compassion for her, treated her with great respect, and placed her at Court, close to the Queen. Many years later, after Perkin Warbeck was gone, and when his strange story had turned into a fairy tale, she was known as the White Rose by the people, in memory of her beauty.

The sanctuary at Beaulieu was soon surrounded by the King’s men; and the King, pursuing his usual dark, artful ways, sent pretended friends to Perkin Warbeck to persuade him to come out and surrender himself. This he soon did; the King having taken a good look at the man of whom he had heard so much—from behind a screen—directed him to be well mounted, and to ride behind him at a little distance, guarded, but not bound in any way. So they entered London with the King’s favourite show—a procession; and some of the people hooted as the Pretender rode slowly through the streets to the Tower; but the greater part were quiet, and very curious to see him. From the Tower, he was taken to the Palace at Westminster, and there lodged like a gentleman, though closely watched. He was examined every now and then as to his imposture; but the King was so secret in all he did, that even then he gave it a consequence, which it cannot be supposed to have in itself deserved.

The sanctuary at Beaulieu was quickly surrounded by the King’s men, and the King, sticking to his usual dark and cunning ways, sent fake friends to Perkin Warbeck to convince him to come out and surrender. He soon did; after the King had taken a good look at the man he had heard so much about—hidden behind a screen—he ordered that he be well mounted and ride behind him at a distance, guarded but not restrained. They rode into London in the King’s favorite style—a procession; some of the crowd jeered as the Pretender made his slow way through the streets toward the Tower, but most people were quiet and very curious to see him. From the Tower, he was taken to the Palace at Westminster and housed like a gentleman, although he was closely monitored. He was questioned from time to time about his claim, but the King was so secretive in all his actions that even then he gave it a significance that couldn't be assumed to be warranted.

At last Perkin Warbeck ran away, and took refuge in another sanctuary near Richmond in Surrey. From this he was again persuaded to deliver himself up; and, being conveyed to London, he stood in the stocks for a whole day, outside Westminster Hall, and there read a paper purporting to be his full confession, and relating his history as the King’s agents had originally described it. He was then shut up in the Tower again, in the company of the Earl of Warwick, who had now been there for fourteen years: ever since his removal out of Yorkshire, except when the King had had him at Court, and had shown him to the people, to prove the imposture of the Baker’s boy. It is but too probable, when we consider the crafty character of Henry the Seventh, that these two were brought together for a cruel purpose. A plot was soon discovered between them and the keepers, to murder the Governor, get possession of the keys, and proclaim Perkin Warbeck as King Richard the Fourth. That there was some such plot, is likely; that they were tempted into it, is at least as likely; that the unfortunate Earl of Warwick—last male of the Plantagenet line—was too unused to the world, and too ignorant and simple to know much about it, whatever it was, is perfectly certain; and that it was the King’s interest to get rid of him, is no less so. He was beheaded on Tower Hill, and Perkin Warbeck was hanged at Tyburn.

At last, Perkin Warbeck escaped and sought refuge in another sanctuary near Richmond in Surrey. He was persuaded to turn himself in again, and after being taken to London, he spent an entire day in the stocks outside Westminster Hall. There, he read a paper claiming to be his full confession, recounting his story as the King’s agents had originally portrayed it. He was then locked up in the Tower once more, alongside the Earl of Warwick, who had been there for fourteen years, ever since he was taken from Yorkshire, except for the occasions when the King had brought him to Court and shown him to the public to disprove the Baker’s boy's claims. Given Henry the Seventh's cunning nature, it’s highly likely that these two were brought together for a sinister reason. A plot was soon uncovered involving them and the guards, to murder the Governor, seize the keys, and declare Perkin Warbeck as King Richard the Fourth. While it’s probable that such a plot existed, it’s also likely they were lured into it. The unfortunate Earl of Warwick—the last male of the Plantagenet line—was too sheltered and naive to understand much about the world, whatever it may have been. It’s also quite certain that it was in the King’s interest to eliminate him. He was beheaded on Tower Hill, and Perkin Warbeck was hanged at Tyburn.

Such was the end of the pretended Duke of York, whose shadowy history was made more shadowy—and ever will be—by the mystery and craft of the King. If he had turned his great natural advantages to a more honest account, he might have lived a happy and respected life, even in those days. But he died upon a gallows at Tyburn, leaving the Scottish lady, who had loved him so well, kindly protected at the Queen’s Court. After some time she forgot her old loves and troubles, as many people do with Time’s merciful assistance, and married a Welsh gentleman. Her second husband, Sir Matthew Cradoc, more honest and more happy than her first, lies beside her in a tomb in the old church of Swansea.

Such was the end of the fake Duke of York, whose mysterious background only became more obscure—and always will be—due to the King's intrigue and deception. If he had used his natural advantages more wisely, he could have had a happy and respected life, even back then. But he ended up hanging at Tyburn, leaving the Scottish woman who loved him dearly to be taken care of at the Queen’s Court. After a while, she moved on from her past loves and struggles, as many do with Time’s gentle help, and married a Welsh gentleman. Her second husband, Sir Matthew Cradoc, more honorable and happier than her first, rests beside her in a tomb in the old church of Swansea.

The ill-blood between France and England in this reign, arose out of the continued plotting of the Duchess of Burgundy, and disputes respecting the affairs of Brittany. The King feigned to be very patriotic, indignant, and warlike; but he always contrived so as never to make war in reality, and always to make money. His taxation of the people, on pretence of war with France, involved, at one time, a very dangerous insurrection, headed by Sir John Egremont, and a common man called John à Chambre. But it was subdued by the royal forces, under the command of the Earl of Surrey. The knighted John escaped to the Duchess of Burgundy, who was ever ready to receive any one who gave the King trouble; and the plain John was hanged at York, in the midst of a number of his men, but on a much higher gibbet, as being a greater traitor. Hung high or hung low, however, hanging is much the same to the person hung.

The tension between France and England during this reign stemmed from the ongoing scheming of the Duchess of Burgundy and disputes over Brittany's situation. The King pretended to be very patriotic, outraged, and eager for war; yet he always found a way to avoid actual conflict while making money. His taxation of the people, under the guise of a war with France, led to a serious uprising at one point, led by Sir John Egremont and a common man named John à Chambre. However, it was quelled by the royal forces, commanded by the Earl of Surrey. Knighted John fled to the Duchess of Burgundy, who was always ready to assist anyone causing trouble for the King; while plain John was hanged at York, alongside several of his men, but on a much higher gallows, for being a greater traitor. Whether hung high or low, though, hanging is pretty much the same for the person being executed.

Within a year after her marriage, the Queen had given birth to a son, who was called Prince Arthur, in remembrance of the old British prince of romance and story; and who, when all these events had happened, being then in his fifteenth year, was married to Catherine, the daughter of the Spanish monarch, with great rejoicings and bright prospects; but in a very few months he sickened and died. As soon as the King had recovered from his grief, he thought it a pity that the fortune of the Spanish Princess, amounting to two hundred thousand crowns, should go out of the family; and therefore arranged that the young widow should marry his second son Henry, then twelve years of age, when he too should be fifteen. There were objections to this marriage on the part of the clergy; but, as the infallible Pope was gained over, and, as he must be right, that settled the business for the time. The King’s eldest daughter was provided for, and a long course of disturbance was considered to be set at rest, by her being married to the Scottish King.

Within a year of her marriage, the Queen had given birth to a son named Prince Arthur, honoring the legendary British prince from stories. When all these events took place, he was just fifteen and married Catherine, the daughter of the Spanish monarch, amidst joyful celebrations and bright prospects. Unfortunately, just a few months later, he fell ill and died. Once the King had gotten over his grief, he thought it was a shame for the Spanish Princess's fortune of two hundred thousand crowns to leave the family. So, he arranged for the young widow to marry his second son Henry, who was twelve at the time, when he turned fifteen as well. The clergy opposed this marriage, but since the infallible Pope was on board, and since he *must* be right, that settled the matter for now. The King’s eldest daughter was taken care of by marrying the King of Scotland, which was believed to resolve a long series of disturbances.

And now the Queen died. When the King had got over that grief too, his mind once more reverted to his darling money for consolation, and he thought of marrying the Dowager Queen of Naples, who was immensely rich: but, as it turned out not to be practicable to gain the money however practicable it might have been to gain the lady, he gave up the idea. He was not so fond of her but that he soon proposed to marry the Dowager Duchess of Savoy; and, soon afterwards, the widow of the King of Castile, who was raving mad. But he made a money-bargain instead, and married neither.

And now the Queen died. When the King got over that grief too, he turned his focus back to his beloved money for comfort, and he considered marrying the Dowager Queen of Naples, who was extremely wealthy. However, since it wasn't practical to get the money, even if it might have been possible to win the lady, he dropped the idea. He didn’t like her enough not to quickly propose to marry the Dowager Duchess of Savoy; and shortly after that, he thought about the widow of the King of Castile, who was mentally unstable. But instead, he made a financial deal and didn’t marry either of them.

The Duchess of Burgundy, among the other discontented people to whom she had given refuge, had sheltered Edmund de la Pole (younger brother of that Earl of Lincoln who was killed at Stoke), now Earl of Suffolk. The King had prevailed upon him to return to the marriage of Prince Arthur; but, he soon afterwards went away again; and then the King, suspecting a conspiracy, resorted to his favourite plan of sending him some treacherous friends, and buying of those scoundrels the secrets they disclosed or invented. Some arrests and executions took place in consequence. In the end, the King, on a promise of not taking his life, obtained possession of the person of Edmund de la Pole, and shut him up in the Tower.

The Duchess of Burgundy, along with other unhappy individuals she had taken in, had provided shelter to Edmund de la Pole (the younger brother of the Earl of Lincoln who was killed at Stoke), now known as the Earl of Suffolk. The King had convinced him to return for the marriage of Prince Arthur; however, he soon left again. The King, suspecting a conspiracy, resorted to his usual tactic of sending in some deceitful associates to extract secrets from them, whether real or fabricated. This led to several arrests and executions. In the end, the King secured a promise not to execute him and took Edmund de la Pole into custody, confining him in the Tower.

This was his last enemy. If he had lived much longer he would have made many more among the people, by the grinding exaction to which he constantly exposed them, and by the tyrannical acts of his two prime favourites in all money-raising matters, Edmund Dudley and Richard Empson. But Death—the enemy who is not to be bought off or deceived, and on whom no money, and no treachery has any effect—presented himself at this juncture, and ended the King’s reign. He died of the gout, on the twenty-second of April, one thousand five hundred and nine, and in the fifty-third year of his age, after reigning twenty-four years; he was buried in the beautiful Chapel of Westminster Abbey, which he had himself founded, and which still bears his name.

This was his final enemy. If he had lived much longer, he would have created many more among the people due to the relentless demands he placed on them and the oppressive actions of his two main favorites in all money-related matters, Edmund Dudley and Richard Empson. But Death—the enemy that can’t be bribed or tricked, and against whom no amount of money or betrayal has any impact—showed up at this moment and brought an end to the King’s reign. He died of gout on April 22, 1509, at the age of fifty-three, after ruling for twenty-four years; he was buried in the beautiful Chapel of Westminster Abbey, which he had founded and that still bears his name.

It was in this reign that the great Christopher Columbus, on behalf of Spain, discovered what was then called The New World. Great wonder, interest, and hope of wealth being awakened in England thereby, the King and the merchants of London and Bristol fitted out an English expedition for further discoveries in the New World, and entrusted it to Sebastian Cabot, of Bristol, the son of a Venetian pilot there. He was very successful in his voyage, and gained high reputation, both for himself and England.

It was during this time that the great Chris Columbus, representing Spain, discovered what was known as The New World. This sparked great wonder, interest, and hopes of wealth in England, prompting the King and the merchants of London and Bristol to organize an English expedition for further exploration of the New World, entrusting it to Sebastian Cabot, from Bristol, who was the son of a Venetian pilot. He had a successful voyage and gained a strong reputation for both himself and England.

CHAPTER XXVII—ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE EIGHTH, CALLED BLUFF KING HAL AND BURLY KING HARRY

PART THE FIRST

We now come to King Henry the Eighth, whom it has been too much the fashion to call ‘Bluff King Hal,’ and ‘Burly King Harry,’ and other fine names; but whom I shall take the liberty to call, plainly, one of the most detestable villains that ever drew breath. You will be able to judge, long before we come to the end of his life, whether he deserves the character.

We now come to King Henry the Eighth, who has often been called ‘Bluff King Hal,’ ‘Burly King Harry,’ and other flattering names; but I’ll take the liberty to call him, simply, one of the most despicable villains to ever live. You’ll be able to judge, long before we reach the end of his life, whether he deserves that description.

He was just eighteen years of age when he came to the throne. People said he was handsome then; but I don’t believe it. He was a big, burly, noisy, small-eyed, large-faced, double-chinned, swinish-looking fellow in later life (as we know from the likenesses of him, painted by the famous Hans Holbein), and it is not easy to believe that so bad a character can ever have been veiled under a prepossessing appearance.

He was only eighteen when he became king. People said he was handsome back then, but I don't think so. He grew up to be a big, loud, bulky guy with small eyes, a large face, a double chin, and a pig-like appearance (as we can see in the portraits by the famous Hans Holbein), and it’s hard to believe that someone with such a terrible character could have ever looked appealing.

He was anxious to make himself popular; and the people, who had long disliked the late King, were very willing to believe that he deserved to be so. He was extremely fond of show and display, and so were they. Therefore there was great rejoicing when he married the Princess Catherine, and when they were both crowned. And the King fought at tournaments and always came off victorious—for the courtiers took care of that—and there was a general outcry that he was a wonderful man. Empson, Dudley, and their supporters were accused of a variety of crimes they had never committed, instead of the offences of which they really had been guilty; and they were pilloried, and set upon horses with their faces to the tails, and knocked about and beheaded, to the satisfaction of the people, and the enrichment of the King.

He was eager to gain popularity, and the people, who had long disliked the previous King, were more than willing to believe he deserved it. He loved showing off, and so did they. So, there was a big celebration when he married Princess Catherine and when they were both crowned. The King participated in tournaments and always came out on top—thanks to the courtiers managing that—and there was widespread acclaim that he was a remarkable man. Empson, Dudley, and their supporters were accused of various crimes they hadn’t actually committed, instead of the real offenses they were guilty of; they were humiliated, paraded on horses facing backwards, mistreated, and executed, much to the people’s satisfaction and the King’s profit.

The Pope, so indefatigable in getting the world into trouble, had mixed himself up in a war on the continent of Europe, occasioned by the reigning Princes of little quarrelling states in Italy having at various times married into other Royal families, and so led to their claiming a share in those petty Governments. The King, who discovered that he was very fond of the Pope, sent a herald to the King of France, to say that he must not make war upon that holy personage, because he was the father of all Christians. As the French King did not mind this relationship in the least, and also refused to admit a claim King Henry made to certain lands in France, war was declared between the two countries. Not to perplex this story with an account of the tricks and designs of all the sovereigns who were engaged in it, it is enough to say that England made a blundering alliance with Spain, and got stupidly taken in by that country; which made its own terms with France when it could and left England in the lurch. Sir Edward Howard, a bold admiral, son of the Earl of Surrey, distinguished himself by his bravery against the French in this business; but, unfortunately, he was more brave than wise, for, skimming into the French harbour of Brest with only a few row-boats, he attempted (in revenge for the defeat and death of Sir Thomas Knyvett, another bold English admiral) to take some strong French ships, well defended with batteries of cannon. The upshot was, that he was left on board of one of them (in consequence of its shooting away from his own boat), with not more than about a dozen men, and was thrown into the sea and drowned: though not until he had taken from his breast his gold chain and gold whistle, which were the signs of his office, and had cast them into the sea to prevent their being made a boast of by the enemy. After this defeat—which was a great one, for Sir Edward Howard was a man of valour and fame—the King took it into his head to invade France in person; first executing that dangerous Earl of Suffolk whom his father had left in the Tower, and appointing Queen Catherine to the charge of his kingdom in his absence. He sailed to Calais, where he was joined by Maximilian, Emperor of Germany, who pretended to be his soldier, and who took pay in his service: with a good deal of nonsense of that sort, flattering enough to the vanity of a vain blusterer. The King might be successful enough in sham fights; but his idea of real battles chiefly consisted in pitching silken tents of bright colours that were ignominiously blown down by the wind, and in making a vast display of gaudy flags and golden curtains. Fortune, however, favoured him better than he deserved; for, after much waste of time in tent pitching, flag flying, gold curtaining, and other such masquerading, he gave the French battle at a place called Guinegate: where they took such an unaccountable panic, and fled with such swiftness, that it was ever afterwards called by the English the Battle of Spurs. Instead of following up his advantage, the King, finding that he had had enough of real fighting, came home again.

The Pope, tirelessly causing trouble around the world, got involved in a war in Europe, sparked by the reigning Princes of small feuding states in Italy who had married into other royal families at various times, which led to their claims on those small governments. The King, who realized he was quite fond of the Pope, sent a herald to the King of France to say that he shouldn't go to war against that holy figure because he was the father of all Christians. Since the French King wasn’t bothered by this relationship at all and also rejected a claim made by King Henry to certain lands in France, war was declared between the two countries. To avoid complicating the story with the tricks and schemes of all the monarchs involved, it’s enough to say that England entered a foolish alliance with Spain and was naively deceived by that country, which made its own agreements with France when it could and left England high and dry. Sir Edward Howard, a daring admiral and son of the Earl of Surrey, distinguished himself through his courage against the French in this conflict; however, he was unfortunately more brave than wise. He sailed into the French harbor of Brest with only a few rowboats and attempted (in revenge for the defeat and death of Sir Thomas Knyvett, another brave English admiral) to capture some heavily defended French ships equipped with cannons. In the end, he was left aboard one of those ships (after it drifted away from his own boat) with only about a dozen men and ended up drowning; but not before he removed his gold chain and gold whistle—symbols of his rank—and threw them into the sea to prevent the enemy from bragging about them. After this significant defeat—since Sir Edward Howard was a man of courage and repute—the King decided to personally invade France, first executing the dangerous Earl of Suffolk, who had been left in the Tower by his father, and appointing Queen Catherine to rule over his kingdom during his absence. He sailed to Calais, where he was joined by Maximilian, the Emperor of Germany, who pretended to be a soldier in his service and was paid for it—flattery that appealed to the ego of a pompous braggart. The King may have had some limited success in mock battles, but his idea of real combat mostly involved pitching colorful silk tents that were humiliatingly blown down by the wind and putting on a grand display of flashy flags and golden curtains. However, fortune favored him more than he deserved; after wasting a lot of time on tent pitching, flag flying, gold curtaining, and other such theatrics, he finally engaged the French in battle at a place called Guinegate, where they inexplicably panicked and fled so quickly that it was thereafter referred to by the English as the Battle of Spurs. Instead of capitalizing on his advantage, the King, realizing that he had had enough of real fighting, returned home.

The Scottish King, though nearly related to Henry by marriage, had taken part against him in this war. The Earl of Surrey, as the English general, advanced to meet him when he came out of his own dominions and crossed the river Tweed. The two armies came up with one another when the Scottish King had also crossed the river Till, and was encamped upon the last of the Cheviot Hills, called the Hill of Flodden. Along the plain below it, the English, when the hour of battle came, advanced. The Scottish army, which had been drawn up in five great bodies, then came steadily down in perfect silence. So they, in their turn, advanced to meet the English army, which came on in one long line; and they attacked it with a body of spearmen, under Lord Home. At first they had the best of it; but the English recovered themselves so bravely, and fought with such valour, that, when the Scottish King had almost made his way up to the Royal Standard, he was slain, and the whole Scottish power routed. Ten thousand Scottish men lay dead that day on Flodden Field; and among them, numbers of the nobility and gentry. For a long time afterwards, the Scottish peasantry used to believe that their King had not been really killed in this battle, because no Englishman had found an iron belt he wore about his body as a penance for having been an unnatural and undutiful son. But, whatever became of his belt, the English had his sword and dagger, and the ring from his finger, and his body too, covered with wounds. There is no doubt of it; for it was seen and recognised by English gentlemen who had known the Scottish King well.

The Scottish King, although closely related to Henry by marriage, had sided against him in this war. The Earl of Surrey, as the English general, moved to confront him as he came out of his own lands and crossed the river Tweed. The two armies met when the Scottish King had also crossed the river Till and was camped on the last of the Cheviot Hills, known as the Hill of Flodden. When the time for battle arrived, the English advanced along the plain below. The Scottish army, arranged in five large groups, then came down steadily in complete silence. They, in turn, moved to meet the English army, which approached in one long line, and they attacked with a group of spearmen led by Lord Home. Initially, they had the upper hand; however, the English regrouped with remarkable courage and fought so valiantly that, just as the Scottish King almost reached the Royal Standard, he was killed, and the entire Scottish force was defeated. Ten thousand Scottish men lay dead that day on Flodden Field, including many from the nobility and gentry. For a long time after, the Scottish peasantry believed their King had not actually been killed in this battle because no Englishman had found the iron belt he wore as penance for being an unnatural and undutiful son. But regardless of what happened to his belt, the English had his sword and dagger, the ring from his finger, and his body, which was covered in wounds. There’s no doubt about it; it was seen and recognized by English gentlemen who had known the Scottish King well.

When King Henry was making ready to renew the war in France, the French King was contemplating peace. His queen, dying at this time, he proposed, though he was upwards of fifty years old, to marry King Henry’s sister, the Princess Mary, who, besides being only sixteen, was betrothed to the Duke of Suffolk. As the inclinations of young Princesses were not much considered in such matters, the marriage was concluded, and the poor girl was escorted to France, where she was immediately left as the French King’s bride, with only one of all her English attendants. That one was a pretty young girl named Anne Boleyn, niece of the Earl of Surrey, who had been made Duke of Norfolk, after the victory of Flodden Field. Anne Boleyn’s is a name to be remembered, as you will presently find.

When King Henry was getting ready to start the war in France again, the French King was thinking about peace. His queen was dying at the time, and he suggested, even though he was over fifty, that he marry King Henry’s sister, Princess Mary, who was only sixteen and already engaged to the Duke of Suffolk. Since the feelings of young princesses weren't a big deal in these situations, the marriage went ahead, and the poor girl was taken to France, where she was immediately left as the French King’s bride, with just one of her English attendants. That attendant was a pretty young girl named Anne Boleyn, the niece of the Earl of Surrey, who had been made Duke of Norfolk after the victory at Flodden Field. Anne Boleyn is a name you will want to remember, as you will soon see.

And now the French King, who was very proud of his young wife, was preparing for many years of happiness, and she was looking forward, I dare say, to many years of misery, when he died within three months, and left her a young widow. The new French monarch, Francis the First, seeing how important it was to his interests that she should take for her second husband no one but an Englishman, advised her first lover, the Duke of Suffolk, when King Henry sent him over to France to fetch her home, to marry her. The Princess being herself so fond of that Duke, as to tell him that he must either do so then, or for ever lose her, they were wedded; and Henry afterwards forgave them. In making interest with the King, the Duke of Suffolk had addressed his most powerful favourite and adviser, Thomas Wolsey—a name very famous in history for its rise and downfall.

And now the French King, who was very proud of his young wife, was getting ready for many years of happiness, while she, I dare say, was looking forward to years of misery, when he died just three months later, leaving her a young widow. The new French king, Francis I, recognizing how important it was for his interests that she marry an Englishman for her second husband, suggested to her first lover, the Duke of Suffolk, when King Henry sent him to France to bring her home, that he should marry her. The Princess, being very fond of that Duke, told him he had to either do it then or lose her forever, so they got married; and Henry later forgave them. In trying to gain favor with the King, the Duke of Suffolk had approached his most powerful favorite and adviser, Thomas Wolsey—a name well-known in history for its rise and fall.

Wolsey was the son of a respectable butcher at Ipswich, in Suffolk and received so excellent an education that he became a tutor to the family of the Marquis of Dorset, who afterwards got him appointed one of the late King’s chaplains. On the accession of Henry the Eighth, he was promoted and taken into great favour. He was now Archbishop of York; the Pope had made him a Cardinal besides; and whoever wanted influence in England or favour with the King—whether he were a foreign monarch or an English nobleman—was obliged to make a friend of the great Cardinal Wolsey.

Wolsey was the son of a respected butcher in Ipswich, Suffolk, and he received such a great education that he became a tutor for the family of the Marquis of Dorset, who later helped him get appointed as one of the late King’s chaplains. When Henry the Eighth came to the throne, he quickly rose in status and gained the King's favor. He was now the Archbishop of York; the Pope had also made him a Cardinal. Anyone who wanted influence in England or wanted to win favor with the King—whether they were a foreign ruler or an English noble—had to befriend the powerful Cardinal Wolsey.

He was a gay man, who could dance and jest, and sing and drink; and those were the roads to so much, or rather so little, of a heart as King Henry had. He was wonderfully fond of pomp and glitter, and so was the King. He knew a good deal of the Church learning of that time; much of which consisted in finding artful excuses and pretences for almost any wrong thing, and in arguing that black was white, or any other colour. This kind of learning pleased the King too. For many such reasons, the Cardinal was high in estimation with the King; and, being a man of far greater ability, knew as well how to manage him, as a clever keeper may know how to manage a wolf or a tiger, or any other cruel and uncertain beast, that may turn upon him and tear him any day. Never had there been seen in England such state as my Lord Cardinal kept. His wealth was enormous; equal, it was reckoned, to the riches of the Crown. His palaces were as splendid as the King’s, and his retinue was eight hundred strong. He held his Court, dressed out from top to toe in flaming scarlet; and his very shoes were golden, set with precious stones. His followers rode on blood horses; while he, with a wonderful affectation of humility in the midst of his great splendour, ambled on a mule with a red velvet saddle and bridle and golden stirrups.

He was a gay man who could dance, joke, sing, and drink; and those were the ways to what little of a heart King Henry had. He loved pomp and extravagance, and so did the King. He was quite knowledgeable about the Church's teachings of that time, much of which involved finding clever justifications for almost any wrongdoing, and claiming that black was white, or any other color. This type of knowledge pleased the King as well. For many such reasons, the Cardinal was highly regarded by the King; and being a man of much greater ability, he knew how to handle him, much like a skilled keeper knows how to manage a wolf or a tiger, or any other dangerous and unpredictable beast that could turn on him at any moment. Never before had there been such grandeur in England as the one my Lord Cardinal maintained. His wealth was enormous; it was said to be equal to that of the Crown. His palaces were as magnificent as the King's, and his entourage consisted of eight hundred people. He held his Court, dressed from head to toe in bright scarlet; even his shoes were made of gold, adorned with precious stones. His followers rode magnificent horses, while he, in a remarkable display of humility amid his great opulence, rode a mule with a red velvet saddle and bridle and golden stirrups.

Through the influence of this stately priest, a grand meeting was arranged to take place between the French and English Kings in France; but on ground belonging to England. A prodigious show of friendship and rejoicing was to be made on the occasion; and heralds were sent to proclaim with brazen trumpets through all the principal cities of Europe, that, on a certain day, the Kings of France and England, as companions and brothers in arms, each attended by eighteen followers, would hold a tournament against all knights who might choose to come.

Because of this noble priest's influence, a major meeting was set up to take place between the French and English Kings in France, but on land that belonged to England. A spectacular display of friendship and celebration was planned for the event, and heralds were dispatched to announce with loud trumpets across all the major cities of Europe that, on a specific day, the Kings of France and England, as comrades and brothers-in-arms, each with eighteen supporters, would host a tournament open to all knights who wished to participate.

Charles, the new Emperor of Germany (the old one being dead), wanted to prevent too cordial an alliance between these sovereigns, and came over to England before the King could repair to the place of meeting; and, besides making an agreeable impression upon him, secured Wolsey’s interest by promising that his influence should make him Pope when the next vacancy occurred. On the day when the Emperor left England, the King and all the Court went over to Calais, and thence to the place of meeting, between Ardres and Guisnes, commonly called the Field of the Cloth of Gold. Here, all manner of expense and prodigality was lavished on the decorations of the show; many of the knights and gentlemen being so superbly dressed that it was said they carried their whole estates upon their shoulders.

Charles, the new Emperor of Germany (the previous one had died), wanted to prevent too close of a relationship between these rulers, so he traveled to England before the King could go to the meeting place. In addition to making a good impression on him, he won over Wolsey by promising that his influence would help him become Pope when the next vacancy arose. On the day the Emperor left England, the King and the entire Court went to Calais, and from there to the meeting spot between Ardres and Guisnes, commonly known as the Field of the Cloth of Gold. Here, every kind of expense and extravagance was poured into the event's decorations; many of the knights and gentlemen were dressed so elegantly that it was said they were carrying their entire fortunes on their backs.

There were sham castles, temporary chapels, fountains running wine, great cellars full of wine free as water to all comers, silk tents, gold lace and foil, gilt lions, and such things without end; and, in the midst of all, the rich Cardinal out-shone and out-glittered all the noblemen and gentlemen assembled. After a treaty made between the two Kings with as much solemnity as if they had intended to keep it, the lists—nine hundred feet long, and three hundred and twenty broad—were opened for the tournament; the Queens of France and England looking on with great array of lords and ladies. Then, for ten days, the two sovereigns fought five combats every day, and always beat their polite adversaries; though they do write that the King of England, being thrown in a wrestle one day by the King of France, lost his kingly temper with his brother-in-arms, and wanted to make a quarrel of it. Then, there is a great story belonging to this Field of the Cloth of Gold, showing how the English were distrustful of the French, and the French of the English, until Francis rode alone one morning to Henry’s tent; and, going in before he was out of bed, told him in joke that he was his prisoner; and how Henry jumped out of bed and embraced Francis; and how Francis helped Henry to dress, and warmed his linen for him; and how Henry gave Francis a splendid jewelled collar, and how Francis gave Henry, in return, a costly bracelet. All this and a great deal more was so written about, and sung about, and talked about at that time (and, indeed, since that time too), that the world has had good cause to be sick of it, for ever.

There were fake castles, temporary chapels, fountains pouring out wine, huge cellars filled with wine flowing freely to everyone, silk tents, gold lace and foil, gilded lions, and endless other things; and amidst all this, the wealthy Cardinal outshone and outshimmered all the noblemen and gentlemen present. After a treaty made between the two Kings with as much formality as if they actually planned to honor it, the tournament area—nine hundred feet long and three hundred twenty feet wide—was opened; the Queens of France and England looked on with a grand display of lords and ladies. Then, for ten days, the two kings fought five matches each day, always defeating their courteous opponents; though it’s noted that the King of England, being thrown in a wrestling match one day by the King of France, lost his royal temper with his fellow king and wanted to make a scene out of it. There is a significant story connected to this Field of the Cloth of Gold, showing how the English distrusted the French, and the French were wary of the English, until Francis rode alone one morning to Henry’s tent; he went in before Henry was even out of bed and jokingly announced that he was Henry's prisoner; how Henry jumped out of bed and embraced Francis; how Francis helped Henry get dressed and warmed his linens for him; and how Henry gave Francis an extravagant jewel-studded necklace, while Francis gifted Henry a costly bracelet in return. All this and much more was widely written about, sung about, and discussed at that time (and indeed, ever since), that the world has good reason to be tired of it forever.

Of course, nothing came of all these fine doings but a speedy renewal of the war between England and France, in which the two Royal companions and brothers in arms longed very earnestly to damage one another. But, before it broke out again, the Duke of Buckingham was shamefully executed on Tower Hill, on the evidence of a discharged servant—really for nothing, except the folly of having believed in a friar of the name of Hopkins, who had pretended to be a prophet, and who had mumbled and jumbled out some nonsense about the Duke’s son being destined to be very great in the land. It was believed that the unfortunate Duke had given offence to the great Cardinal by expressing his mind freely about the expense and absurdity of the whole business of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. At any rate, he was beheaded, as I have said, for nothing. And the people who saw it done were very angry, and cried out that it was the work of ‘the butcher’s son!’

Of course, nothing resulted from all these noble actions except a quick renewal of the war between England and France, where the two royal companions and brothers-in-arms were eager to harm each other. But, before it started again, the Duke of Buckingham was shamefully executed on Tower Hill, based on the testimony of a fired servant—really for nothing more than the foolishness of having believed a friar named Hopkins, who had claimed to be a prophet and had spouted some nonsense about the Duke’s son being destined for greatness. It was thought that the unfortunate Duke had offended the great Cardinal by speaking openly about the cost and absurdity of the whole Field of the Cloth of Gold event. In any case, he was beheaded, as I mentioned, for nothing. The people who witnessed it were very angry and shouted that it was the doing of "the butcher’s son!"

The new war was a short one, though the Earl of Surrey invaded France again, and did some injury to that country. It ended in another treaty of peace between the two kingdoms, and in the discovery that the Emperor of Germany was not such a good friend to England in reality, as he pretended to be. Neither did he keep his promise to Wolsey to make him Pope, though the King urged him. Two Popes died in pretty quick succession; but the foreign priests were too much for the Cardinal, and kept him out of the post. So the Cardinal and King together found out that the Emperor of Germany was not a man to keep faith with; broke off a projected marriage between the King’s daughter Mary, Princess of Wales, and that sovereign; and began to consider whether it might not be well to marry the young lady, either to Francis himself, or to his eldest son.

The new war was brief, although the Earl of Surrey invaded France again and caused some damage to the country. It ended with another peace treaty between the two kingdoms and revealed that the Emperor of Germany was not as good a friend to England as he claimed to be. He also didn’t keep his promise to Wolsey to make him Pope, despite the King urging him to do so. Two Popes died in quick succession, but the foreign priests overwhelmed the Cardinal and kept him from the position. So, the Cardinal and the King together realized that the Emperor of Germany was not trustworthy, canceled a planned marriage between the King’s daughter Mary, Princess of Wales, and that ruler, and started to consider whether it would be better to marry the young lady to Francis himself or to his eldest son.

There now arose at Wittemberg, in Germany, the great leader of the mighty change in England which is called The Reformation, and which set the people free from their slavery to the priests. This was a learned Doctor, named Martin Luther, who knew all about them, for he had been a priest, and even a monk, himself. The preaching and writing of Wickliffe had set a number of men thinking on this subject; and Luther, finding one day to his great surprise, that there really was a book called the New Testament which the priests did not allow to be read, and which contained truths that they suppressed, began to be very vigorous against the whole body, from the Pope downward. It happened, while he was yet only beginning his vast work of awakening the nation, that an impudent fellow named Tetzel, a friar of very bad character, came into his neighbourhood selling what were called Indulgences, by wholesale, to raise money for beautifying the great Cathedral of St. Peter’s, at Rome. Whoever bought an Indulgence of the Pope was supposed to buy himself off from the punishment of Heaven for his offences. Luther told the people that these Indulgences were worthless bits of paper, before God, and that Tetzel and his masters were a crew of impostors in selling them.

There emerged in Wittenberg, Germany, the great leader of the significant change in England known as The Reformation, which freed the people from their bondage to the priests. This was a learned doctor named Martin Luther, who knew all about them, having been a priest and even a monk himself. The preaching and writing of Wycliffe had encouraged many people to think about this issue; and Luther, to his great surprise one day, discovered that there was actually a book called the New Testament that the priests did not allow to be read, which contained truths they suppressed. He began to vigorously oppose the entire institution, from the Pope on down. While he was just starting his enormous task of awakening the nation, an audacious man named Tetzel, a friar of very questionable character, came into his area selling what were called Indulgences in bulk to raise money for decorating the great Cathedral of St. Peter’s in Rome. Anyone who bought an Indulgence from the Pope was supposedly paying to absolve themselves from divine punishment for their sins. Luther told the people that these Indulgences were worthless pieces of paper in the eyes of God, and that Tetzel and his masters were a group of frauds for selling them.

The King and the Cardinal were mightily indignant at this presumption; and the King (with the help of Sir Thomas More, a wise man, whom he afterwards repaid by striking off his head) even wrote a book about it, with which the Pope was so well pleased that he gave the King the title of Defender of the Faith. The King and the Cardinal also issued flaming warnings to the people not to read Luther’s books, on pain of excommunication. But they did read them for all that; and the rumour of what was in them spread far and wide.

The King and the Cardinal were extremely angry about this arrogance; and the King (with the help of Sir Thomas More, a wise man he later executed) even wrote a book about it, which pleased the Pope so much that he gave the King the title Defender of the Faith. The King and the Cardinal also issued fiery warnings to the people not to read Luther's books, threatening excommunication if they did. But people read them anyway, and the rumors of their contents spread far and wide.

When this great change was thus going on, the King began to show himself in his truest and worst colours. Anne Boleyn, the pretty little girl who had gone abroad to France with his sister, was by this time grown up to be very beautiful, and was one of the ladies in attendance on Queen Catherine. Now, Queen Catherine was no longer young or handsome, and it is likely that she was not particularly good-tempered; having been always rather melancholy, and having been made more so by the deaths of four of her children when they were very young. So, the King fell in love with the fair Anne Boleyn, and said to himself, ‘How can I be best rid of my own troublesome wife whom I am tired of, and marry Anne?’

When this big change was happening, the King started to reveal his true and worst self. Anne Boleyn, the pretty young girl who had gone to France with his sister, had grown up to be very beautiful and was one of the ladies in waiting for Queen Catherine. By this time, Queen Catherine was no longer young or attractive, and she probably wasn’t in the best mood; she had always been a bit melancholy, and the deaths of four of her young children had made her even more so. So, the King fell in love with the lovely Anne Boleyn and thought to himself, ‘How can I get rid of my troublesome wife, whom I’m tired of, and marry Anne?’

You recollect that Queen Catherine had been the wife of Henry’s brother. What does the King do, after thinking it over, but calls his favourite priests about him, and says, O! his mind is in such a dreadful state, and he is so frightfully uneasy, because he is afraid it was not lawful for him to marry the Queen! Not one of those priests had the courage to hint that it was rather curious he had never thought of that before, and that his mind seemed to have been in a tolerably jolly condition during a great many years, in which he certainly had not fretted himself thin; but, they all said, Ah! that was very true, and it was a serious business; and perhaps the best way to make it right, would be for his Majesty to be divorced! The King replied, Yes, he thought that would be the best way, certainly; so they all went to work.

You remember that Queen Catherine was married to Henry's brother. After thinking it over, the King calls in his favorite priests and says, oh! his mind is in such a terrible state, and he feels so incredibly uneasy because he's worried it wasn't lawful for him to marry the Queen! Not one of those priests had the guts to suggest that it was a bit odd he had never considered that before, especially since he seemed to have been quite happy for many years, during which he definitely didn't stress himself thin; but they all chimed in, saying, yes, that's true, and it is serious; and maybe the best way to fix it would be for His Majesty to get a divorce! The King replied, yes, he thought that would definitely be the best way, so they all got to work.

If I were to relate to you the intrigues and plots that took place in the endeavour to get this divorce, you would think the History of England the most tiresome book in the world. So I shall say no more, than that after a vast deal of negotiation and evasion, the Pope issued a commission to Cardinal Wolsey and Cardinal Campeggio (whom he sent over from Italy for the purpose), to try the whole case in England. It is supposed—and I think with reason—that Wolsey was the Queen’s enemy, because she had reproved him for his proud and gorgeous manner of life. But, he did not at first know that the King wanted to marry Anne Boleyn; and when he did know it, he even went down on his knees, in the endeavour to dissuade him.

If I were to tell you all the schemes and plots that happened during the attempt to get this divorce, you would think the History of England is the most boring book ever. So, I’ll just say that after a lot of negotiation and dodging, the Pope sent a commission to Cardinal Wolsey and Cardinal Campeggio (who he brought over from Italy for this purpose) to handle the whole case in England. It’s believed—and I think it's reasonable—that Wolsey was the Queen’s enemy because she had criticized him for his proud and extravagant lifestyle. However, he didn’t initially realize that the King wanted to marry Anne Boleyn; and when he found out, he even knelt down in an attempt to persuade him not to.

The Cardinals opened their court in the Convent of the Black Friars, near to where the bridge of that name in London now stands; and the King and Queen, that they might be near it, took up their lodgings at the adjoining palace of Bridewell, of which nothing now remains but a bad prison. On the opening of the court, when the King and Queen were called on to appear, that poor ill-used lady, with a dignity and firmness and yet with a womanly affection worthy to be always admired, went and kneeled at the King’s feet, and said that she had come, a stranger, to his dominions; that she had been a good and true wife to him for twenty years; and that she could acknowledge no power in those Cardinals to try whether she should be considered his wife after all that time, or should be put away. With that, she got up and left the court, and would never afterwards come back to it.

The Cardinals held their court in the Convent of the Black Friars, close to where the current Blackfriars Bridge stands in London. The King and Queen chose to stay at the nearby Bridewell Palace, which now only houses a poor prison. When the court opened and the King and Queen were summoned to appear, that mistreated lady, embodying dignity and strength while still showing a womanly grace that deserves admiration, went and knelt at the King’s feet. She said that she had come, a stranger, to his realm; that she had been a faithful and devoted wife to him for twenty years; and that she could not recognize any authority the Cardinals had to decide whether she should still be considered his wife after all that time or be cast aside. With that, she stood up and left the court, never to return.

The King pretended to be very much overcome, and said, O! my lords and gentlemen, what a good woman she was to be sure, and how delighted he would be to live with her unto death, but for that terrible uneasiness in his mind which was quite wearing him away! So, the case went on, and there was nothing but talk for two months. Then Cardinal Campeggio, who, on behalf of the Pope, wanted nothing so much as delay, adjourned it for two more months; and before that time was elapsed, the Pope himself adjourned it indefinitely, by requiring the King and Queen to come to Rome and have it tried there. But by good luck for the King, word was brought to him by some of his people, that they had happened to meet at supper, Thomas Cranmer, a learned Doctor of Cambridge, who had proposed to urge the Pope on, by referring the case to all the learned doctors and bishops, here and there and everywhere, and getting their opinions that the King’s marriage was unlawful. The King, who was now in a hurry to marry Anne Boleyn, thought this such a good idea, that he sent for Cranmer, post haste, and said to Lord Rochfort, Anne Boleyn’s father, ‘Take this learned Doctor down to your country-house, and there let him have a good room for a study, and no end of books out of which to prove that I may marry your daughter.’ Lord Rochfort, not at all reluctant, made the learned Doctor as comfortable as he could; and the learned Doctor went to work to prove his case. All this time, the King and Anne Boleyn were writing letters to one another almost daily, full of impatience to have the case settled; and Anne Boleyn was showing herself (as I think) very worthy of the fate which afterwards befel her.

The King acted like he was really upset and said, "Oh! My lords and gentlemen, what a wonderful woman she was, and how happy he would be to be with her until death, except for that awful anxiety in his mind that's really getting to him!" So, the situation dragged on with nothing but talk for two months. Then Cardinal Campeggio, who was representing the Pope and wanted nothing more than to stall, postponed it for another two months; and before that time was up, the Pope himself postponed it indefinitely, demanding that the King and Queen come to Rome for the trial. But luckily for the King, some of his people informed him that they had run into Thomas Cranmer, a learned Doctor from Cambridge, at a dinner. He suggested pressing the Pope to refer the case to various learned doctors and bishops everywhere to get their opinions that the King’s marriage was unlawful. The King, eager to marry Anne Boleyn, thought this was a great idea, so he quickly summoned Cranmer and said to Lord Rochfort, Anne Boleyn’s father, "Take this learned Doctor to your country house, give him a good study, and a ton of books to prove that I can marry your daughter." Lord Rochfort, eager to help, made the learned Doctor as comfortable as possible, and Cranmer got to work on his case. Meanwhile, the King and Anne Boleyn were writing letters to each other almost every day, filled with impatience to get the case resolved; and Anne Boleyn was proving herself (in my opinion) very deserving of the fate that awaited her.

It was bad for Cardinal Wolsey that he had left Cranmer to render this help. It was worse for him that he had tried to dissuade the King from marrying Anne Boleyn. Such a servant as he, to such a master as Henry, would probably have fallen in any case; but, between the hatred of the party of the Queen that was, and the hatred of the party of the Queen that was to be, he fell suddenly and heavily. Going down one day to the Court of Chancery, where he now presided, he was waited upon by the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, who told him that they brought an order to him to resign that office, and to withdraw quietly to a house he had at Esher, in Surrey. The Cardinal refusing, they rode off to the King; and next day came back with a letter from him, on reading which, the Cardinal submitted. An inventory was made out of all the riches in his palace at York Place (now Whitehall), and he went sorrowfully up the river, in his barge, to Putney. An abject man he was, in spite of his pride; for being overtaken, riding out of that place towards Esher, by one of the King’s chamberlains who brought him a kind message and a ring, he alighted from his mule, took off his cap, and kneeled down in the dirt. His poor Fool, whom in his prosperous days he had always kept in his palace to entertain him, cut a far better figure than he; for, when the Cardinal said to the chamberlain that he had nothing to send to his lord the King as a present, but that jester who was a most excellent one, it took six strong yeomen to remove the faithful fool from his master.

It was unfortunate for Cardinal Wolsey that he had relied on Cranmer for help. It was even worse that he had tried to stop the King from marrying Anne Boleyn. A servant like him would likely have fallen from grace regardless, but as a result of the animosity from the party of the former Queen and the future Queen, he fell suddenly and hard. One day, as he was heading to the Court of Chancery, where he was now in charge, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk approached him with an order for him to resign from that role and to retreat quietly to his house in Esher, Surrey. When the Cardinal refused, they went to the King; the next day, they returned with a letter from him, and upon reading it, the Cardinal conceded. An inventory of all the treasures in his palace at York Place (now Whitehall) was created, and he sorrowfully made his way up the river on his barge to Putney. He was a defeated man, despite his pride; for as he was on his way to Esher, he was met by one of the King’s chamberlains who brought him a kind message and a ring. He got off his mule, removed his hat, and knelt in the dirt. His poor Fool, whom he had always kept in his palace for entertainment during his prosperous days, appeared far more dignified than he did; when the Cardinal told the chamberlain he had nothing to send to the King as a gift except for that jester, who was indeed excellent, it took six strong yeomen to pry the loyal fool away from his master.

The once proud Cardinal was soon further disgraced, and wrote the most abject letters to his vile sovereign; who humbled him one day and encouraged him the next, according to his humour, until he was at last ordered to go and reside in his diocese of York. He said he was too poor; but I don’t know how he made that out, for he took a hundred and sixty servants with him, and seventy-two cart-loads of furniture, food, and wine. He remained in that part of the country for the best part of a year, and showed himself so improved by his misfortunes, and was so mild and so conciliating, that he won all hearts. And indeed, even in his proud days, he had done some magnificent things for learning and education. At last, he was arrested for high treason; and, coming slowly on his journey towards London, got as far as Leicester. Arriving at Leicester Abbey after dark, and very ill, he said—when the monks came out at the gate with lighted torches to receive him—that he had come to lay his bones among them. He had indeed; for he was taken to a bed, from which he never rose again. His last words were, ‘Had I but served God as diligently as I have served the King, He would not have given me over, in my grey hairs. Howbeit, this is my just reward for my pains and diligence, not regarding my service to God, but only my duty to my prince.’ The news of his death was quickly carried to the King, who was amusing himself with archery in the garden of the magnificent Palace at Hampton Court, which that very Wolsey had presented to him. The greatest emotion his royal mind displayed at the loss of a servant so faithful and so ruined, was a particular desire to lay hold of fifteen hundred pounds which the Cardinal was reported to have hidden somewhere.

The once proud Cardinal was soon even more disgraced and wrote the most pathetic letters to his despotic ruler; who humiliated him one day and encouraged him the next, depending on his mood, until he was finally ordered to go live in his diocese of York. He claimed he was too poor, but I don't see how that was the case, as he took one hundred sixty servants with him and seventy-two cartloads of furniture, food, and wine. He stayed in that area for almost a year and showed himself so changed by his misfortunes, and was so gentle and accommodating, that he won everyone's hearts. And indeed, even in his proud days, he had done some remarkable things for education and learning. Eventually, he was arrested for high treason; and, slowly making his way to London, he got as far as Leicester. Arriving at Leicester Abbey after dark, and very ill, he said—when the monks came out at the gate with lighted torches to greet him—that he had come to rest among them. He indeed did; for he was taken to a bed from which he never got up again. His last words were, "If only I had served God as faithfully as I have served the King, He would not have abandoned me in my old age. However, this is my rightful reward for my efforts and diligence, not considering my service to God, but only my duty to my ruler." The news of his death was quickly delivered to the King, who was enjoying some archery in the garden of the magnificent Palace at Hampton Court, which that very Wolsey had given to him. The greatest reaction his royal mind showed at the loss of a servant so loyal and so ruined was a particular desire to seize fifteen hundred pounds that the Cardinal was rumored to have hidden somewhere.

The opinions concerning the divorce, of the learned doctors and bishops and others, being at last collected, and being generally in the King’s favour, were forwarded to the Pope, with an entreaty that he would now grant it. The unfortunate Pope, who was a timid man, was half distracted between his fear of his authority being set aside in England if he did not do as he was asked, and his dread of offending the Emperor of Germany, who was Queen Catherine’s nephew. In this state of mind he still evaded and did nothing. Then, Thomas Cromwell, who had been one of Wolsey’s faithful attendants, and had remained so even in his decline, advised the King to take the matter into his own hands, and make himself the head of the whole Church. This, the King by various artful means, began to do; but he recompensed the clergy by allowing them to burn as many people as they pleased, for holding Luther’s opinions. You must understand that Sir Thomas More, the wise man who had helped the King with his book, had been made Chancellor in Wolsey’s place. But, as he was truly attached to the Church as it was even in its abuses, he, in this state of things, resigned.

The opinions regarding the divorce, from learned doctors, bishops, and others, were finally gathered and were mostly in the King’s favor. They were sent to the Pope, along with a request for him to grant the divorce. The unfortunate Pope, who was a timid man, was torn between his fear of losing authority in England if he didn’t comply and his worry about angering the Emperor of Germany, who was Queen Catherine’s nephew. In this dilemma, he did nothing and continued to evade action. Then, Thomas Cromwell, who had been one of Wolsey’s loyal supporters, even during his decline, advised the King to take matters into his own hands and make himself the head of the Church. The King began to do this through various clever means, but he rewarded the clergy by allowing them to execute as many people as they wanted for holding Luther’s beliefs. You should know that Sir Thomas More, the wise man who assisted the King with his book, had been appointed Chancellor in place of Wolsey. However, since he was truly committed to the Church, even with its faults, he resigned in this situation.

Being now quite resolved to get rid of Queen Catherine, and to marry Anne Boleyn without more ado, the King made Cranmer Archbishop of Canterbury, and directed Queen Catherine to leave the Court. She obeyed; but replied that wherever she went, she was Queen of England still, and would remain so, to the last. The King then married Anne Boleyn privately; and the new Archbishop of Canterbury, within half a year, declared his marriage with Queen Catherine void, and crowned Anne Boleyn Queen.

Being fully determined to divorce Queen Catherine and marry Anne Boleyn without delay, the King appointed Cranmer as Archbishop of Canterbury and ordered Queen Catherine to leave the Court. She complied but stated that no matter where she went, she would always be the Queen of England and would remain so until the end. The King then privately married Anne Boleyn, and within six months, the new Archbishop of Canterbury declared his marriage to Queen Catherine invalid and crowned Anne Boleyn as Queen.

She might have known that no good could ever come from such wrong, and that the corpulent brute who had been so faithless and so cruel to his first wife, could be more faithless and more cruel to his second. She might have known that, even when he was in love with her, he had been a mean and selfish coward, running away, like a frightened cur, from her society and her house, when a dangerous sickness broke out in it, and when she might easily have taken it and died, as several of the household did. But, Anne Boleyn arrived at all this knowledge too late, and bought it at a dear price. Her bad marriage with a worse man came to its natural end. Its natural end was not, as we shall too soon see, a natural death for her.

She might have realized that nothing good could come from such wrongdoing, and that the overweight brute who had been so unfaithful and cruel to his first wife could be even more unfaithful and more cruel to his second. She might have known that, even when he claimed to be in love with her, he had been a mean-spirited and selfish coward, fleeing like a scared dog from her company and her home when a serious illness broke out, knowing she could easily have caught it and died, as several others in the household did. But Anne Boleyn came to this understanding too late and paid a heavy price. Her unhappy marriage to an even worse man came to its inevitable end. Its inevitable end was not, as we will soon see, a natural death for her.

CHAPTER XXVIII—ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE EIGHTH

PART THE SECOND

The Pope was thrown into a very angry state of mind when he heard of the King’s marriage, and fumed exceedingly. Many of the English monks and friars, seeing that their order was in danger, did the same; some even declaimed against the King in church before his face, and were not to be stopped until he himself roared out ‘Silence!’ The King, not much the worse for this, took it pretty quietly; and was very glad when his Queen gave birth to a daughter, who was christened Elizabeth, and declared Princess of Wales as her sister Mary had already been.

The Pope was really angry when he heard about the King’s marriage and was fuming a lot. Many of the English monks and friars, realizing their order was at risk, got upset too; some even spoke out against the King in church right in front of him, and they wouldn’t stop until he yelled ‘Silence!’ The King, not too affected by it, took it pretty calmly; and he was very happy when his Queen gave birth to a daughter, who was named Liz, and declared Princess of Wales just like her sister Mary had been.

One of the most atrocious features of this reign was that Henry the Eighth was always trimming between the reformed religion and the unreformed one; so that the more he quarrelled with the Pope, the more of his own subjects he roasted alive for not holding the Pope’s opinions. Thus, an unfortunate student named John Frith, and a poor simple tailor named Andrew Hewet who loved him very much, and said that whatever John Frith believed he believed, were burnt in Smithfield—to show what a capital Christian the King was.

One of the most horrible aspects of this reign was that Henry the Eighth kept switching between the reformed and unreformed religions; so the more he argued with the Pope, the more of his own subjects he burned alive for not agreeing with the Pope’s views. An unfortunate student named John Frith and a poor simple tailor named Andrew Hewet, who cared for him deeply and said that whatever John Frith believed, he believed, were burned in Smithfield—to demonstrate what a great Christian the King was.

But, these were speedily followed by two much greater victims, Sir Thomas More, and John Fisher, the Bishop of Rochester. The latter, who was a good and amiable old man, had committed no greater offence than believing in Elizabeth Barton, called the Maid of Kent—another of those ridiculous women who pretended to be inspired, and to make all sorts of heavenly revelations, though they indeed uttered nothing but evil nonsense. For this offence—as it was pretended, but really for denying the King to be the supreme Head of the Church—he got into trouble, and was put in prison; but, even then, he might have been suffered to die naturally (short work having been made of executing the Kentish Maid and her principal followers), but that the Pope, to spite the King, resolved to make him a cardinal. Upon that the King made a ferocious joke to the effect that the Pope might send Fisher a red hat—which is the way they make a cardinal—but he should have no head on which to wear it; and he was tried with all unfairness and injustice, and sentenced to death. He died like a noble and virtuous old man, and left a worthy name behind him. The King supposed, I dare say, that Sir Thomas More would be frightened by this example; but, as he was not to be easily terrified, and, thoroughly believing in the Pope, had made up his mind that the King was not the rightful Head of the Church, he positively refused to say that he was. For this crime he too was tried and sentenced, after having been in prison a whole year. When he was doomed to death, and came away from his trial with the edge of the executioner’s axe turned towards him—as was always done in those times when a state prisoner came to that hopeless pass—he bore it quite serenely, and gave his blessing to his son, who pressed through the crowd in Westminster Hall and kneeled down to receive it. But, when he got to the Tower Wharf on his way back to his prison, and his favourite daughter, Margaret Roper, a very good woman, rushed through the guards again and again, to kiss him and to weep upon his neck, he was overcome at last. He soon recovered, and never more showed any feeling but cheerfulness and courage. When he was going up the steps of the scaffold to his death, he said jokingly to the Lieutenant of the Tower, observing that they were weak and shook beneath his tread, ‘I pray you, master Lieutenant, see me safe up; and, for my coming down, I can shift for myself.’ Also he said to the executioner, after he had laid his head upon the block, ‘Let me put my beard out of the way; for that, at least, has never committed any treason.’ Then his head was struck off at a blow. These two executions were worthy of King Henry the Eighth. Sir Thomas More was one of the most virtuous men in his dominions, and the Bishop was one of his oldest and truest friends. But to be a friend of that fellow was almost as dangerous as to be his wife.

But these were quickly followed by two much greater victims, Sir Thomas More and John Fisher, the Bishop of Rochester. The latter, a kind and decent old man, had committed no greater offense than believing in Elizabeth Barton, known as the Maid of Kent—one of those silly women who claimed to be inspired and made all sorts of heavenly revelations, even though they said nothing but harmful nonsense. For this supposed offense—though really it was for denying the King as the supreme Head of the Church—he got into trouble and was imprisoned; however, even then he might have been allowed to die naturally (since the Maid of Kent and her main followers had been executed quickly), but the Pope, out of spite for the King, decided to make him a cardinal. In response, the King cruelly joked that the Pope might send Fisher a red hat—which is how they make a cardinal—but that he wouldn't have a head to wear it on; he was tried with complete unfairness and injustice and sentenced to death. He died like a noble and virtuous old man and left behind a worthy legacy. The King likely thought Sir Thomas More would be scared by this example; but since he was not easily intimidated and firmly believed in the Pope, he was determined that the King was not the rightful Head of the Church and adamantly refused to acknowledge him as such. For this "crime," he was also tried and sentenced after spending a whole year in prison. When he was condemned to death and left the trial with the executioner's axe pointed at him—as was always done in those times when a state prisoner reached this grim fate—he remained completely calm and gave his blessing to his son, who pushed through the crowd in Westminster Hall to kneel and receive it. However, when he reached the Tower Wharf on the way back to prison and his beloved daughter, Margaret Roper, a genuinely good woman, rushed through the guards repeatedly to kiss him and weep on his neck, he was finally overcome. He soon regained his composure and showed nothing but cheerfulness and courage afterward. As he was climbing the steps to the scaffold for his execution, he jokingly said to the Lieutenant of the Tower, noticing that the steps were weak and shook under his weight, “I pray you, Master Lieutenant, see me safely up; and as for my coming down, I can manage on my own.” He also told the executioner, after laying his head on the block, “Let me put my beard out of the way; for that, at least, has never committed any treason.” Then his head was severed with a single blow. These two executions were characteristic of King Henry the Eighth. Sir Thomas More was one of the most virtuous men in his realm, and the Bishop was one of his oldest and truest friends. But being a friend of that man was almost as dangerous as being his wife.

When the news of these two murders got to Rome, the Pope raged against the murderer more than ever Pope raged since the world began, and prepared a Bull, ordering his subjects to take arms against him and dethrone him. The King took all possible precautions to keep that document out of his dominions, and set to work in return to suppress a great number of the English monasteries and abbeys.

When the news of these two murders reached Rome, the Pope was angrier than he had ever been in history and prepared a Bull, urging his followers to take up arms against the murderer and overthrow him. The King took every precaution to prevent that document from entering his territories and began to suppress a large number of English monasteries and abbeys in response.

This destruction was begun by a body of commissioners, of whom Cromwell (whom the King had taken into great favour) was the head; and was carried on through some few years to its entire completion. There is no doubt that many of these religious establishments were religious in nothing but in name, and were crammed with lazy, indolent, and sensual monks. There is no doubt that they imposed upon the people in every possible way; that they had images moved by wires, which they pretended were miraculously moved by Heaven; that they had among them a whole tun measure full of teeth, all purporting to have come out of the head of one saint, who must indeed have been a very extraordinary person with that enormous allowance of grinders; that they had bits of coal which they said had fried Saint Lawrence, and bits of toe-nails which they said belonged to other famous saints; penknives, and boots, and girdles, which they said belonged to others; and that all these bits of rubbish were called Relics, and adored by the ignorant people. But, on the other hand, there is no doubt either, that the King’s officers and men punished the good monks with the bad; did great injustice; demolished many beautiful things and many valuable libraries; destroyed numbers of paintings, stained glass windows, fine pavements, and carvings; and that the whole court were ravenously greedy and rapacious for the division of this great spoil among them. The King seems to have grown almost mad in the ardour of this pursuit; for he declared Thomas à Becket a traitor, though he had been dead so many years, and had his body dug up out of his grave. He must have been as miraculous as the monks pretended, if they had told the truth, for he was found with one head on his shoulders, and they had shown another as his undoubted and genuine head ever since his death; it had brought them vast sums of money, too. The gold and jewels on his shrine filled two great chests, and eight men tottered as they carried them away. How rich the monasteries were you may infer from the fact that, when they were all suppressed, one hundred and thirty thousand pounds a year—in those days an immense sum—came to the Crown.

This destruction was started by a group of commissioners, led by Cromwell (who had become very favored by the King), and it continued for several years until it was completely finished. It’s clear that many of these religious institutions were only religious in name, filled with lazy, indifferent, and hedonistic monks. They deceived the people in every way possible; they had images moved by wires, which they pretended were miraculously moved by Heaven; they had a whole barrel full of teeth, claimed to have come from the head of one saint, who must have been quite extraordinary to have such a huge amount of grinders; they had bits of coal that they said had burned Saint Lawrence, and bits of toenails that they claimed belonged to other famous saints; penknives, boots, and girdles they said belonged to others; and all these bits of junk were called Relics, worshipped by the ignorant masses. However, it’s also true that the King’s officers punished the good monks along with the bad; they committed great injustices; demolished many beautiful things and valuable libraries; destroyed countless paintings, stained glass windows, fine pavements, and carvings; and the entire court was greedily eager to divide this large treasure among themselves. The King seemed to go almost mad with zeal in this pursuit; he declared Thomas à Becket a traitor, even though he had been dead for many years, and had his body exhumed. He must have been as miraculous as the monks claimed if they had been telling the truth, because he was found with one head on his shoulders, while they had been showcasing another as his undisputed and genuine head since his death; that had also earned them vast sums of money. The gold and jewels on his shrine filled two large chests, and eight men stumbled under the weight as they carried them away. You can gauge how rich the monasteries were by the fact that when they were all suppressed, the Crown received one hundred and thirty thousand pounds a year—in those days, an enormous sum.

These things were not done without causing great discontent among the people. The monks had been good landlords and hospitable entertainers of all travellers, and had been accustomed to give away a great deal of corn, and fruit, and meat, and other things. In those days it was difficult to change goods into money, in consequence of the roads being very few and very bad, and the carts, and waggons of the worst description; and they must either have given away some of the good things they possessed in enormous quantities, or have suffered them to spoil and moulder. So, many of the people missed what it was more agreeable to get idly than to work for; and the monks who were driven out of their homes and wandered about encouraged their discontent; and there were, consequently, great risings in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire. These were put down by terrific executions, from which the monks themselves did not escape, and the King went on grunting and growling in his own fat way, like a Royal pig.

These actions led to widespread dissatisfaction among the people. The monks had been good landlords and generous hosts to all travelers, often giving away large amounts of grain, fruit, meat, and other supplies. Back then, it was hard to trade goods for money because the roads were scarce and in poor condition, and the carts and wagons were of the lowest quality. They had to either give away some of their abundant supplies or watch them spoil and rot. As a result, many people preferred the convenience of receiving goods for free rather than working for them. The monks, who were forced from their homes and wandered around, fueled this unrest, leading to significant uprisings in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire. These uprisings were suppressed with harsh punishments, and the monks themselves were not spared. Meanwhile, the King continued to grumble and complain in his typical lazy manner, like a royal pig.

I have told all this story of the religious houses at one time, to make it plainer, and to get back to the King’s domestic affairs.

I’ve shared the whole story about the religious houses at once to make it clearer and to return to the King’s domestic affairs.

The unfortunate Queen Catherine was by this time dead; and the King was by this time as tired of his second Queen as he had been of his first. As he had fallen in love with Anne when she was in the service of Catherine, so he now fell in love with another lady in the service of Anne. See how wicked deeds are punished, and how bitterly and self-reproachfully the Queen must now have thought of her own rise to the throne! The new fancy was a Lady Jane Seymour; and the King no sooner set his mind on her, than he resolved to have Anne Boleyn’s head. So, he brought a number of charges against Anne, accusing her of dreadful crimes which she had never committed, and implicating in them her own brother and certain gentlemen in her service: among whom one Norris, and Mark Smeaton a musician, are best remembered. As the lords and councillors were as afraid of the King and as subservient to him as the meanest peasant in England was, they brought in Anne Boleyn guilty, and the other unfortunate persons accused with her, guilty too. Those gentlemen died like men, with the exception of Smeaton, who had been tempted by the King into telling lies, which he called confessions, and who had expected to be pardoned; but who, I am very glad to say, was not. There was then only the Queen to dispose of. She had been surrounded in the Tower with women spies; had been monstrously persecuted and foully slandered; and had received no justice. But her spirit rose with her afflictions; and, after having in vain tried to soften the King by writing an affecting letter to him which still exists, ‘from her doleful prison in the Tower,’ she resigned herself to death. She said to those about her, very cheerfully, that she had heard say the executioner was a good one, and that she had a little neck (she laughed and clasped it with her hands as she said that), and would soon be out of her pain. And she was soon out of her pain, poor creature, on the Green inside the Tower, and her body was flung into an old box and put away in the ground under the chapel.

The unfortunate Queen Catherine was dead by this time; and the King was as tired of his second Queen as he had been of his first. Just as he had fallen in love with Anne when she was serving Catherine, he now fell in love with another lady who was in Anne's service. Look how wicked deeds are punished, and how bitterly the Queen must have reflected on her own rise to the throne! The new love interest was a Jane Seymour; as soon as the King set his sights on her, he decided he wanted Anne Boleyn’s head. So, he made up several charges against Anne, accusing her of terrible crimes she never committed, and dragged her brother and certain men from her service into it: among them, one Norris and Mark Smeaton, a musician, are most remembered. The lords and councillors were as afraid of the King and as submissive to him as the lowest peasant in England, so they declared Anne Boleyn guilty, and the other unfortunate people accused with her were found guilty too. Those gentlemen faced their fate bravely, except for Smeaton, who had been persuaded by the King to tell lies, which he referred to as confessions, and thought he would be pardoned; I'm glad to say he was not. After that, only the Queen was left to deal with. She had been surrounded in the Tower by women spies; was monstrously persecuted and falsely slandered; and had received no justice. Yet her spirit rose above her suffering; after trying in vain to soften the King with a heartfelt letter to him from her "doleful prison in the Tower," she accepted her fate. She told those around her, quite cheerfully, that she had heard the executioner was good and that she had a little neck (she laughed and clasped it with her hands as she said that), and would soon be free of her pain. And she was soon free of her pain, poor thing, on the Green inside the Tower, and her body was tossed into an old box and buried beneath the chapel.

There is a story that the King sat in his palace listening very anxiously for the sound of the cannon which was to announce this new murder; and that, when he heard it come booming on the air, he rose up in great spirits and ordered out his dogs to go a-hunting. He was bad enough to do it; but whether he did it or not, it is certain that he married Jane Seymour the very next day.

There’s a story that the King was in his palace, anxiously waiting for the sound of the cannon that was supposed to signal this new murder. When he finally heard it booming through the air, he got up in high spirits and ordered his dogs to go hunting. He was bad enough to do that, but whether he actually did or not, it’s clear that he married Jane Seymour the very next day.

I have not much pleasure in recording that she lived just long enough to give birth to a son who was christened Edward, and then to die of a fever: for, I cannot but think that any woman who married such a ruffian, and knew what innocent blood was on his hands, deserved the axe that would assuredly have fallen on the neck of Jane Seymour, if she had lived much longer.

I don’t take pleasure in saying that she lived just long enough to give birth to a son named Edward, before dying from a fever. I can’t help but think that any woman who married such a scoundrel, knowing the innocent blood on his hands, deserved the same fate that would have certainly awaited Jane Seymour if she had lived much longer.

Cranmer had done what he could to save some of the Church property for purposes of religion and education; but, the great families had been so hungry to get hold of it, that very little could be rescued for such objects. Even Miles Coverdale, who did the people the inestimable service of translating the Bible into English (which the unreformed religion never permitted to be done), was left in poverty while the great families clutched the Church lands and money. The people had been told that when the Crown came into possession of these funds, it would not be necessary to tax them; but they were taxed afresh directly afterwards. It was fortunate for them, indeed, that so many nobles were so greedy for this wealth; since, if it had remained with the Crown, there might have been no end to tyranny for hundreds of years. One of the most active writers on the Church’s side against the King was a member of his own family—a sort of distant cousin, Reginald Pole by name—who attacked him in the most violent manner (though he received a pension from him all the time), and fought for the Church with his pen, day and night. As he was beyond the King’s reach—being in Italy—the King politely invited him over to discuss the subject; but he, knowing better than to come, and wisely staying where he was, the King’s rage fell upon his brother Lord Montague, the Marquis of Exeter, and some other gentlemen: who were tried for high treason in corresponding with him and aiding him—which they probably did—and were all executed. The Pope made Reginald Pole a cardinal; but, so much against his will, that it is thought he even aspired in his own mind to the vacant throne of England, and had hopes of marrying the Princess Mary. His being made a high priest, however, put an end to all that. His mother, the venerable Countess of Salisbury—who was, unfortunately for herself, within the tyrant’s reach—was the last of his relatives on whom his wrath fell. When she was told to lay her grey head upon the block, she answered the executioner, ‘No! My head never committed treason, and if you want it, you shall seize it.’ So, she ran round and round the scaffold with the executioner striking at her, and her grey hair bedabbled with blood; and even when they held her down upon the block she moved her head about to the last, resolved to be no party to her own barbarous murder. All this the people bore, as they had borne everything else.

Cranmer had tried to save some of the Church’s property for religious and educational purposes, but the powerful families were so eager to acquire it that very little could be saved for those reasons. Even Miles Coverdale, who provided the invaluable service of translating the Bible into English (something the unreformed Church never allowed), was left in poverty while the wealthy families took hold of the Church’s lands and money. The people were told that when the Crown gained control of these funds, they wouldn't need to be taxed anymore; however, they were hit with new taxes right after. It was actually lucky for them that so many nobles were greedy for this wealth; if it had stayed with the Crown, there might have been endless tyranny for centuries. One of the most active writers against the King in defense of the Church was a distant cousin of his named Reginald Pole, who criticized him fiercely (even though he received a pension from the King), fighting for the Church with his writings, day and night. Since he was in Italy, out of the King’s reach, the King politely invited him to come over to discuss the matter; but he, knowing better than to go, wisely remained in Italy, which led to the King’s anger being directed at his brother Lord Montague, the Marquis of Exeter, and several other gentlemen: they were tried for high treason for corresponding with him and supporting him—which they probably did—and were all executed. The Pope made Reginald Pole a cardinal, but against his will, as it’s believed he even secretly aspired to take the vacant throne of England and had hopes of marrying Princess Mary. However, becoming a high priest ended those hopes. His mother, the venerable Countess of Salisbury—unfortunately for her, within the tyrant's reach—was the last of his relatives to feel his wrath. When she was told to lay her grey head on the block, she replied to the executioner, “No! My head never committed treason, and if you want it, you’ll have to take it.” She ran around the scaffold with the executioner chasing her, blood staining her grey hair; and even when they pinned her down on the block, she moved her head to the very end, determined not to participate in her own brutal murder. The people bore all this, just as they had endured everything else.

Indeed they bore much more; for the slow fires of Smithfield were continually burning, and people were constantly being roasted to death—still to show what a good Christian the King was. He defied the Pope and his Bull, which was now issued, and had come into England; but he burned innumerable people whose only offence was that they differed from the Pope’s religious opinions. There was a wretched man named Lambert, among others, who was tried for this before the King, and with whom six bishops argued one after another. When he was quite exhausted (as well he might be, after six bishops), he threw himself on the King’s mercy; but the King blustered out that he had no mercy for heretics. So, he too fed the fire.

Indeed, they endured much more; the slow fires of Smithfield were always burning, and people were continuously being roasted to death—all to prove what a good Christian the King was. He defied the Pope and his Bull, which had now been issued and arrived in England; yet he burned countless people whose only crime was differing from the Pope’s religious beliefs. There was a miserable man named Lambert, among others, who was put on trial for this before the King, and with whom six bishops argued one after another. When he was completely worn out (as anyone would be after facing six bishops), he threw himself on the King’s mercy; but the King blustered that he had no mercy for heretics. So, he too became fuel for the fire.

All this the people bore, and more than all this yet. The national spirit seems to have been banished from the kingdom at this time. The very people who were executed for treason, the very wives and friends of the ‘bluff’ King, spoke of him on the scaffold as a good prince, and a gentle prince—just as serfs in similar circumstances have been known to do, under the Sultan and Bashaws of the East, or under the fierce old tyrants of Russia, who poured boiling and freezing water on them alternately, until they died. The Parliament were as bad as the rest, and gave the King whatever he wanted; among other vile accommodations, they gave him new powers of murdering, at his will and pleasure, any one whom he might choose to call a traitor. But the worst measure they passed was an Act of Six Articles, commonly called at the time ‘the whip with six strings;’ which punished offences against the Pope’s opinions, without mercy, and enforced the very worst parts of the monkish religion. Cranmer would have modified it, if he could; but, being overborne by the Romish party, had not the power. As one of the articles declared that priests should not marry, and as he was married himself, he sent his wife and children into Germany, and began to tremble at his danger; none the less because he was, and had long been, the King’s friend. This whip of six strings was made under the King’s own eye. It should never be forgotten of him how cruelly he supported the worst of the Popish doctrines when there was nothing to be got by opposing them.

The people endured all of this and even more. The national spirit seemed to have vanished from the kingdom at that time. The very people who were executed for treason, the wives and friends of the 'bluff' King, referred to him on the scaffold as a good and gentle prince—just like serfs in similar situations have done under the Sultan and Bashaws of the East, or under the brutal old tyrants of Russia, who alternated between pouring boiling and freezing water on them until they died. Parliament was just as bad, giving the King whatever he wanted; among other terrible deals, they granted him new powers to execute anyone he deemed a traitor at his will and pleasure. But the worst law they passed was an Act of Six Articles, commonly referred to at the time as 'the whip with six strings;' it punished offenses against the Pope’s views mercilessly and enforced the very worst aspects of the monastic religion. Cranmer would have changed it if he could, but being overwhelmed by the Roman Catholic faction, he did not have the power. One of the articles stated that priests could not marry, and since he was married himself, he sent his wife and children to Germany and began to fear for his safety; he was no less concerned because he had long been the King’s friend. This whip of six strings was created under the King’s own supervision. It should never be forgotten how cruelly he upheld the worst of the Papist doctrines when there was nothing to gain by opposing them.

This amiable monarch now thought of taking another wife. He proposed to the French King to have some of the ladies of the French Court exhibited before him, that he might make his Royal choice; but the French King answered that he would rather not have his ladies trotted out to be shown like horses at a fair. He proposed to the Dowager Duchess of Milan, who replied that she might have thought of such a match if she had had two heads; but, that only owning one, she must beg to keep it safe. At last Cromwell represented that there was a Protestant Princess in Germany—those who held the reformed religion were called Protestants, because their leaders had Protested against the abuses and impositions of the unreformed Church—named Anne of Cleves, who was beautiful, and would answer the purpose admirably. The King said was she a large woman, because he must have a fat wife? ‘O yes,’ said Cromwell; ‘she was very large, just the thing.’ On hearing this the King sent over his famous painter, Hans Holbein, to take her portrait. Hans made her out to be so good-looking that the King was satisfied, and the marriage was arranged. But, whether anybody had paid Hans to touch up the picture; or whether Hans, like one or two other painters, flattered a princess in the ordinary way of business, I cannot say: all I know is, that when Anne came over and the King went to Rochester to meet her, and first saw her without her seeing him, he swore she was ‘a great Flanders mare,’ and said he would never marry her. Being obliged to do it now matters had gone so far, he would not give her the presents he had prepared, and would never notice her. He never forgave Cromwell his part in the affair. His downfall dates from that time.

This friendly king was considering taking another wife. He suggested to the French King that some ladies from the French Court be presented to him so he could make a Royal choice; however, the French King replied that he preferred not to display his ladies like horses at a fair. He then proposed to the Dowager Duchess of Milan, who said she might have considered such a match if she had two heads, but since she only had one, she preferred to keep it safe. Eventually, Cromwell mentioned a Protestant Princess in Germany—those who followed the reformed religion were called Protestants because their leaders had protested against the abuses of the unreformed Church—named Anne of Cleves, who was beautiful and would be perfect for the King. The King asked if she was a large woman because he needed a plump wife. ‘Oh yes,’ Cromwell replied; ‘she was very large, just what you want.’ Upon hearing this, the King sent his well-known painter, Hans Holbein, to paint her portrait. Hans depicted her as so attractive that the King was pleased, and the marriage was set up. But whether someone had paid Hans to enhance the portrait, or if Hans, like a few other painters, flattered a princess as a standard practice, I can’t say: what I do know is that when Anne arrived and the King traveled to Rochester to meet her and first saw her without her seeing him, he exclaimed she was ‘a great Flanders mare’ and declared he would never marry her. Now that the situation had progressed, he felt obligated to go through with it, but he refused to give her the gifts he had prepared and decided to ignore her completely. He never forgave Cromwell for his role in this matter. His downfall began at that time.

It was quickened by his enemies, in the interests of the unreformed religion, putting in the King’s way, at a state dinner, a niece of the Duke of Norfolk, Catherine Howard, a young lady of fascinating manners, though small in stature and not particularly beautiful. Falling in love with her on the spot, the King soon divorced Anne of Cleves after making her the subject of much brutal talk, on pretence that she had been previously betrothed to some one else—which would never do for one of his dignity—and married Catherine. It is probable that on his wedding day, of all days in the year, he sent his faithful Cromwell to the scaffold, and had his head struck off. He further celebrated the occasion by burning at one time, and causing to be drawn to the fire on the same hurdles, some Protestant prisoners for denying the Pope’s doctrines, and some Roman Catholic prisoners for denying his own supremacy. Still the people bore it, and not a gentleman in England raised his hand.

It was accelerated by his enemies, in the interests of the unchanging religion, placing in the King’s path, at a state dinner, a niece of the Duke of Norfolk, Catherine Howard, a young woman with charming manners, though short in height and not particularly attractive. Falling in love with her instantly, the King soon divorced Anne of Cleves after subjecting her to much harsh talk, on the pretense that she had been previously engaged to someone else—which was unacceptable for someone of his status—and married Catherine. It’s likely that on his wedding day, of all days in the year, he sent his loyal Cromwell to the scaffold and had him executed. He further marked the occasion by burning some Protestant prisoners for rejecting the Pope’s teachings, and some Roman Catholic prisoners for denying his own authority, all at the same time, pulling them to the fire on the same carts. Still, the people endured it, and not a single gentleman in England raised a finger.

But, by a just retribution, it soon came out that Catherine Howard, before her marriage, had been really guilty of such crimes as the King had falsely attributed to his second wife Anne Boleyn; so, again the dreadful axe made the King a widower, and this Queen passed away as so many in that reign had passed away before her. As an appropriate pursuit under the circumstances, Henry then applied himself to superintending the composition of a religious book called ‘A necessary doctrine for any Christian Man.’ He must have been a little confused in his mind, I think, at about this period; for he was so false to himself as to be true to some one: that some one being Cranmer, whom the Duke of Norfolk and others of his enemies tried to ruin; but to whom the King was steadfast, and to whom he one night gave his ring, charging him when he should find himself, next day, accused of treason, to show it to the council board. This Cranmer did to the confusion of his enemies. I suppose the King thought he might want him a little longer.

But, as justice would have it, it soon came to light that Catherine Howard, before her marriage, had indeed committed the very offenses that the King had wrongfully accused his second wife, Anne Boleyn, of. So, once again, the dreaded axe made the King a widower, and this Queen met her end just like so many others during that reign. In response to the situation, Henry then focused on overseeing the creation of a religious book titled ‘A necessary doctrine for any Christian Man.’ I think he must have been somewhat confused during this time; he was so unfaithful to himself that he remained loyal to someone—specifically, Cranmer, whom the Duke of Norfolk and other enemies tried to destroy, but to whom the King remained loyal. One night, he even gave Cranmer his ring, instructing him that if he found himself accused of treason the next day, he should present it to the council. Cranmer did just that, to the embarrassment of his enemies. I suppose the King thought he might still need him for a little while longer.

He married yet once more. Yes, strange to say, he found in England another woman who would become his wife, and she was Catherine Parr, widow of Lord Latimer. She leaned towards the reformed religion; and it is some comfort to know, that she tormented the King considerably by arguing a variety of doctrinal points with him on all possible occasions. She had very nearly done this to her own destruction. After one of these conversations the King in a very black mood actually instructed Gardiner, one of his Bishops who favoured the Popish opinions, to draw a bill of accusation against her, which would have inevitably brought her to the scaffold where her predecessors had died, but that one of her friends picked up the paper of instructions which had been dropped in the palace, and gave her timely notice. She fell ill with terror; but managed the King so well when he came to entrap her into further statements—by saying that she had only spoken on such points to divert his mind and to get some information from his extraordinary wisdom—that he gave her a kiss and called her his sweetheart. And, when the Chancellor came next day actually to take her to the Tower, the King sent him about his business, and honoured him with the epithets of a beast, a knave, and a fool. So near was Catherine Parr to the block, and so narrow was her escape!

He married again. Yes, it’s strange to say, he found another woman in England who would become his wife, and she was Catherine Parr, the widow of Lord Latimer. She was sympathetic to the reformed religion; and it’s somewhat comforting to know that she greatly annoyed the King by arguing various doctrinal points with him at every chance she got. She nearly paid for this with her life. After one of these discussions, the King, in a very foul mood, actually ordered Gardiner, one of his Bishops who supported Catholic views, to prepare an accusation against her, which would have inevitably led her to the scaffold where her predecessors had died, if one of her friends hadn’t found the dropped instructions in the palace and warned her just in time. She fell ill with fear; but when the King came to trap her into making further statements, she managed to handle him well—she claimed she had only spoken about those subjects to distract him and gain some insight from his remarkable wisdom—so he gave her a kiss and called her his sweetheart. And when the Chancellor arrived the next day to actually take her to the Tower, the King sent him away, insulting him by calling him a beast, a knave, and a fool. Catherine Parr was so close to the executioner, and she narrowly escaped!

There was war with Scotland in this reign, and a short clumsy war with France for favouring Scotland; but, the events at home were so dreadful, and leave such an enduring stain on the country, that I need say no more of what happened abroad.

There was a war with Scotland during this reign, alongside a brief, awkward conflict with France for supporting Scotland; however, the events at home were so terrible and left such a lasting mark on the country that I won’t elaborate further on what occurred overseas.

A few more horrors, and this reign is over. There was a lady, Anne Askew, in Lincolnshire, who inclined to the Protestant opinions, and whose husband being a fierce Catholic, turned her out of his house. She came to London, and was considered as offending against the six articles, and was taken to the Tower, and put upon the rack—probably because it was hoped that she might, in her agony, criminate some obnoxious persons; if falsely, so much the better. She was tortured without uttering a cry, until the Lieutenant of the Tower would suffer his men to torture her no more; and then two priests who were present actually pulled off their robes, and turned the wheels of the rack with their own hands, so rending and twisting and breaking her that she was afterwards carried to the fire in a chair. She was burned with three others, a gentleman, a clergyman, and a tailor; and so the world went on.

A few more horrors, and this reign is over. There was a woman, Anne Askew, in Lincolnshire, who held Protestant beliefs, and when her husband, a staunch Catholic, kicked her out of their home. She went to London, where she was seen as violating the six articles and was taken to the Tower, where she was tortured on the rack—likely in the hope that she would, in her pain, accuse some people they wanted to target; if she falsely accused anyone, that would be even better. She endured the torture without screaming until the Lieutenant of the Tower finally allowed his men to stop. Then, two priests who were there literally took off their robes and operated the rack themselves, pulling, twisting, and breaking her to the point that she had to be taken to the fire in a chair. She was burned along with three others—a gentleman, a clergyman, and a tailor; and life moved on.

Either the King became afraid of the power of the Duke of Norfolk, and his son the Earl of Surrey, or they gave him some offence, but he resolved to pull them down, to follow all the rest who were gone. The son was tried first—of course for nothing—and defended himself bravely; but of course he was found guilty, and of course he was executed. Then his father was laid hold of, and left for death too.

Either the King became fearful of the Duke of Norfolk and his son, the Earl of Surrey, or they offended him in some way, but he decided to take them down, following the example of others who had fallen. The son was tried first—obviously for no good reason—and defended himself valiantly; but naturally, he was found guilty, and of course, he was executed. Then his father was captured as well and faced the same fate.

But the King himself was left for death by a Greater King, and the earth was to be rid of him at last. He was now a swollen, hideous spectacle, with a great hole in his leg, and so odious to every sense that it was dreadful to approach him. When he was found to be dying, Cranmer was sent for from his palace at Croydon, and came with all speed, but found him speechless. Happily, in that hour he perished. He was in the fifty-sixth year of his age, and the thirty-eighth of his reign.

But the King himself was abandoned by a Greater King, and the earth was finally going to be free of him. He had become a swollen, grotesque sight, with a huge wound in his leg, so repulsive to every sense that it was horrifying to get near him. When it was discovered that he was dying, Cranmer was summoned from his palace in Croydon and rushed over, but he found the King unable to speak. Fortunately, at that moment, he passed away. He was fifty-six years old and had been reigning for thirty-eight years.

Henry the Eighth has been favoured by some Protestant writers, because the Reformation was achieved in his time. But the mighty merit of it lies with other men and not with him; and it can be rendered none the worse by this monster’s crimes, and none the better by any defence of them. The plain truth is, that he was a most intolerable ruffian, a disgrace to human nature, and a blot of blood and grease upon the History of England.

Henry the Eighth has been praised by some Protestant writers because the Reformation happened during his reign. But the real credit goes to other people, not him; his crimes don't lessen the impact of the Reformation, nor do any defenses of him improve it. The plain truth is that he was a truly terrible person, a disgrace to humanity, and a stain of blood and corruption on the history of England.

CHAPTER XXIX—ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SIXTH

Henry the Eighth had made a will, appointing a council of sixteen to govern the kingdom for his son while he was under age (he was now only ten years old), and another council of twelve to help them. The most powerful of the first council was the Earl of Hertford, the young King’s uncle, who lost no time in bringing his nephew with great state up to Enfield, and thence to the Tower. It was considered at the time a striking proof of virtue in the young King that he was sorry for his father’s death; but, as common subjects have that virtue too, sometimes, we will say no more about it.

Henry the Eighth had created a will that appointed a council of sixteen to rule the kingdom for his son while he was still a minor (he was only ten years old). There was also another council of twelve to support them. The most influential member of the first council was the Earl of Hertford, the young King’s uncle, who quickly arranged for his nephew to be brought with great ceremony to Enfield, and then to the Tower. At the time, it was viewed as a notable sign of the young King’s character that he felt sad about his father’s death; however, since regular people can have that kind of virtue too at times, we won’t dwell on it.

There was a curious part of the late King’s will, requiring his executors to fulfil whatever promises he had made. Some of the court wondering what these might be, the Earl of Hertford and the other noblemen interested, said that they were promises to advance and enrich them. So, the Earl of Hertford made himself Duke of Somerset, and made his brother Edward Seymour a baron; and there were various similar promotions, all very agreeable to the parties concerned, and very dutiful, no doubt, to the late King’s memory. To be more dutiful still, they made themselves rich out of the Church lands, and were very comfortable. The new Duke of Somerset caused himself to be declared Protector of the kingdom, and was, indeed, the King.

There was a strange part of the late King’s will that required his executors to keep any promises he had made. Some members of the court were curious about these promises, and the Earl of Hertford and other interested nobles claimed that they were promises to help and enrich them. So, the Earl of Hertford declared himself Duke of Somerset and made his brother Edward Seymour a baron; there were various similar promotions, all very favorable to those involved and certainly respectful of the late King’s memory. To be even more respectful, they got rich off the Church lands and lived comfortably. The new Duke of Somerset declared himself Guardian of the kingdom and was, in fact, the King.

As young Edward the Sixth had been brought up in the principles of the Protestant religion, everybody knew that they would be maintained. But Cranmer, to whom they were chiefly entrusted, advanced them steadily and temperately. Many superstitious and ridiculous practices were stopped; but practices which were harmless were not interfered with.

As young Edward the Sixth had been raised with the beliefs of the Protestant faith, it was clear that they would be upheld. However, Cranmer, who was mainly responsible for this, promoted them carefully and reasonably. Many superstitious and absurd practices were abolished, but harmless customs were left alone.

The Duke of Somerset, the Protector, was anxious to have the young King engaged in marriage to the young Queen of Scotland, in order to prevent that princess from making an alliance with any foreign power; but, as a large party in Scotland were unfavourable to this plan, he invaded that country. His excuse for doing so was, that the Border men—that is, the Scotch who lived in that part of the country where England and Scotland joined—troubled the English very much. But there were two sides to this question; for the English Border men troubled the Scotch too; and, through many long years, there were perpetual border quarrels which gave rise to numbers of old tales and songs. However, the Protector invaded Scotland; and Arran, the Scottish Regent, with an army twice as large as his, advanced to meet him. They encountered on the banks of the river Esk, within a few miles of Edinburgh; and there, after a little skirmish, the Protector made such moderate proposals, in offering to retire if the Scotch would only engage not to marry their princess to any foreign prince, that the Regent thought the English were afraid. But in this he made a horrible mistake; for the English soldiers on land, and the English sailors on the water, so set upon the Scotch, that they broke and fled, and more than ten thousand of them were killed. It was a dreadful battle, for the fugitives were slain without mercy. The ground for four miles, all the way to Edinburgh, was strewn with dead men, and with arms, and legs, and heads. Some hid themselves in streams and were drowned; some threw away their armour and were killed running, almost naked; but in this battle of Pinkey the English lost only two or three hundred men. They were much better clothed than the Scotch; at the poverty of whose appearance and country they were exceedingly astonished.

The Duke of Somerset, the Protector, was eager to marry the young King to the young Queen of Scotland to stop her from forming alliances with foreign powers. However, since many in Scotland opposed this plan, he invaded the country. His reason for the invasion was that the Border men—Scots living near the England-Scotland border—were causing problems for the English. Yet, this issue had two sides; the English Border men also troubled the Scots, resulting in years of continuous border disputes that inspired countless tales and songs. Nevertheless, the Protector moved into Scotland, and Arran, the Scottish Regent, brought an army twice his size to confront him. They met on the banks of the River Esk, just a few miles from Edinburgh. After a brief skirmish, the Protector presented moderate terms, proposing to withdraw if the Scots agreed not to marry their princess to any foreign prince. The Regent misread the situation and thought the English were scared. However, this was a serious error; the English soldiers on land and sailors in the water attacked the Scots fiercely, leading to a rout with over ten thousand Scots killed. It was a brutal battle, with the fleeing soldiers being mercilessly slaughtered. For four miles, all the way to Edinburgh, the ground was covered with corpses, arms, legs, and heads. Some tried to hide in streams and drowned; others discarded their armor and were killed while running, nearly naked. In the Battle of Pinkie, the English suffered only two or three hundred casualties. They were much better equipped than the Scots, whose appearance and poverty greatly surprised them.

A Parliament was called when Somerset came back, and it repealed the whip with six strings, and did one or two other good things; though it unhappily retained the punishment of burning for those people who did not make believe to believe, in all religious matters, what the Government had declared that they must and should believe. It also made a foolish law (meant to put down beggars), that any man who lived idly and loitered about for three days together, should be burned with a hot iron, made a slave, and wear an iron fetter. But this savage absurdity soon came to an end, and went the way of a great many other foolish laws.

A Parliament was called when Somerset returned, and it repealed the six-string whip and did a couple of other good things; although, unfortunately, it kept the punishment of burning for those who didn't pretend to believe in all the religious matters the Government insisted they should. It also enacted a foolish law (intended to curb begging) that stated any man who lived idly and loitered for three days straight should be burned with a hot iron, made a slave, and forced to wear an iron shackle. But this brutal nonsense soon ended and joined many other ill-conceived laws in history.

The Protector was now so proud that he sat in Parliament before all the nobles, on the right hand of the throne. Many other noblemen, who only wanted to be as proud if they could get a chance, became his enemies of course; and it is supposed that he came back suddenly from Scotland because he had received news that his brother, Lord Seymour, was becoming dangerous to him. This lord was now High Admiral of England; a very handsome man, and a great favourite with the Court ladies—even with the young Princess Elizabeth, who romped with him a little more than young princesses in these times do with any one. He had married Catherine Parr, the late King’s widow, who was now dead; and, to strengthen his power, he secretly supplied the young King with money. He may even have engaged with some of his brother’s enemies in a plot to carry the boy off. On these and other accusations, at any rate, he was confined in the Tower, impeached, and found guilty; his own brother’s name being—unnatural and sad to tell—the first signed to the warrant of his execution. He was executed on Tower Hill, and died denying his treason. One of his last proceedings in this world was to write two letters, one to the Princess Elizabeth, and one to the Princess Mary, which a servant of his took charge of, and concealed in his shoe. These letters are supposed to have urged them against his brother, and to revenge his death. What they truly contained is not known; but there is no doubt that he had, at one time, obtained great influence over the Princess Elizabeth.

The Protector was now so proud that he sat in Parliament before all the nobles, at the right side of the throne. Many other noblemen, who only wanted to be as proud if they had the chance, naturally became his enemies; and it's believed he returned suddenly from Scotland because he heard his brother, Lord Seymour, was becoming a threat to him. This lord was now High Admiral of England; a very handsome man and a favorite among the Court ladies—even with young Princess Elizabeth, who played around with him a little more than young princesses do these days with anyone. He had married Catherine Parr, the late King’s widow, who was now deceased; and to strengthen his power, he secretly supplied the young King with money. He might have even gotten involved with some of his brother’s enemies in a plot to kidnap the boy. For these and other accusations, he was imprisoned in the Tower, impeached, and found guilty; his own brother's name being—unnatural and sadly so—the first to sign the execution warrant. He was executed on Tower Hill, and he died insisting he was not a traitor. One of the last things he did in this world was write two letters, one to Princess Elizabeth and one to Princess Mary, which a servant of his took and hid in his shoe. These letters are thought to have urged them to turn against his brother and seek revenge for his death. What they truly contained is unknown; but there’s no doubt he had, at one time, gained a lot of influence over Princess Elizabeth.

All this while, the Protestant religion was making progress. The images which the people had gradually come to worship, were removed from the churches; the people were informed that they need not confess themselves to priests unless they chose; a common prayer-book was drawn up in the English language, which all could understand, and many other improvements were made; still moderately. For Cranmer was a very moderate man, and even restrained the Protestant clergy from violently abusing the unreformed religion—as they very often did, and which was not a good example. But the people were at this time in great distress. The rapacious nobility who had come into possession of the Church lands, were very bad landlords. They enclosed great quantities of ground for the feeding of sheep, which was then more profitable than the growing of crops; and this increased the general distress. So the people, who still understood little of what was going on about them, and still readily believed what the homeless monks told them—many of whom had been their good friends in their better days—took it into their heads that all this was owing to the reformed religion, and therefore rose, in many parts of the country.

All this time, the Protestant religion was making headway. The images that people had gradually come to worship were taken down from the churches; they were told they didn’t have to confess to priests unless they wanted to; a common prayer book was created in English, which everyone could understand, and many other changes were made, although still cautiously. Cranmer was a very moderate man and even kept the Protestant clergy from harshly criticizing the unreformed religion—as they often did, which was not a good example. However, the people were suffering greatly at this time. The greedy nobility who had taken over the Church lands were terrible landlords. They fenced off large areas of land to raise sheep, which was more profitable than farming crops, further worsening the overall distress. So, the people, who still understood little of what was happening around them and easily believed what the homeless monks told them—many of whom had been their good friends in better times—concluded that all this was caused by the reformed religion, leading to uprisings in many parts of the country.

The most powerful risings were in Devonshire and Norfolk. In Devonshire, the rebellion was so strong that ten thousand men united within a few days, and even laid siege to Exeter. But Lord Russell, coming to the assistance of the citizens who defended that town, defeated the rebels; and, not only hanged the Mayor of one place, but hanged the vicar of another from his own church steeple. What with hanging and killing by the sword, four thousand of the rebels are supposed to have fallen in that one county. In Norfolk (where the rising was more against the enclosure of open lands than against the reformed religion), the popular leader was a man named Robert Ket, a tanner of Wymondham. The mob were, in the first instance, excited against the tanner by one John Flowerdew, a gentleman who owed him a grudge: but the tanner was more than a match for the gentleman, since he soon got the people on his side, and established himself near Norwich with quite an army. There was a large oak-tree in that place, on a spot called Moushold Hill, which Ket named the Tree of Reformation; and under its green boughs, he and his men sat, in the midsummer weather, holding courts of justice, and debating affairs of state. They were even impartial enough to allow some rather tiresome public speakers to get up into this Tree of Reformation, and point out their errors to them, in long discourses, while they lay listening (not always without some grumbling and growling) in the shade below. At last, one sunny July day, a herald appeared below the tree, and proclaimed Ket and all his men traitors, unless from that moment they dispersed and went home: in which case they were to receive a pardon. But, Ket and his men made light of the herald and became stronger than ever, until the Earl of Warwick went after them with a sufficient force, and cut them all to pieces. A few were hanged, drawn, and quartered, as traitors, and their limbs were sent into various country places to be a terror to the people. Nine of them were hanged upon nine green branches of the Oak of Reformation; and so, for the time, that tree may be said to have withered away.

The biggest uprisings happened in Devonshire and Norfolk. In Devonshire, the rebellion was so intense that ten thousand men came together in just a few days and even besieged Exeter. But Lord Russell arrived to help the townspeople defending that city and defeated the rebels. He not only hanged the Mayor of one town but also hanged the vicar of another from his own church steeple. With all the hanging and killings by sword, it’s believed that four thousand rebels died in that one county. In Norfolk (where the uprising was mainly about the enclosure of open lands rather than the reformed religion), the popular leader was a man named Robert K., a tanner from Wymondham. The mob was initially stirred up against the tanner by a gentleman named John Flowerdew, who had a personal grievance against him. However, the tanner quickly gained the support of the people and established himself near Norwich with quite a large army. There was a big oak tree in that area, on a place called Moushold Hill, which Ket named the Tree of Reformation; underneath its green branches, he and his men sat in the summer weather, holding courts of justice and discussing state matters. They even allowed some rather annoying public speakers to climb up into the Tree of Reformation and point out their mistakes in long speeches, while they rested below, sometimes grumbling and complaining. Finally, on a sunny day in July, a herald appeared beneath the tree and declared Ket and his men traitors unless they dispersed and returned home at that moment, in which case they would receive a pardon. But Ket and his men ignored the herald and grew even stronger until the Earl of Warwick came after them with enough forces and wiped them out. A few were hanged, drawn, and quartered as traitors, and their body parts were sent to different places to instill fear in the people. Nine of them were hanged on nine green branches of the Oak of Reformation; thus, that tree may be said to have withered away for the time being.

The Protector, though a haughty man, had compassion for the real distresses of the common people, and a sincere desire to help them. But he was too proud and too high in degree to hold even their favour steadily; and many of the nobles always envied and hated him, because they were as proud and not as high as he. He was at this time building a great Palace in the Strand: to get the stone for which he blew up church steeples with gunpowder, and pulled down bishops’ houses: thus making himself still more disliked. At length, his principal enemy, the Earl of Warwick—Dudley by name, and the son of that Dudley who had made himself so odious with Empson, in the reign of Henry the Seventh—joined with seven other members of the Council against him, formed a separate Council; and, becoming stronger in a few days, sent him to the Tower under twenty-nine articles of accusation. After being sentenced by the Council to the forfeiture of all his offices and lands, he was liberated and pardoned, on making a very humble submission. He was even taken back into the Council again, after having suffered this fall, and married his daughter, Lady Anne Seymour, to Warwick’s eldest son. But such a reconciliation was little likely to last, and did not outlive a year. Warwick, having got himself made Duke of Northumberland, and having advanced the more important of his friends, then finished the history by causing the Duke of Somerset and his friend Lord Grey, and others, to be arrested for treason, in having conspired to seize and dethrone the King. They were also accused of having intended to seize the new Duke of Northumberland, with his friends Lord Northampton and Lord Pembroke; to murder them if they found need; and to raise the City to revolt. All this the fallen Protector positively denied; except that he confessed to having spoken of the murder of those three noblemen, but having never designed it. He was acquitted of the charge of treason, and found guilty of the other charges; so when the people—who remembered his having been their friend, now that he was disgraced and in danger, saw him come out from his trial with the axe turned from him—they thought he was altogether acquitted, and sent up a loud shout of joy.

The Protector, although a proud man, genuinely cared about the real struggles of everyday people and sincerely wanted to help them. But he was too arrogant and too powerful to maintain their support for long, and many nobles always envied and despised him because they were just as proud but not as prominent. At that time, he was building a grand Palace in the Strand; to source the stone for it, he blew up church steeples with gunpowder and demolished bishops’ houses, which made him even more unpopular. Eventually, his main rival, the Earl of Warwick—Dudley, the son of the infamous Dudley who had been so hated alongside Empson during Henry the Seventh's reign—teamed up with seven other Council members against him, formed a separate Council, and quickly gained power, sending him to the Tower under twenty-nine charges. After being sentenced by the Council to lose all his offices and lands, he was released and pardoned after making a very submissive apology. He was even brought back into the Council after this downfall and married his daughter, Lady Anne Seymour, to Warwick’s eldest son. However, such a reconciliation was unlikely to last and didn’t even survive a year. Warwick, having been made Duke of Northumberland and having promoted his key allies, then completed the story by having the Duke of Somerset, his friend Lord Grey, and others arrested for treason for conspiring to seize and dethrone the King. They were also accused of planning to capture the new Duke of Northumberland, along with his allies Lord Northampton and Lord Pembroke; to kill them if necessary; and to incite a revolt in the City. The fallen Protector categorically denied all of this, admitting only that he had talked about the murder of those three noblemen but had never intended it. He was acquitted of the treason charge but found guilty of the other accusations; so when the people—who remembered him as their friend—saw him emerge from his trial with the axe turned away from him, they believed he was completely cleared and erupted in cheers of joy.

But the Duke of Somerset was ordered to be beheaded on Tower Hill, at eight o’clock in the morning, and proclamations were issued bidding the citizens keep at home until after ten. They filled the streets, however, and crowded the place of execution as soon as it was light; and, with sad faces and sad hearts, saw the once powerful Protector ascend the scaffold to lay his head upon the dreadful block. While he was yet saying his last words to them with manly courage, and telling them, in particular, how it comforted him, at that pass, to have assisted in reforming the national religion, a member of the Council was seen riding up on horseback. They again thought that the Duke was saved by his bringing a reprieve, and again shouted for joy. But the Duke himself told them they were mistaken, and laid down his head and had it struck off at a blow.

But the Duke of Somerset was ordered to be beheaded at Tower Hill at eight in the morning, and announcements were made telling the citizens to stay home until after ten. However, they filled the streets and crowded around the execution site as soon as it was light. With sad faces and heavy hearts, they watched the once-powerful Protector go up to the scaffold to lay his head on the dreadful block. While he was still saying his last words to them with brave courage, telling them, in particular, how comforting it was for him, at that moment, to have contributed to reforming the national religion, a member of the Council was seen riding up on horseback. They once again thought the Duke was saved because he was bringing a reprieve, and they shouted with joy. But the Duke himself told them they were wrong, laid down his head, and had it struck off in one blow.

Many of the bystanders rushed forward and steeped their handkerchiefs in his blood, as a mark of their affection. He had, indeed, been capable of many good acts, and one of them was discovered after he was no more. The Bishop of Durham, a very good man, had been informed against to the Council, when the Duke was in power, as having answered a treacherous letter proposing a rebellion against the reformed religion. As the answer could not be found, he could not be declared guilty; but it was now discovered, hidden by the Duke himself among some private papers, in his regard for that good man. The Bishop lost his office, and was deprived of his possessions.

Many of the onlookers rushed forward and soaked their handkerchiefs in his blood as a sign of their love. He had, in fact, done many good deeds, and one was revealed after his death. The Bishop of Durham, a genuinely good man, had been reported to the Council when the Duke was in power for allegedly responding to a treacherous letter suggesting a rebellion against the reformed religion. Since the answer couldn’t be found, he couldn’t be declared guilty; however, it was later discovered, concealed by the Duke himself among some private documents, out of respect for that good man. The Bishop lost his position and was stripped of his possessions.

It is not very pleasant to know that while his uncle lay in prison under sentence of death, the young King was being vastly entertained by plays, and dances, and sham fights: but there is no doubt of it, for he kept a journal himself. It is pleasanter to know that not a single Roman Catholic was burnt in this reign for holding that religion; though two wretched victims suffered for heresy. One, a woman named Joan Bocher, for professing some opinions that even she could only explain in unintelligible jargon. The other, a Dutchman, named Von Paris, who practised as a surgeon in London. Edward was, to his credit, exceedingly unwilling to sign the warrant for the woman’s execution: shedding tears before he did so, and telling Cranmer, who urged him to do it (though Cranmer really would have spared the woman at first, but for her own determined obstinacy), that the guilt was not his, but that of the man who so strongly urged the dreadful act. We shall see, too soon, whether the time ever came when Cranmer is likely to have remembered this with sorrow and remorse.

It’s not very pleasant to know that while his uncle was stuck in prison facing the death sentence, the young King was enjoying himself with plays, dances, and fake battles: but it’s true, since he kept a journal himself. It’s nicer to know that not a single Roman Catholic was executed during this reign for practicing their faith; although two unfortunate individuals were punished for heresy. One was a woman named Joan Bocher, for expressing views that even she couldn't explain clearly. The other was a Dutchman named From Paris, who worked as a surgeon in London. Edward, to his credit, was very reluctant to sign the warrant for the woman's execution: he cried before doing it and told Cranmer, who urged him to proceed (even though Cranmer would have initially spared her if not for her stubbornness), that the guilt was not his, but belonged to the man who strongly pushed for the horrific act. We will see soon enough if the time ever came when Cranmer looked back on this with regret and sorrow.

Cranmer and Ridley (at first Bishop of Rochester, and afterwards Bishop of London) were the most powerful of the clergy of this reign. Others were imprisoned and deprived of their property for still adhering to the unreformed religion; the most important among whom were Gardiner Bishop of Winchester, Heath Bishop of Worcester, Day Bishop of Chichester, and Bonner that Bishop of London who was superseded by Ridley. The Princess Mary, who inherited her mother’s gloomy temper, and hated the reformed religion as connected with her mother’s wrongs and sorrows—she knew nothing else about it, always refusing to read a single book in which it was truly described—held by the unreformed religion too, and was the only person in the kingdom for whom the old Mass was allowed to be performed; nor would the young King have made that exception even in her favour, but for the strong persuasions of Cranmer and Ridley. He always viewed it with horror; and when he fell into a sickly condition, after having been very ill, first of the measles and then of the small-pox, he was greatly troubled in mind to think that if he died, and she, the next heir to the throne, succeeded, the Roman Catholic religion would be set up again.

Cranmer and Ridley (initially Bishop of Rochester and later Bishop of London) were the most influential members of the clergy during this reign. Others were imprisoned and stripped of their property for still following the unreformed religion; among the most notable were Gardiner Bishop of Winchester, Health Bishop of Worcester, Day Bishop of Chichester, and Bonner, the Bishop of London who was replaced by Ridley. Princess Mary, who inherited her mother’s gloomy disposition and loathed the reformed religion because she associated it with her mother’s injustices and sorrows—having never bothered to read a single book that accurately described it—also adhered to the unreformed religion and was the only person in the kingdom allowed to have the old Mass performed; the young King wouldn't have made that exception for her if it weren't for the strong arguments of Cranmer and Ridley. He always viewed it with dread, and when he became ill, first with measles and later with smallpox, he was deeply troubled at the thought that if he died and she, the next in line for the throne, took over, the Roman Catholic religion would be reinstated.

This uneasiness, the Duke of Northumberland was not slow to encourage: for, if the Princess Mary came to the throne, he, who had taken part with the Protestants, was sure to be disgraced. Now, the Duchess of Suffolk was descended from King Henry the Seventh; and, if she resigned what little or no right she had, in favour of her daughter Lady Jane Grey, that would be the succession to promote the Duke’s greatness; because Lord Guilford Dudley, one of his sons, was, at this very time, newly married to her. So, he worked upon the King’s fears, and persuaded him to set aside both the Princess Mary and the Princess Elizabeth, and assert his right to appoint his successor. Accordingly the young King handed to the Crown lawyers a writing signed half a dozen times over by himself, appointing Lady Jane Grey to succeed to the Crown, and requiring them to have his will made out according to law. They were much against it at first, and told the King so; but the Duke of Northumberland—being so violent about it that the lawyers even expected him to beat them, and hotly declaring that, stripped to his shirt, he would fight any man in such a quarrel—they yielded. Cranmer, also, at first hesitated; pleading that he had sworn to maintain the succession of the Crown to the Princess Mary; but, he was a weak man in his resolutions, and afterwards signed the document with the rest of the council.

This unease, the Duke of Northumberland was quick to fuel: if Princess Mary took the throne, he, having supported the Protestants, would definitely be disgraced. The Duchess of Suffolk was descended from King Henry VII; if she gave up her minimal claim in favor of her daughter Queen Jane Grey, it would boost the Duke’s power, especially since Lord Guilford Dudley, one of his sons, was newly married to her. So, he played on the King’s fears and convinced him to dismiss both Princess Mary and Princess Elizabeth, asserting his right to choose his successor. The young King then handed a document to the Crown lawyers, signed multiple times by him, appointing Lady Jane Grey as his successor, and instructed them to formalize his will legally. They initially opposed it, telling the King so; but the Duke of Northumberland was so aggressive about it that the lawyers feared he might hit them, fiercely insisting that he would fight anyone over this issue if he had to. They ultimately gave in. Cranmer also hesitated at first, arguing that he had sworn to uphold the succession for Princess Mary; however, he was weak-willed in his convictions and later signed the document with the rest of the council.

It was completed none too soon; for Edward was now sinking in a rapid decline; and, by way of making him better, they handed him over to a woman-doctor who pretended to be able to cure it. He speedily got worse. On the sixth of July, in the year one thousand five hundred and fifty-three, he died, very peaceably and piously, praying God, with his last breath, to protect the reformed religion.

It was finished just in time; Edward was quickly getting worse, and to help him, they turned to a female doctor who claimed she could cure him. He rapidly deteriorated. On July 6, 1553, he died peacefully and with devotion, praying to God with his last breath to protect the reformed religion.

This King died in the sixteenth year of his age, and in the seventh of his reign. It is difficult to judge what the character of one so young might afterwards have become among so many bad, ambitious, quarrelling nobles. But, he was an amiable boy, of very good abilities, and had nothing coarse or cruel or brutal in his disposition—which in the son of such a father is rather surprising.

This king died at the age of sixteen and in the seventh year of his reign. It's hard to say what kind of person he might have become among so many corrupt, power-hungry, and conflict-prone nobles. However, he was a likable boy, with strong abilities, and he didn't have any coarse, cruel, or brutal traits in his character—which is quite surprising for the son of such a father.

CHAPTER XXX—ENGLAND UNDER MARY

The Duke of Northumberland was very anxious to keep the young King’s death a secret, in order that he might get the two Princesses into his power. But, the Princess Mary, being informed of that event as she was on her way to London to see her sick brother, turned her horse’s head, and rode away into Norfolk. The Earl of Arundel was her friend, and it was he who sent her warning of what had happened.

The Duke of Northumberland was really eager to keep the young King’s death a secret so he could gain control over the two Princesses. However, Princess Mary, upon hearing about this while she was traveling to London to visit her sick brother, turned her horse around and rode off to Norfolk. The Earl of Arundel was her ally, and he was the one who warned her about what had happened.

As the secret could not be kept, the Duke of Northumberland and the council sent for the Lord Mayor of London and some of the aldermen, and made a merit of telling it to them. Then, they made it known to the people, and set off to inform Lady Jane Grey that she was to be Queen.

As the secret couldn't be kept any longer, the Duke of Northumberland and the council called for the Lord Mayor of London and some of the aldermen, and made a point of sharing the news with them. Then, they announced it to the people and set out to inform Lady Jane Grey that she was going to be Queen.

She was a pretty girl of only sixteen, and was amiable, learned, and clever. When the lords who came to her, fell on their knees before her, and told her what tidings they brought, she was so astonished that she fainted. On recovering, she expressed her sorrow for the young King’s death, and said that she knew she was unfit to govern the kingdom; but that if she must be Queen, she prayed God to direct her. She was then at Sion House, near Brentford; and the lords took her down the river in state to the Tower, that she might remain there (as the custom was) until she was crowned. But the people were not at all favourable to Lady Jane, considering that the right to be Queen was Mary’s, and greatly disliking the Duke of Northumberland. They were not put into a better humour by the Duke’s causing a vintner’s servant, one Gabriel Pot, to be taken up for expressing his dissatisfaction among the crowd, and to have his ears nailed to the pillory, and cut off. Some powerful men among the nobility declared on Mary’s side. They raised troops to support her cause, had her proclaimed Queen at Norwich, and gathered around her at the castle of Framlingham, which belonged to the Duke of Norfolk. For, she was not considered so safe as yet, but that it was best to keep her in a castle on the sea-coast, from whence she might be sent abroad, if necessary.

She was a pretty girl of only sixteen, and she was friendly, educated, and smart. When the lords came to her, knelt before her, and shared the news they had, she was so shocked that she fainted. When she came to, she expressed her sadness over the young King’s death and admitted she felt unfit to rule the kingdom; however, if she had to be Queen, she prayed for God’s guidance. At that time, she was at Sion House, near Brentford, and the lords took her down the river in a grand procession to the Tower, where she would stay (as was customary) until her coronation. But the people were not at all supportive of Lady Jane, believing that the right to be Queen belonged to Mary, and they strongly disliked the Duke of Northumberland. The situation worsened when the Duke had a vintner’s servant, Gabriel Pot, arrested for expressing his discontent among the crowd; he had his ears nailed to the pillory and then cut off. Some influential nobles rallied behind Mary. They raised troops to support her claim, proclaimed her Queen in Norwich, and gathered around her at the Framlingham castle, which belonged to the Duke of Norfolk. She was still considered vulnerable, so it was deemed safest to keep her in a coastal castle, from where she could be sent abroad if necessary.

The Council would have despatched Lady Jane’s father, the Duke of Suffolk, as the general of the army against this force; but, as Lady Jane implored that her father might remain with her, and as he was known to be but a weak man, they told the Duke of Northumberland that he must take the command himself. He was not very ready to do so, as he mistrusted the Council much; but there was no help for it, and he set forth with a heavy heart, observing to a lord who rode beside him through Shoreditch at the head of the troops, that, although the people pressed in great numbers to look at them, they were terribly silent.

The Council would have sent Lady Jane’s father, the Duke of Suffolk, as the general of the army against this force; however, since Lady Jane pleaded for her father to stay with her, and he was known to be rather weak, they informed the Duke of Northumberland that he had to take command himself. He was reluctant to do so because he didn't trust the Council much; but there was no choice, and he set out with a heavy heart, telling a lord who rode beside him through Shoreditch at the head of the troops that, even though many people had gathered to watch them, they were shockingly silent.

And his fears for himself turned out to be well founded. While he was waiting at Cambridge for further help from the Council, the Council took it into their heads to turn their backs on Lady Jane’s cause, and to take up the Princess Mary’s. This was chiefly owing to the before-mentioned Earl of Arundel, who represented to the Lord Mayor and aldermen, in a second interview with those sagacious persons, that, as for himself, he did not perceive the Reformed religion to be in much danger—which Lord Pembroke backed by flourishing his sword as another kind of persuasion. The Lord Mayor and aldermen, thus enlightened, said there could be no doubt that the Princess Mary ought to be Queen. So, she was proclaimed at the Cross by St. Paul’s, and barrels of wine were given to the people, and they got very drunk, and danced round blazing bonfires—little thinking, poor wretches, what other bonfires would soon be blazing in Queen Mary’s name.

And his fears for himself turned out to be justified. While he was waiting at Cambridge for more support from the Council, the Council decided to abandon Lady Jane’s cause and support Princess Mary’s instead. This was mainly due to the previously mentioned Earl of Arundel, who convinced the Lord Mayor and aldermen in a second meeting that he didn’t see the Reformed religion as being in much danger—which Lord Pembroke supported by waving his sword as another form of persuasion. The Lord Mayor and aldermen, now convinced, stated there was no doubt that Princess Mary should be Queen. So, she was proclaimed at the Cross by St. Paul’s, and barrels of wine were given to the people, who got very drunk and danced around blazing bonfires—poor souls, unaware of the other bonfires that would soon be lit in Queen Mary’s name.

After a ten days’ dream of royalty, Lady Jane Grey resigned the Crown with great willingness, saying that she had only accepted it in obedience to her father and mother; and went gladly back to her pleasant house by the river, and her books. Mary then came on towards London; and at Wanstead in Essex, was joined by her half-sister, the Princess Elizabeth. They passed through the streets of London to the Tower, and there the new Queen met some eminent prisoners then confined in it, kissed them, and gave them their liberty. Among these was that Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, who had been imprisoned in the last reign for holding to the unreformed religion. Him she soon made chancellor.

After ten days of dreaming about being royal, Lady Jane Grey willingly gave up the Crown, saying she had only accepted it to obey her parents. She happily returned to her lovely house by the river and her books. Mary then headed towards London and was joined by her half-sister, Princess Elizabeth, at Wanstead in Essex. They passed through the streets of London to the Tower, where the new Queen met some prominent prisoners held there, kissed them, and granted them freedom. Among them was Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester, who had been imprisoned during the last reign for sticking to the old religion. She soon made him chancellor.

The Duke of Northumberland had been taken prisoner, and, together with his son and five others, was quickly brought before the Council. He, not unnaturally, asked that Council, in his defence, whether it was treason to obey orders that had been issued under the great seal; and, if it were, whether they, who had obeyed them too, ought to be his judges? But they made light of these points; and, being resolved to have him out of the way, soon sentenced him to death. He had risen into power upon the death of another man, and made but a poor show (as might be expected) when he himself lay low. He entreated Gardiner to let him live, if it were only in a mouse’s hole; and, when he ascended the scaffold to be beheaded on Tower Hill, addressed the people in a miserable way, saying that he had been incited by others, and exhorting them to return to the unreformed religion, which he told them was his faith. There seems reason to suppose that he expected a pardon even then, in return for this confession; but it matters little whether he did or not. His head was struck off.

The Duke of Northumberland had been captured and, along with his son and five others, was quickly brought before the Council. He understandably asked the Council, in his defense, whether it was treason to follow orders given under the great seal; and if it was, shouldn’t those who had followed them too be his judges? However, they dismissed these points; determined to eliminate him, they quickly sentenced him to death. He had risen to power after another man’s death and made a poor impression (as could be expected) when he was brought low himself. He begged Gardiner to spare his life, even if just to hide in a mouse's hole; and when he climbed the scaffold to be executed on Tower Hill, he addressed the crowd pathetically, claiming he had been influenced by others and urging them to return to the unreformed religion, which he said was his belief. There seems to be reason to think he expected a pardon even then, in exchange for this confession; but it doesn’t matter much whether he did or not. His head was chopped off.

Mary was now crowned Queen. She was thirty-seven years of age, short and thin, wrinkled in the face, and very unhealthy. But she had a great liking for show and for bright colours, and all the ladies of her Court were magnificently dressed. She had a great liking too for old customs, without much sense in them; and she was oiled in the oldest way, and blessed in the oldest way, and done all manner of things to in the oldest way, at her coronation. I hope they did her good.

Mary was now crowned Queen. She was thirty-seven, short and thin, with wrinkled skin and in poor health. But she loved a grand display and bright colors, and all the ladies at her Court were dressed magnificently. She also had a fondness for old traditions, even those that didn’t make much sense; she was treated according to the oldest customs, anointed the traditional way, and went through all sorts of rituals in the oldest manner at her coronation. I hope they were beneficial for her.

She soon began to show her desire to put down the Reformed religion, and put up the unreformed one: though it was dangerous work as yet, the people being something wiser than they used to be. They even cast a shower of stones—and among them a dagger—at one of the royal chaplains who attacked the Reformed religion in a public sermon. But the Queen and her priests went steadily on. Ridley, the powerful bishop of the last reign, was seized and sent to the Tower. Latimer, also celebrated among the Clergy of the last reign, was likewise sent to the Tower, and Cranmer speedily followed. Latimer was an aged man; and, as his guards took him through Smithfield, he looked round it, and said, ‘This is a place that hath long groaned for me.’ For he knew well, what kind of bonfires would soon be burning. Nor was the knowledge confined to him. The prisons were fast filled with the chief Protestants, who were there left rotting in darkness, hunger, dirt, and separation from their friends; many, who had time left them for escape, fled from the kingdom; and the dullest of the people began, now, to see what was coming.

She soon started to express her desire to dismantle the Reformed religion and promote the unreformed one: although it was risky work at that time, the people were a bit wiser than before. They even threw a barrage of stones—and among them a dagger—at one of the royal chaplains who criticized the Reformed religion in a public sermon. But the Queen and her priests pressed on. Ridley, the powerful bishop from the previous reign, was captured and sent to the Tower. Latimer, also well-known among the clergy of the last reign, was similarly sent to the Tower, with Cranmer following soon after. Latimer was an elderly man, and as his guards escorted him through Smithfield, he looked around and said, ‘This is a place that has long groaned for me.’ For he understood well what kind of bonfires would soon be lit. And he wasn’t the only one who knew. The prisons quickly filled with the leading Protestants, left to rot in darkness, hunger, filth, and isolation from their friends; many who had time to escape fled the kingdom; and even the dullest people began to see what was on the horizon.

It came on fast. A Parliament was got together; not without strong suspicion of unfairness; and they annulled the divorce, formerly pronounced by Cranmer between the Queen’s mother and King Henry the Eighth, and unmade all the laws on the subject of religion that had been made in the last King Edward’s reign. They began their proceedings, in violation of the law, by having the old mass said before them in Latin, and by turning out a bishop who would not kneel down. They also declared guilty of treason, Lady Jane Grey for aspiring to the Crown; her husband, for being her husband; and Cranmer, for not believing in the mass aforesaid. They then prayed the Queen graciously to choose a husband for herself, as soon as might be.

It happened quickly. A Parliament was assembled, not without serious doubts about its fairness; they reversed the divorce that Cranmer had previously declared between the Queen’s mother and King Henry the Eighth, and they nullified all the laws regarding religion that had been established during King Edward’s reign. They started their actions, breaking the law, by having the old mass performed in Latin before them and by kicking out a bishop who refused to kneel. They also charged Lady Jane Grey with treason for wanting the throne; her husband, simply for being her husband; and Cranmer, for not accepting the aforementioned mass. They then requested the Queen to kindly choose a husband for herself as soon as possible.

Now, the question who should be the Queen’s husband had given rise to a great deal of discussion, and to several contending parties. Some said Cardinal Pole was the man—but the Queen was of opinion that he was not the man, he being too old and too much of a student. Others said that the gallant young Courtenay, whom the Queen had made Earl of Devonshire, was the man—and the Queen thought so too, for a while; but she changed her mind. At last it appeared that Philip, Prince of Spain, was certainly the man—though certainly not the people’s man; for they detested the idea of such a marriage from the beginning to the end, and murmured that the Spaniard would establish in England, by the aid of foreign soldiers, the worst abuses of the Popish religion, and even the terrible Inquisition itself.

Now, the question of who should be the Queen’s husband sparked a lot of debate and several opposing sides. Some suggested Cardinal Pole was the right choice, but the Queen believed he was not the one, considering him too old and too much of a scholar. Others claimed that the brave young Courtenay, whom the Queen had made Earl of Devonshire, was the right man—and for a time, the Queen agreed. However, she eventually changed her mind. Ultimately, it became clear that Phil, Prince of Spain, was definitely the one—though he was certainly not the people's choice; they despised the idea of such a marriage from start to finish and grumbled that the Spaniard would use foreign soldiers to bring the worst abuses of the Catholic religion to England, including the horrific Inquisition itself.

These discontents gave rise to a conspiracy for marrying young Courtenay to the Princess Elizabeth, and setting them up, with popular tumults all over the kingdom, against the Queen. This was discovered in time by Gardiner; but in Kent, the old bold county, the people rose in their old bold way. Sir Thomas Wyat, a man of great daring, was their leader. He raised his standard at Maidstone, marched on to Rochester, established himself in the old castle there, and prepared to hold out against the Duke of Norfolk, who came against him with a party of the Queen’s guards, and a body of five hundred London men. The London men, however, were all for Elizabeth, and not at all for Mary. They declared, under the castle walls, for Wyat; the Duke retreated; and Wyat came on to Deptford, at the head of fifteen thousand men.

These frustrations led to a plot to marry young Courtenay to Princess Elizabeth and rally them, with popular uprisings across the kingdom, against the Queen. Gardiner discovered this in time; however, in Kent, the brave old county, the people stood up in their traditional bold manner. Sir Thomas Wyatt, a daring man, was their leader. He raised his banner at Maidstone, marched to Rochester, took over the old castle there, and got ready to defend himself against the Duke of Norfolk, who approached with a group of the Queen’s guards and five hundred men from London. However, the Londoners were all for Elizabeth and completely against Mary. They declared their support for Wyat under the castle walls; the Duke retreated, and Wyat advanced to Deptford at the head of fifteen thousand men.

But these, in their turn, fell away. When he came to Southwark, there were only two thousand left. Not dismayed by finding the London citizens in arms, and the guns at the Tower ready to oppose his crossing the river there, Wyat led them off to Kingston-upon-Thames, intending to cross the bridge that he knew to be in that place, and so to work his way round to Ludgate, one of the old gates of the City. He found the bridge broken down, but mended it, came across, and bravely fought his way up Fleet Street to Ludgate Hill. Finding the gate closed against him, he fought his way back again, sword in hand, to Temple Bar. Here, being overpowered, he surrendered himself, and three or four hundred of his men were taken, besides a hundred killed. Wyat, in a moment of weakness (and perhaps of torture) was afterwards made to accuse the Princess Elizabeth as his accomplice to some very small extent. But his manhood soon returned to him, and he refused to save his life by making any more false confessions. He was quartered and distributed in the usual brutal way, and from fifty to a hundred of his followers were hanged. The rest were led out, with halters round their necks, to be pardoned, and to make a parade of crying out, ‘God save Queen Mary!’

But these, in turn, dwindled away. When he arrived in Southwark, there were only two thousand left. Not discouraged by seeing the London citizens armed, and the guns at the Tower ready to stop his crossing the river there, Wyat led them to Kingston-upon-Thames, planning to cross the bridge he knew was there and make his way to Ludgate, one of the old gates of the City. He found the bridge destroyed but repaired it, crossed over, and bravely fought his way up Fleet Street to Ludgate Hill. Finding the gate closed against him, he fought his way back again, sword in hand, to Temple Bar. Here, overwhelmed, he surrendered, along with three or four hundred of his men who were captured, in addition to a hundred who were killed. Wyat, in a moment of weakness (and possibly under torture), was later forced to accuse Princess Elizabeth as a minor accomplice. But his courage soon returned, and he refused to save his life by making any more false confessions. He was executed in the usual brutal way, and between fifty to a hundred of his followers were hanged. The rest were led out, with nooses around their necks, to be pardoned and to publicly shout, ‘God save Queen Mary!’

In the danger of this rebellion, the Queen showed herself to be a woman of courage and spirit. She disdained to retreat to any place of safety, and went down to the Guildhall, sceptre in hand, and made a gallant speech to the Lord Mayor and citizens. But on the day after Wyat’s defeat, she did the most cruel act, even of her cruel reign, in signing the warrant for the execution of Lady Jane Grey.

In the face of this rebellion, the Queen proved herself to be a woman of courage and strength. She refused to retreat to safety and went down to the Guildhall, sceptre in hand, and made a brave speech to the Lord Mayor and citizens. However, the day after Wyatt’s defeat, she committed the most brutal act of her harsh reign by signing the warrant for Lady Jane Grey's execution.

They tried to persuade Lady Jane to accept the unreformed religion; but she steadily refused. On the morning when she was to die, she saw from her window the bleeding and headless body of her husband brought back in a cart from the scaffold on Tower Hill where he had laid down his life. But, as she had declined to see him before his execution, lest she should be overpowered and not make a good end, so, she even now showed a constancy and calmness that will never be forgotten. She came up to the scaffold with a firm step and a quiet face, and addressed the bystanders in a steady voice. They were not numerous; for she was too young, too innocent and fair, to be murdered before the people on Tower Hill, as her husband had just been; so, the place of her execution was within the Tower itself. She said that she had done an unlawful act in taking what was Queen Mary’s right; but that she had done so with no bad intent, and that she died a humble Christian. She begged the executioner to despatch her quickly, and she asked him, ‘Will you take my head off before I lay me down?’ He answered, ‘No, Madam,’ and then she was very quiet while they bandaged her eyes. Being blinded, and unable to see the block on which she was to lay her young head, she was seen to feel about for it with her hands, and was heard to say, confused, ‘O what shall I do! Where is it?’ Then they guided her to the right place, and the executioner struck off her head. You know too well, now, what dreadful deeds the executioner did in England, through many, many years, and how his axe descended on the hateful block through the necks of some of the bravest, wisest, and best in the land. But it never struck so cruel and so vile a blow as this.

They tried to convince Lady Jane to accept the unaltered religion, but she firmly refused. On the morning of her execution, she saw from her window the bleeding and headless body of her husband being brought back in a cart from the scaffold on Tower Hill, where he had lost his life. However, since she had chosen not to see him before his execution, fearing she would be overwhelmed and wouldn’t have a good end, she now displayed a bravery and calmness that will always be remembered. She approached the scaffold with a steady pace and a composed expression, addressing the onlookers in a clear voice. There weren’t many present, as she was too young, too innocent, and too beautiful to be executed before the crowd on Tower Hill like her husband had just been; so, her execution took place within the Tower itself. She acknowledged that she had committed an unlawful act by taking what belonged to Queen Mary, but insisted she had done so without bad intentions, and that she died a humble Christian. She requested the executioner to finish the task quickly, and asked him, "Will you take my head off before I lie down?" He replied, "No, Madam," and she remained very calm while they covered her eyes. Being blindfolded and unable to see the block where her young head was to rest, she reached out with her hands and was heard saying, confused, "Oh, what shall I do! Where is it?" Then they guided her to the right spot, and the executioner struck off her head. You know too well now the terrible things the executioner did in England over many years, and how his axe fell on the hated block and severed the necks of some of the bravest, wisest, and best in the country. But it never delivered such a cruel and vile blow as this.

The father of Lady Jane soon followed, but was little pitied. Queen Mary’s next object was to lay hold of Elizabeth, and this was pursued with great eagerness. Five hundred men were sent to her retired house at Ashridge, by Berkhampstead, with orders to bring her up, alive or dead. They got there at ten at night, when she was sick in bed. But, their leaders followed her lady into her bedchamber, whence she was brought out betimes next morning, and put into a litter to be conveyed to London. She was so weak and ill, that she was five days on the road; still, she was so resolved to be seen by the people that she had the curtains of the litter opened; and so, very pale and sickly, passed through the streets. She wrote to her sister, saying she was innocent of any crime, and asking why she was made a prisoner; but she got no answer, and was ordered to the Tower. They took her in by the Traitor’s Gate, to which she objected, but in vain. One of the lords who conveyed her offered to cover her with his cloak, as it was raining, but she put it away from her, proudly and scornfully, and passed into the Tower, and sat down in a court-yard on a stone. They besought her to come in out of the wet; but she answered that it was better sitting there, than in a worse place. At length she went to her apartment, where she was kept a prisoner, though not so close a prisoner as at Woodstock, whither she was afterwards removed, and where she is said to have one day envied a milkmaid whom she heard singing in the sunshine as she went through the green fields. Gardiner, than whom there were not many worse men among the fierce and sullen priests, cared little to keep secret his stern desire for her death: being used to say that it was of little service to shake off the leaves, and lop the branches of the tree of heresy, if its root, the hope of heretics, were left. He failed, however, in his benevolent design. Elizabeth was, at length, released; and Hatfield House was assigned to her as a residence, under the care of one Sir Thomas Pope.

The father of Lady Jane soon followed, but received little sympathy. Queen Mary’s next target was Elizabeth, and she pursued this with a lot of eagerness. Five hundred men were sent to her secluded home at Ashridge, near Berkhampstead, with orders to bring her in, alive or dead. They arrived at ten at night while she was sick in bed. However, their leaders followed her into her bedroom, and she was taken out early the next morning and put into a stretcher to be transported to London. She was so weak and ill that the journey took five days; still, she was determined to be seen by the people, so she had the curtains of the stretcher opened and, very pale and frail, passed through the streets. She wrote to her sister, stating that she was innocent of any crime and asking why she was being held prisoner, but received no response and was ordered to the Tower. They brought her in through the Traitor’s Gate, which she objected to, but it was in vain. One of the lords escorting her offered to cover her with his cloak since it was raining, but she pushed it away, proudly and disdainfully, and walked into the Tower, where she sat down on a stone in a courtyard. They urged her to come inside to avoid the rain, but she replied that it was better to sit there than in a worse place. Eventually, she went to her room, where she remained a prisoner, though not as closely confined as at Woodstock, to which she was later moved. There, she reportedly envied a milkmaid she heard singing in the sunlight as she walked through the green fields. Gardiner, one of the worse men among the fierce and sullen priests, made no effort to hide his harsh desire for her death, often saying that it was pointless to shake off the leaves and cut the branches of the tree of heresy if its root, the hope of heretics, remained. However, he failed in his malicious intent. Eventually, Elizabeth was released, and Hatfield House was designated as her residence under the care of Sir Thomas Pope.

It would seem that Philip, the Prince of Spain, was a main cause of this change in Elizabeth’s fortunes. He was not an amiable man, being, on the contrary, proud, overbearing, and gloomy; but he and the Spanish lords who came over with him, assuredly did discountenance the idea of doing any violence to the Princess. It may have been mere prudence, but we will hope it was manhood and honour. The Queen had been expecting her husband with great impatience, and at length he came, to her great joy, though he never cared much for her. They were married by Gardiner, at Winchester, and there was more holiday-making among the people; but they had their old distrust of this Spanish marriage, in which even the Parliament shared. Though the members of that Parliament were far from honest, and were strongly suspected to have been bought with Spanish money, they would pass no bill to enable the Queen to set aside the Princess Elizabeth and appoint her own successor.

It seems that Philip, the Prince of Spain, played a significant role in the shift of Elizabeth’s fortunes. He was not a pleasant man; in fact, he was proud, overbearing, and somber. However, he and the Spanish lords who accompanied him definitely opposed the idea of harming the Princess. It might have been simple caution, but let’s hope it was out of integrity and honor. The Queen had been eagerly awaiting her husband, and when he finally arrived, it brought her great joy, even though he never cared much for her. They got married by Gardiner in Winchester, which led to celebrations among the people; however, there was still old suspicion about this Spanish marriage, a sentiment shared even by Parliament. Although the members of Parliament were far from honest and were strongly suspected of being bribed with Spanish money, they refused to pass any bill that would allow the Queen to disinherit Princess Elizabeth and choose her own successor.

Although Gardiner failed in this object, as well as in the darker one of bringing the Princess to the scaffold, he went on at a great pace in the revival of the unreformed religion. A new Parliament was packed, in which there were no Protestants. Preparations were made to receive Cardinal Pole in England as the Pope’s messenger, bringing his holy declaration that all the nobility who had acquired Church property, should keep it—which was done to enlist their selfish interest on the Pope’s side. Then a great scene was enacted, which was the triumph of the Queen’s plans. Cardinal Pole arrived in great splendour and dignity, and was received with great pomp. The Parliament joined in a petition expressive of their sorrow at the change in the national religion, and praying him to receive the country again into the Popish Church. With the Queen sitting on her throne, and the King on one side of her, and the Cardinal on the other, and the Parliament present, Gardiner read the petition aloud. The Cardinal then made a great speech, and was so obliging as to say that all was forgotten and forgiven, and that the kingdom was solemnly made Roman Catholic again.

Although Gardiner didn't succeed in this goal, nor in his darker ambition of sending the Princess to the scaffold, he made significant progress in reviving the unreformed religion. A new Parliament was formed, packed with no Protestants. Preparations were underway to welcome Cardinal Pole in England as the Pope's messenger, bringing his holy message that all the nobles who had taken Church property could keep it—an effort to gain their self-interest on the Pope’s side. Then, a grand scene unfolded, marking the triumph of the Queen’s plans. Cardinal Pole arrived in great splendor and dignity, and was received with much pomp. The Parliament joined in a petition expressing their sorrow over the shift in national religion, asking him to accept the country back into the Popish Church. With the Queen seated on her throne, the King on one side, and the Cardinal on the other, Gardiner read the petition aloud in front of Parliament. The Cardinal then delivered a grand speech, graciously declaring that all was forgotten and forgiven, and that the kingdom was officially Roman Catholic once more.

Everything was now ready for the lighting of the terrible bonfires. The Queen having declared to the Council, in writing, that she would wish none of her subjects to be burnt without some of the Council being present, and that she would particularly wish there to be good sermons at all burnings, the Council knew pretty well what was to be done next. So, after the Cardinal had blessed all the bishops as a preface to the burnings, the Chancellor Gardiner opened a High Court at Saint Mary Overy, on the Southwark side of London Bridge, for the trial of heretics. Here, two of the late Protestant clergymen, Hooper, Bishop of Gloucester, and Rogers, a Prebendary of St. Paul’s, were brought to be tried. Hooper was tried first for being married, though a priest, and for not believing in the mass. He admitted both of these accusations, and said that the mass was a wicked imposition. Then they tried Rogers, who said the same. Next morning the two were brought up to be sentenced; and then Rogers said that his poor wife, being a German woman and a stranger in the land, he hoped might be allowed to come to speak to him before he died. To this the inhuman Gardiner replied, that she was not his wife. ‘Yea, but she is, my lord,’ said Rogers, ‘and she hath been my wife these eighteen years.’ His request was still refused, and they were both sent to Newgate; all those who stood in the streets to sell things, being ordered to put out their lights that the people might not see them. But, the people stood at their doors with candles in their hands, and prayed for them as they went by. Soon afterwards, Rogers was taken out of jail to be burnt in Smithfield; and, in the crowd as he went along, he saw his poor wife and his ten children, of whom the youngest was a little baby. And so he was burnt to death.

Everything was now ready for the lighting of the terrible bonfires. The Queen had informed the Council in writing that she didn’t want any of her subjects to be burned without some Council members present, and she especially wanted good sermons to be held at all burnings. So, after the Cardinal blessed all the bishops as a precursor to the burnings, Chancellor Gardiner opened a High Court at Saint Mary Overy, on the Southwark side of London Bridge, to try heretics. Here, two recent Protestant clergymen, Hooper, Bishop of Gloucester, and Rogers, a Prebendary of St. Paul’s, were brought for trial. Hooper was tried first for being married as a priest and for not believing in the mass. He admitted to both charges and stated that the mass was a wicked imposition. Then they tried Rogers, who said the same. The next morning, the two were brought up to be sentenced; Rogers then requested that his poor wife, being a German woman and a stranger in the land, might be allowed to speak to him before he died. To this, the cold-hearted Gardiner replied that she was not his wife. “Yes, but she is, my lord,” said Rogers, “and she has been my wife for eighteen years.” His request was still denied, and they were both sent to Newgate; all those selling goods in the streets were ordered to extinguish their lights so that people wouldn’t see them. However, people stood at their doors with candles in their hands, praying for them as they passed by. Soon after, Rogers was taken out of jail to be burned in Smithfield; in the crowd on his way, he saw his poor wife and his ten children, the youngest being a little baby. And so, he was burned to death.

The next day, Hooper, who was to be burnt at Gloucester, was brought out to take his last journey, and was made to wear a hood over his face that he might not be known by the people. But, they did know him for all that, down in his own part of the country; and, when he came near Gloucester, they lined the road, making prayers and lamentations. His guards took him to a lodging, where he slept soundly all night. At nine o’clock next morning, he was brought forth leaning on a staff; for he had taken cold in prison, and was infirm. The iron stake, and the iron chain which was to bind him to it, were fixed up near a great elm-tree in a pleasant open place before the cathedral, where, on peaceful Sundays, he had been accustomed to preach and to pray, when he was bishop of Gloucester. This tree, which had no leaves then, it being February, was filled with people; and the priests of Gloucester College were looking complacently on from a window, and there was a great concourse of spectators in every spot from which a glimpse of the dreadful sight could be beheld. When the old man kneeled down on the small platform at the foot of the stake, and prayed aloud, the nearest people were observed to be so attentive to his prayers that they were ordered to stand farther back; for it did not suit the Romish Church to have those Protestant words heard. His prayers concluded, he went up to the stake and was stripped to his shirt, and chained ready for the fire. One of his guards had such compassion on him that, to shorten his agonies, he tied some packets of gunpowder about him. Then they heaped up wood and straw and reeds, and set them all alight. But, unhappily, the wood was green and damp, and there was a wind blowing that blew what flame there was, away. Thus, through three-quarters of an hour, the good old man was scorched and roasted and smoked, as the fire rose and sank; and all that time they saw him, as he burned, moving his lips in prayer, and beating his breast with one hand, even after the other was burnt away and had fallen off.

The next day, Hooper, who was set to be executed in Gloucester, was brought out for his final journey, forced to wear a hood over his face so that people wouldn’t recognize him. But they did know him all the same, down in his own area; and as he approached Gloucester, they lined the road, praying and mourning. His guards took him to a place to stay, where he slept soundly all night. At nine o’clock the next morning, he was brought out leaning on a staff because he had caught a cold in prison and was weak. The iron stake and the iron chain that would bind him to it were set up near a large elm tree in a pleasant open space in front of the cathedral, where, on peaceful Sundays, he used to preach and pray when he was bishop of Gloucester. This tree, bare of leaves in February, was filled with onlookers; the priests of Gloucester College were watching contentedly from a window, and there was a large crowd of spectators in every spot from which they could catch a glimpse of the horrible scene. When the old man knelt on the small platform at the foot of the stake and prayed aloud, the people closest to him were noticed to be so focused on his prayers that they were told to step back; it wasn't appropriate for the Roman Catholic Church to hear those Protestant words. After his prayers ended, he went up to the stake, was stripped down to his shirt, and chained in preparation for the fire. One of his guards felt such pity for him that to lessen his suffering, he tied some packets of gunpowder around him. Then they piled up wood and straw and reeds and set them all on fire. Unfortunately, the wood was green and damp, and there was a wind blowing that carried the flames away. Thus, for about three-quarters of an hour, the good old man was scorched and roasted and smoked as the fire flickered up and down; and during that time, they saw him, as he burned, moving his lips in prayer and beating his breast with one hand, even after the other had been burned away and fallen off.

Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer, were taken to Oxford to dispute with a commission of priests and doctors about the mass. They were shamefully treated; and it is recorded that the Oxford scholars hissed and howled and groaned, and misconducted themselves in an anything but a scholarly way. The prisoners were taken back to jail, and afterwards tried in St. Mary’s Church. They were all found guilty. On the sixteenth of the month of October, Ridley and Latimer were brought out, to make another of the dreadful bonfires.

Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer were taken to Oxford to debate a group of priests and scholars about the mass. They were treated disgracefully; it’s reported that the Oxford students hissed, howled, groaned, and behaved in a completely unacademic manner. The prisoners were returned to jail and later tried in St. Mary’s Church. They were all found guilty. On October 16th, Ridley and Latimer were brought out for yet another horrific bonfire.

The scene of the suffering of these two good Protestant men was in the City ditch, near Baliol College. On coming to the dreadful spot, they kissed the stakes, and then embraced each other. And then a learned doctor got up into a pulpit which was placed there, and preached a sermon from the text, ‘Though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.’ When you think of the charity of burning men alive, you may imagine that this learned doctor had a rather brazen face. Ridley would have answered his sermon when it came to an end, but was not allowed. When Latimer was stripped, it appeared that he had dressed himself under his other clothes, in a new shroud; and, as he stood in it before all the people, it was noted of him, and long remembered, that, whereas he had been stooping and feeble but a few minutes before, he now stood upright and handsome, in the knowledge that he was dying for a just and a great cause. Ridley’s brother-in-law was there with bags of gunpowder; and when they were both chained up, he tied them round their bodies. Then, a light was thrown upon the pile to fire it. ‘Be of good comfort, Master Ridley,’ said Latimer, at that awful moment, ‘and play the man! We shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.’ And then he was seen to make motions with his hands as if he were washing them in the flames, and to stroke his aged face with them, and was heard to cry, ‘Father of Heaven, receive my soul!’ He died quickly, but the fire, after having burned the legs of Ridley, sunk. There he lingered, chained to the iron post, and crying, ‘O! I cannot burn! O! for Christ’s sake let the fire come unto me!’ And still, when his brother-in-law had heaped on more wood, he was heard through the blinding smoke, still dismally crying, ‘O! I cannot burn, I cannot burn!’ At last, the gunpowder caught fire, and ended his miseries.

The scene of suffering for these two good Protestant men was in the city ditch, near Baliol College. When they reached the terrible spot, they kissed the stakes and then hugged each other. A learned doctor then climbed into a pulpit set up there and preached a sermon using the text, “Though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.” When you think about the charity of burning men alive, you can imagine that this learned doctor had a rather bold demeanor. Ridley wanted to respond to his sermon when it was over but was not allowed to. When Latimer was stripped, it turned out he had put on a new shroud under his other clothes; and as he stood in it before everyone, it was noted and long remembered that, even though he had been stooping and weak just a few minutes before, he now stood tall and strong, knowing he was dying for a just and noble cause. Ridley’s brother-in-law was there with bags of gunpowder, and when they were both chained up, he tied the bags around their bodies. Then, a light was thrown on the pile to set it on fire. “Be of good courage, Master Ridley,” said Latimer at that dreadful moment, “and be a man! We will light such a candle by God’s grace in England today, as I trust shall never be put out.” He then appeared to make gestures with his hands as if washing them in the flames and stroked his aged face with them, crying, “Father of Heaven, receive my soul!” He died quickly, but the fire, after burning Ridley’s legs, died down. He lingered there, chained to the iron post, crying, “Oh! I cannot burn! Oh! For Christ’s sake, let the fire come to me!” Even as his brother-in-law added more wood, he was heard through the choking smoke still crying in despair, “Oh! I cannot burn, I cannot burn!” Finally, the gunpowder ignited and ended his suffering.

Five days after this fearful scene, Gardiner went to his tremendous account before God, for the cruelties he had so much assisted in committing.

Five days after this frightening scene, Gardiner faced his final judgment before God for the cruel acts he had played a significant role in committing.

Cranmer remained still alive and in prison. He was brought out again in February, for more examining and trying, by Bonner, Bishop of London: another man of blood, who had succeeded to Gardiner’s work, even in his lifetime, when Gardiner was tired of it. Cranmer was now degraded as a priest, and left for death; but, if the Queen hated any one on earth, she hated him, and it was resolved that he should be ruined and disgraced to the utmost. There is no doubt that the Queen and her husband personally urged on these deeds, because they wrote to the Council, urging them to be active in the kindling of the fearful fires. As Cranmer was known not to be a firm man, a plan was laid for surrounding him with artful people, and inducing him to recant to the unreformed religion. Deans and friars visited him, played at bowls with him, showed him various attentions, talked persuasively with him, gave him money for his prison comforts, and induced him to sign, I fear, as many as six recantations. But when, after all, he was taken out to be burnt, he was nobly true to his better self, and made a glorious end.

Cranmer was still alive and in prison. He was brought out again in February for more questioning and trials by Bonner, the Bishop of London, another ruthless figure who had taken over Gardiner’s work even while Gardiner was still around. Cranmer was now stripped of his priesthood and left to face death; however, if the Queen despised anyone on earth, it was him, and it was decided that he should be thoroughly ruined and disgraced. There’s no doubt that the Queen and her husband directly pushed for these actions, as they wrote to the Council urging them to stoke the dreadful fires. Since Cranmer was known to be indecisive, a scheme was devised to surround him with crafty individuals who would persuade him to recant his beliefs and return to the unrefomed religion. Deans and friars visited him, played games with him, showed him various favors, spoke convincingly with him, provided him money for his comforts in prison, and persuaded him to sign, I fear, as many as six recantations. But when he was finally taken out to be burned, he remained true to his better self and met a glorious end.

After prayers and a sermon, Dr. Cole, the preacher of the day (who had been one of the artful priests about Cranmer in prison), required him to make a public confession of his faith before the people. This, Cole did, expecting that he would declare himself a Roman Catholic. ‘I will make a profession of my faith,’ said Cranmer, ‘and with a good will too.’

After prayers and a sermon, Dr. Cole, the preacher for the day (who had been one of the clever priests around Cranmer in prison), asked him to publicly confess his faith before the people. Cole expected that he would declare himself a Roman Catholic. "I will profess my faith," said Cranmer, "and I’m happy to do so."

Then, he arose before them all, and took from the sleeve of his robe a written prayer and read it aloud. That done, he kneeled and said the Lord’s Prayer, all the people joining; and then he arose again and told them that he believed in the Bible, and that in what he had lately written, he had written what was not the truth, and that, because his right hand had signed those papers, he would burn his right hand first when he came to the fire. As for the Pope, he did refuse him and denounce him as the enemy of Heaven. Hereupon the pious Dr. Cole cried out to the guards to stop that heretic’s mouth and take him away.

Then, he stood up before everyone and pulled out a written prayer from his robe and read it out loud. After that, he knelt and said the Lord’s Prayer, with everyone joining in; then he stood up again and told them that he believed in the Bible, and that in what he had recently written, he had stated what was not true, and that, since his right hand had signed those papers, he would burn his right hand first when he faced the fire. As for the Pope, he rejected him and condemned him as the enemy of Heaven. At this, the devout Dr. Cole shouted to the guards to silence that heretic and remove him.

So they took him away, and chained him to the stake, where he hastily took off his own clothes to make ready for the flames. And he stood before the people with a bald head and a white and flowing beard. He was so firm now when the worst was come, that he again declared against his recantation, and was so impressive and so undismayed, that a certain lord, who was one of the directors of the execution, called out to the men to make haste! When the fire was lighted, Cranmer, true to his latest word, stretched out his right hand, and crying out, ‘This hand hath offended!’ held it among the flames, until it blazed and burned away. His heart was found entire among his ashes, and he left at last a memorable name in English history. Cardinal Pole celebrated the day by saying his first mass, and next day he was made Archbishop of Canterbury in Cranmer’s place.

So they took him away and shackled him to the stake, where he quickly removed his clothes to prepare for the flames. He stood before the crowd with a shaved head and a long, white beard. He was so resolute at this moment that he reaffirmed his rejection of recantation, and he was so compelling and unafraid that a lord overseeing the execution shouted to the men to hurry up! When the fire was lit, Cranmer, true to his last words, stretched out his right hand and shouted, ‘This hand has sinned!’ then held it in the flames until it ignited and burned away. His heart was found whole among his ashes, and he left behind a lasting legacy in English history. Cardinal Pole marked the day by celebrating his first mass, and the following day he was appointed Archbishop of Canterbury in Cranmer’s place.

The Queen’s husband, who was now mostly abroad in his own dominions, and generally made a coarse jest of her to his more familiar courtiers, was at war with France, and came over to seek the assistance of England. England was very unwilling to engage in a French war for his sake; but it happened that the King of France, at this very time, aided a descent upon the English coast. Hence, war was declared, greatly to Philip’s satisfaction; and the Queen raised a sum of money with which to carry it on, by every unjustifiable means in her power. It met with no profitable return, for the French Duke of Guise surprised Calais, and the English sustained a complete defeat. The losses they met with in France greatly mortified the national pride, and the Queen never recovered the blow.

The Queen’s husband, who was mostly abroad in his own territories and often made crude jokes about her to his close courtiers, was at war with France and came to England looking for support. England was reluctant to go to war with France for his benefit, but at that moment, the King of France supported an invasion of the English coast. As a result, war was declared, much to Philip’s delight, and the Queen raised funds by any unjust means she could find to support it. Unfortunately, it didn’t yield any positive outcomes, as the French Duke of Guise captured Calais, and the English faced a total defeat. The losses in France severely hurt the national pride, and the Queen never fully recovered from the setback.

There was a bad fever raging in England at this time, and I am glad to write that the Queen took it, and the hour of her death came. ‘When I am dead and my body is opened,’ she said to those around those around her, ‘ye shall find Calais written on my heart.’ I should have thought, if anything were written on it, they would have found the words—Jane Grey, Hooper, Rogers, Ridley, Latimer, Cranmer, and three hundred people burnt alive within four years of my wicked reign, including sixty women and forty little children. But it is enough that their deaths were written in Heaven.

There was a severe fever sweeping through England at this time, and I’m glad to say that the Queen caught it, and her death came. “When I’m dead and they open my body,” she told those around her, “you will find Calais written on my heart.” I would have thought that if anything were written on it, they would have found the words—Jane Grey, Hooper, Rogers, Ridley, Latimer, Cranmer, and three hundred people were burned alive within four years of my cruel rule, including sixty women and forty young children. But it is enough that their deaths were written in Heaven.

The Queen died on the seventeenth of November, fifteen hundred and fifty-eight, after reigning not quite five years and a half, and in the forty-fourth year of her age. Cardinal Pole died of the same fever next day.

The Queen died on November 17, 1558, after reigning for just under five and a half years, at the age of forty-four. Cardinal Pole died from the same fever the next day.

As Bloody Queen Mary, this woman has become famous, and as Bloody Queen Mary, she will ever be justly remembered with horror and detestation in Great Britain. Her memory has been held in such abhorrence that some writers have arisen in later years to take her part, and to show that she was, upon the whole, quite an amiable and cheerful sovereign! ‘By their fruits ye shall know them,’ said Our Saviour. The stake and the fire were the fruits of this reign, and you will judge this Queen by nothing else.

As Queen Mary I, this woman has become famous, and as Bloody Mary, she will always be remembered with horror and disgust in Great Britain. Her legacy has been so reviled that some writers in recent years have come to her defense, arguing that she was, overall, quite a friendly and cheerful leader! ‘You will recognize them by their actions,’ said Our Savior. The execution and the flames were the results of her reign, and you should judge this Queen by nothing else.

CHAPTER XXXI—ENGLAND UNDER ELIZABETH

There was great rejoicing all over the land when the Lords of the Council went down to Hatfield, to hail the Princess Elizabeth as the new Queen of England. Weary of the barbarities of Mary’s reign, the people looked with hope and gladness to the new Sovereign. The nation seemed to wake from a horrible dream; and Heaven, so long hidden by the smoke of the fires that roasted men and women to death, appeared to brighten once more.

There was widespread celebration across the country when the Lords of the Council went to Hatfield to welcome Princess Elizabeth as the new Queen of England. Tired of the brutalities of Mary’s reign, the people looked forward with hope and joy to their new ruler. The nation seemed to awaken from a terrible nightmare; and Heaven, which had been obscured by the smoke from the fires that burned men and women alive, seemed to shine again.

Queen Elizabeth was five-and-twenty years of age when she rode through the streets of London, from the Tower to Westminster Abbey, to be crowned. Her countenance was strongly marked, but on the whole, commanding and dignified; her hair was red, and her nose something too long and sharp for a woman’s. She was not the beautiful creature her courtiers made out; but she was well enough, and no doubt looked all the better for coming after the dark and gloomy Mary. She was well educated, but a roundabout writer, and rather a hard swearer and coarse talker. She was clever, but cunning and deceitful, and inherited much of her father’s violent temper. I mention this now, because she has been so over-praised by one party, and so over-abused by another, that it is hardly possible to understand the greater part of her reign without first understanding what kind of woman she really was.

Queen Elizabeth was twenty-five years old when she rode through the streets of London, from the Tower to Westminster Abbey, to be crowned. Her face was strikingly marked, but overall, it was commanding and dignified; her hair was red, and her nose a bit too long and sharp for a woman’s. She wasn’t the stunning beauty her courtiers claimed she was, but she was decent-looking, and she probably seemed even better compared to the dark and gloomy Mary. She was well-educated, but her writing style was convoluted, and she had a tendency to swear and speak coarsely. She was smart, but also cunning and deceitful, inheriting much of her father’s violent temper. I mention this now because she has been overly praised by one side and overly criticized by another, making it nearly impossible to understand the majority of her reign without first grasping what kind of woman she really was.

She began her reign with the great advantage of having a very wise and careful Minister, Sir William Cecil, whom she afterwards made Lord Burleigh. Altogether, the people had greater reason for rejoicing than they usually had, when there were processions in the streets; and they were happy with some reason. All kinds of shows and images were set up; Gog and Magog were hoisted to the top of Temple Bar, and (which was more to the purpose) the Corporation dutifully presented the young Queen with the sum of a thousand marks in gold—so heavy a present, that she was obliged to take it into her carriage with both hands. The coronation was a great success; and, on the next day, one of the courtiers presented a petition to the new Queen, praying that as it was the custom to release some prisoners on such occasions, she would have the goodness to release the four Evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, and also the Apostle Saint Paul, who had been for some time shut up in a strange language so that the people could not get at them.

She started her reign with the significant benefit of having a very wise and careful Minister, William Cecil, whom she later appointed Lord Burleigh. Overall, the people had more reason to celebrate than usual when there were parades in the streets; they had good reason to be happy. All kinds of displays and decorations were set up; Gog and Magog were raised to the top of Temple Bar, and (more importantly) the Corporation dutifully gifted the young Queen with a thousand marks in gold—a present so heavy that she had to lift it into her carriage with both hands. The coronation was a huge success; and the next day, one of the courtiers presented a petition to the new Queen, asking that, as it was customary to release some prisoners on such occasions, she would kindly free the four Evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, as well as the Apostle Saint Paul, who had been locked away in a strange language for a while, making it impossible for the people to access them.

To this, the Queen replied that it would be better first to inquire of themselves whether they desired to be released or not; and, as a means of finding out, a great public discussion—a sort of religious tournament—was appointed to take place between certain champions of the two religions, in Westminster Abbey. You may suppose that it was soon made pretty clear to common sense, that for people to benefit by what they repeat or read, it is rather necessary they should understand something about it. Accordingly, a Church Service in plain English was settled, and other laws and regulations were made, completely establishing the great work of the Reformation. The Romish bishops and champions were not harshly dealt with, all things considered; and the Queen’s Ministers were both prudent and merciful.

To this, the Queen replied that it would be better to first ask themselves if they wanted to be released or not; and to find out, a big public debate—a kind of religious tournament—was scheduled to happen between representatives of the two religions in Westminster Abbey. You can imagine it soon became clear that for people to benefit from what they repeat or read, they need to understand something about it. As a result, a Church Service in plain English was established, and other laws and regulations were put in place, fully cementing the important work of the Reformation. The Roman bishops and representatives were not treated too harshly, all things considered; and the Queen’s Ministers were both sensible and merciful.

The one great trouble of this reign, and the unfortunate cause of the greater part of such turmoil and bloodshed as occurred in it, was Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots. We will try to understand, in as few words as possible, who Mary was, what she was, and how she came to be a thorn in the royal pillow of Elizabeth.

The main issue of this reign, and the unfortunate reason for much of the chaos and violence that took place, was Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland. We will attempt to briefly explain who Mary was, what she represented, and how she became a source of trouble for Elizabeth.

She was the daughter of the Queen Regent of Scotland, Mary of Guise. She had been married, when a mere child, to the Dauphin, the son and heir of the King of France. The Pope, who pretended that no one could rightfully wear the crown of England without his gracious permission, was strongly opposed to Elizabeth, who had not asked for the said gracious permission. And as Mary Queen of Scots would have inherited the English crown in right of her birth, supposing the English Parliament not to have altered the succession, the Pope himself, and most of the discontented who were followers of his, maintained that Mary was the rightful Queen of England, and Elizabeth the wrongful Queen. Mary being so closely connected with France, and France being jealous of England, there was far greater danger in this than there would have been if she had had no alliance with that great power. And when her young husband, on the death of his father, became Francis the Second, King of France, the matter grew very serious. For, the young couple styled themselves King and Queen of England, and the Pope was disposed to help them by doing all the mischief he could.

She was the daughter of the Queen Regent of Scotland, Mary of Guise. She had been married as a child to the Dauphin, the son and heir of the King of France. The Pope, who claimed that no one could rightfully wear the crown of England without his approval, strongly opposed Elizabeth, who hadn’t sought that approval. Since Mary Queen of Scots would have inherited the English crown by birthright, assuming the English Parliament hadn’t changed the succession, the Pope and many of his discontented followers insisted that Mary was the rightful Queen of England, while Elizabeth was the illegitimate Queen. With Mary so closely linked to France, and with France being jealous of England, this posed a much greater threat than if she had no ties to that powerful nation. And when her young husband became Francis II, King of France, after his father died, the situation became very serious. The young couple referred to themselves as King and Queen of England, and the Pope was inclined to support them by causing as much trouble as he could.

Now, the reformed religion, under the guidance of a stern and powerful preacher, named John Knox, and other such men, had been making fierce progress in Scotland. It was still a half savage country, where there was a great deal of murdering and rioting continually going on; and the Reformers, instead of reforming those evils as they should have done, went to work in the ferocious old Scottish spirit, laying churches and chapels waste, pulling down pictures and altars, and knocking about the Grey Friars, and the Black Friars, and the White Friars, and the friars of all sorts of colours, in all directions. This obdurate and harsh spirit of the Scottish Reformers (the Scotch have always been rather a sullen and frowning people in religious matters) put up the blood of the Romish French court, and caused France to send troops over to Scotland, with the hope of setting the friars of all sorts of colours on their legs again; of conquering that country first, and England afterwards; and so crushing the Reformation all to pieces. The Scottish Reformers, who had formed a great league which they called The Congregation of the Lord, secretly represented to Elizabeth that, if the reformed religion got the worst of it with them, it would be likely to get the worst of it in England too; and thus, Elizabeth, though she had a high notion of the rights of Kings and Queens to do anything they liked, sent an army to Scotland to support the Reformers, who were in arms against their sovereign. All these proceedings led to a treaty of peace at Edinburgh, under which the French consented to depart from the kingdom. By a separate treaty, Mary and her young husband engaged to renounce their assumed title of King and Queen of England. But this treaty they never fulfilled.

Now, the reformed religion, led by a strict and influential preacher named John Knox and others like him, was making significant strides in Scotland. It was still a pretty wild country, with a lot of murders and riots happening all the time; and instead of addressing these issues as they should have, the Reformers embraced the fierce old Scottish spirit, destroying churches and chapels, taking down images and altars, and attacking the Grey Friars, Black Friars, and White Friars, along with friars of all types, everywhere. This stubborn and harsh attitude of the Scottish Reformers (the Scots have always been somewhat grim and serious when it comes to religious matters) angered the Roman Catholic French court and led France to send troops to Scotland, hoping to restore the friars to power, conquer that country first, and then England, ultimately crushing the Reformation entirely. The Scottish Reformers, who had formed a significant alliance they called The Congregation of the Lord, secretly informed Elizabeth that if the reformed religion suffered a defeat in Scotland, it would likely face a similar fate in England. Consequently, Elizabeth, despite believing strongly in the authority of Kings and Queens to do as they please, sent an army to Scotland to support the Reformers who were in revolt against their sovereign. All these actions resulted in a peace treaty in Edinburgh, which led to the French agreeing to leave the kingdom. In a separate agreement, Mary and her young husband promised to give up their claimed title of King and Queen of England, but they never followed through on this agreement.

It happened, soon after matters had got to this state, that the young French King died, leaving Mary a young widow. She was then invited by her Scottish subjects to return home and reign over them; and as she was not now happy where she was, she, after a little time, complied.

It happened soon after things reached this point that the young French King died, leaving Mary a young widow. She was then invited by her Scottish subjects to come back home and rule over them; and since she wasn’t happy where she was anymore, she eventually agreed after a little while.

Elizabeth had been Queen three years, when Mary Queen of Scots embarked at Calais for her own rough, quarrelling country. As she came out of the harbour, a vessel was lost before her eyes, and she said, ‘O! good God! what an omen this is for such a voyage!’ She was very fond of France, and sat on the deck, looking back at it and weeping, until it was quite dark. When she went to bed, she directed to be called at daybreak, if the French coast were still visible, that she might behold it for the last time. As it proved to be a clear morning, this was done, and she again wept for the country she was leaving, and said many times, ‘Farewell, France! Farewell, France! I shall never see thee again!’ All this was long remembered afterwards, as sorrowful and interesting in a fair young princess of nineteen. Indeed, I am afraid it gradually came, together with her other distresses, to surround her with greater sympathy than she deserved.

Elizabeth had been Queen for three years when Mary Queen of Scots set sail from Calais for her tumultuous and conflict-ridden homeland. As she left the harbor, she witnessed a ship go down before her eyes and exclaimed, “Oh! Good God! What an omen this is for such a journey!” She was very attached to France and sat on the deck, gazing back at it and crying until it was completely dark. When she went to bed, she requested to be woken at dawn if the French coast was still visible so she could see it one last time. As luck would have it, it was a clear morning, so this was done, and she cried again for the country she was leaving, repeatedly saying, “Farewell, France! Farewell, France! I shall never see you again!” All of this was long remembered later as both sad and poignant for a beautiful young princess of nineteen. In fact, I’m afraid it eventually contributed, along with her other misfortunes, to giving her more sympathy than she really deserved.

When she came to Scotland, and took up her abode at the palace of Holyrood in Edinburgh, she found herself among uncouth strangers and wild uncomfortable customs very different from her experiences in the court of France. The very people who were disposed to love her, made her head ache when she was tired out by her voyage, with a serenade of discordant music—a fearful concert of bagpipes, I suppose—and brought her and her train home to her palace on miserable little Scotch horses that appeared to be half starved. Among the people who were not disposed to love her, she found the powerful leaders of the Reformed Church, who were bitter upon her amusements, however innocent, and denounced music and dancing as works of the devil. John Knox himself often lectured her, violently and angrily, and did much to make her life unhappy. All these reasons confirmed her old attachment to the Romish religion, and caused her, there is no doubt, most imprudently and dangerously both for herself and for England too, to give a solemn pledge to the heads of the Romish Church that if she ever succeeded to the English crown, she would set up that religion again. In reading her unhappy history, you must always remember this; and also that during her whole life she was constantly put forward against the Queen, in some form or other, by the Romish party.

When she arrived in Scotland and settled in the palace of Holyrood in Edinburgh, she found herself surrounded by rough strangers and strange customs that were very different from her experiences at the court of France. The very people who wanted to love her made her head hurt when she was exhausted from her journey, with a chaotic serenade of jarring music—a dreadful concert of bagpipes, I assume—and took her and her entourage home on miserable little Scottish horses that looked half-starved. Among those who didn’t care for her, she encountered the powerful leaders of the Reformed Church, who were harsh about her pastimes, no matter how innocent, and condemned music and dancing as works of the devil. John Knox himself often lectured her angrily and did a lot to make her life miserable. All these reasons strengthened her old ties to the Catholic religion and led her, without a doubt, to imprudently and dangerously promise the leaders of the Catholic Church that if she ever took the English crown, she would restore that religion. When you read her sad history, you must always keep this in mind, as well as the fact that throughout her life, she was constantly used by the Catholic party against the Queen in one way or another.

That Elizabeth, on the other hand, was not inclined to like her, is pretty certain. Elizabeth was very vain and jealous, and had an extraordinary dislike to people being married. She treated Lady Catherine Grey, sister of the beheaded Lady Jane, with such shameful severity, for no other reason than her being secretly married, that she died and her husband was ruined; so, when a second marriage for Mary began to be talked about, probably Elizabeth disliked her more. Not that Elizabeth wanted suitors of her own, for they started up from Spain, Austria, Sweden, and England. Her English lover at this time, and one whom she much favoured too, was Lord Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester—himself secretly married to Amy Robsart, the daughter of an English gentleman, whom he was strongly suspected of causing to be murdered, down at his country seat, Cumnor Hall in Berkshire, that he might be free to marry the Queen. Upon this story, the great writer, Sir Walter Scott, has founded one of his best romances. But if Elizabeth knew how to lead her handsome favourite on, for her own vanity and pleasure, she knew how to stop him for her own pride; and his love, and all the other proposals, came to nothing. The Queen always declared in good set speeches, that she would never be married at all, but would live and die a Maiden Queen. It was a very pleasant and meritorious declaration, I suppose; but it has been puffed and trumpeted so much, that I am rather tired of it myself.

That Elizabeth, on the other hand, definitely wasn’t inclined to like her. Elizabeth was very vain and jealous, and had an extreme dislike for people getting married. She treated Lady Catherine Grey, the sister of the beheaded Lady Jane, with such shameful harshness, simply because she was secretly married, that Lady Catherine died and her husband was ruined; so, when talk of a second marriage for Mary started, Elizabeth probably disliked her even more. Not that Elizabeth wanted any suitors of her own, since they were coming forward from Spain, Austria, Sweden, and England. Her English lover at the time, and someone she favored greatly, was Lord Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester—who was secretly married to Amy Robsart, the daughter of an English gentleman, and he was heavily suspected of having her murdered at his country home, Cumnor Hall in Berkshire, so he could be free to marry the Queen. This story inspired the great writer, Sir Walter Scott, to create one of his best romances. But while Elizabeth knew how to lead her attractive favorite on for her own vanity and enjoyment, she also knew how to reject him for her own pride; ultimately, his love and all the other proposals went nowhere. The Queen always declared in formal speeches that she would never marry at all, but would live and die a Maiden Queen. It was a nice and noble declaration, I suppose; but it has been so overhyped that I’m a bit tired of hearing it myself.

Divers princes proposed to marry Mary, but the English court had reasons for being jealous of them all, and even proposed as a matter of policy that she should marry that very Earl of Leicester who had aspired to be the husband of Elizabeth. At last, Lord Darnley, son of the Earl of Lennox, and himself descended from the Royal Family of Scotland, went over with Elizabeth’s consent to try his fortune at Holyrood. He was a tall simpleton; and could dance and play the guitar; but I know of nothing else he could do, unless it were to get very drunk, and eat gluttonously, and make a contemptible spectacle of himself in many mean and vain ways. However, he gained Mary’s heart, not disdaining in the pursuit of his object to ally himself with one of her secretaries, David Rizzio, who had great influence with her. He soon married the Queen. This marriage does not say much for her, but what followed will presently say less.

Various princes wanted to marry Mary, but the English court was jealous of all of them and even suggested that she marry the Earl of Leicester, who had hoped to be Elizabeth's husband. Eventually, Lord Darnley, son of the Earl of Lennox and related to the Royal Family of Scotland, came over with Elizabeth’s approval to try his luck at Holyrood. He was a tall fool who could dance and play the guitar, but I can’t think of anything else he was good at, except for getting very drunk, eating excessively, and making a ridiculous spectacle of himself in many petty and vain ways. Still, he won Mary’s heart, even teaming up with one of her secretaries, David Rizzio, who had a lot of influence with her. He soon married the Queen. This marriage doesn’t reflect well on her, but what happened next will reflect even worse.

Mary’s brother, the Earl of Murray, and head of the Protestant party in Scotland, had opposed this marriage, partly on religious grounds, and partly perhaps from personal dislike of the very contemptible bridegroom. When it had taken place, through Mary’s gaining over to it the more powerful of the lords about her, she banished Murray for his pains; and, when he and some other nobles rose in arms to support the reformed religion, she herself, within a month of her wedding day, rode against them in armour with loaded pistols in her saddle. Driven out of Scotland, they presented themselves before Elizabeth—who called them traitors in public, and assisted them in private, according to her crafty nature.

Mary’s brother, the Earl of Moray, who led the Protestant faction in Scotland, opposed this marriage, partly for religious reasons and maybe also due to his personal dislike for the very unworthy groom. Once it happened, thanks to Mary winning over the more powerful lords around her, she banished Murray for his efforts; and when he and some other nobles took up arms to defend the reformed faith, she herself, just a month after her wedding day, rode against them in armor with loaded pistols in her saddle. Forced out of Scotland, they went to see Elizabeth—who publicly labeled them traitors while secretly helping them, true to her devious nature.

Mary had been married but a little while, when she began to hate her husband, who, in his turn, began to hate that David Rizzio, with whom he had leagued to gain her favour, and whom he now believed to be her lover. He hated Rizzio to that extent, that he made a compact with Lord Ruthven and three other lords to get rid of him by murder. This wicked agreement they made in solemn secrecy upon the first of March, fifteen hundred and sixty-six, and on the night of Saturday the ninth, the conspirators were brought by Darnley up a private staircase, dark and steep, into a range of rooms where they knew that Mary was sitting at supper with her sister, Lady Argyle, and this doomed man. When they went into the room, Darnley took the Queen round the waist, and Lord Ruthven, who had risen from a bed of sickness to do this murder, came in, gaunt and ghastly, leaning on two men. Rizzio ran behind the Queen for shelter and protection. ‘Let him come out of the room,’ said Ruthven. ‘He shall not leave the room,’ replied the Queen; ‘I read his danger in your face, and it is my will that he remain here.’ They then set upon him, struggled with him, overturned the table, dragged him out, and killed him with fifty-six stabs. When the Queen heard that he was dead, she said, ‘No more tears. I will think now of revenge!’

Mary had been married for only a short time when she started to despise her husband, who, in turn, began to hate David Rizzio, the man he had partnered with to win her affection and who he now thought was her lover. He hated Rizzio so much that he made a deal with Lord Ruthven and three other lords to have him killed. This wicked plan was made in secret on March 1, 1566, and on the night of Saturday the 9th, the conspirators were led by Darnley up a dark, steep private staircase into a series of rooms where they knew Mary was having dinner with her sister, Lady Argyle, and Rizzio. When they entered the room, Darnley put his arms around the Queen, and Lord Ruthven, who had gotten out of bed despite being sick to commit this murder, came in looking pale and unwell, leaning on two men. Rizzio ran to hide behind the Queen for protection. “Let him come out of the room,” said Ruthven. “He will not leave this room,” replied the Queen; “I can see the danger in your face, and I want him to stay here.” They then attacked him, fought with him, knocked over the table, dragged him out, and killed him with fifty-six stabs. When the Queen learned he was dead, she said, “No more tears. I will now think of revenge!”

Within a day or two, she gained her husband over, and prevailed on the tall idiot to abandon the conspirators and fly with her to Dunbar. There, he issued a proclamation, audaciously and falsely denying that he had any knowledge of the late bloody business; and there they were joined by the Earl Bothwell and some other nobles. With their help, they raised eight thousand men; returned to Edinburgh, and drove the assassins into England. Mary soon afterwards gave birth to a son—still thinking of revenge.

Within a day or two, she convinced her husband and persuaded the tall fool to abandon the conspirators and escape with her to Dunbar. There, he issued a proclamation, boldly and falsely denying any knowledge of the recent bloody events; and there they were joined by the Earl Bothwell and some other nobles. With their help, they mustered eight thousand men, returned to Edinburgh, and drove the assassins into England. Mary soon afterwards gave birth to a son—still plotting her revenge.

That she should have had a greater scorn for her husband after his late cowardice and treachery than she had had before, was natural enough. There is little doubt that she now began to love Bothwell instead, and to plan with him means of getting rid of Darnley. Bothwell had such power over her that he induced her even to pardon the assassins of Rizzio. The arrangements for the Christening of the young Prince were entrusted to him, and he was one of the most important people at the ceremony, where the child was named James: Elizabeth being his godmother, though not present on the occasion. A week afterwards, Darnley, who had left Mary and gone to his father’s house at Glasgow, being taken ill with the small-pox, she sent her own physician to attend him. But there is reason to apprehend that this was merely a show and a pretence, and that she knew what was doing, when Bothwell within another month proposed to one of the late conspirators against Rizzio, to murder Darnley, ‘for that it was the Queen’s mind that he should be taken away.’ It is certain that on that very day she wrote to her ambassador in France, complaining of him, and yet went immediately to Glasgow, feigning to be very anxious about him, and to love him very much. If she wanted to get him in her power, she succeeded to her heart’s content; for she induced him to go back with her to Edinburgh, and to occupy, instead of the palace, a lone house outside the city called the Kirk of Field. Here, he lived for about a week. One Sunday night, she remained with him until ten o’clock, and then left him, to go to Holyrood to be present at an entertainment given in celebration of the marriage of one of her favourite servants. At two o’clock in the morning the city was shaken by a great explosion, and the Kirk of Field was blown to atoms.

That she should have felt even more disdain for her husband after his recent cowardice and betrayal than she did before was completely understandable. There’s little doubt that she started to love Bothwell instead and began planning with him ways to get rid of Darnley. Bothwell had such influence over her that he even convinced her to forgive Rizzio’s assassins. He was in charge of the arrangements for the Christening of the young Prince and played a major role at the ceremony, where the child was named James: Elizabeth was his godmother although she wasn’t there. A week later, Darnley, who had left Mary and gone to his father’s house in Glasgow, fell ill with smallpox, and she sent her own doctor to care for him. However, there’s reason to suspect that this was just for show and that she knew what was happening when Bothwell, within a month, asked one of the conspirators against Rizzio to kill Darnley, saying, "it was the Queen’s wish that he should be removed." It’s clear that on the very day she wrote to her ambassador in France, complaining about him, she immediately went to Glasgow, pretending to be very worried about him and to love him deeply. If her goal was to get him under her control, she achieved it perfectly; she persuaded him to return with her to Edinburgh and to stay not at the palace but in a secluded house outside the city called the Kirk of Field. He lived there for about a week. One Sunday night, she stayed with him until ten o’clock, then left to go to Holyrood for a party celebrating the marriage of one of her favorite servants. At two o’clock in the morning, the city was rocked by a massive explosion, and the Kirk of Field was blown to pieces.

Darnley’s body was found next day lying under a tree at some distance. How it came there, undisfigured and unscorched by gunpowder, and how this crime came to be so clumsily and strangely committed, it is impossible to discover. The deceitful character of Mary, and the deceitful character of Elizabeth, have rendered almost every part of their joint history uncertain and obscure. But, I fear that Mary was unquestionably a party to her husband’s murder, and that this was the revenge she had threatened. The Scotch people universally believed it. Voices cried out in the streets of Edinburgh in the dead of the night, for justice on the murderess. Placards were posted by unknown hands in the public places denouncing Bothwell as the murderer, and the Queen as his accomplice; and, when he afterwards married her (though himself already married), previously making a show of taking her prisoner by force, the indignation of the people knew no bounds. The women particularly are described as having been quite frantic against the Queen, and to have hooted and cried after her in the streets with terrific vehemence.

Darnley’s body was found the next day lying under a tree a bit away. How it ended up there, untouched and unburned by gunpowder, and how this crime was carried out so clumsily and oddly, remains a mystery. The deceptive nature of Mary and Elizabeth has made nearly every aspect of their shared history unclear and confusing. But, I fear that Mary was definitely involved in her husband’s murder, and that this was the revenge she had threatened. People in Scotland widely believed it. Voices shouted in the streets of Edinburgh late at night, demanding justice for the murderer. Posters were put up by unknown individuals in public places accusing Bothwell of being the murderer and the Queen of being his accomplice; and when he later married her (despite already being married), after making a show of capturing her by force, the outrage from the people was boundless. The women, in particular, are described as having been completely frantic against the Queen, hooting and shouting after her in the streets with incredible intensity.

Such guilty unions seldom prosper. This husband and wife had lived together but a month, when they were separated for ever by the successes of a band of Scotch nobles who associated against them for the protection of the young Prince: whom Bothwell had vainly endeavoured to lay hold of, and whom he would certainly have murdered, if the Earl of Mar, in whose hands the boy was, had not been firmly and honourably faithful to his trust. Before this angry power, Bothwell fled abroad, where he died, a prisoner and mad, nine miserable years afterwards. Mary being found by the associated lords to deceive them at every turn, was sent a prisoner to Lochleven Castle; which, as it stood in the midst of a lake, could only be approached by boat. Here, one Lord Lindsay, who was so much of a brute that the nobles would have done better if they had chosen a mere gentleman for their messenger, made her sign her abdication, and appoint Murray, Regent of Scotland. Here, too, Murray saw her in a sorrowing and humbled state.

Such guilty unions rarely thrive. This husband and wife had been together for just a month when they were permanently separated by the success of a group of Scottish nobles who banded together to protect the young Prince, whom Bothwell had tried unsuccessfully to capture and would have surely killed if the Earl of Mar, who was in charge of the boy, hadn't been loyal and honorable in his duty. Faced with this powerful opposition, Bothwell fled overseas, where he died a prisoner and insane nine miserable years later. The associated lords found Mary deceiving them at every turn and sent her to Lochleven Castle as a prisoner; it was located in the middle of a lake, accessible only by boat. Here, one Lord Lindsay, who was so brutish that the nobles would have been better off choosing an ordinary gentleman as their messenger, forced her to sign her abdication and appoint Murray as Regent of Scotland. It was also here that Murray witnessed her in a state of sorrow and humiliation.

She had better have remained in the castle of Lochleven, dull prison as it was, with the rippling of the lake against it, and the moving shadows of the water on the room walls; but she could not rest there, and more than once tried to escape. The first time she had nearly succeeded, dressed in the clothes of her own washer-woman, but, putting up her hand to prevent one of the boatmen from lifting her veil, the men suspected her, seeing how white it was, and rowed her back again. A short time afterwards, her fascinating manners enlisted in her cause a boy in the Castle, called the little Douglas, who, while the family were at supper, stole the keys of the great gate, went softly out with the Queen, locked the gate on the outside, and rowed her away across the lake, sinking the keys as they went along. On the opposite shore she was met by another Douglas, and some few lords; and, so accompanied, rode away on horseback to Hamilton, where they raised three thousand men. Here, she issued a proclamation declaring that the abdication she had signed in her prison was illegal, and requiring the Regent to yield to his lawful Queen. Being a steady soldier, and in no way discomposed although he was without an army, Murray pretended to treat with her, until he had collected a force about half equal to her own, and then he gave her battle. In one quarter of an hour he cut down all her hopes. She had another weary ride on horse-back of sixty long Scotch miles, and took shelter at Dundrennan Abbey, whence she fled for safety to Elizabeth’s dominions.

She really should have stayed in the castle of Lochleven, boring as it was, with the lake lapping against it and the shadows of the water moving across the walls. But she couldn't relax there and tried to escape more than once. The first time, she almost got away, dressed in her washerwoman's clothes, but when she raised her hand to stop one of the boatmen from lifting her veil, the men got suspicious, noticing how pale her face was, and they rowed her back. Not long after, her charm won over a boy in the castle, known as the little Douglas, who, while the family was at dinner, stole the keys to the big gate, quietly snuck out with the Queen, locked the gate from the outside, and rowed her across the lake, sinking the keys as they went. On the other side, another Douglas and a few lords were waiting for her, and with their help, she rode off to Hamilton, where they gathered three thousand men. There, she issued a proclamation declaring that the abdication she had signed in her prison was illegal and demanded that the Regent submit to his rightful Queen. Staying composed and acting like a solid soldier even without an army, Murray pretended to negotiate with her until he had gathered a force roughly half the size of hers, and then he challenged her to battle. In just a quarter of an hour, he crushed all her hopes. She had another grueling ride on horseback of sixty long Scottish miles and took refuge at Dundrennan Abbey, from where she fled for safety to Elizabeth’s territories.

Mary Queen of Scots came to England—to her own ruin, the trouble of the kingdom, and the misery and death of many—in the year one thousand five hundred and sixty-eight. How she left it and the world, nineteen years afterwards, we have now to see.

Mary Queen of Scots came to England—to her own downfall, the turmoil of the kingdom, and the suffering and death of many—in the year 1568. How she left it and the world, nineteen years later, we are about to see.

SECOND PART

When Mary Queen of Scots arrived in England, without money and even without any other clothes than those she wore, she wrote to Elizabeth, representing herself as an innocent and injured piece of Royalty, and entreating her assistance to oblige her Scottish subjects to take her back again and obey her. But, as her character was already known in England to be a very different one from what she made it out to be, she was told in answer that she must first clear herself. Made uneasy by this condition, Mary, rather than stay in England, would have gone to Spain, or to France, or would even have gone back to Scotland. But, as her doing either would have been likely to trouble England afresh, it was decided that she should be detained here. She first came to Carlisle, and, after that, was moved about from castle to castle, as was considered necessary; but England she never left again.

When Mary Queen of Scots arrived in England, with no money and only the clothes she was wearing, she wrote to Elizabeth, portraying herself as a wronged and innocent member of royalty, appealing for her help to compel her Scottish subjects to accept her back and obey her. However, since her true character was already known in England to be quite different from what she claimed, she was told in response that she needed to prove her innocence first. Uneasy with this condition, Mary considered going to Spain, France, or even back to Scotland instead of staying in England. But since any of those options would likely cause more trouble for England, it was decided that she would be kept there. She first arrived in Carlisle and was then moved from castle to castle as deemed necessary; but she never left England again.

After trying very hard to get rid of the necessity of clearing herself, Mary, advised by Lord Herries, her best friend in England, agreed to answer the charges against her, if the Scottish noblemen who made them would attend to maintain them before such English noblemen as Elizabeth might appoint for that purpose. Accordingly, such an assembly, under the name of a conference, met, first at York, and afterwards at Hampton Court. In its presence Lord Lennox, Darnley’s father, openly charged Mary with the murder of his son; and whatever Mary’s friends may now say or write in her behalf, there is no doubt that, when her brother Murray produced against her a casket containing certain guilty letters and verses which he stated to have passed between her and Bothwell, she withdrew from the inquiry. Consequently, it is to be supposed that she was then considered guilty by those who had the best opportunities of judging of the truth, and that the feeling which afterwards arose in her behalf was a very generous but not a very reasonable one.

After working hard to avoid the need to clear her name, Mary, encouraged by Lord Herries, her closest friend in England, agreed to respond to the accusations against her if the Scottish nobles who made them would show up to support their claims in front of English nobles that Elizabeth might choose for that purpose. As a result, such a group, labeled as a conference, gathered first in York and then at Hampton Court. In that setting, Lord Lennox, Darnley's father, directly accused Mary of murdering his son; and no matter what Mary’s supporters might say or write in her defense now, there’s little doubt that when her brother Murray presented a casket containing some damning letters and poems he claimed were exchanged between her and Bothwell, she withdrew from the investigation. Therefore, it can be assumed that at that moment, those who had the best insight into the truth deemed her guilty, and the sympathy that later developed in her favor was a generous, though not entirely logical, sentiment.

However, the Duke of Norfolk, an honourable but rather weak nobleman, partly because Mary was captivating, partly because he was ambitious, partly because he was over-persuaded by artful plotters against Elizabeth, conceived a strong idea that he would like to marry the Queen of Scots—though he was a little frightened, too, by the letters in the casket. This idea being secretly encouraged by some of the noblemen of Elizabeth’s court, and even by the favourite Earl of Leicester (because it was objected to by other favourites who were his rivals), Mary expressed her approval of it, and the King of France and the King of Spain are supposed to have done the same. It was not so quietly planned, though, but that it came to Elizabeth’s ears, who warned the Duke ‘to be careful what sort of pillow he was going to lay his head upon.’ He made a humble reply at the time; but turned sulky soon afterwards, and, being considered dangerous, was sent to the Tower.

However, the Duke of Norfolk, an honorable but somewhat weak nobleman, partly because Mary was enchanting, partly because he was ambitious, and partly because he was easily influenced by crafty schemers against Elizabeth, developed a strong desire to marry the Queen of Scots—though he was also a bit scared by the letters in the casket. This idea was secretly supported by some noblemen at Elizabeth’s court, and even by the favorite Earl of Leicester (because other rival favorites opposed it). Mary showed her approval of this plan, and it’s believed that the King of France and the King of Spain did too. However, the plan wasn’t so discreet that it didn’t reach Elizabeth, who warned the Duke "to be careful about what kind of pillow he was going to lay his head upon." He responded humbly at the time, but soon afterwards became sulky and, being seen as a threat, was sent to the Tower.

Thus, from the moment of Mary’s coming to England she began to be the centre of plots and miseries.

Thus, from the moment Mary arrived in England, she became the center of schemes and hardships.

A rise of the Catholics in the north was the next of these, and it was only checked by many executions and much bloodshed. It was followed by a great conspiracy of the Pope and some of the Catholic sovereigns of Europe to depose Elizabeth, place Mary on the throne, and restore the unreformed religion. It is almost impossible to doubt that Mary knew and approved of this; and the Pope himself was so hot in the matter that he issued a bull, in which he openly called Elizabeth the ‘pretended Queen’ of England, excommunicated her, and excommunicated all her subjects who should continue to obey her. A copy of this miserable paper got into London, and was found one morning publicly posted on the Bishop of London’s gate. A great hue and cry being raised, another copy was found in the chamber of a student of Lincoln’s Inn, who confessed, being put upon the rack, that he had received it from one John Felton, a rich gentleman who lived across the Thames, near Southwark. This John Felton, being put upon the rack too, confessed that he had posted the placard on the Bishop’s gate. For this offence he was, within four days, taken to St. Paul’s Churchyard, and there hanged and quartered. As to the Pope’s bull, the people by the reformation having thrown off the Pope, did not care much, you may suppose, for the Pope’s throwing off them. It was a mere dirty piece of paper, and not half so powerful as a street ballad.

A rise of Catholics in the north was the next issue, and it was only stopped by numerous executions and a lot of bloodshed. This was followed by a major conspiracy among the Pope and some Catholic rulers in Europe to depose Elizabeth, place Mary on the throne, and restore the old religion. It’s almost impossible to doubt that Mary was aware of and approved this plan; the Pope was so passionate about it that he issued a decree, publicly labeling Elizabeth the ‘pretended Queen’ of England, excommunicating her, and excommunicating all her subjects who continued to obey her. A copy of this disgraceful document made its way to London and was found one morning posted publicly on the Bishop of London’s gate. This caused a huge uproar, and another copy was found in the room of a student from Lincoln’s Inn, who admitted, under torture, that he had received it from a man named John Felton, a wealthy gentleman living across the Thames near Southwark. John Felton, when tortured too, admitted that he had posted the notice on the Bishop’s gate. For this crime, he was taken to St. Paul’s Churchyard within four days and was hanged and quartered. As for the Pope’s decree, since the people had rid themselves of the Pope through the Reformation, they didn't care much for the Pope’s attempt to reject them. It was just a dirty piece of paper, not nearly as powerful as a street ballad.

On the very day when Felton was brought to his trial, the poor Duke of Norfolk was released. It would have been well for him if he had kept away from the Tower evermore, and from the snares that had taken him there. But, even while he was in that dismal place he corresponded with Mary, and as soon as he was out of it, he began to plot again. Being discovered in correspondence with the Pope, with a view to a rising in England which should force Elizabeth to consent to his marriage with Mary and to repeal the laws against the Catholics, he was re-committed to the Tower and brought to trial. He was found guilty by the unanimous verdict of the Lords who tried him, and was sentenced to the block.

On the very day Felton was put on trial, the unfortunate Duke of Norfolk was released. It would have been better for him if he had stayed away from the Tower forever and from the traps that had led him there. But even while he was in that grim place, he kept in touch with Mary, and as soon as he got out, he started plotting again. After being found in communication with the Pope, aiming to incite a rebellion in England that would force Elizabeth to agree to his marriage with Mary and repeal the laws against Catholics, he was sent back to the Tower and put on trial. The Lords who judged him unanimously found him guilty, and he was sentenced to death by beheading.

It is very difficult to make out, at this distance of time, and between opposite accounts, whether Elizabeth really was a humane woman, or desired to appear so, or was fearful of shedding the blood of people of great name who were popular in the country. Twice she commanded and countermanded the execution of this Duke, and it did not take place until five months after his trial. The scaffold was erected on Tower Hill, and there he died like a brave man. He refused to have his eyes bandaged, saying that he was not at all afraid of death; and he admitted the justice of his sentence, and was much regretted by the people.

It’s really hard to tell, after all this time and with conflicting accounts, whether Elizabeth was genuinely a compassionate person, wanted to seem like one, or was just afraid to execute well-known figures who were popular in the country. Twice she ordered and then reversed the execution of this Duke, and it didn't happen until five months after his trial. The scaffold was set up on Tower Hill, and there he met his end like a courageous man. He refused to have his eyes covered, stating that he wasn’t afraid of death at all; he acknowledged the fairness of his sentence and was deeply mourned by the people.

Although Mary had shrunk at the most important time from disproving her guilt, she was very careful never to do anything that would admit it. All such proposals as were made to her by Elizabeth for her release, required that admission in some form or other, and therefore came to nothing. Moreover, both women being artful and treacherous, and neither ever trusting the other, it was not likely that they could ever make an agreement. So, the Parliament, aggravated by what the Pope had done, made new and strong laws against the spreading of the Catholic religion in England, and declared it treason in any one to say that the Queen and her successors were not the lawful sovereigns of England. It would have done more than this, but for Elizabeth’s moderation.

Although Mary had backed down at the most critical moment from denying her guilt, she was very careful never to do anything that would acknowledge it. All the proposals Elizabeth made for her release required some admission of guilt, so they led nowhere. Furthermore, since both women were cunning and untrustworthy, and neither ever fully trusted the other, it was unlikely they could reach an agreement. As a result, Parliament, angered by the Pope's actions, passed new and strict laws against the spread of Catholicism in England, declaring it treason for anyone to claim that the Queen and her heirs were not the rightful rulers of England. It would have gone further, but for Elizabeth’s restraint.

Since the Reformation, there had come to be three great sects of religious people—or people who called themselves so—in England; that is to say, those who belonged to the Reformed Church, those who belonged to the Unreformed Church, and those who were called the Puritans, because they said that they wanted to have everything very pure and plain in all the Church service. These last were for the most part an uncomfortable people, who thought it highly meritorious to dress in a hideous manner, talk through their noses, and oppose all harmless enjoyments. But they were powerful too, and very much in earnest, and they were one and all the determined enemies of the Queen of Scots. The Protestant feeling in England was further strengthened by the tremendous cruelties to which Protestants were exposed in France and in the Netherlands. Scores of thousands of them were put to death in those countries with every cruelty that can be imagined, and at last, in the autumn of the year one thousand five hundred and seventy-two, one of the greatest barbarities ever committed in the world took place at Paris.

Since the Reformation, three major groups of religious people—or people who identified as such—had emerged in England. These included those who were part of the Reformed Church, those who belonged to the Unreformed Church, and those called the Puritans, because they claimed to want everything to be very pure and straightforward in church services. The Puritans were mostly an uptight group who believed it was commendable to dress in unattractive ways, speak nasally, and reject all innocent pleasures. However, they were also influential and very serious about their beliefs, and they were all staunch opponents of Mary, Queen of Scots. The Protestant sentiment in England was further amplified by the brutal persecutions Protestants faced in France and the Netherlands. Countless Protestants were killed in those regions with unimaginable cruelty, and ultimately, in the fall of 1572, one of the most horrific atrocities in history occurred in Paris.

It is called in history, The Massacre of Saint Bartholomew, because it took place on Saint Bartholomew’s Eve. The day fell on Saturday the twenty-third of August. On that day all the great leaders of the Protestants (who were there called Huguenots) were assembled together, for the purpose, as was represented to them, of doing honour to the marriage of their chief, the young King of Navarre, with the sister of Charles the Ninth: a miserable young King who then occupied the French throne. This dull creature was made to believe by his mother and other fierce Catholics about him that the Huguenots meant to take his life; and he was persuaded to give secret orders that, on the tolling of a great bell, they should be fallen upon by an overpowering force of armed men, and slaughtered wherever they could be found. When the appointed hour was close at hand, the stupid wretch, trembling from head to foot, was taken into a balcony by his mother to see the atrocious work begun. The moment the bell tolled, the murderers broke forth. During all that night and the two next days, they broke into the houses, fired the houses, shot and stabbed the Protestants, men, women, and children, and flung their bodies into the streets. They were shot at in the streets as they passed along, and their blood ran down the gutters. Upwards of ten thousand Protestants were killed in Paris alone; in all France four or five times that number. To return thanks to Heaven for these diabolical murders, the Pope and his train actually went in public procession at Rome, and as if this were not shame enough for them, they had a medal struck to commemorate the event. But, however comfortable the wholesale murders were to these high authorities, they had not that soothing effect upon the doll-King. I am happy to state that he never knew a moment’s peace afterwards; that he was continually crying out that he saw the Huguenots covered with blood and wounds falling dead before him; and that he died within a year, shrieking and yelling and raving to that degree, that if all the Popes who had ever lived had been rolled into one, they would not have afforded His guilty Majesty the slightest consolation.

It’s known in history as The St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre because it happened on the eve of Saint Bartholomew. That day was Saturday, August 23rd. On that day, all the top leaders of the Protestants, who were referred to as Huguenots, had gathered together, supposedly to honor the marriage of their leader, the young King of Navarre, with the sister of Charles IX, a miserable young king who was then on the French throne. This dull-witted king was led to believe by his mother and other fierce Catholics around him that the Huguenots wanted to kill him, and he was convinced to secretly order that, at the sound of a great bell, a large force of armed men should attack and slaughter them wherever they were found. As the appointed time approached, the foolish king, trembling all over, was taken to a balcony by his mother to witness the horrific beginning. The moment the bell rang, the murderers surged forward. Throughout that night and the next two days, they broke into homes, set them on fire, shot and stabbed Protestants of all ages, and tossed their bodies into the streets. They were shot at in the streets as they tried to escape, and their blood poured down the gutters. Over ten thousand Protestants were killed in Paris alone, and the total across France was four or five times that number. To give thanks to Heaven for these horrific murders, the Pope and his entourage actually held a public procession in Rome, and just to add to their shame, they even had a medal minted to commemorate the event. However, while these mass killings brought comfort to those high authorities, they did not soothe the puppet king. I’m glad to say he never found a moment's peace afterward; he kept screaming that he saw the Huguenots, covered in blood and wounds, falling dead in front of him, and he died within a year, shrieking and yelling so much that if all the Popes who ever lived had been combined into one, they wouldn’t have provided His guilty Majesty even a bit of consolation.

When the terrible news of the massacre arrived in England, it made a powerful impression indeed upon the people. If they began to run a little wild against the Catholics at about this time, this fearful reason for it, coming so soon after the days of bloody Queen Mary, must be remembered in their excuse. The Court was not quite so honest as the people—but perhaps it sometimes is not. It received the French ambassador, with all the lords and ladies dressed in deep mourning, and keeping a profound silence. Nevertheless, a proposal of marriage which he had made to Elizabeth only two days before the eve of Saint Bartholomew, on behalf of the Duke of Alençon, the French King’s brother, a boy of seventeen, still went on; while on the other hand, in her usual crafty way, the Queen secretly supplied the Huguenots with money and weapons.

When the shocking news of the massacre reached England, it had a huge impact on the people. If they started to act a bit irrationally against Catholics around this time, the horrific reason for it, coming so soon after the violent reign of Queen Mary, should be taken into account as an excuse. The Court wasn't as sincere as the people—but maybe that’s not unusual. They welcomed the French ambassador, with all the lords and ladies dressed in deep mourning and maintaining a solemn silence. However, a marriage proposal he had made to Elizabeth just two days before the eve of Saint Bartholomew, on behalf of the Duke of Alençon, the French King’s brother, a seventeen-year-old boy, still proceeded; meanwhile, in her usual sly manner, the Queen secretly provided the Huguenots with money and weapons.

I must say that for a Queen who made all those fine speeches, of which I have confessed myself to be rather tired, about living and dying a Maiden Queen, Elizabeth was ‘going’ to be married pretty often. Besides always having some English favourite or other whom she by turns encouraged and swore at and knocked about—for the maiden Queen was very free with her fists—she held this French Duke off and on through several years. When he at last came over to England, the marriage articles were actually drawn up, and it was settled that the wedding should take place in six weeks. The Queen was then so bent upon it, that she prosecuted a poor Puritan named Stubbs, and a poor bookseller named Page, for writing and publishing a pamphlet against it. Their right hands were chopped off for this crime; and poor Stubbs—more loyal than I should have been myself under the circumstances—immediately pulled off his hat with his left hand, and cried, ‘God save the Queen!’ Stubbs was cruelly treated; for the marriage never took place after all, though the Queen pledged herself to the Duke with a ring from her own finger. He went away, no better than he came, when the courtship had lasted some ten years altogether; and he died a couple of years afterwards, mourned by Elizabeth, who appears to have been really fond of him. It is not much to her credit, for he was a bad enough member of a bad family.

I have to say that for a Queen who made all those eloquent speeches, which I’ve admitted I’m quite tired of, about living and dying as a Maiden Queen, Elizabeth was “about” to get married pretty frequently. Besides always having some English favorite or another whom she alternately encouraged, scolded, and slapped around—because the maiden Queen was pretty quick with her fists—she kept this French Duke on the hook for several years. When he finally came over to England, they actually drew up the marriage articles, and it was agreed that the wedding would take place in six weeks. The Queen was so determined that she prosecuted a poor Puritan named Stubbs and a bookseller named Page for writing and publishing a pamphlet against it. They had their right hands chopped off for this crime; and poor Stubbs—more loyal than I think I would have been in his situation—immediately took off his hat with his left hand and shouted, ‘God save the Queen!’ Stubbs was treated terribly; the marriage never happened after all, even though the Queen gave the Duke a ring from her own finger as a pledge. He left, no better than he arrived, after a courtship that lasted almost ten years; and he died a couple of years later, mourned by Elizabeth, who seemed to have genuinely cared for him. That doesn’t reflect well on her, considering he was a pretty rotten member of a pretty bad family.

To return to the Catholics. There arose two orders of priests, who were very busy in England, and who were much dreaded. These were the Jesuits (who were everywhere in all sorts of disguises), and the Seminary Priests. The people had a great horror of the first, because they were known to have taught that murder was lawful if it were done with an object of which they approved; and they had a great horror of the second, because they came to teach the old religion, and to be the successors of ‘Queen Mary’s priests,’ as those yet lingering in England were called, when they should die out. The severest laws were made against them, and were most unmercifully executed. Those who sheltered them in their houses often suffered heavily for what was an act of humanity; and the rack, that cruel torture which tore men’s limbs asunder, was constantly kept going. What these unhappy men confessed, or what was ever confessed by any one under that agony, must always be received with great doubt, as it is certain that people have frequently owned to the most absurd and impossible crimes to escape such dreadful suffering. But I cannot doubt it to have been proved by papers, that there were many plots, both among the Jesuits, and with France, and with Scotland, and with Spain, for the destruction of Queen Elizabeth, for the placing of Mary on the throne, and for the revival of the old religion.

To get back to the Catholics. Two orders of priests emerged in England who were very active and widely feared. These were the Jesuit priests (who were everywhere in various disguises) and the Seminary clergy. People had a strong fear of the first group because they were known to have taught that murder was acceptable if it served a purpose they approved of. They also feared the second group because they came to promote the old religion and to be the successors of 'Queen Mary's priests,' as those who still remained in England were referred to, before they died out. Harsh laws were enacted against them and were ruthlessly enforced. Those who offered them shelter often faced severe consequences for what was an act of compassion, and the rack, that brutal torture device that tore people apart, was consistently in use. Whatever these unfortunate men confessed, or what anyone else might confess under such agony, must always be viewed with skepticism, as it’s certain that people have often admitted to the most ridiculous and impossible crimes to escape such horrifying pain. However, I have no doubt that it has been proven through documents that there were numerous plots among the Jesuits, and with France, Scotland, and Spain, aimed at the overthrow of Queen Elizabeth, placing Mary on the throne, and restoring the old religion.

If the English people were too ready to believe in plots, there were, as I have said, good reasons for it. When the massacre of Saint Bartholomew was yet fresh in their recollection, a great Protestant Dutch hero, the Prince of Orange, was shot by an assassin, who confessed that he had been kept and trained for the purpose in a college of Jesuits. The Dutch, in this surprise and distress, offered to make Elizabeth their sovereign, but she declined the honour, and sent them a small army instead, under the command of the Earl of Leicester, who, although a capital Court favourite, was not much of a general. He did so little in Holland, that his campaign there would probably have been forgotten, but for its occasioning the death of one of the best writers, the best knights, and the best gentlemen, of that or any age. This was Sir Philip Sidney, who was wounded by a musket ball in the thigh as he mounted a fresh horse, after having had his own killed under him. He had to ride back wounded, a long distance, and was very faint with fatigue and loss of blood, when some water, for which he had eagerly asked, was handed to him. But he was so good and gentle even then, that seeing a poor badly wounded common soldier lying on the ground, looking at the water with longing eyes, he said, ‘Thy necessity is greater than mine,’ and gave it up to him. This touching action of a noble heart is perhaps as well known as any incident in history—is as famous far and wide as the blood-stained Tower of London, with its axe, and block, and murders out of number. So delightful is an act of true humanity, and so glad are mankind to remember it.

If the English people were quick to believe in conspiracies, there were, as I mentioned, good reasons for it. When the massacre of Saint Bartholomew was still fresh in their minds, a great Protestant Dutch hero, the Prince of Orange, was shot by an assassin, who admitted he had been trained for the purpose in a Jesuit college. The Dutch, in their shock and sorrow, offered to make Elizabeth their ruler, but she turned down the honor and instead sent them a small army led by the Earl of Leicester, who, despite being a favorite at court, wasn't much of a general. He accomplished so little in Holland that his campaign there might have been forgotten if not for the fact that it led to the death of one of the best writers, knights, and gentlemen of that time or any other. This was Sir Philip Sidney, who was wounded in the thigh by a musket ball while getting on a fresh horse after his own had been killed. He had to ride back, injured, a long distance, and was very weak from fatigue and blood loss when some water, which he had eagerly asked for, was handed to him. Yet he was so kind and generous even then, that upon seeing a badly wounded common soldier lying on the ground, looking at the water with desperate eyes, he said, ‘Your need is greater than mine,’ and gave it to him. This moving act of a noble heart is perhaps as well-known as any event in history—is as famous far and wide as the blood-stained Tower of London, with its axe, block, and countless murders. An act of true humanity is so delightful, and people are so happy to remember it.

At home, intelligence of plots began to thicken every day. I suppose the people never did live under such continual terrors as those by which they were possessed now, of Catholic risings, and burnings, and poisonings, and I don’t know what. Still, we must always remember that they lived near and close to awful realities of that kind, and that with their experience it was not difficult to believe in any enormity. The government had the same fear, and did not take the best means of discovering the truth—for, besides torturing the suspected, it employed paid spies, who will always lie for their own profit. It even made some of the conspiracies it brought to light, by sending false letters to disaffected people, inviting them to join in pretended plots, which they too readily did.

At home, the tension from plots grew thicker every day. I guess the people have never had to live under such constant fears as those they faced now, like Catholic uprisings, arson, poisonings, and who knows what else. Still, we must always remember that they were close to horrifying realities like these, and given their experiences, it was easy to believe in any atrocity. The government shared this fear and didn’t do the best job of finding out the truth—aside from torturing the suspects, they used paid spies, who would always lie for their own gain. They even created some of the conspiracies they unveiled by sending fake letters to disaffected individuals, enticing them to participate in made-up plots, which they too eagerly accepted.

But, one great real plot was at length discovered, and it ended the career of Mary, Queen of Scots. A seminary priest named Ballard, and a Spanish soldier named Savage, set on and encouraged by certain French priests, imparted a design to one Antony Babington—a gentleman of fortune in Derbyshire, who had been for some time a secret agent of Mary’s—for murdering the Queen. Babington then confided the scheme to some other Catholic gentlemen who were his friends, and they joined in it heartily. They were vain, weak-headed young men, ridiculously confident, and preposterously proud of their plan; for they got a gimcrack painting made, of the six choice spirits who were to murder Elizabeth, with Babington in an attitude for the centre figure. Two of their number, however, one of whom was a priest, kept Elizabeth’s wisest minister, Sir Francis Walsingham, acquainted with the whole project from the first. The conspirators were completely deceived to the final point, when Babington gave Savage, because he was shabby, a ring from his finger, and some money from his purse, wherewith to buy himself new clothes in which to kill the Queen. Walsingham, having then full evidence against the whole band, and two letters of Mary’s besides, resolved to seize them. Suspecting something wrong, they stole out of the city, one by one, and hid themselves in St. John’s Wood, and other places which really were hiding places then; but they were all taken, and all executed. When they were seized, a gentleman was sent from Court to inform Mary of the fact, and of her being involved in the discovery. Her friends have complained that she was kept in very hard and severe custody. It does not appear very likely, for she was going out a hunting that very morning.

But eventually, one major plot was uncovered, bringing an end to the life of Mary, Queen of Scots. A seminary priest named Ballard and a Spanish soldier named Fierce, encouraged by some French priests, shared a plan with Antony Babington—a wealthy gentleman from Derbyshire who had secretly been working for Mary—for assassinating the Queen. Babington then confided this scheme to a few other Catholic friends, who eagerly joined in. They were proud, foolish young men, overly confident and absurdly self-important about their plan; they even commissioned a flimsy painting of the six key figures who were meant to kill Elizabeth, with Babington posed as the central figure. However, two of them, one of whom was a priest, kept Elizabeth's smartest advisor, Sir Francis Walsingham, informed about the entire plot from the start. The conspirators were completely misled until the very end, when Babington, feeling sorry for Savage’s poor appearance, gave him a ring from his finger and some cash from his wallet to buy new clothes for the assassination. Walsingham, armed with full evidence against the group and two letters from Mary, decided to arrest them. Sensing something was off, they left the city one by one and hid in St. John’s Wood and other genuine hiding spots of the time; however, they were all captured and executed. When they were arrested, a gentleman was sent from Court to inform Mary about the situation and her involvement in the discovery. Her supporters complained that she was kept in very harsh conditions. That seems unlikely, as she was going out hunting that very morning.

Queen Elizabeth had been warned long ago, by one in France who had good information of what was secretly doing, that in holding Mary alive, she held ‘the wolf who would devour her.’ The Bishop of London had, more lately, given the Queen’s favourite minister the advice in writing, ‘forthwith to cut off the Scottish Queen’s head.’ The question now was, what to do with her? The Earl of Leicester wrote a little note home from Holland, recommending that she should be quietly poisoned; that noble favourite having accustomed his mind, it is possible, to remedies of that nature. His black advice, however, was disregarded, and she was brought to trial at Fotheringay Castle in Northamptonshire, before a tribunal of forty, composed of both religions. There, and in the Star Chamber at Westminster, the trial lasted a fortnight. She defended herself with great ability, but could only deny the confessions that had been made by Babington and others; could only call her own letters, produced against her by her own secretaries, forgeries; and, in short, could only deny everything. She was found guilty, and declared to have incurred the penalty of death. The Parliament met, approved the sentence, and prayed the Queen to have it executed. The Queen replied that she requested them to consider whether no means could be found of saving Mary’s life without endangering her own. The Parliament rejoined, No; and the citizens illuminated their houses and lighted bonfires, in token of their joy that all these plots and troubles were to be ended by the death of the Queen of Scots.

Queen Elizabeth had been warned long ago by someone in France who had good intel on what was going on behind the scenes that by keeping Mary alive, she was holding ‘the wolf who would devour her.’ The Bishop of London had more recently advised the Queen’s favorite minister in writing to ‘immediately cut off the Scottish Queen’s head.’ The question now was, what to do with her? The Earl of Leicester sent a brief note home from Holland, suggesting that she should be quietly poisoned; that noble favorite may have gotten used to remedies like that. His dark suggestion, however, was ignored, and she was put on trial at Fotheringay Castle in Northamptonshire, before a tribunal of forty people, made up of both faiths. There, and in the Star Chamber at Westminster, the trial lasted two weeks. She defended herself skillfully but could only deny the confessions made by Babington and others; she could only call her own letters, presented against her by her own secretaries, forgeries; and, in short, could only deny everything. She was found guilty and sentenced to death. Parliament convened, approved the sentence, and urged the Queen to carry it out. The Queen replied that she wanted them to consider whether there was any way to save Mary’s life without putting her own at risk. Parliament responded, No; and the citizens decorated their homes and lit bonfires to celebrate that all these plots and troubles would end with the death of the Queen of Scots.

She, feeling sure that her time was now come, wrote a letter to the Queen of England, making three entreaties; first, that she might be buried in France; secondly, that she might not be executed in secret, but before her servants and some others; thirdly, that after her death, her servants should not be molested, but should be suffered to go home with the legacies she left them. It was an affecting letter, and Elizabeth shed tears over it, but sent no answer. Then came a special ambassador from France, and another from Scotland, to intercede for Mary’s life; and then the nation began to clamour, more and more, for her death.

She, feeling certain that her time had come, wrote a letter to the Queen of England, making three requests: first, that she be buried in France; second, that her execution not be carried out in secret, but in front of her servants and a few others; and third, that after her death, her servants not be harmed but allowed to return home with the legacies she left them. It was an emotional letter, and Elizabeth cried over it, but sent no reply. Then a special ambassador from France arrived, followed by another from Scotland, to plead for Mary's life; meanwhile, the public began to demand her death more and more.

What the real feelings or intentions of Elizabeth were, can never be known now; but I strongly suspect her of only wishing one thing more than Mary’s death, and that was to keep free of the blame of it. On the first of February, one thousand five hundred and eighty-seven, Lord Burleigh having drawn out the warrant for the execution, the Queen sent to the secretary Davison to bring it to her, that she might sign it: which she did. Next day, when Davison told her it was sealed, she angrily asked him why such haste was necessary? Next day but one, she joked about it, and swore a little. Again, next day but one, she seemed to complain that it was not yet done, but still she would not be plain with those about her. So, on the seventh, the Earls of Kent and Shrewsbury, with the Sheriff of Northamptonshire, came with the warrant to Fotheringay, to tell the Queen of Scots to prepare for death.

What Elizabeth's true feelings or intentions were can never be known now; but I really suspect she wanted one thing more than Mary's death, and that was to avoid taking the blame for it. On February 1, 1587, Lord Burleigh had prepared the execution warrant, and the Queen sent for Secretary Davison to bring it to her so she could sign it, which she did. The next day, when Davison informed her it was sealed, she angrily asked him why there was such urgency. The following day, she joked about it and swore a little. Again, the next day, she seemed to complain that it hadn’t happened yet, but still wouldn’t be straightforward with those around her. So, on the seventh, the Earls of Kent and Shrewsbury, along with the Sheriff of Northamptonshire, arrived at Fotheringhay with the warrant to inform the Queen of Scots to get ready for her execution.

When those messengers of ill omen were gone, Mary made a frugal supper, drank to her servants, read over her will, went to bed, slept for some hours, and then arose and passed the remainder of the night saying prayers. In the morning she dressed herself in her best clothes; and, at eight o’clock when the sheriff came for her to her chapel, took leave of her servants who were there assembled praying with her, and went down-stairs, carrying a Bible in one hand and a crucifix in the other. Two of her women and four of her men were allowed to be present in the hall; where a low scaffold, only two feet from the ground, was erected and covered with black; and where the executioner from the Tower, and his assistant, stood, dressed in black velvet. The hall was full of people. While the sentence was being read she sat upon a stool; and, when it was finished, she again denied her guilt, as she had done before. The Earl of Kent and the Dean of Peterborough, in their Protestant zeal, made some very unnecessary speeches to her; to which she replied that she died in the Catholic religion, and they need not trouble themselves about that matter. When her head and neck were uncovered by the executioners, she said that she had not been used to be undressed by such hands, or before so much company. Finally, one of her women fastened a cloth over her face, and she laid her neck upon the block, and repeated more than once in Latin, ‘Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit!’ Some say her head was struck off in two blows, some say in three. However that be, when it was held up, streaming with blood, the real hair beneath the false hair she had long worn was seen to be as grey as that of a woman of seventy, though she was at that time only in her forty-sixth year. All her beauty was gone.

When those messengers of bad news left, Mary had a simple dinner, toasted her servants, reviewed her will, went to bed, slept for a few hours, and then got up to spend the rest of the night praying. In the morning, she put on her best clothes; at eight o’clock, when the sheriff came for her in the chapel, she said goodbye to her servants who had gathered there to pray with her, and went downstairs holding a Bible in one hand and a crucifix in the other. Two of her women and four of her men were allowed to be present in the hall, where a low scaffold, only two feet off the ground, was set up and draped in black; the executioner from the Tower and his assistant stood there, dressed in black velvet. The hall was packed with people. While the sentence was being read, she sat on a stool; when it was over, she denied her guilt again, as she had before. The Earl of Kent and the Dean of Peterborough, in their Protestant fervor, made some quite unnecessary speeches to her; she replied that she was dying in the Catholic faith, and they need not concern themselves with that. As the executioners uncovered her head and neck, she remarked that she wasn’t used to being undressed by such hands, or in front of so many people. At last, one of her women covered her face with a cloth, and she laid her neck down on the block, repeating several times in Latin, “Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit!” Some say her head was struck off in two blows, others say in three. Regardless, when it was held up, dripping with blood, the real hair beneath the fake hair she had long worn was seen to be as gray as that of a seventy-year-old woman, though she was only forty-six at the time. All her beauty was gone.

But she was beautiful enough to her little dog, who cowered under her dress, frightened, when she went upon the scaffold, and who lay down beside her headless body when all her earthly sorrows were over.

But she was beautiful enough for her little dog, who cowered under her dress, scared, when she went onto the scaffold, and who lay down beside her headless body when all her earthly troubles were over.

THIRD PART

On its being formally made known to Elizabeth that the sentence had been executed on the Queen of Scots, she showed the utmost grief and rage, drove her favourites from her with violent indignation, and sent Davison to the Tower; from which place he was only released in the end by paying an immense fine which completely ruined him. Elizabeth not only over-acted her part in making these pretences, but most basely reduced to poverty one of her faithful servants for no other fault than obeying her commands.

On being officially informed that the sentence had been carried out against Mary, Queen of Scots, Elizabeth displayed extreme grief and anger, angrily dismissed her favorites, and sent Davison to the Tower; he was only released later after paying a huge fine that completely devastated him. Elizabeth not only exaggerated her role in pretending to care but also unfairly drove one of her loyal servants into poverty for the sole reason of following her orders.

James, King of Scotland, Mary’s son, made a show likewise of being very angry on the occasion; but he was a pensioner of England to the amount of five thousand pounds a year, and he had known very little of his mother, and he possibly regarded her as the murderer of his father, and he soon took it quietly.

James, King of Scotland and Mary's son, also pretended to be very angry about the situation; however, he received a pension from England of five thousand pounds a year, had hardly known his mother, and likely viewed her as the murderer of his father, so he quickly calmed down.

Philip, King of Spain, however, threatened to do greater things than ever had been done yet, to set up the Catholic religion and punish Protestant England. Elizabeth, hearing that he and the Prince of Parma were making great preparations for this purpose, in order to be beforehand with them sent out Admiral Drake (a famous navigator, who had sailed about the world, and had already brought great plunder from Spain) to the port of Cadiz, where he burnt a hundred vessels full of stores. This great loss obliged the Spaniards to put off the invasion for a year; but it was none the less formidable for that, amounting to one hundred and thirty ships, nineteen thousand soldiers, eight thousand sailors, two thousand slaves, and between two and three thousand great guns. England was not idle in making ready to resist this great force. All the men between sixteen years old and sixty, were trained and drilled; the national fleet of ships (in number only thirty-four at first) was enlarged by public contributions and by private ships, fitted out by noblemen; the city of London, of its own accord, furnished double the number of ships and men that it was required to provide; and, if ever the national spirit was up in England, it was up all through the country to resist the Spaniards. Some of the Queen’s advisers were for seizing the principal English Catholics, and putting them to death; but the Queen—who, to her honour, used to say, that she would never believe any ill of her subjects, which a parent would not believe of her own children—rejected the advice, and only confined a few of those who were the most suspected, in the fens in Lincolnshire. The great body of Catholics deserved this confidence; for they behaved most loyally, nobly, and bravely.

Philip, King of Spain, threatened to do more than ever before, aiming to establish the Catholic religion and punish Protestant England. When Elizabeth learned that he and the Prince of Parma were making extensive preparations for this, she sent out Admiral Drake (a famous navigator who had circumnavigated the globe and had already brought back significant loot from Spain) to the port of Cadiz, where he burned a hundred ships full of supplies. This major loss forced the Spaniards to postpone the invasion by a year; however, it was still formidable, consisting of one hundred thirty ships, nineteen thousand soldiers, eight thousand sailors, two thousand slaves, and between two and three thousand heavy guns. England was proactive in preparing to resist this massive force. All men between the ages of sixteen and sixty were trained and drilled; the national fleet, initially only thirty-four ships, was expanded through public donations and private vessels provided by noblemen; the city of London voluntarily supplied double the number of ships and men it was required to provide; and if there was ever a strong national spirit in England, it was fully mobilized to fight the Spaniards. Some of the Queen's advisors suggested seizing prominent English Catholics and executing them, but the Queen—who, to her credit, claimed she would never believe any bad things about her subjects that a parent wouldn’t believe about their own children—dismissed the advice and only detained a few of the most suspicious individuals in the fens of Lincolnshire. The majority of Catholics deserved this trust, as they acted with loyalty, nobility, and bravery.

So, with all England firing up like one strong, angry man, and with both sides of the Thames fortified, and with the soldiers under arms, and with the sailors in their ships, the country waited for the coming of the proud Spanish fleet, which was called The Invincible Armada. The Queen herself, riding in armour on a white horse, and the Earl of Essex and the Earl of Leicester holding her bridal rein, made a brave speech to the troops at Tilbury Fort opposite Gravesend, which was received with such enthusiasm as is seldom known. Then came the Spanish Armada into the English Channel, sailing along in the form of a half moon, of such great size that it was seven miles broad. But the English were quickly upon it, and woe then to all the Spanish ships that dropped a little out of the half moon, for the English took them instantly! And it soon appeared that the great Armada was anything but invincible, for on a summer night, bold Drake sent eight blazing fire-ships right into the midst of it. In terrible consternation the Spaniards tried to get out to sea, and so became dispersed; the English pursued them at a great advantage; a storm came on, and drove the Spaniards among rocks and shoals; and the swift end of the Invincible fleet was, that it lost thirty great ships and ten thousand men, and, defeated and disgraced, sailed home again. Being afraid to go by the English Channel, it sailed all round Scotland and Ireland; some of the ships getting cast away on the latter coast in bad weather, the Irish, who were a kind of savages, plundered those vessels and killed their crews. So ended this great attempt to invade and conquer England. And I think it will be a long time before any other invincible fleet coming to England with the same object, will fare much better than the Spanish Armada.

So, with all of England fired up like one strong, angry man, and with both sides of the Thames fortified, and the soldiers ready for battle, and the sailors on their ships, the country waited for the arrival of the proud Spanish fleet, known as The Invincible Armada. The Queen herself, armored and riding a white horse, along with the Earl of Essex and the Earl of Leicester holding her reins, gave a brave speech to the troops at Tilbury Fort across from Gravesend, which was met with an enthusiasm rarely seen. Then the Spanish Armada came into the English Channel, sailing in the shape of a half moon, so enormous that it stretched seven miles wide. But the English quickly engaged, and disaster struck for any Spanish ships that strayed from the formation, as the English seized them immediately! It soon became clear that the so-called invincible Armada was far from it, for on a summer night, daring Drake sent eight blazing fire-ships straight into the heart of it. In a panic, the Spaniards attempted to flee to open sea, becoming scattered in the process; the English chased them down with a significant advantage. A storm struck, driving the Spaniards into rocks and shallow waters, resulting in the swift demise of the Invincible fleet, which lost thirty large ships and ten thousand men, returning home defeated and humiliated. Fearing the direct route through the English Channel, they sailed all around Scotland and Ireland; some of the ships wrecked on the latter's coast in bad weather, where the Irish, seen as savage, plundered those vessels and killed their crews. Thus ended this grand attempt to invade and conquer England. I believe it will be a long time before any other invincible fleet arrives in England with the same goal and fairs much better than the Spanish Armada.

Though the Spanish king had had this bitter taste of English bravery, he was so little the wiser for it, as still to entertain his old designs, and even to conceive the absurd idea of placing his daughter on the English throne. But the Earl of Essex, Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Thomas Howard, and some other distinguished leaders, put to sea from Plymouth, entered the port of Cadiz once more, obtained a complete victory over the shipping assembled there, and got possession of the town. In obedience to the Queen’s express instructions, they behaved with great humanity; and the principal loss of the Spaniards was a vast sum of money which they had to pay for ransom. This was one of many gallant achievements on the sea, effected in this reign. Sir Walter Raleigh himself, after marrying a maid of honour and giving offence to the Maiden Queen thereby, had already sailed to South America in search of gold.

Though the Spanish king had experienced a bitter taste of English bravery, he didn’t learn much from it, as he still harbored his old ambitions and even entertained the ridiculous idea of placing his daughter on the English throne. However, the Earl of Essex, Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Thomas Howard, and several other notable leaders set sail from Plymouth, entered the port of Cadiz once again, achieved a decisive victory over the ships there, and seized control of the town. Following the Queen’s specific orders, they acted with great humanity; the main loss for the Spaniards was a vast sum of money they had to pay for ransom. This was just one of many brave accomplishments at sea during this reign. After marrying a maid of honor, which offended the Maiden Queen, Sir Walter Raleigh had already sailed to South America in search of gold.

The Earl of Leicester was now dead, and so was Sir Thomas Walsingham, whom Lord Burleigh was soon to follow. The principal favourite was the Earl of Essex, a spirited and handsome man, a favourite with the people too as well as with the Queen, and possessed of many admirable qualities. It was much debated at Court whether there should be peace with Spain or no, and he was very urgent for war. He also tried hard to have his own way in the appointment of a deputy to govern in Ireland. One day, while this question was in dispute, he hastily took offence, and turned his back upon the Queen; as a gentle reminder of which impropriety, the Queen gave him a tremendous box on the ear, and told him to go to the devil. He went home instead, and did not reappear at Court for half a year or so, when he and the Queen were reconciled, though never (as some suppose) thoroughly.

The Earl of Leicester had just died, and so had Sir Thomas Walsingham, followed soon by Lord Burleigh. The main favorite was the Earl of Essex, a lively and attractive man, popular not just with the Queen but also with the people, and he had many commendable traits. There was a lot of debate at Court about whether to have peace with Spain or not, and he was very much in favor of war. He also pushed hard to get his own choice as a deputy to govern in Ireland. One day, while this issue was being discussed, he got upset and turned his back on the Queen; to remind him of his rudeness, the Queen slapped him hard on the face and told him to go to hell. Instead, he went home and didn't come back to Court for about six months, until he and the Queen eventually made up, though it was never (as some believe) completely reconciled.

From this time the fate of the Earl of Essex and that of the Queen seemed to be blended together. The Irish were still perpetually quarrelling and fighting among themselves, and he went over to Ireland as Lord Lieutenant, to the great joy of his enemies (Sir Walter Raleigh among the rest), who were glad to have so dangerous a rival far off. Not being by any means successful there, and knowing that his enemies would take advantage of that circumstance to injure him with the Queen, he came home again, though against her orders. The Queen being taken by surprise when he appeared before her, gave him her hand to kiss, and he was overjoyed—though it was not a very lovely hand by this time—but in the course of the same day she ordered him to confine himself to his room, and two or three days afterwards had him taken into custody. With the same sort of caprice—and as capricious an old woman she now was, as ever wore a crown or a head either—she sent him broth from her own table on his falling ill from anxiety, and cried about him.

From that point on, the fate of the Earl of Essex and the Queen seemed to be intertwined. The Irish were constantly fighting among themselves, and he went to Ireland as Lord Lieutenant, much to the delight of his enemies (including Sir Walter Raleigh), who were happy to have such a dangerous rival far away. Not finding any success there, and knowing his enemies would use his failures to turn the Queen against him, he returned home, even though she had ordered him not to. The Queen was taken aback when he showed up and offered him her hand to kiss, and he was thrilled—though her hand wasn’t very attractive by that point—but later that same day, she ordered him to stay in his room, and two or three days later, she had him taken into custody. In a similarly whimsical manner—reflecting how capricious she had become as an old woman wearing a crown—she sent him broth from her own table when he fell ill from worry, and she wept for him.

He was a man who could find comfort and occupation in his books, and he did so for a time; not the least happy time, I dare say, of his life. But it happened unfortunately for him, that he held a monopoly in sweet wines: which means that nobody could sell them without purchasing his permission. This right, which was only for a term, expiring, he applied to have it renewed. The Queen refused, with the rather strong observation—but she did make strong observations—that an unruly beast must be stinted in his food. Upon this, the angry Earl, who had been already deprived of many offices, thought himself in danger of complete ruin, and turned against the Queen, whom he called a vain old woman who had grown as crooked in her mind as she had in her figure. These uncomplimentary expressions the ladies of the Court immediately snapped up and carried to the Queen, whom they did not put in a better tempter, you may believe. The same Court ladies, when they had beautiful dark hair of their own, used to wear false red hair, to be like the Queen. So they were not very high-spirited ladies, however high in rank.

He was a guy who could find comfort and things to do in his books, and he did for a while; not the least happy time, I’d say, of his life. But unfortunately for him, he had a monopoly on sweet wines, which meant that no one could sell them without getting his permission. This right, which was only temporary, was about to expire, so he applied for a renewal. The Queen refused, with a rather strong comment—but she *did* make strong comments—that an unruly beast must be limited in its food. Because of this, the angry Earl, who had already lost many positions, felt he was on the edge of complete ruin, and turned against the Queen, calling her a vain old woman who had become as twisted in her mind as she was in her figure. These unflattering remarks were quickly taken up by the ladies of the Court and brought to the Queen, which didn’t help her mood, you can imagine. The same Court ladies, despite having beautiful dark hair of their own, used to wear fake red hair to resemble the Queen. So they weren’t very cheerful ladies, even though they were high in rank.

The worst object of the Earl of Essex, and some friends of his who used to meet at Lord Southampton’s house, was to obtain possession of the Queen, and oblige her by force to dismiss her ministers and change her favourites. On Saturday the seventh of February, one thousand six hundred and one, the council suspecting this, summoned the Earl to come before them. He, pretending to be ill, declined; it was then settled among his friends, that as the next day would be Sunday, when many of the citizens usually assembled at the Cross by St. Paul’s Cathedral, he should make one bold effort to induce them to rise and follow him to the Palace.

The main goal of the Earl of Essex and some of his friends, who would often gather at Southampton's house, was to take control of the Queen and force her to get rid of her ministers and change her favorites. On Saturday, February 7, 1601, the council, suspecting this plan, called the Earl to appear before them. He claimed to be unwell and declined. It was then decided among his friends that since the next day was Sunday, when many citizens typically gathered at the Cross by St. Paul’s Cathedral, he would make a bold attempt to rally them to rise up and follow him to the Palace.

So, on the Sunday morning, he and a small body of adherents started out of his house—Essex House by the Strand, with steps to the river—having first shut up in it, as prisoners, some members of the council who came to examine him—and hurried into the City with the Earl at their head crying out ‘For the Queen! For the Queen! A plot is laid for my life!’ No one heeded them, however, and when they came to St. Paul’s there were no citizens there. In the meantime the prisoners at Essex House had been released by one of the Earl’s own friends; he had been promptly proclaimed a traitor in the City itself; and the streets were barricaded with carts and guarded by soldiers. The Earl got back to his house by water, with difficulty, and after an attempt to defend his house against the troops and cannon by which it was soon surrounded, gave himself up that night. He was brought to trial on the nineteenth, and found guilty; on the twenty-fifth, he was executed on Tower Hill, where he died, at thirty-four years old, both courageously and penitently. His step-father suffered with him. His enemy, Sir Walter Raleigh, stood near the scaffold all the time—but not so near it as we shall see him stand, before we finish his history.

So, on Sunday morning, he and a small group of supporters left his house—Essex House by the Strand, which had steps leading to the river—after first locking up some council members who came to interrogate him. They hurried into the City with the Earl leading them, shouting, "For the Queen! For the Queen! Someone is plotting against my life!" However, no one paid them any attention, and when they arrived at St. Paul’s, there were no citizens there. Meanwhile, the prisoners at Essex House had been freed by one of the Earl’s own friends; he had been quickly declared a traitor right in the City; and the streets were blocked with carts and guarded by soldiers. The Earl managed to return to his house by water with difficulty, and after trying to defend his home against the troops and cannons that soon surrounded it, he surrendered that night. He was brought to trial on the nineteenth and found guilty; on the twenty-fifth, he was executed at Tower Hill, where he died at thirty-four years old, both bravely and remorsefully. His step-father suffered alongside him. His rival, Sir Walter Raleigh, stood near the scaffold the entire time—but not as close as we will see him stand before we finish his story.

In this case, as in the cases of the Duke of Norfolk and Mary Queen of Scots, the Queen had commanded, and countermanded, and again commanded, the execution. It is probable that the death of her young and gallant favourite in the prime of his good qualities, was never off her mind afterwards, but she held out, the same vain, obstinate and capricious woman, for another year. Then she danced before her Court on a state occasion—and cut, I should think, a mighty ridiculous figure, doing so in an immense ruff, stomacher and wig, at seventy years old. For another year still, she held out, but, without any more dancing, and as a moody, sorrowful, broken creature. At last, on the tenth of March, one thousand six hundred and three, having been ill of a very bad cold, and made worse by the death of the Countess of Nottingham who was her intimate friend, she fell into a stupor and was supposed to be dead. She recovered her consciousness, however, and then nothing would induce her to go to bed; for she said that she knew that if she did, she should never get up again. There she lay for ten days, on cushions on the floor, without any food, until the Lord Admiral got her into bed at last, partly by persuasions and partly by main force. When they asked her who should succeed her, she replied that her seat had been the seat of Kings, and that she would have for her successor, ‘No rascal’s son, but a King’s.’ Upon this, the lords present stared at one another, and took the liberty of asking whom she meant; to which she replied, ‘Whom should I mean, but our cousin of Scotland!’ This was on the twenty-third of March. They asked her once again that day, after she was speechless, whether she was still in the same mind? She struggled up in bed, and joined her hands over her head in the form of a crown, as the only reply she could make. At three o’clock next morning, she very quietly died, in the forty-fifth year of her reign.

In this situation, like with the Duke of Norfolk and Mary Queen of Scots, the Queen had ordered, then canceled, and then ordered again the execution. It’s likely that the death of her young and brave favorite, at the height of his qualities, weighed heavily on her mind afterwards, yet she persisted, the same vain, stubborn, and unpredictable woman, for another year. Then she danced before her Court on a formal occasion—and I imagine she looked pretty ridiculous, doing so in a huge ruff, stomacher, and wig, at seventy years old. For another year, she held on, but without any more dancing, appearing as a moody, sorrowful, and broken person. Finally, on March 10, 1603, after suffering from a bad cold, worsened by the death of her close friend the Countess of Nottingham, she slipped into a stupor and was thought to be dead. However, she regained consciousness, yet refused to go to bed; she insisted that if she did, she knew she wouldn’t get up again. She lay there for ten days on cushions on the floor without any food, until the Lord Admiral finally got her into bed, using both persuasion and force. When they asked her who should succeed her, she answered that her seat had been a seat for Kings, and she wanted for her successor, ‘No rascal’s son, but a King’s.’ At this, the lords present stared at each other and dared to ask whom she meant; to which she replied, ‘Whom should I mean, but our cousin of Scotland!’ This was on March 23. They asked her again that day, after she had lost her speech, if she still felt the same way. She struggled up in bed and joined her hands over her head in the shape of a crown, as the only reply she could manage. At three o’clock the next morning, she very quietly passed away, in the forty-fifth year of her reign.

That reign had been a glorious one, and is made for ever memorable by the distinguished men who flourished in it. Apart from the great voyagers, statesmen, and scholars, whom it produced, the names of Bacon, Spenser, and Shakespeare, will always be remembered with pride and veneration by the civilised world, and will always impart (though with no great reason, perhaps) some portion of their lustre to the name of Elizabeth herself. It was a great reign for discovery, for commerce, and for English enterprise and spirit in general. It was a great reign for the Protestant religion and for the Reformation which made England free. The Queen was very popular, and in her progresses, or journeys about her dominions, was everywhere received with the liveliest joy. I think the truth is, that she was not half so good as she has been made out, and not half so bad as she has been made out. She had her fine qualities, but she was coarse, capricious, and treacherous, and had all the faults of an excessively vain young woman long after she was an old one. On the whole, she had a great deal too much of her father in her, to please me.

That reign was a glorious one, made unforgettable by the remarkable individuals who thrived during it. Besides the great explorers, politicians, and scholars it produced, the names of Bacon, Spenser, and Shakespeare will always be remembered with pride and respect by the civilized world, and they will likely transfer (though perhaps not justly) some of their brilliance to Elizabeth herself. It was a significant reign for discovery, commerce, and the general spirit of English enterprise. It was also a pivotal time for the Protestant faith and the Reformation that liberated England. The Queen was very popular, and during her travels across her territories, she was met with immense joy everywhere she went. I believe the truth is that she wasn't as good as people often portray her, but she wasn't as bad either. She had her admirable qualities, yet she was also coarse, unpredictable, and deceitful, carrying the flaws of an excessively vain young woman well into her old age. Overall, she inherited too much of her father's traits to suit me.

Many improvements and luxuries were introduced in the course of these five-and-forty years in the general manner of living; but cock-fighting, bull-baiting, and bear-baiting, were still the national amusements; and a coach was so rarely seen, and was such an ugly and cumbersome affair when it was seen, that even the Queen herself, on many high occasions, rode on horseback on a pillion behind the Lord Chancellor.

Many improvements and luxuries were introduced over these forty-five years in the general way of living; but cockfighting, bull-baiting, and bear-baiting were still the national pastimes; and a coach was so rarely seen, and looked so awkward and clunky when it was, that even the Queen herself often rode on horseback on a pillion behind the Lord Chancellor during many important events.

CHAPTER XXXII—ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE FIRST

‘Our cousin of Scotland’ was ugly, awkward, and shuffling both in mind and person. His tongue was much too large for his mouth, his legs were much too weak for his body, and his dull goggle-eyes stared and rolled like an idiot’s. He was cunning, covetous, wasteful, idle, drunken, greedy, dirty, cowardly, a great swearer, and the most conceited man on earth. His figure—what is commonly called rickety from his birth—presented a most ridiculous appearance, dressed in thick padded clothes, as a safeguard against being stabbed (of which he lived in continual fear), of a grass-green colour from head to foot, with a hunting-horn dangling at his side instead of a sword, and his hat and feather sticking over one eye, or hanging on the back of his head, as he happened to toss it on. He used to loll on the necks of his favourite courtiers, and slobber their faces, and kiss and pinch their cheeks; and the greatest favourite he ever had, used to sign himself in his letters to his royal master, His Majesty’s ‘dog and slave,’ and used to address his majesty as ‘his Sowship.’ His majesty was the worst rider ever seen, and thought himself the best. He was one of the most impertinent talkers (in the broadest Scotch) ever heard, and boasted of being unanswerable in all manner of argument. He wrote some of the most wearisome treatises ever read—among others, a book upon witchcraft, in which he was a devout believer—and thought himself a prodigy of authorship. He thought, and wrote, and said, that a king had a right to make and unmake what laws he pleased, and ought to be accountable to nobody on earth. This is the plain, true character of the personage whom the greatest men about the court praised and flattered to that degree, that I doubt if there be anything much more shameful in the annals of human nature.

‘Our cousin from Scotland’ was ugly, awkward, and unsteady both in thought and appearance. His tongue was way too big for his mouth, his legs were far too weak for his body, and his dull, bulging eyes stared and rolled like those of a fool. He was crafty, greedy, wasteful, lazy, drunk, gluttonous, dirty, cowardly, a heavy swearer, and the most arrogant person on the planet. His stature—often described as rickety from birth—looked ridiculous, dressed in thick, padded clothing for protection against stabbing (which he feared constantly), covered head to toe in grass-green, with a hunting horn hanging at his side instead of a sword, and his hat and feather either tilted over one eye or tossed on the back of his head, depending on how he threw it on. He would lounge on the necks of his favored courtiers, slobbering on their faces, kissing and pinching their cheeks; his greatest favorite would sign his letters to his royal master as His Majesty’s ‘dog and slave,’ and would call the king ‘his Sowship.’ His majesty was the worst rider anyone had ever seen but believed he was the best. He was one of the most disrespectful talkers (in the broadest Scottish accent) ever heard, boasting about being unbeatable in all kinds of arguments. He authored some of the most tedious pieces ever written—among others, a book on witchcraft, which he believed in wholeheartedly—and considered himself a literary genius. He thought, wrote, and claimed that a king had the right to create and abolish any laws he wanted, and should be answerable to no one on earth. This is the straightforward, true character of the man whom the most influential people at the court praised and flattered to such an extent that I doubt anything could be much more shameful in the history of humankind.

He came to the English throne with great ease. The miseries of a disputed succession had been felt so long, and so dreadfully, that he was proclaimed within a few hours of Elizabeth’s death, and was accepted by the nation, even without being asked to give any pledge that he would govern well, or that he would redress crying grievances. He took a month to come from Edinburgh to London; and, by way of exercising his new power, hanged a pickpocket on the journey without any trial, and knighted everybody he could lay hold of. He made two hundred knights before he got to his palace in London, and seven hundred before he had been in it three months. He also shovelled sixty-two new peers into the House of Lords—and there was a pretty large sprinkling of Scotchmen among them, you may believe.

He ascended to the English throne with remarkable ease. The struggles of a disputed succession had lasted so long and had been so terrible that he was proclaimed just hours after Elizabeth's death, and the country accepted him without him needing to promise that he would govern well or address urgent issues. He took a month to travel from Edinburgh to London, and to exercise his new power, he executed a pickpocket on the way without any trial and knighted everyone he could find. He made two hundred knights before reaching his palace in London and seven hundred within three months of being there. He also appointed sixty-two new peers to the House of Lords—and you can bet there was a significant number of Scots among them.

His Sowship’s prime Minister, Cecil (for I cannot do better than call his majesty what his favourite called him), was the enemy of Sir Walter Raleigh, and also of Sir Walter’s political friend, Lord Cobham; and his Sowship’s first trouble was a plot originated by these two, and entered into by some others, with the old object of seizing the King and keeping him in imprisonment until he should change his ministers. There were Catholic priests in the plot, and there were Puritan noblemen too; for, although the Catholics and Puritans were strongly opposed to each other, they united at this time against his Sowship, because they knew that he had a design against both, after pretending to be friendly to each; this design being to have only one high and convenient form of the Protestant religion, which everybody should be bound to belong to, whether they liked it or not. This plot was mixed up with another, which may or may not have had some reference to placing on the throne, at some time, the Lady Arabella Stuart; whose misfortune it was, to be the daughter of the younger brother of his Sowship’s father, but who was quite innocent of any part in the scheme. Sir Walter Raleigh was accused on the confession of Lord Cobham—a miserable creature, who said one thing at one time, and another thing at another time, and could be relied upon in nothing. The trial of Sir Walter Raleigh lasted from eight in the morning until nearly midnight; he defended himself with such eloquence, genius, and spirit against all accusations, and against the insults of Coke, the Attorney-General—who, according to the custom of the time, foully abused him—that those who went there detesting the prisoner, came away admiring him, and declaring that anything so wonderful and so captivating was never heard. He was found guilty, nevertheless, and sentenced to death. Execution was deferred, and he was taken to the Tower. The two Catholic priests, less fortunate, were executed with the usual atrocity; and Lord Cobham and two others were pardoned on the scaffold. His Sowship thought it wonderfully knowing in him to surprise the people by pardoning these three at the very block; but, blundering, and bungling, as usual, he had very nearly overreached himself. For, the messenger on horseback who brought the pardon, came so late, that he was pushed to the outside of the crowd, and was obliged to shout and roar out what he came for. The miserable Cobham did not gain much by being spared that day. He lived, both as a prisoner and a beggar, utterly despised, and miserably poor, for thirteen years, and then died in an old outhouse belonging to one of his former servants.

His Majesty's Prime Minister, Cecil (since I can't think of a better way to refer to his Majesty than what his favorite called him), was an opponent of Sir Walter Raleigh and also of Sir Walter's political ally, Lord Cobham; his Majesty's first issue was a plot devised by these two, which others joined, aimed at capturing the King and holding him captive until he agreed to change his ministers. The plot involved Catholic priests as well as Puritan nobles; even though the Catholics and Puritans were deeply opposed to each other, they united against his Majesty at this time because they realized he had plans against both, despite pretending to be friendly with each. His plan was to establish one major form of the Protestant religion that everyone would be required to follow, whether they liked it or not. This plot was intertwined with another, which may or may not have related to placing Lady Arabella Stuart on the throne at some point, who unfortunately was the daughter of the younger brother of his Majesty’s father but was completely innocent of the scheme. Sir Walter Raleigh was accused based on Lord Cobham’s confession—a pathetic figure who said one thing at one moment and another thing later, making him unreliable. The trial of Sir Walter Raleigh lasted from eight in the morning until almost midnight; he defended himself with such eloquence, talent, and spirit against all the accusations, and against the taunts of Coca-Cola, the Attorney-General—who, as was customary, viciously insulted him—that those who arrived intending to resent the prisoner walked away admiring him, claiming they had never heard anything so remarkable and so compelling. Nevertheless, he was found guilty and sentenced to death. The execution was postponed, and he was taken to the Tower. The two Catholic priests, less fortunate, were executed with the usual brutality, while Lord Cobham and two others were pardoned at the scaffold. His Majesty thought it clever to surprise the public by pardoning these three right at the block; however, in his typical blundering manner, he nearly outsmarted himself. The messenger on horseback who delivered the pardon arrived so late that he was pushed to the edge of the crowd and had to shout out his message. The unfortunate Cobham didn’t gain much from his reprieve that day; he lived for thirteen years as a prisoner and a beggar, utterly despised and miserable, before dying in an old outhouse belonging to one of his former servants.

This plot got rid of, and Sir Walter Raleigh safely shut up in the Tower, his Sowship held a great dispute with the Puritans on their presenting a petition to him, and had it all his own way—not so very wonderful, as he would talk continually, and would not hear anybody else—and filled the Bishops with admiration. It was comfortably settled that there was to be only one form of religion, and that all men were to think exactly alike. But, although this was arranged two centuries and a half ago, and although the arrangement was supported by much fining and imprisonment, I do not find that it is quite successful, even yet.

This plot was dealt with, and Sir Walter Raleigh was safely locked up in the Tower. His Majesty had a lengthy argument with the Puritans over their petition to him and got his way—not that astonishing, since he talked non-stop and refused to listen to anyone else—while impressing the Bishops. It was decided that there would be only one form of religion, and everyone was to think exactly the same. However, even though this was set two and a half centuries ago and enforced through heavy fines and imprisonment, it seems to have fallen short of success, even now.

His Sowship, having that uncommonly high opinion of himself as a king, had a very low opinion of Parliament as a power that audaciously wanted to control him. When he called his first Parliament after he had been king a year, he accordingly thought he would take pretty high ground with them, and told them that he commanded them ‘as an absolute king.’ The Parliament thought those strong words, and saw the necessity of upholding their authority. His Sowship had three children: Prince Henry, Prince Charles, and the Princess Elizabeth. It would have been well for one of these, and we shall too soon see which, if he had learnt a little wisdom concerning Parliaments from his father’s obstinacy.

His Majesty, having an unusually high opinion of himself as a king, held a very low opinion of Parliament as a body that audaciously wanted to control him. When he called his first Parliament after being king for a year, he thought he would take a strong stance with them and informed them that he commanded them 'as an absolute king.' The Parliament considered those strong words and recognized the necessity of maintaining their authority. His Majesty had three children: Prince Henry, Prince Charles, and Princess Elizabeth. It would have been beneficial for one of them—who we will soon see—to have learned a bit of wisdom about Parliaments from his father’s stubbornness.

Now, the people still labouring under their old dread of the Catholic religion, this Parliament revived and strengthened the severe laws against it. And this so angered Robert Catesby, a restless Catholic gentleman of an old family, that he formed one of the most desperate and terrible designs ever conceived in the mind of man; no less a scheme than the Gunpowder Plot.

Now, the people still burdened by their old fear of the Catholic religion, this Parliament brought back and reinforced the harsh laws against it. This infuriated Robert Catesby, a restless Catholic gentleman from an old family, so much that he came up with one of the most desperate and horrifying plans ever imagined by mankind; a plot no less than the Gunpowder Plot.

His object was, when the King, lords, and commons, should be assembled at the next opening of Parliament, to blow them up, one and all, with a great mine of gunpowder. The first person to whom he confided this horrible idea was Thomas Winter, a Worcestershire gentleman who had served in the army abroad, and had been secretly employed in Catholic projects. While Winter was yet undecided, and when he had gone over to the Netherlands, to learn from the Spanish Ambassador there whether there was any hope of Catholics being relieved through the intercession of the King of Spain with his Sowship, he found at Ostend a tall, dark, daring man, whom he had known when they were both soldiers abroad, and whose name was Guido—or Guy—Fawkes. Resolved to join the plot, he proposed it to this man, knowing him to be the man for any desperate deed, and they two came back to England together. Here, they admitted two other conspirators; Thomas Percy, related to the Earl of Northumberland, and John Wright, his brother-in-law. All these met together in a solitary house in the open fields which were then near Clement’s Inn, now a closely blocked-up part of London; and when they had all taken a great oath of secrecy, Catesby told the rest what his plan was. They then went up-stairs into a garret, and received the Sacrament from Father Gerard, a Jesuit, who is said not to have known actually of the Gunpowder Plot, but who, I think, must have had his suspicions that there was something desperate afoot.

His plan was to blow up the King, lords, and commons all at once with a massive stash of gunpowder when Parliament next opened. The first person he shared this terrible idea with was Thomas Winter, a gentleman from Worcestershire who had served in the army abroad and was secretly involved in Catholic missions. While Winter was still undecided and had gone to the Netherlands to ask the Spanish Ambassador if there was any chance of Catholics being helped through the King of Spain's intercession, he met a tall, dark, daring man in Ostend whom he recognized from their time as soldiers together—his name was Guido or Dude Fawkes. Determined to join the plot, he laid it out to Fawkes, knowing he was the kind of person capable of any desperate act, and the two returned to England together. There, they brought in two more conspirators: Thomas Percy, who was related to the Earl of Northumberland, and John Wright, his brother-in-law. They all gathered in a secluded house in the countryside near Clement's Inn, which is now a heavily built-up part of London. After taking a solemn oath of secrecy, Catesby explained his plan to them. They then went upstairs to a room and received the Sacrament from Father Gerry, a Jesuit, who is said not to have actually known about the Gunpowder Plot but must have had his suspicions that something desperate was happening.

Percy was a Gentleman Pensioner, and as he had occasional duties to perform about the Court, then kept at Whitehall, there would be nothing suspicious in his living at Westminster. So, having looked well about him, and having found a house to let, the back of which joined the Parliament House, he hired it of a person named Ferris, for the purpose of undermining the wall. Having got possession of this house, the conspirators hired another on the Lambeth side of the Thames, which they used as a storehouse for wood, gunpowder, and other combustible matters. These were to be removed at night (and afterwards were removed), bit by bit, to the house at Westminster; and, that there might be some trusty person to keep watch over the Lambeth stores, they admitted another conspirator, by name Robert Kay, a very poor Catholic gentleman.

Percy was a Gentleman Pensioner, and since he had occasional duties at the Court, which was then at Whitehall, it wouldn't be suspicious for him to live in Westminster. After checking the area thoroughly and finding a house to rent that was right next to the Parliament House, he leased it from a man named Ferris for the purpose of digging into the wall. Once he had access to this house, the conspirators rented another one on the Lambeth side of the Thames, using it as a storage place for wood, gunpowder, and other flammable materials. These items were to be moved at night (and were eventually moved), piece by piece, to the house in Westminster. To ensure there was a reliable person to keep an eye on the Lambeth supplies, they brought in another conspirator named Robert Kay, a very poor Catholic gentleman.

All these arrangements had been made some months, and it was a dark, wintry, December night, when the conspirators, who had been in the meantime dispersed to avoid observation, met in the house at Westminster, and began to dig. They had laid in a good stock of eatables, to avoid going in and out, and they dug and dug with great ardour. But, the wall being tremendously thick, and the work very severe, they took into their plot Christopher Wright, a younger brother of John Wright, that they might have a new pair of hands to help. And Christopher Wright fell to like a fresh man, and they dug and dug by night and by day, and Fawkes stood sentinel all the time. And if any man’s heart seemed to fail him at all, Fawkes said, ‘Gentlemen, we have abundance of powder and shot here, and there is no fear of our being taken alive, even if discovered.’ The same Fawkes, who, in the capacity of sentinel, was always prowling about, soon picked up the intelligence that the King had prorogued the Parliament again, from the seventh of February, the day first fixed upon, until the third of October. When the conspirators knew this, they agreed to separate until after the Christmas holidays, and to take no notice of each other in the meanwhile, and never to write letters to one another on any account. So, the house in Westminster was shut up again, and I suppose the neighbours thought that those strange-looking men who lived there so gloomily, and went out so seldom, were gone away to have a merry Christmas somewhere.

All these plans had been made months in advance, and it was a dark, wintry night in December when the conspirators, who had been scattered to avoid being noticed, met at the house in Westminster and started digging. They had stocked up on food to prevent having to go in and out, and they dug vigorously. However, since the wall was incredibly thick and the work was exhausting, they brought in Christopher Wright, the younger brother of John Wright, so they could have an extra pair of hands. Christopher Wright jumped in like a fresh recruit, and they dug day and night while Fawkes kept watch the entire time. If any man started to feel nervous at all, Fawkes would say, “Gentlemen, we have plenty of gunpowder and shot here, and there’s no worry about being captured alive, even if we are discovered.” Fawkes, who was always alert as the lookout, soon learned that the King had postponed Parliament again, from February 7, which was the original date, to October 3. When the conspirators heard this, they decided to split up until after the Christmas holidays, not to acknowledge one another in the meantime, and never to write letters to each other for any reason. So, the house in Westminster was closed up again, and I suppose the neighbors thought those strange-looking men who lived there so grimly and rarely went out were off somewhere enjoying a merry Christmas.

It was the beginning of February, sixteen hundred and five, when Catesby met his fellow-conspirators again at this Westminster house. He had now admitted three more; John Grant, a Warwickshire gentleman of a melancholy temper, who lived in a doleful house near Stratford-upon-Avon, with a frowning wall all round it, and a deep moat; Robert Winter, eldest brother of Thomas; and Catesby’s own servant, Thomas Bates, who, Catesby thought, had had some suspicion of what his master was about. These three had all suffered more or less for their religion in Elizabeth’s time. And now, they all began to dig again, and they dug and dug by night and by day.

It was the beginning of February, 1605, when Catesby met his fellow conspirators again at this house in Westminster. He had now brought in three more: John Grant, a gentleman from Warwickshire with a gloomy disposition, who lived in a sorrowful house near Stratford-upon-Avon, surrounded by a grim wall and a deep moat; Robert Winter, the older brother of Thomas; and Catesby’s own servant, Thomas Bates, who Catesby suspected might have an inkling of what he was planning. All three had faced some difficulties for their faith during Elizabeth’s reign. And now, they all began to dig again, working tirelessly day and night.

They found it dismal work alone there, underground, with such a fearful secret on their minds, and so many murders before them. They were filled with wild fancies. Sometimes, they thought they heard a great bell tolling, deep down in the earth under the Parliament House; sometimes, they thought they heard low voices muttering about the Gunpowder Plot; once in the morning, they really did hear a great rumbling noise over their heads, as they dug and sweated in their mine. Every man stopped and looked aghast at his neighbour, wondering what had happened, when that bold prowler, Fawkes, who had been out to look, came in and told them that it was only a dealer in coals who had occupied a cellar under the Parliament House, removing his stock in trade to some other place. Upon this, the conspirators, who with all their digging and digging had not yet dug through the tremendously thick wall, changed their plan; hired that cellar, which was directly under the House of Lords; put six-and-thirty barrels of gunpowder in it, and covered them over with fagots and coals. Then they all dispersed again till September, when the following new conspirators were admitted; Sir Edward Baynham, of Gloucestershire; Sir Everard Digby, of Rutlandshire; Ambrose Rookwood, of Suffolk; Francis Tresham, of Northamptonshire. Most of these were rich, and were to assist the plot, some with money and some with horses on which the conspirators were to ride through the country and rouse the Catholics after the Parliament should be blown into air.

They found it miserable working alone down there, underground, with such a terrifying secret on their minds, and so many murders ahead of them. They were filled with wild thoughts. Sometimes, they thought they heard a great bell ringing deep in the earth under the Parliament House; other times, they thought they heard low voices whispering about the Gunpowder Plot. Once in the morning, they actually did hear a loud rumbling noise above them as they dug and sweat in their mine. Every man stopped and stared in shock at his neighbor, wondering what had happened, when that daring intruder, Fawkes, who had gone out to check, came back and told them it was just a coal dealer who had been using a cellar under the Parliament House, moving his stock somewhere else. Following this, the conspirators, who with all their digging had not yet broken through the incredibly thick wall, changed their plan; they rented that cellar directly under the House of Lords; placed thirty-six barrels of gunpowder in it, and covered them with sticks and coal. Then they all dispersed again until September, when these new conspirators joined: Sir Edward Baynham, of Gloucestershire; Sir Everard Digby, of Rutlandshire; Ambrose Rookwood, of Suffolk; Francis Tresham, of Northamptonshire. Most of these were wealthy and were to assist the plot, some with money and others with horses for the conspirators to ride through the country and rally the Catholics after the Parliament was blown to pieces.

Parliament being again prorogued from the third of October to the fifth of November, and the conspirators being uneasy lest their design should have been found out, Thomas Winter said he would go up into the House of Lords on the day of the prorogation, and see how matters looked. Nothing could be better. The unconscious Commissioners were walking about and talking to one another, just over the six-and-thirty barrels of gunpowder. He came back and told the rest so, and they went on with their preparations. They hired a ship, and kept it ready in the Thames, in which Fawkes was to sail for Flanders after firing with a slow match the train that was to explode the powder. A number of Catholic gentlemen not in the secret, were invited, on pretence of a hunting party, to meet Sir Everard Digby at Dunchurch on the fatal day, that they might be ready to act together. And now all was ready.

Parliament was prorogued again from October 3rd to November 5th, and the conspirators were anxious that their plan might have been discovered. Thomas Winter suggested that he would go up to the House of Lords on the day of the prorogation to see how things were going. Everything looked perfect. The oblivious Commissioners were walking around and talking to each other, just above the thirty-six barrels of gunpowder. He returned and informed the others, and they continued with their preparations. They chartered a ship and kept it ready in the Thames, where Fawkes was supposed to sail to Flanders after igniting the fuse that would blow up the gunpowder. Several Catholic gentlemen, unaware of the plot, were invited under the pretext of a hunting trip to meet Sir Everard Digby at Dunchurch on the fateful day so that they could be ready to act together. And now everything was set.

But, now, the great wickedness and danger which had been all along at the bottom of this wicked plot, began to show itself. As the fifth of November drew near, most of the conspirators, remembering that they had friends and relations who would be in the House of Lords that day, felt some natural relenting, and a wish to warn them to keep away. They were not much comforted by Catesby’s declaring that in such a cause he would blow up his own son. Lord Mounteagle, Tresham’s brother-in-law, was certain to be in the house; and when Tresham found that he could not prevail upon the rest to devise any means of sparing their friends, he wrote a mysterious letter to this lord and left it at his lodging in the dusk, urging him to keep away from the opening of Parliament, ‘since God and man had concurred to punish the wickedness of the times.’ It contained the words ‘that the Parliament should receive a terrible blow, and yet should not see who hurt them.’ And it added, ‘the danger is past, as soon as you have burnt the letter.’

But now, the huge evil and risk that had been lurking behind this wicked plan started to reveal itself. As the fifth of November approached, most of the conspirators, remembering that they had friends and family who would be in the House of Lords that day, felt a natural urge to relent and wanted to warn them to stay away. They were not very reassured by Catesby's claim that in such a cause, he would blow up his own son. Lord Mounteagle, Tresham’s brother-in-law, was sure to be in the house; and when Tresham realized he couldn’t convince the others to come up with a way to save their friends, he wrote a mysterious letter to this lord and dropped it off at his place in the evening, urging him to avoid the opening of Parliament, ‘since God and man had agreed to punish the wickedness of the times.’ It included the words ‘that the Parliament would receive a terrible blow, and yet would not see who harmed them.’ And it added, ‘the danger is gone, as soon as you’ve burned the letter.’

The ministers and courtiers made out that his Sowship, by a direct miracle from Heaven, found out what this letter meant. The truth is, that they were not long (as few men would be) in finding out for themselves; and it was decided to let the conspirators alone, until the very day before the opening of Parliament. That the conspirators had their fears, is certain; for, Tresham himself said before them all, that they were every one dead men; and, although even he did not take flight, there is reason to suppose that he had warned other persons besides Lord Mounteagle. However, they were all firm; and Fawkes, who was a man of iron, went down every day and night to keep watch in the cellar as usual. He was there about two in the afternoon of the fourth, when the Lord Chamberlain and Lord Mounteagle threw open the door and looked in. ‘Who are you, friend?’ said they. ‘Why,’ said Fawkes, ‘I am Mr. Percy’s servant, and am looking after his store of fuel here.’ ‘Your master has laid in a pretty good store,’ they returned, and shut the door, and went away. Fawkes, upon this, posted off to the other conspirators to tell them all was quiet, and went back and shut himself up in the dark, black cellar again, where he heard the bell go twelve o’clock and usher in the fifth of November. About two hours afterwards, he slowly opened the door, and came out to look about him, in his old prowling way. He was instantly seized and bound, by a party of soldiers under Sir Thomas Knevett. He had a watch upon him, some touchwood, some tinder, some slow matches; and there was a dark lantern with a candle in it, lighted, behind the door. He had his boots and spurs on—to ride to the ship, I suppose—and it was well for the soldiers that they took him so suddenly. If they had left him but a moment’s time to light a match, he certainly would have tossed it in among the powder, and blown up himself and them.

The ministers and courtiers claimed that his Sowship, through a direct miracle from Heaven, figured out what this letter meant. The truth is, they didn’t take long (as few men would) to realize it for themselves; it was decided to leave the conspirators alone until the day before Parliament opened. It's clear that the conspirators were worried; Tresham even said in front of everyone that they were all dead men; and even though he didn’t flee, there’s reason to believe he had warned others besides Lord Mounteagle. That said, they were all determined, and Fawkes, a man of steel, went down every day and night to keep watch in the cellar as usual. He was there around two in the afternoon on the fourth when the Lord Chamberlain and Lord Mounteagle opened the door and peeked in. “Who are you, friend?” they asked. “Well,” Fawkes replied, “I’m Mr. Percy’s servant, looking after his supply of fuel here.” “Your master has a nice stock,” they replied, then shut the door and walked away. Fawkes then hurried back to the other conspirators to tell them all was quiet, and returned to shut himself up in the dark, black cellar again, where he heard the clock strike twelve and welcomed in the fifth of November. About two hours later, he slowly opened the door and came out to look around in his usual sneaky way. He was immediately seized and tied up by a group of soldiers under Sir Thomas Knevett. He had a watch on him, some touchwood, some tinder, some slow matches; and there was a dark lantern with a lit candle behind the door. He was wearing his boots and spurs—probably to ride to the ship—and it was lucky for the soldiers that they caught him so quickly. If they had given him even a moment to light a match, he definitely would have thrown it in with the powder and blown himself and them up.

They took him to the King’s bed-chamber first of all, and there the King (causing him to be held very tight, and keeping a good way off), asked him how he could have the heart to intend to destroy so many innocent people? ‘Because,’ said Guy Fawkes, ‘desperate diseases need desperate remedies.’ To a little Scotch favourite, with a face like a terrier, who asked him (with no particular wisdom) why he had collected so much gunpowder, he replied, because he had meant to blow Scotchmen back to Scotland, and it would take a deal of powder to do that. Next day he was carried to the Tower, but would make no confession. Even after being horribly tortured, he confessed nothing that the Government did not already know; though he must have been in a fearful state—as his signature, still preserved, in contrast with his natural hand-writing before he was put upon the dreadful rack, most frightfully shows. Bates, a very different man, soon said the Jesuits had had to do with the plot, and probably, under the torture, would as readily have said anything. Tresham, taken and put in the Tower too, made confessions and unmade them, and died of an illness that was heavy upon him. Rookwood, who had stationed relays of his own horses all the way to Dunchurch, did not mount to escape until the middle of the day, when the news of the plot was all over London. On the road, he came up with the two Wrights, Catesby, and Percy; and they all galloped together into Northamptonshire. Thence to Dunchurch, where they found the proposed party assembled. Finding, however, that there had been a plot, and that it had been discovered, the party disappeared in the course of the night, and left them alone with Sir Everard Digby. Away they all rode again, through Warwickshire and Worcestershire, to a house called Holbeach, on the borders of Staffordshire. They tried to raise the Catholics on their way, but were indignantly driven off by them. All this time they were hotly pursued by the sheriff of Worcester, and a fast increasing concourse of riders. At last, resolving to defend themselves at Holbeach, they shut themselves up in the house, and put some wet powder before the fire to dry. But it blew up, and Catesby was singed and blackened, and almost killed, and some of the others were sadly hurt. Still, knowing that they must die, they resolved to die there, and with only their swords in their hands appeared at the windows to be shot at by the sheriff and his assistants. Catesby said to Thomas Winter, after Thomas had been hit in the right arm which dropped powerless by his side, ‘Stand by me, Tom, and we will die together!’—which they did, being shot through the body by two bullets from one gun. John Wright, and Christopher Wright, and Percy, were also shot. Rookwood and Digby were taken: the former with a broken arm and a wound in his body too.

They first took him to the King’s bedroom, and there the King, keeping his distance and having him held tightly, asked how he could have the heart to plan the destruction of so many innocent people. ‘Because,’ Guy Fawkes replied, ‘desperate diseases require desperate remedies.’ To a little Scottish favorite, who looked like a terrier and questioned him—without much thought—about why he had gathered so much gunpowder, he answered that he intended to blow the Scots back to Scotland, and that it would take a lot of powder to do that. The next day, he was taken to the Tower, but he wouldn’t confess. Even after being horrifically tortured, he revealed nothing that the Government didn’t already know, though he must have been in a dreadful state—his signature, which is still preserved, contrasts sharply with his natural handwriting before he was put on the terrible rack. Bates, a very different man, soon claimed the Jesuits were involved in the plot and likely, under torture, would have said anything. Tresham, who was also captured and taken to the Tower, made confessions and then retracted them, ultimately dying from an illness that weighed heavily on him. Rookwood, who had set up relays of his own horses all the way to Dunchurch, didn’t try to escape until mid-day when the news of the plot had spread all over London. On the road, he ran into the two Wrights, Catesby, and Percy; and they all rode together into Northamptonshire. From there, they went to Dunchurch, where they found the planned gathering had assembled. However, realizing there was a plot that had been discovered, the group scattered during the night, leaving only Sir Everard Digby with them. They all rode off again through Warwickshire and Worcestershire to a house called Holbeach, on the edge of Staffordshire. They attempted to rally the Catholics along the way, but were angrily turned away. Throughout this time, they were being chased by the sheriff of Worcester and an increasing number of riders. Finally, deciding to defend themselves at Holbeach, they locked themselves in the house and placed some wet gunpowder before the fire to dry it. But it exploded, burning Catesby and injuring several others badly. Still, knowing they would likely die, they resolved to die there and, armed only with their swords, showed themselves at the windows to be shot at by the sheriff and his men. Catesby told Thomas Winter, after Thomas had been hit in the right arm and it hung helplessly by his side, ‘Stand by me, Tom, and we will die together!'—and they did, both being shot through the body by bullets from one gun. John Wright, Christopher Wright, and Percy were also shot. Rookwood and Digby were captured, the former with a broken arm and a wound in his body as well.

It was the fifteenth of January, before the trial of Guy Fawkes, and such of the other conspirators as were left alive, came on. They were all found guilty, all hanged, drawn, and quartered: some, in St. Paul’s Churchyard, on the top of Ludgate-hill; some, before the Parliament House. A Jesuit priest, named Henry Garnet, to whom the dreadful design was said to have been communicated, was taken and tried; and two of his servants, as well as a poor priest who was taken with him, were tortured without mercy. He himself was not tortured, but was surrounded in the Tower by tamperers and traitors, and so was made unfairly to convict himself out of his own mouth. He said, upon his trial, that he had done all he could to prevent the deed, and that he could not make public what had been told him in confession—though I am afraid he knew of the plot in other ways. He was found guilty and executed, after a manful defence, and the Catholic Church made a saint of him; some rich and powerful persons, who had had nothing to do with the project, were fined and imprisoned for it by the Star Chamber; the Catholics, in general, who had recoiled with horror from the idea of the infernal contrivance, were unjustly put under more severe laws than before; and this was the end of the Gunpowder Plot.

It was January 15th, before the trial of Guy Fawkes, and the remaining conspirators who were still alive came to face justice. They were all found guilty and executed—hanged, drawn, and quartered: some in St. Paul’s Churchyard, on top of Ludgate Hill; others in front of the Parliament House. A Jesuit priest named Henry Garnet, who it was claimed had been informed of the horrific plan, was captured and put on trial; two of his servants, along with a poor priest who was arrested with him, were mercilessly tortured. Garnet himself wasn't tortured but was surrounded in the Tower by manipulators and traitors, which led him to unjustly incriminate himself. During his trial, he insisted that he had done everything he could to stop the act and argued that he couldn’t disclose what had been told to him in confession—though I fear he knew about the plot in other ways. He was found guilty and executed after a courageous defense, and the Catholic Church later canonized him; meanwhile, some wealthy and powerful individuals, who had no involvement in the scheme, were fined and imprisoned by the Star Chamber. The Catholics, in general, who had recoiled in horror at the notion of the wicked plan, were unfairly subjected to even stricter laws than before; and this marked the end of the Gunpowder Plot.

SECOND PART

His Sowship would pretty willingly, I think, have blown the House of Commons into the air himself; for, his dread and jealousy of it knew no bounds all through his reign. When he was hard pressed for money he was obliged to order it to meet, as he could get no money without it; and when it asked him first to abolish some of the monopolies in necessaries of life which were a great grievance to the people, and to redress other public wrongs, he flew into a rage and got rid of it again. At one time he wanted it to consent to the Union of England with Scotland, and quarrelled about that. At another time it wanted him to put down a most infamous Church abuse, called the High Commission Court, and he quarrelled with it about that. At another time it entreated him not to be quite so fond of his archbishops and bishops who made speeches in his praise too awful to be related, but to have some little consideration for the poor Puritan clergy who were persecuted for preaching in their own way, and not according to the archbishops and bishops; and they quarrelled about that. In short, what with hating the House of Commons, and pretending not to hate it; and what with now sending some of its members who opposed him, to Newgate or to the Tower, and now telling the rest that they must not presume to make speeches about the public affairs which could not possibly concern them; and what with cajoling, and bullying, and fighting, and being frightened; the House of Commons was the plague of his Sowship’s existence. It was pretty firm, however, in maintaining its rights, and insisting that the Parliament should make the laws, and not the King by his own single proclamations (which he tried hard to do); and his Sowship was so often distressed for money, in consequence, that he sold every sort of title and public office as if they were merchandise, and even invented a new dignity called a Baronetcy, which anybody could buy for a thousand pounds.

His Majesty would pretty willingly, I think, have blown the House of Commons up himself; his fear and jealousy of it knew no bounds throughout his reign. When he was hard up for cash, he had to call them together since he couldn't get any money without them; and when they first asked him to abolish some of the monopolies on essential goods that really annoyed the people and to fix other public wrongs, he flew into a rage and dismissed them again. At one point, he wanted them to agree to the Union of England with Scotland, and he argued about that. Another time, they wanted him to get rid of a horrible Church abuse known as the High Commission Court, and he argued with them about that too. They even begged him not to be so fond of his archbishops and bishops, who gave speeches praising him that were too embarrassing to repeat, and to show a little consideration for the poor Puritan clergy who were being persecuted for preaching in their own way rather than according to the archbishops and bishops; they quarreled about that as well. In short, his hatred for the House of Commons, along with pretending not to hate it; sending some of its members who opposed him to Newgate or the Tower; telling the rest that they shouldn't dare to make speeches about public affairs that didn't concern them; and a mix of flattery, intimidation, fighting, and being scared made the House of Commons a constant headache for his Majesty. However, they were pretty steadfast in maintaining their rights and insisting that Parliament should make the laws, not the King with his own proclamations (which he tried very hard to do); and his Majesty was so often short on money because of this that he sold every type of title and public office as if they were goods, even inventing a new title called Baronetcy that anyone could buy for a thousand pounds.

These disputes with his Parliaments, and his hunting, and his drinking, and his lying in bed—for he was a great sluggard—occupied his Sowship pretty well. The rest of his time he chiefly passed in hugging and slobbering his favourites. The first of these was Sir Philip Herbert, who had no knowledge whatever, except of dogs, and horses, and hunting, but whom he soon made Earl of Montgomery. The next, and a much more famous one, was Robert Carr, or Ker (for it is not certain which was his right name), who came from the Border country, and whom he soon made Viscount Rochester, and afterwards, Earl of Somerset. The way in which his Sowship doted on this handsome young man, is even more odious to think of, than the way in which the really great men of England condescended to bow down before him. The favourite’s great friend was a certain Sir Thomas Overbury, who wrote his love-letters for him, and assisted him in the duties of his many high places, which his own ignorance prevented him from discharging. But this same Sir Thomas having just manhood enough to dissuade the favourite from a wicked marriage with the beautiful Countess of Essex, who was to get a divorce from her husband for the purpose, the said Countess, in her rage, got Sir Thomas put into the Tower, and there poisoned him. Then the favourite and this bad woman were publicly married by the King’s pet bishop, with as much to-do and rejoicing, as if he had been the best man, and she the best woman, upon the face of the earth.

These conflicts with his Parliaments, along with his hunting, drinking, and lounging in bed—since he was quite lazy—took up most of his time. The rest of his days were mainly spent pampering and showering affection on his favorites. The first of these was Sir Philip Herbert, who knew nothing except for dogs, horses, and hunting, but he quickly made him Earl Montgomery. The next, and a much more famous favorite, was Robert Carr, or Ker (as it’s unclear which was his actual name), who came from the Borders and was soon made Lord Rochester and later Duke of Somerset. The way he doted on this handsome young man is even more repulsive to consider than how the actual great men of England humbly bowed down to him. The favorite's close friend was a certain Sir Thomas Overbury, who wrote love letters for him and helped him with the responsibilities of his many high positions, which his own ignorance prevented him from managing. However, this same Sir Thomas had just enough courage to try to talk the favorite out of a scandalous marriage with the beautiful Countess of Essex, who intended to divorce her husband for it. In her rage, the Countess had Sir Thomas imprisoned in the Tower, where she poisoned him. Then the favorite and this wicked woman were publicly married by the King's favored bishop, with as much fuss and celebration as if he were the best man and she the best woman in the world.

But, after a longer sunshine than might have been expected—of seven years or so, that is to say—another handsome young man started up and eclipsed the Earl of Somerset. This was George Villiers, the youngest son of a Leicestershire gentleman: who came to Court with all the Paris fashions on him, and could dance as well as the best mountebank that ever was seen. He soon danced himself into the good graces of his Sowship, and danced the other favourite out of favour. Then, it was all at once discovered that the Earl and Countess of Somerset had not deserved all those great promotions and mighty rejoicings, and they were separately tried for the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury, and for other crimes. But, the King was so afraid of his late favourite’s publicly telling some disgraceful things he knew of him—which he darkly threatened to do—that he was even examined with two men standing, one on either side of him, each with a cloak in his hand, ready to throw it over his head and stop his mouth if he should break out with what he had it in his power to tell. So, a very lame affair was purposely made of the trial, and his punishment was an allowance of four thousand pounds a year in retirement, while the Countess was pardoned, and allowed to pass into retirement too. They hated one another by this time, and lived to revile and torment each other some years.

But after a longer period of sunshine than expected—around seven years—another handsome young man appeared and overshadowed the Duke of Somerset. This was George Villiers, the youngest son of a gentleman from Leicestershire. He arrived at Court wearing all the latest Paris fashions and could dance as well as the best performer anyone had ever seen. He quickly won over His Majesty with his dancing and danced the other favorite out of favor. Soon, it was revealed that the Earl and Countess of Somerset didn’t deserve all the honors and celebrations they had received, and they were both tried separately for the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury and other crimes. However, the King was so afraid that his former favorite would publicly expose some embarrassing secrets about him—which he hinted he might do—that he had to be examined with two men standing on either side of him, each holding a cloak ready to cover his head and silence him if he started to speak out. As a result, the trial was made to look very superficial, and his punishment was a retirement allowance of four thousand pounds a year, while the Countess was pardoned and also allowed to retire. By this time, they loathed each other and lived for several years to insult and torment one another.

While these events were in progress, and while his Sowship was making such an exhibition of himself, from day to day and from year to year, as is not often seen in any sty, three remarkable deaths took place in England. The first was that of the Minister, Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, who was past sixty, and had never been strong, being deformed from his birth. He said at last that he had no wish to live; and no Minister need have had, with his experience of the meanness and wickedness of those disgraceful times. The second was that of the Lady Arabella Stuart, who alarmed his Sowship mightily, by privately marrying William Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, who was a descendant of King Henry the Seventh, and who, his Sowship thought, might consequently increase and strengthen any claim she might one day set up to the throne. She was separated from her husband (who was put in the Tower) and thrust into a boat to be confined at Durham. She escaped in a man’s dress to get away in a French ship from Gravesend to France, but unhappily missed her husband, who had escaped too, and was soon taken. She went raving mad in the miserable Tower, and died there after four years. The last, and the most important of these three deaths, was that of Prince Henry, the heir to the throne, in the nineteenth year of his age. He was a promising young prince, and greatly liked; a quiet, well-conducted youth, of whom two very good things are known: first, that his father was jealous of him; secondly, that he was the friend of Sir Walter Raleigh, languishing through all those years in the Tower, and often said that no man but his father would keep such a bird in such a cage. On the occasion of the preparations for the marriage of his sister the Princess Elizabeth with a foreign prince (and an unhappy marriage it turned out), he came from Richmond, where he had been very ill, to greet his new brother-in-law, at the palace at Whitehall. There he played a great game at tennis, in his shirt, though it was very cold weather, and was seized with an alarming illness, and died within a fortnight of a putrid fever. For this young prince Sir Walter Raleigh wrote, in his prison in the Tower, the beginning of a History of the World: a wonderful instance how little his Sowship could do to confine a great man’s mind, however long he might imprison his body.

While these events were happening, and while his Royal Highness was making quite a spectacle of himself day after day and year after year, which is not often seen in any pigsty, three notable deaths occurred in England. The first was that of the Minister, Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, who was over sixty and had never been strong, having been deformed from birth. He eventually stated that he had no desire to live, and no Minister would have needed one, given his experience of the meanness and wickedness of those disgraceful times. The second was Lady Arabella Stuart, who greatly alarmed his Royal Highness by secretly marrying William Seymour, the son of Lord Beauchamp, a descendant of King Henry the Seventh. His Royal Highness believed this could enhance and support any claim she might one day make to the throne. She was separated from her husband (who was placed in the Tower) and put on a boat to be confined in Durham. She escaped in men's clothing, hoping to make it to a French ship from Gravesend to France, but unfortunately missed her husband, who had also escaped but was quickly caught. She went mad in the miserable Tower and died there after four years. The last, and most significant of these three deaths, was that of Prince Henry, the heir to the throne, who died in his nineteenth year. He was a promising young prince, well-liked; a quiet, well-behaved youth, of whom two things are known: first, that his father was jealous of him; second, that he was a friend of Sir Walter Raleigh, who suffered through all those years in the Tower and often remarked that no one but his father would keep such a remarkable person in such a confined space. When preparations were made for the marriage of his sister, Princess Elizabeth, to a foreign prince (which turned out to be an unhappy marriage), he came from Richmond, where he'd been quite ill, to meet his new brother-in-law at the palace in Whitehall. There, he played a lengthy game of tennis in his shirt, despite the cold weather, and was struck by a severe illness, dying within two weeks of a putrid fever. In memory of this young prince, Sir Walter Raleigh wrote the beginning of a History of the World while in his prison in the Tower: a remarkable example of how little his Royal Highness could do to confine a great mind, no matter how long he might imprison the body.

And this mention of Sir Walter Raleigh, who had many faults, but who never showed so many merits as in trouble and adversity, may bring me at once to the end of his sad story. After an imprisonment in the Tower of twelve long years, he proposed to resume those old sea voyages of his, and to go to South America in search of gold. His Sowship, divided between his wish to be on good terms with the Spaniards through whose territory Sir Walter must pass (he had long had an idea of marrying Prince Henry to a Spanish Princess), and his avaricious eagerness to get hold of the gold, did not know what to do. But, in the end, he set Sir Walter free, taking securities for his return; and Sir Walter fitted out an expedition at his own coast and, on the twenty-eighth of March, one thousand six hundred and seventeen, sailed away in command of one of its ships, which he ominously called the Destiny. The expedition failed; the common men, not finding the gold they had expected, mutinied; a quarrel broke out between Sir Walter and the Spaniards, who hated him for old successes of his against them; and he took and burnt a little town called Saint Thomas. For this he was denounced to his Sowship by the Spanish Ambassador as a pirate; and returning almost broken-hearted, with his hopes and fortunes shattered, his company of friends dispersed, and his brave son (who had been one of them) killed, he was taken—through the treachery of Sir Lewis Stukely, his near relation, a scoundrel and a Vice-Admiral—and was once again immured in his prison-home of so many years.

And this mention of Sir Walter Raleigh, who had many flaws but showed his true worth in times of trouble and adversity, brings me right to the end of his tragic story. After spending twelve long years imprisoned in the Tower, he wanted to resume his old sea voyages and head to South America in search of gold. His Majesty, torn between wanting to maintain good relations with the Spaniards whose territory Sir Walter would have to cross (he had long contemplated marrying Prince Henry to a Spanish princess) and his greedy desire for the gold, was uncertain about what to do. In the end, he freed Sir Walter, requiring him to give assurances he would return. Sir Walter then equipped an expedition at his own expense and, on March 28, 1617, set sail in command of one of the ships, which he ominously named the Destiny. The expedition was a failure; the crew, not finding the gold they were expecting, revolted; a conflict arose between Sir Walter and the Spaniards, who resented him for his previous successes against them; and he captured and burned a small town called St. Thomas. Because of this, he was branded a pirate to His Majesty by the Spanish Ambassador; and returning almost heartbroken, with his hopes and fortunes ruined, his group of friends scattered, and his brave son (who had been one of them) killed, he was betrayed—by Sir Lewis Stukely, his close relative, a scoundrel and Vice-Admiral—and imprisoned once again in the same prison where he had spent so many years.

His Sowship being mightily disappointed in not getting any gold, Sir Walter Raleigh was tried as unfairly, and with as many lies and evasions as the judges and law officers and every other authority in Church and State habitually practised under such a King. After a great deal of prevarication on all parts but his own, it was declared that he must die under his former sentence, now fifteen years old. So, on the twenty-eighth of October, one thousand six hundred and eighteen, he was shut up in the Gate House at Westminster to pass his late night on earth, and there he took leave of his good and faithful lady who was worthy to have lived in better days. At eight o’clock next morning, after a cheerful breakfast, and a pipe, and a cup of good wine, he was taken to Old Palace Yard in Westminster, where the scaffold was set up, and where so many people of high degree were assembled to see him die, that it was a matter of some difficulty to get him through the crowd. He behaved most nobly, but if anything lay heavy on his mind, it was that Earl of Essex, whose head he had seen roll off; and he solemnly said that he had had no hand in bringing him to the block, and that he had shed tears for him when he died. As the morning was very cold, the Sheriff said, would he come down to a fire for a little space, and warm himself? But Sir Walter thanked him, and said no, he would rather it were done at once, for he was ill of fever and ague, and in another quarter of an hour his shaking fit would come upon him if he were still alive, and his enemies might then suppose that he trembled for fear. With that, he kneeled and made a very beautiful and Christian prayer. Before he laid his head upon the block he felt the edge of the axe, and said, with a smile upon his face, that it was a sharp medicine, but would cure the worst disease. When he was bent down ready for death, he said to the executioner, finding that he hesitated, ‘What dost thou fear? Strike, man!’ So, the axe came down and struck his head off, in the sixty-sixth year of his age.

His Majesty was deeply disappointed about not getting any gold, so Sir Walter Raleigh was tried unfairly, with as many lies and evasions as the judges, law officers, and all other authorities in Church and State usually did under such a King. After a lot of dishonesty from everyone except him, it was announced that he must die under his previous sentence, which was now fifteen years old. So, on October 28, 1618, he was locked up in the Gate House at Westminster to spend his last night on earth, where he said goodbye to his loyal and devoted lady who deserved to have lived in better times. The next morning at eight o’clock, after a hearty breakfast, a smoke, and a glass of good wine, he was taken to Old Palace Yard in Westminster, where the scaffold was set up. So many high-ranking people had gathered to see him die that it was quite challenging to get him through the crowd. He behaved very nobly, but if anything troubled him, it was the Earl of Essex, whose head he had watched roll off; he solemnly stated that he had not been involved in bringing him to the block and that he had shed tears for him when he died. Since the morning was quite chilly, the Sheriff asked if he would like to step over to a fire to warm himself for a bit. However, Sir Walter politely declined, saying he preferred it to be done quickly, as he was suffering from fever and chills, and in another quarter hour, he would start shaking if he was still alive, and his enemies might then think he was trembling from fear. With that, he knelt and offered a very beautiful and Christian prayer. Before laying his head on the block, he touched the edge of the axe and said, with a smile on his face, that it was a sharp remedy, but would cure the worst illness. As he bent down, ready for death, he told the executioner, noticing he hesitated, “What are you afraid of? Strike, man!” And so, the axe came down and struck his head off, in the sixty-sixth year of his age.

The new favourite got on fast. He was made a viscount, he was made Duke of Buckingham, he was made a marquis, he was made Master of the Horse, he was made Lord High Admiral—and the Chief Commander of the gallant English forces that had dispersed the Spanish Armada, was displaced to make room for him. He had the whole kingdom at his disposal, and his mother sold all the profits and honours of the State, as if she had kept a shop. He blazed all over with diamonds and other precious stones, from his hatband and his earrings to his shoes. Yet he was an ignorant presumptuous, swaggering compound of knave and fool, with nothing but his beauty and his dancing to recommend him. This is the gentleman who called himself his Majesty’s dog and slave, and called his Majesty Your Sowship. His Sowship called him Steenie; it is supposed, because that was a nickname for Stephen, and because St. Stephen was generally represented in pictures as a handsome saint.

The new favorite rose to power quickly. He became a viscount, then the Duke of Buckingham, then a marquis, and was also appointed Master of the Horse and Lord High Admiral—and they even pushed out the Chief Commander of the brave English forces who had defeated the Spanish Armada to make room for him. He had the entire kingdom at his command, while his mother treated the State’s profits and honors like merchandise. He sparkled with diamonds and other precious stones, from his hatband and earrings to his shoes. Yet he was a clueless, arrogant, showy mix of con artist and fool, with nothing to recommend him but his looks and dancing skills. This was the guy who referred to himself as his Majesty’s dog and slave, and called his Majesty Your Sowship. His Sowship called him Steenie; it’s thought this was a nickname for Stephen, and because St. Stephen was usually depicted in art as a handsome saint.

His Sowship was driven sometimes to his wits’-end by his trimming between the general dislike of the Catholic religion at home, and his desire to wheedle and flatter it abroad, as his only means of getting a rich princess for his son’s wife: a part of whose fortune he might cram into his greasy pockets. Prince Charles—or as his Sowship called him, Baby Charles—being now Prince of Wales, the old project of a marriage with the Spanish King’s daughter had been revived for him; and as she could not marry a Protestant without leave from the Pope, his Sowship himself secretly and meanly wrote to his Infallibility, asking for it. The negotiation for this Spanish marriage takes up a larger space in great books, than you can imagine, but the upshot of it all is, that when it had been held off by the Spanish Court for a long time, Baby Charles and Steenie set off in disguise as Mr. Thomas Smith and Mr. John Smith, to see the Spanish Princess; that Baby Charles pretended to be desperately in love with her, and jumped off walls to look at her, and made a considerable fool of himself in a good many ways; that she was called Princess of Wales and that the whole Spanish Court believed Baby Charles to be all but dying for her sake, as he expressly told them he was; that Baby Charles and Steenie came back to England, and were received with as much rapture as if they had been a blessing to it; that Baby Charles had actually fallen in love with Henrietta Maria, the French King’s sister, whom he had seen in Paris; that he thought it a wonderfully fine and princely thing to have deceived the Spaniards, all through; and that he openly said, with a chuckle, as soon as he was safe and sound at home again, that the Spaniards were great fools to have believed him.

His Lordship often found himself at his wits’ end trying to balance the general dislike of the Catholic religion at home with his desire to charm and flatter it abroad, as it was his only chance of securing a wealthy princess for his son’s wife—a portion of whose fortune he could stuff into his greedy pockets. Prince Charles—or as his Lordship referred to him, Baby Charles—now being Prince of Wales, the old plan for a marriage with the Spanish King’s daughter was revived; and since she couldn't marry a Protestant without permission from the Pope, his Lordship himself secretly and shamefully wrote to his Holiness, asking for it. The negotiations for this Spanish marriage fill more pages in significant books than you might expect, but in short, after being delayed by the Spanish Court for quite some time, Baby Charles and Steenie set off in disguise as Mr. Thomas Smith and Mr. John Smith to meet the Spanish Princess. Baby Charles pretended to be head over heels for her, jumped off walls to catch a glimpse of her, and made quite a fool of himself in many ways. She was referred to as Princess of Wales, and the entire Spanish Court believed Baby Charles was nearly dying for her, as he explicitly told them he was. Baby Charles and Steenie returned to England, greeted with as much joy as if they had been a great blessing to the country. Baby Charles had actually fallen in love with Henrietta Maria, the sister of the French King, whom he had met in Paris. He thought it incredibly clever and princely to have deceived the Spaniards after all, and he openly chuckled, as soon as he was back home safe and sound, that the Spaniards were fools for having believed him.

Like most dishonest men, the Prince and the favourite complained that the people whom they had deluded were dishonest. They made such misrepresentations of the treachery of the Spaniards in this business of the Spanish match, that the English nation became eager for a war with them. Although the gravest Spaniards laughed at the idea of his Sowship in a warlike attitude, the Parliament granted money for the beginning of hostilities, and the treaties with Spain were publicly declared to be at an end. The Spanish ambassador in London—probably with the help of the fallen favourite, the Earl of Somerset—being unable to obtain speech with his Sowship, slipped a paper into his hand, declaring that he was a prisoner in his own house, and was entirely governed by Buckingham and his creatures. The first effect of this letter was that his Sowship began to cry and whine, and took Baby Charles away from Steenie, and went down to Windsor, gabbling all sorts of nonsense. The end of it was that his Sowship hugged his dog and slave, and said he was quite satisfied.

Like many dishonest people, the Prince and his favorite complained that the public they had deceived were the dishonest ones. They twisted the truth about the treachery of the Spaniards regarding the Spanish match so much that the English nation grew eager for war with them. Although serious Spaniards laughed at the thought of him being warlike, Parliament approved funding to start hostilities, and the treaties with Spain were publicly declared void. The Spanish ambassador in London—likely with help from the disgraced favorite, the Earl of Somerset—was unable to meet with him, so he slipped a note into his hand declaring that he was a prisoner in his own home and was completely controlled by Buckingham and his followers. The immediate result of this letter was that he began to cry and whine, took Baby Charles away from Steenie, and went down to Windsor, babbling all sorts of nonsense. In the end, he embraced his dog and servant, saying he was completely satisfied.

He had given the Prince and the favourite almost unlimited power to settle anything with the Pope as to the Spanish marriage; and he now, with a view to the French one, signed a treaty that all Roman Catholics in England should exercise their religion freely, and should never be required to take any oath contrary thereto. In return for this, and for other concessions much less to be defended, Henrietta Maria was to become the Prince’s wife, and was to bring him a fortune of eight hundred thousand crowns.

He had granted the Prince and his favorite almost unlimited authority to resolve any issues with the Pope regarding the Spanish marriage; and now, looking towards the French one, he signed a treaty that allowed all Roman Catholics in England to practice their religion freely and never be forced to take any oath against it. In exchange for this, and for other concessions that were much less justifiable, Henrietta Maria would become the Prince's wife and would bring him a dowry of eight hundred thousand crowns.

His Sowship’s eyes were getting red with eagerly looking for the money, when the end of a gluttonous life came upon him; and, after a fortnight’s illness, on Sunday the twenty-seventh of March, one thousand six hundred and twenty-five, he died. He had reigned twenty-two years, and was fifty-nine years old. I know of nothing more abominable in history than the adulation that was lavished on this King, and the vice and corruption that such a barefaced habit of lying produced in his court. It is much to be doubted whether one man of honour, and not utterly self-disgraced, kept his place near James the First. Lord Bacon, that able and wise philosopher, as the First Judge in the Kingdom in this reign, became a public spectacle of dishonesty and corruption; and in his base flattery of his Sowship, and in his crawling servility to his dog and slave, disgraced himself even more. But, a creature like his Sowship set upon a throne is like the Plague, and everybody receives infection from him.

His Majesty's eyes were getting red from eagerly searching for money when the end of his greedy life came. After a two-week illness, on Sunday, March 27, 1625, he died. He had reigned for twenty-two years and was fifty-nine years old. I can’t think of anything more despicable in history than the flattery that was heaped on this King and the vice and corruption that such blatant lying generated in his court. It’s very questionable whether even one honorable man, who wasn’t completely discredited, remained close to James the First. Lord Bacon, a capable and wise philosopher, became a public example of dishonesty and corruption as the highest judge in the Kingdom during this reign; his obsequious praise of His Majesty and his crawling servility to his dog and slave led to his disgrace even more. However, a person like His Majesty on a throne is like the Plague, and everyone catches the infection from him.

CHAPTER XXXIII—ENGLAND UNDER CHARLES THE FIRST

Baby Charles became King Charles the First, in the twenty-fifth year of his age. Unlike his father, he was usually amiable in his private character, and grave and dignified in his bearing; but, like his father, he had monstrously exaggerated notions of the rights of a king, and was evasive, and not to be trusted. If his word could have been relied upon, his history might have had a different end.

Baby Charles became King Charles I at the age of twenty-five. Unlike his father, he was generally friendly in his private life, and serious and dignified in his demeanor; however, like his father, he had an inflated sense of a king's rights and was often vague and untrustworthy. If his word could have been trusted, his story might have turned out very differently.

His first care was to send over that insolent upstart, Buckingham, to bring Henrietta Maria from Paris to be his Queen; upon which occasion Buckingham—with his usual audacity—made love to the young Queen of Austria, and was very indignant indeed with Cardinal Richelieu, the French Minister, for thwarting his intentions. The English people were very well disposed to like their new Queen, and to receive her with great favour when she came among them as a stranger. But, she held the Protestant religion in great dislike, and brought over a crowd of unpleasant priests, who made her do some very ridiculous things, and forced themselves upon the public notice in many disagreeable ways. Hence, the people soon came to dislike her, and she soon came to dislike them; and she did so much all through this reign in setting the King (who was dotingly fond of her) against his subjects, that it would have been better for him if she had never been born.

His first priority was to send that arrogant upstart, Buckingham, to bring Henrietta Maria from Paris to be his Queen. During this time, Buckingham, as usual, hit on the young Queen of Austria and was very upset with Cardinal Richelieu, the French Minister, for getting in the way of his plans. The English people were quite positive about their new Queen and were ready to welcome her warmly when she arrived as a stranger. However, she held a strong dislike for the Protestant religion and brought a bunch of unpleasant priests with her, who made her do some really foolish things and pushed themselves into public view in many annoying ways. As a result, the people soon started to dislike her, and she quickly grew to dislike them. Throughout this reign, she did so much to turn the King—who adored her—against his subjects that it would have been better for him if she had never been born.

Now, you are to understand that King Charles the First—of his own determination to be a high and mighty King not to be called to account by anybody, and urged on by his Queen besides—deliberately set himself to put his Parliament down and to put himself up. You are also to understand, that even in pursuit of this wrong idea (enough in itself to have ruined any king) he never took a straight course, but always took a crooked one.

Now, you need to realize that King Charles the First—driven by his own desire to be a powerful king who wouldn't be held accountable by anyone, and encouraged by his Queen—intentionally tried to undermine his Parliament and elevate his own authority. You should also know that even while pursuing this misguided idea (enough to have destroyed any king), he never chose a straightforward path, but always opted for a convoluted one.

He was bent upon war with Spain, though neither the House of Commons nor the people were quite clear as to the justice of that war, now that they began to think a little more about the story of the Spanish match. But the King rushed into it hotly, raised money by illegal means to meet its expenses, and encountered a miserable failure at Cadiz, in the very first year of his reign. An expedition to Cadiz had been made in the hope of plunder, but as it was not successful, it was necessary to get a grant of money from the Parliament; and when they met, in no very complying humour, the King told them, ‘to make haste to let him have it, or it would be the worse for themselves.’ Not put in a more complying humour by this, they impeached the King’s favourite, the Duke of Buckingham, as the cause (which he undoubtedly was) of many great public grievances and wrongs. The King, to save him, dissolved the Parliament without getting the money he wanted; and when the Lords implored him to consider and grant a little delay, he replied, ‘No, not one minute.’ He then began to raise money for himself by the following means among others.

He was determined to go to war with Spain, even though neither the House of Commons nor the public really understood the justification for it, especially as they started to rethink the whole story behind the Spanish match. But the King charged into it passionately, raised funds illegally to cover the costs, and faced a complete failure at Cadiz in the very first year of his reign. An expedition to Cadiz was launched with hopes of looting, but since it didn’t succeed, he needed to get a money grant from Parliament. When they convened, in a not-so-cooperative mood, the King told them to “hurry up and give it to him, or they would regret it.” This did not endear him to them, and they moved to impeach the King’s favorite, the Duke of Buckingham, who was certainly the cause of many serious public grievances. To protect him, the King dissolved Parliament without securing the money he desired, and when the Lords begged him to reconsider and allow a bit of delay, he responded, “No, not one minute.” He then started raising money for himself through various means.

He levied certain duties called tonnage and poundage which had not been granted by the Parliament, and could lawfully be levied by no other power; he called upon the seaport towns to furnish, and to pay all the cost for three months of, a fleet of armed ships; and he required the people to unite in lending him large sums of money, the repayment of which was very doubtful. If the poor people refused, they were pressed as soldiers or sailors; if the gentry refused, they were sent to prison. Five gentlemen, named Sir Thomas Darnel, John Corbet, Walter Earl, John Heveningham, and Everard Hampden, for refusing were taken up by a warrant of the King’s privy council, and were sent to prison without any cause but the King’s pleasure being stated for their imprisonment. Then the question came to be solemnly tried, whether this was not a violation of Magna Charta, and an encroachment by the King on the highest rights of the English people. His lawyers contended No, because to encroach upon the rights of the English people would be to do wrong, and the King could do no wrong. The accommodating judges decided in favour of this wicked nonsense; and here was a fatal division between the King and the people.

He imposed certain fees called tonnage and poundage that hadn’t been approved by Parliament and couldn’t be legally imposed by anyone else. He asked the coastal towns to provide and cover the costs for three months of an armed fleet. He also demanded that people come together to lend him large sums of money, the repayment of which seemed very uncertain. If the poor refused, they were pressed into service as soldiers or sailors; if the gentry refused, they were thrown in prison. Five gentlemen—Sir Thomas Darnel, John Corbet, Walter Earl, John Heveningham, and Everard Hampden—were arrested by a warrant from the King’s privy council for their refusal and were imprisoned for no reason other than the King’s will. Then, it was seriously debated whether this constituted a violation of Magna Carta and an infringement by the King on the fundamental rights of the English people. His lawyers argued that it did not, because infringing on the rights of the English people would be wrong, and the King couldn't do wrong. The compliant judges ruled in favor of this outrageous claim, marking a significant rift between the King and the people.

For all this, it became necessary to call another Parliament. The people, sensible of the danger in which their liberties were, chose for it those who were best known for their determined opposition to the King; but still the King, quite blinded by his determination to carry everything before him, addressed them when they met, in a contemptuous manner, and just told them in so many words that he had only called them together because he wanted money. The Parliament, strong enough and resolute enough to know that they would lower his tone, cared little for what he said, and laid before him one of the great documents of history, which is called the Petition of Right, requiring that the free men of England should no longer be called upon to lend the King money, and should no longer be pressed or imprisoned for refusing to do so; further, that the free men of England should no longer be seized by the King’s special mandate or warrant, it being contrary to their rights and liberties and the laws of their country. At first the King returned an answer to this petition, in which he tried to shirk it altogether; but, the House of Commons then showing their determination to go on with the impeachment of Buckingham, the King in alarm returned an answer, giving his consent to all that was required of him. He not only afterwards departed from his word and honour on these points, over and over again, but, at this very time, he did the mean and dissembling act of publishing his first answer and not his second—merely that the people might suppose that the Parliament had not got the better of him.

Because of all this, it became necessary to call another Parliament. The people, aware of the danger their freedoms were in, chose representatives who were known for their strong opposition to the King. However, the King, blinded by his determination to have his way, addressed them when they met in a disrespectful manner, telling them outright that he had only called them together because he wanted money. The Parliament, confident and resolute enough to know they could change his tone, paid little attention to what he said and presented him with one of the great documents of history, known as the Petition of Right, demanding that the free men of England should no longer be asked to lend the King money and should not be pressured or imprisoned for refusing to do so; furthermore, that the free men of England should not be arrested by the King’s special order or warrant, as it went against their rights and liberties and the laws of their country. Initially, the King responded to this petition by trying to ignore it altogether, but when the House of Commons showed their determination to continue with the impeachment of Buckingham, the King, alarmed, replied with his consent to everything they required. He did not only later break his word and honor on these matters repeatedly, but at that very moment, he also dishonestly published his first response and not his second—just so the people would believe that the Parliament had not gained the upper hand over him.

That pestilent Buckingham, to gratify his own wounded vanity, had by this time involved the country in war with France, as well as with Spain. For such miserable causes and such miserable creatures are wars sometimes made! But he was destined to do little more mischief in this world. One morning, as he was going out of his house to his carriage, he turned to speak to a certain Colonel Fryer who was with him; and he was violently stabbed with a knife, which the murderer left sticking in his heart. This happened in his hall. He had had angry words up-stairs, just before, with some French gentlemen, who were immediately suspected by his servants, and had a close escape from being set upon and killed. In the midst of the noise, the real murderer, who had gone to the kitchen and might easily have got away, drew his sword and cried out, ‘I am the man!’ His name was John Felton, a Protestant and a retired officer in the army. He said he had had no personal ill-will to the Duke, but had killed him as a curse to the country. He had aimed his blow well, for Buckingham had only had time to cry out, ‘Villain!’ and then he drew out the knife, fell against a table, and died.

That troublesome Buckingham, to soothe his own bruised ego, had by this time dragged the country into conflicts with both France and Spain. How pathetic the reasons and how pathetic the people behind wars can sometimes be! But he was destined to cause little more harm in this world. One morning, as he was leaving his house for his carriage, he turned to speak to a certain Colonel Air fryer who was with him; and he was violently stabbed with a knife, which the murderer left lodged in his heart. This happened in his hallway. He had just had a heated argument upstairs with some French gentlemen, who were immediately suspected by his servants and barely escaped being attacked and killed. In the midst of the commotion, the real murderer, who had gone to the kitchen and could have easily escaped, drew his sword and shouted, ‘I am the man!’ His name was John Felton, a Protestant and a retired army officer. He claimed he held no personal grudge against the Duke, but had killed him as a curse on the country. He struck his blow perfectly, as Buckingham had only time to exclaim, ‘Villain!’ before he pulled out the knife, collapsed against a table, and died.

The council made a mighty business of examining John Felton about this murder, though it was a plain case enough, one would think. He had come seventy miles to do it, he told them, and he did it for the reason he had declared; if they put him upon the rack, as that noble Marquis of Dorset whom he saw before him, had the goodness to threaten, he gave that marquis warning, that he would accuse him as his accomplice! The King was unpleasantly anxious to have him racked, nevertheless; but as the judges now found out that torture was contrary to the law of England—it is a pity they did not make the discovery a little sooner—John Felton was simply executed for the murder he had done. A murder it undoubtedly was, and not in the least to be defended: though he had freed England from one of the most profligate, contemptible, and base court favourites to whom it has ever yielded.

The council made a big deal out of questioning John Felton about this murder, even though it seemed straightforward enough. He traveled seventy miles to commit the act, he told them, and he did it for the reason he had stated. If they put him on the rack, as that noble Duke of Dorset who stood before him had the kindness to threaten, he warned that he would accuse him as his accomplice! The King was very eager to have him tortured, however; but since the judges discovered that torture was against the law of England—it's a shame they didn't realize it a bit earlier—John Felton was simply executed for the murder he committed. It was indeed murder, and it could not be justified; although he had rid England of one of the most corrupt, despicable, and lowly court favorites it has ever been burdened with.

A very different man now arose. This was Sir Thomas Wentworth, a Yorkshire gentleman, who had sat in Parliament for a long time, and who had favoured arbitrary and haughty principles, but who had gone over to the people’s side on receiving offence from Buckingham. The King, much wanting such a man—for, besides being naturally favourable to the King’s cause, he had great abilities—made him first a Baron, and then a Viscount, and gave him high employment, and won him most completely.

A very different man now stood up. This was Thomas Wentworth, a gentleman from Yorkshire, who had been in Parliament for a long time and had supported overbearing and arrogant ideas. However, he switched sides to support the people after being offended by Buckingham. The King, eager for someone like him—since he was not only naturally supportive of the King’s cause but also very capable—first made him a Baron, then a Viscount, gave him a high position, and completely won him over.

A Parliament, however, was still in existence, and was not to be won. On the twentieth of January, one thousand six hundred and twenty-nine, Sir John Eliot, a great man who had been active in the Petition of Right, brought forward other strong resolutions against the King’s chief instruments, and called upon the Speaker to put them to the vote. To this the Speaker answered, ‘he was commanded otherwise by the King,’ and got up to leave the chair—which, according to the rules of the House of Commons would have obliged it to adjourn without doing anything more—when two members, named Mr. Hollis and Mr. Valentine, held him down. A scene of great confusion arose among the members; and while many swords were drawn and flashing about, the King, who was kept informed of all that was going on, told the captain of his guard to go down to the House and force the doors. The resolutions were by that time, however, voted, and the House adjourned. Sir John Eliot and those two members who had held the Speaker down, were quickly summoned before the council. As they claimed it to be their privilege not to answer out of Parliament for anything they had said in it, they were committed to the Tower. The King then went down and dissolved the Parliament, in a speech wherein he made mention of these gentlemen as ‘Vipers’—which did not do him much good that ever I have heard of.

A Parliament still existed and it wasn’t easy to win over. On January 20, 1629, Sir John Eliot, a prominent figure involved in the Petition of Right, introduced strong resolutions against the King’s main supporters and urged the Speaker to put them to a vote. The Speaker replied that "he was ordered to do otherwise by the King," and stood to leave the chair—which, according to the rules of the House of Commons, would mean they had to adjourn without taking any further action. At this point, two members, Mr. Hollis and Mr. Valentine, prevented him from leaving. This triggered a scene of chaos among the members; swords were drawn and flashed about while the King, who was kept updated on the situation, instructed the captain of his guard to go down to the House and force the doors. However, by that time, the resolutions were voted on, and the House adjourned. Sir John Eliot and the two members who restrained the Speaker were soon summoned before the council. They argued it was their right not to answer outside Parliament for anything said in it, so they were sent to the Tower. The King then went down and dissolved the Parliament, referring to these gentlemen as “Vipers”—a comment that didn’t seem to benefit him much, as far as I’ve heard.

As they refused to gain their liberty by saying they were sorry for what they had done, the King, always remarkably unforgiving, never overlooked their offence. When they demanded to be brought up before the court of King’s Bench, he even resorted to the meanness of having them moved about from prison to prison, so that the writs issued for that purpose should not legally find them. At last they came before the court and were sentenced to heavy fines, and to be imprisoned during the King’s pleasure. When Sir John Eliot’s health had quite given way, and he so longed for change of air and scene as to petition for his release, the King sent back the answer (worthy of his Sowship himself) that the petition was not humble enough. When he sent another petition by his young son, in which he pathetically offered to go back to prison when his health was restored, if he might be released for its recovery, the King still disregarded it. When he died in the Tower, and his children petitioned to be allowed to take his body down to Cornwall, there to lay it among the ashes of his forefathers, the King returned for answer, ‘Let Sir John Eliot’s body be buried in the church of that parish where he died.’ All this was like a very little King indeed, I think.

As they refused to gain their freedom by apologizing for what they had done, the King, who was always notably unforgiving, never forgot their offense. When they asked to be brought before the King’s Bench, he even resorted to the petty act of moving them from prison to prison so that the legal documents meant to find them could not do so. Eventually, they appeared before the court and were sentenced to hefty fines and imprisonment at the King’s discretion. When Sir John Eliot’s health completely declined and he desperately longed for a change of air and scenery, he petitioned for his release; the King coldly replied (in a manner typical of his character) that the petition was not humble enough. When he submitted another petition through his young son, in which he sadly offered to return to prison once his health improved if he could be released for treatment, the King ignored it again. When he died in the Tower and his children asked to take his body back to Cornwall to be laid among his ancestors, the King responded, “Let Sir John Eliot’s body be buried in the church of the parish where he died.” All of this felt very much like the actions of a tiny King, in my opinion.

And now, for twelve long years, steadily pursuing his design of setting himself up and putting the people down, the King called no Parliament; but ruled without one. If twelve thousand volumes were written in his praise (as a good many have been) it would still remain a fact, impossible to be denied, that for twelve years King Charles the First reigned in England unlawfully and despotically, seized upon his subjects’ goods and money at his pleasure, and punished according to his unbridled will all who ventured to oppose him. It is a fashion with some people to think that this King’s career was cut short; but I must say myself that I think he ran a pretty long one.

And now, for twelve long years, consistently working on his goal of elevating himself and putting the people down, the King didn’t call a Parliament; he ruled without one. Even if twelve thousand books were written praising him (which many have been), it wouldn’t change the fact that for twelve years King Charles the First ruled in England unlawfully and harshly, taking his subjects’ property and money whenever he pleased, and punishing anyone who dared to oppose him according to his unchecked desires. Some people like to think that this King’s reign was abruptly ended; but I have to say, I believe he had quite a lengthy one.

William Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury, was the King’s right-hand man in the religious part of the putting down of the people’s liberties. Laud, who was a sincere man, of large learning but small sense—for the two things sometimes go together in very different quantities—though a Protestant, held opinions so near those of the Catholics, that the Pope wanted to make a Cardinal of him, if he would have accepted that favour. He looked upon vows, robes, lighted candles, images, and so forth, as amazingly important in religious ceremonies; and he brought in an immensity of bowing and candle-snuffing. He also regarded archbishops and bishops as a sort of miraculous persons, and was inveterate in the last degree against any who thought otherwise. Accordingly, he offered up thanks to Heaven, and was in a state of much pious pleasure, when a Scotch clergyman, named Leighton, was pilloried, whipped, branded in the cheek, and had one of his ears cut off and one of his nostrils slit, for calling bishops trumpery and the inventions of men. He originated on a Sunday morning the prosecution of William Prynne, a barrister who was of similar opinions, and who was fined a thousand pounds; who was pilloried; who had his ears cut off on two occasions—one ear at a time—and who was imprisoned for life. He highly approved of the punishment of Doctor Bastwick, a physician; who was also fined a thousand pounds; and who afterwards had his ears cut off, and was imprisoned for life. These were gentle methods of persuasion, some will tell you: I think, they were rather calculated to be alarming to the people.

William Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury, was the King’s main advisor in suppressing the people's freedoms. Laud, a sincere man with extensive knowledge but limited common sense—since those two traits can often coexist in varying ways—although he was a Protestant, held views very close to those of the Catholics. In fact, the Pope wanted to make him a Cardinal if he had been willing to accept that honor. He considered vows, robes, candles, images, and similar elements as extremely important in religious ceremonies, and he introduced a lot of bowing and candle-snuffing. He also saw archbishops and bishops as special, almost miraculous figures, and was firmly opposed to anyone who disagreed with him. Consequently, he was quite pleased and grateful to Heaven when a Scottish clergyman named Leighton was publicly punished—pilloried, whipped, branded on the cheek, and had one of his ears cut off and a nostril slit—for calling bishops trivial and mere human inventions. He initiated the prosecution of William Prynne, a barrister with similar views, who was fined a thousand pounds, pilloried, had his ears cut off on two separate occasions—one ear at a time—and was sentenced to life in prison. He also endorsed the punishment of Dr. Bastwick, a physician, who was also fined a thousand pounds and ended up losing his ears as well, along with a life sentence in prison. Some might say these were gentle forms of persuasion; I think they were more likely to instill fear in the people.

In the money part of the putting down of the people’s liberties, the King was equally gentle, as some will tell you: as I think, equally alarming. He levied those duties of tonnage and poundage, and increased them as he thought fit. He granted monopolies to companies of merchants on their paying him for them, notwithstanding the great complaints that had, for years and years, been made on the subject of monopolies. He fined the people for disobeying proclamations issued by his Sowship in direct violation of law. He revived the detested Forest laws, and took private property to himself as his forest right. Above all, he determined to have what was called Ship Money; that is to say, money for the support of the fleet—not only from the seaports, but from all the counties of England: having found out that, in some ancient time or other, all the counties paid it. The grievance of this ship money being somewhat too strong, John Chambers, a citizen of London, refused to pay his part of it. For this the Lord Mayor ordered John Chambers to prison, and for that John Chambers brought a suit against the Lord Mayor. Lord Say, also, behaved like a real nobleman, and declared he would not pay. But, the sturdiest and best opponent of the ship money was John Hampden, a gentleman of Buckinghamshire, who had sat among the ‘vipers’ in the House of Commons when there was such a thing, and who had been the bosom friend of Sir John Eliot. This case was tried before the twelve judges in the Court of Exchequer, and again the King’s lawyers said it was impossible that ship money could be wrong, because the King could do no wrong, however hard he tried—and he really did try very hard during these twelve years. Seven of the judges said that was quite true, and Mr. Hampden was bound to pay: five of the judges said that was quite false, and Mr. Hampden was not bound to pay. So, the King triumphed (as he thought), by making Hampden the most popular man in England; where matters were getting to that height now, that many honest Englishmen could not endure their country, and sailed away across the seas to found a colony in Massachusetts Bay in America. It is said that Hampden himself and his relation Oliver Cromwell were going with a company of such voyagers, and were actually on board ship, when they were stopped by a proclamation, prohibiting sea captains to carry out such passengers without the royal license. But O! it would have been well for the King if he had let them go! This was the state of England. If Laud had been a madman just broke loose, he could not have done more mischief than he did in Scotland. In his endeavours (in which he was seconded by the King, then in person in that part of his dominions) to force his own ideas of bishops, and his own religious forms and ceremonies upon the Scotch, he roused that nation to a perfect frenzy. They formed a solemn league, which they called The Covenant, for the preservation of their own religious forms; they rose in arms throughout the whole country; they summoned all their men to prayers and sermons twice a day by beat of drum; they sang psalms, in which they compared their enemies to all the evil spirits that ever were heard of; and they solemnly vowed to smite them with the sword. At first the King tried force, then treaty, then a Scottish Parliament which did not answer at all. Then he tried the Earl of Strafford, formerly Sir Thomas Wentworth; who, as Lord Wentworth, had been governing Ireland. He, too, had carried it with a very high hand there, though to the benefit and prosperity of that country.

In the financial aspect of taking away people's freedoms, the King was just as gentle, as some will say; but in my opinion, it was equally disturbing. He imposed those duties on goods and increased them as he saw fit. He granted monopolies to merchant companies in exchange for payment, despite widespread complaints that had persisted for years about these monopolies. He fined people for not obeying proclamations issued by his Majesty in clear violation of the law. He resurrected the hated Forest laws and claimed private property as his forest right. Most notably, he insisted on collecting what was called Ship Money; that is, money to support the navy—not just from the ports, but from all the counties in England, having discovered that at some point in history, all the counties had paid it. The backlash against this ship money became too strong, and John Chambers, a London citizen, refused to pay his share. For this, the Lord Mayor ordered him to prison, which led John Chambers to sue the Lord Mayor. Lord Say also acted like a true nobleman and declared he wouldn’t pay. However, the strongest opponent of the ship money was John Hampden, a gentleman from Buckinghamshire, who had been part of the House of Commons back when it existed and had been a close friend of Sir John Eliot. This case was brought before the twelve judges in the Court of Exchequer, and once again, the King’s lawyers argued that ship money couldn’t possibly be wrong because the King could do no wrong, no matter how hard he tried—and he really did try very hard during those twelve years. Seven judges agreed, saying that it was indeed true and that Mr. Hampden had to pay; five judges disagreed, claiming it was entirely false, and Mr. Hampden did not have to pay. So, the King thought he had triumphed by making Hampden the most popular man in England; the situation was escalating to a point where many honest Englishmen could no longer bear their country and decided to sail across the seas to start a colony in Massachusetts Bay in America. It is said that Hampden and his relative Oliver Cromwell were among those voyagers and were actually on board a ship when they were stopped by a proclamation that prohibited ship captains from taking such passengers without royal permission. But oh! It would have been better for the King if he had let them go! This was the state of England. If Laud had been a madman just released, he couldn't have caused more chaos than he did in Scotland. In his attempts (which were supported by the King, who was physically present in that part of his realm) to impose his own views on bishops and his specific religious practices and ceremonies on the Scots, he drove that nation into a frenzy. They formed a solemn alliance, which they called The Covenant, to preserve their own religious practices; they took up arms across the entire country; they summoned all their men to twice-daily prayers and sermons by the sound of a drum; they sang psalms comparing their enemies to all the evil spirits ever known; and they vowed to strike them down with the sword. Initially, the King tried force, then negotiation, then a Scottish Parliament that yielded no results at all. Then he attempted to use the Earl of Strafford, formerly Sir Thomas Wentworth, who had been governing Ireland. He also ruled there with a strong hand, but it benefited and prospered that country.

Strafford and Laud were for conquering the Scottish people by force of arms. Other lords who were taken into council, recommended that a Parliament should at last be called; to which the King unwillingly consented. So, on the thirteenth of April, one thousand six hundred and forty, that then strange sight, a Parliament, was seen at Westminster. It is called the Short Parliament, for it lasted a very little while. While the members were all looking at one another, doubtful who would dare to speak, Mr. Pym arose and set forth all that the King had done unlawfully during the past twelve years, and what was the position to which England was reduced. This great example set, other members took courage and spoke the truth freely, though with great patience and moderation. The King, a little frightened, sent to say that if they would grant him a certain sum on certain terms, no more ship money should be raised. They debated the matter for two days; and then, as they would not give him all he asked without promise or inquiry, he dissolved them.

Strafford and Laud wanted to conquer the Scottish people by using military force. Other lords brought into the discussion suggested that Parliament should finally be called; the King reluctantly agreed. So, on April 13, 1640, an unusual event took place—a Parliament was held at Westminster. It's called the Short Parliament because it was very brief. While the members were looking around at each other, unsure who would speak up, Mr. Pym stood up and outlined everything the King had done unlawfully over the past twelve years and the state England was in. This courageous act encouraged other members to speak the truth openly, though they did so with great patience and moderation. The King, a bit intimidated, sent word that if they agreed to grant him a specific amount of money under certain conditions, he would stop collecting ship money. They debated the issue for two days; then, because they refused to give him everything he asked for without a promise or inquiry, he dissolved them.

But they knew very well that he must have a Parliament now; and he began to make that discovery too, though rather late in the day. Wherefore, on the twenty-fourth of September, being then at York with an army collected against the Scottish people, but his own men sullen and discontented like the rest of the nation, the King told the great council of the Lords, whom he had called to meet him there, that he would summon another Parliament to assemble on the third of November. The soldiers of the Covenant had now forced their way into England and had taken possession of the northern counties, where the coals are got. As it would never do to be without coals, and as the King’s troops could make no head against the Covenanters so full of gloomy zeal, a truce was made, and a treaty with Scotland was taken into consideration. Meanwhile the northern counties paid the Covenanters to leave the coals alone, and keep quiet.

But they were well aware that he needed a Parliament now; and he started to realize that too, although a bit late. So, on September 24th, while he was in York with an army gathered against the Scottish people but his own men sullen and unhappy like the rest of the nation, the King informed the great council of Lords, whom he had called to meet him there, that he would summon another Parliament to convene on November 3rd. The Covenant soldiers had now forced their way into England and had taken control of the northern counties, where coal is extracted. Since it wouldn’t do to be without coal, and the King’s troops couldn’t compete against the zealous Covenanters, a truce was established and a treaty with Scotland was considered. In the meantime, the northern counties paid the Covenanters to leave the coal alone and stay quiet.

We have now disposed of the Short Parliament. We have next to see what memorable things were done by the Long one.

We have now dealt with the Short Parliament. Next, we need to look at the significant events that occurred during the Long Parliament.

SECOND PART

The Long Parliament assembled on the third of November, one thousand six hundred and forty-one. That day week the Earl of Strafford arrived from York, very sensible that the spirited and determined men who formed that Parliament were no friends towards him, who had not only deserted the cause of the people, but who had on all occasions opposed himself to their liberties. The King told him, for his comfort, that the Parliament ‘should not hurt one hair of his head.’ But, on the very next day Mr. Pym, in the House of Commons, and with great solemnity, impeached the Earl of Strafford as a traitor. He was immediately taken into custody and fell from his proud height.

The Long Parliament met on November 3, 1641. A week later, the Earl of Strafford arrived from York, fully aware that the passionate and resolute people in that Parliament were not in his favor, as he had not only abandoned the people's cause but had consistently opposed their freedoms. The King reassured him, saying that the Parliament “would not harm a hair on his head.” However, the very next day, Mr. Pym solemnly accused the Earl of Strafford of treason in the House of Commons. He was promptly taken into custody and fell from his once-proud position.

It was the twenty-second of March before he was brought to trial in Westminster Hall; where, although he was very ill and suffered great pain, he defended himself with such ability and majesty, that it was doubtful whether he would not get the best of it. But on the thirteenth day of the trial, Pym produced in the House of Commons a copy of some notes of a council, found by young Sir Harry Vane in a red velvet cabinet belonging to his father (Secretary Vane, who sat at the council-table with the Earl), in which Strafford had distinctly told the King that he was free from all rules and obligations of government, and might do with his people whatever he liked; and in which he had added—‘You have an army in Ireland that you may employ to reduce this kingdom to obedience.’ It was not clear whether by the words ‘this kingdom,’ he had really meant England or Scotland; but the Parliament contended that he meant England, and this was treason. At the same sitting of the House of Commons it was resolved to bring in a bill of attainder declaring the treason to have been committed: in preference to proceeding with the trial by impeachment, which would have required the treason to be proved.

It was March 22 when he was brought to trial in Westminster Hall; where, despite being very sick and in significant pain, he defended himself with such skill and dignity that it was uncertain whether he wouldn’t come out on top. But on the thirteenth day of the trial, Pym presented in the House of Commons a copy of some notes from a council, found by young Sir Harry Vane in a red velvet cabinet belonging to his father (Secretary Vane, who was at the council table with the Earl), in which Strafford had clearly told the King that he was free from all rules and obligations of government and could do whatever he wanted with his people; and in which he had added—‘You have an army in Ireland that you may use to bring this kingdom into obedience.’ It wasn’t clear if by the words ‘this kingdom,’ he really meant England or Scotland; but Parliament argued that he meant England, and this was treason. During the same session in the House of Commons, it was decided to introduce a bill of attainder declaring that the treason had been committed: instead of continuing with the trial by impeachment, which would have required the treason to be proven.

So, a bill was brought in at once, was carried through the House of Commons by a large majority, and was sent up to the House of Lords. While it was still uncertain whether the House of Lords would pass it and the King consent to it, Pym disclosed to the House of Commons that the King and Queen had both been plotting with the officers of the army to bring up the soldiers and control the Parliament, and also to introduce two hundred soldiers into the Tower of London to effect the Earl’s escape. The plotting with the army was revealed by one George Goring, the son of a lord of that name: a bad fellow who was one of the original plotters, and turned traitor. The King had actually given his warrant for the admission of the two hundred men into the Tower, and they would have got in too, but for the refusal of the governor—a sturdy Scotchman of the name of Balfour—to admit them. These matters being made public, great numbers of people began to riot outside the Houses of Parliament, and to cry out for the execution of the Earl of Strafford, as one of the King’s chief instruments against them. The bill passed the House of Lords while the people were in this state of agitation, and was laid before the King for his assent, together with another bill declaring that the Parliament then assembled should not be dissolved or adjourned without their own consent. The King—not unwilling to save a faithful servant, though he had no great attachment for him—was in some doubt what to do; but he gave his consent to both bills, although he in his heart believed that the bill against the Earl of Strafford was unlawful and unjust. The Earl had written to him, telling him that he was willing to die for his sake. But he had not expected that his royal master would take him at his word quite so readily; for, when he heard his doom, he laid his hand upon his heart, and said, ‘Put not your trust in Princes!’

So, a bill was introduced right away, passed through the House of Commons by a large margin, and was sent up to the House of Lords. While it was still uncertain whether the House of Lords would approve it and the King would agree, Pym revealed to the House of Commons that both the King and Queen had been conspiring with the army officers to bring in soldiers and take control of Parliament, as well as to smuggle two hundred soldiers into the Tower of London to help the Earl escape. The conspiracy with the army was exposed by one George Goring, the son of a lord of the same name: a shady character who was one of the original plotters and then turned traitor. The King had actually authorized the admission of the two hundred men into the Tower, and they would have gotten in too, if not for the refusal of the governor—a tough Scot named Balfour—to let them in. Once this information became public, large crowds began to riot outside the Houses of Parliament, calling for the execution of the Earl of Strafford, who was seen as one of the King’s main accomplices against them. The bill passed the House of Lords while the people were in this state of unrest and was presented to the King for his approval, along with another bill stating that the Parliament currently in session could not be dissolved or adjourned without their consent. The King—who wasn’t exactly eager to save a loyal servant, though he didn’t have much affection for him—was uncertain about what to do; but he approved both bills, even though deep down, he believed that the bill against the Earl of Strafford was illegal and unfair. The Earl had written to him, saying he was willing to die for him. But he hadn’t expected that his royal master would take him up on that so quickly; when he heard his sentence, he placed his hand over his heart and said, ‘Put not your trust in Princes!’

The King, who never could be straightforward and plain, through one single day or through one single sheet of paper, wrote a letter to the Lords, and sent it by the young Prince of Wales, entreating them to prevail with the Commons that ‘that unfortunate man should fulfil the natural course of his life in a close imprisonment.’ In a postscript to the very same letter, he added, ‘If he must die, it were charity to reprieve him till Saturday.’ If there had been any doubt of his fate, this weakness and meanness would have settled it. The very next day, which was the twelfth of May, he was brought out to be beheaded on Tower Hill.

The King, who could never be straightforward and simple, took a whole day to write a letter to the Lords and sent it through the young Prince of Wales, asking them to convince the Commons that "that unfortunate man should live out his life in close imprisonment." In a postscript to that same letter, he added, "If he must die, it would be kind to delay his execution until Saturday." If there had been any uncertainty about his fate, this weakness and cowardice would have decided it. The very next day, May 12th, he was taken out to be executed on Tower Hill.

Archbishop Laud, who had been so fond of having people’s ears cropped off and their noses slit, was now confined in the Tower too; and when the Earl went by his window to his death, he was there, at his request, to give him his blessing. They had been great friends in the King’s cause, and the Earl had written to him in the days of their power that he thought it would be an admirable thing to have Mr. Hampden publicly whipped for refusing to pay the ship money. However, those high and mighty doings were over now, and the Earl went his way to death with dignity and heroism. The governor wished him to get into a coach at the Tower gate, for fear the people should tear him to pieces; but he said it was all one to him whether he died by the axe or by the people’s hands. So, he walked, with a firm tread and a stately look, and sometimes pulled off his hat to them as he passed along. They were profoundly quiet. He made a speech on the scaffold from some notes he had prepared (the paper was found lying there after his head was struck off), and one blow of the axe killed him, in the forty-ninth year of his age.

Archbishop Laud, who had always enjoyed having people’s ears cropped and their noses slit, was now locked up in the Tower as well; and when the Earl walked past his window to face his death, he was there, at the Earl's request, to give him his blessing. They had been close allies in support of the King, and the Earl had once suggested to him during their days of power that it would be a great idea to have Mr. Hampden publicly whipped for refusing to pay the ship money. However, those grand and powerful days were gone now, and the Earl approached his death with dignity and courage. The governor wanted him to get into a carriage at the Tower gate, worried that the crowd might tear him apart; but he said it didn't matter to him whether he died by the axe or at the hands of the people. So, he walked with a steady stride and a dignified demeanor, occasionally tipping his hat to them as he passed. They remained profoundly silent. He delivered a speech on the scaffold using some notes he had prepared (the paper was found lying there after his head was severed), and a single blow from the axe ended his life, at the age of forty-nine.

This bold and daring act, the Parliament accompanied by other famous measures, all originating (as even this did) in the King’s having so grossly and so long abused his power. The name of Delinquents was applied to all sheriffs and other officers who had been concerned in raising the ship money, or any other money, from the people, in an unlawful manner; the Hampden judgment was reversed; the judges who had decided against Hampden were called upon to give large securities that they would take such consequences as Parliament might impose upon them; and one was arrested as he sat in High Court, and carried off to prison. Laud was impeached; the unfortunate victims whose ears had been cropped and whose noses had been slit, were brought out of prison in triumph; and a bill was passed declaring that a Parliament should be called every third year, and that if the King and the King’s officers did not call it, the people should assemble of themselves and summon it, as of their own right and power. Great illuminations and rejoicings took place over all these things, and the country was wildly excited. That the Parliament took advantage of this excitement and stirred them up by every means, there is no doubt; but you are always to remember those twelve long years, during which the King had tried so hard whether he really could do any wrong or not.

This bold and daring move, along with other notable actions from Parliament, came as a result of the King’s serious and prolonged abuse of power. The term Troublemakers was used for all sheriffs and other officials who had been involved in unlawfully collecting ship money or any other funds from the people; the Hampden ruling was overturned; the judges who had ruled against Hampden were required to provide hefty guarantees that they would face whatever consequences Parliament decided for them; and one judge was arrested while sitting in the High Court and taken to prison. Laud was impeached; the unfortunate victims who had their ears cropped and noses slit were triumphantly brought out of prison; and a bill was passed stating that Parliament should meet every three years. If the King and his officials failed to summon it, the people were empowered to gather and call it themselves, claiming their own rights and power. There were grand celebrations and festivities over these events, and the nation was filled with excitement. It’s clear that Parliament capitalized on this excitement and stirred the public through various means, but it's important to remember those twelve long years during which the King tested whether he could truly act wrongfully or not.

All this time there was a great religious outcry against the right of the Bishops to sit in Parliament; to which the Scottish people particularly objected. The English were divided on this subject, and, partly on this account and partly because they had had foolish expectations that the Parliament would be able to take off nearly all the taxes, numbers of them sometimes wavered and inclined towards the King.

All this time, there was a huge outcry from religious groups against the Bishops' right to sit in Parliament, which the Scottish people especially protested. The English were split on this issue, and partly because of this, and partly due to their unrealistic hopes that Parliament would be able to eliminate almost all taxes, many of them sometimes wavered and leaned towards the King.

I believe myself, that if, at this or almost any other period of his life, the King could have been trusted by any man not out of his senses, he might have saved himself and kept his throne. But, on the English army being disbanded, he plotted with the officers again, as he had done before, and established the fact beyond all doubt by putting his signature of approval to a petition against the Parliamentary leaders, which was drawn up by certain officers. When the Scottish army was disbanded, he went to Edinburgh in four days—which was going very fast at that time—to plot again, and so darkly too, that it is difficult to decide what his whole object was. Some suppose that he wanted to gain over the Scottish Parliament, as he did in fact gain over, by presents and favours, many Scottish lords and men of power. Some think that he went to get proofs against the Parliamentary leaders in England of their having treasonably invited the Scottish people to come and help them. With whatever object he went to Scotland, he did little good by going. At the instigation of the Earl of Montrose, a desperate man who was then in prison for plotting, he tried to kidnap three Scottish lords who escaped. A committee of the Parliament at home, who had followed to watch him, writing an account of this Incident, as it was called, to the Parliament, the Parliament made a fresh stir about it; were, or feigned to be, much alarmed for themselves; and wrote to the Earl of Essex, the commander-in-chief, for a guard to protect them.

I believe that if, at this time or really at any other point in his life, the King could have been trusted by any sane person, he might have saved himself and held onto his throne. But after the English army was disbanded, he plotted with the officers again, just like he had done before, and solidified this beyond doubt by signing a petition against the Parliamentary leaders, which was created by certain officers. When the Scottish army was disbanded, he made it to Edinburgh in four days—which was incredibly fast for the time—to plot once more, so secretly that it's hard to determine what his true intentions were. Some think he wanted to win over the Scottish Parliament, as he did manage to win over several Scottish lords and influential figures with gifts and favors. Others believe he went to gather evidence against the Parliamentary leaders in England for their treasonous invitation to the Scottish people for support. Whatever his purpose was in going to Scotland, he achieved very little. At the urging of the Duke of Montrose, a desperate man who was imprisoned for plotting, he attempted to kidnap three Scottish lords, but they managed to escape. A committee from the Parliament back home, which had been keeping an eye on him, sent an account of this Event to Parliament. The Parliament then made a big fuss about it, either genuinely or pretended to be very concerned for their own safety, and wrote to the Earl of Essex, the commander-in-chief, asking for protection.

It is not absolutely proved that the King plotted in Ireland besides, but it is very probable that he did, and that the Queen did, and that he had some wild hope of gaining the Irish people over to his side by favouring a rise among them. Whether or no, they did rise in a most brutal and savage rebellion; in which, encouraged by their priests, they committed such atrocities upon numbers of the English, of both sexes and of all ages, as nobody could believe, but for their being related on oath by eye-witnesses. Whether one hundred thousand or two hundred thousand Protestants were murdered in this outbreak, is uncertain; but, that it was as ruthless and barbarous an outbreak as ever was known among any savage people, is certain.

It hasn't been definitively proven that the King plotted in Ireland, but it's very likely that he did, and that the Queen was involved too, hoping to win over the Irish people by supporting a rebellion among them. Regardless, they did rise up in a brutal and savage rebellion, encouraged by their priests, committing horrific acts against numerous English people of all ages and genders, which is hard to believe unless confirmed by sworn eyewitnesses. Whether one hundred thousand or two hundred thousand Protestants were killed in this uprising is uncertain, but it's clear that it was one of the most ruthless and barbaric outbreaks ever seen among any savage group.

The King came home from Scotland, determined to make a great struggle for his lost power. He believed that, through his presents and favours, Scotland would take no part against him; and the Lord Mayor of London received him with such a magnificent dinner that he thought he must have become popular again in England. It would take a good many Lord Mayors, however, to make a people, and the King soon found himself mistaken.

The King returned from Scotland, resolved to fight hard for his lost power. He thought that with his gifts and favors, Scotland wouldn’t oppose him; and the Lord Mayor of London welcomed him with such a lavish dinner that he figured he must have regained his popularity in England. However, it would take more than just a few Lord Mayors to win over a whole nation, and the King quickly realized he was mistaken.

Not so soon, though, but that there was a great opposition in the Parliament to a celebrated paper put forth by Pym and Hampden and the rest, called ‘The Remonstrance,’ which set forth all the illegal acts that the King had ever done, but politely laid the blame of them on his bad advisers. Even when it was passed and presented to him, the King still thought himself strong enough to discharge Balfour from his command in the Tower, and to put in his place a man of bad character; to whom the Commons instantly objected, and whom he was obliged to abandon. At this time, the old outcry about the Bishops became louder than ever, and the old Archbishop of York was so near being murdered as he went down to the House of Lords—being laid hold of by the mob and violently knocked about, in return for very foolishly scolding a shrill boy who was yelping out ‘No Bishops!’—that he sent for all the Bishops who were in town, and proposed to them to sign a declaration that, as they could no longer without danger to their lives attend their duty in Parliament, they protested against the lawfulness of everything done in their absence. This they asked the King to send to the House of Lords, which he did. Then the House of Commons impeached the whole party of Bishops and sent them off to the Tower:

Not long after, there was a significant backlash in Parliament against a well-known document written by Pym, Hampden, and others, called ‘The Remonstrance.’ This document detailed all the illegal actions the King had ever taken but politely shifted the blame to his poor advisers. Even after it was approved and presented to him, the King still believed he was strong enough to remove Balfour from his position in the Tower and replace him with a man of questionable character, which the Commons immediately protested, forcing him to back down. During this time, the outcry against the Bishops grew louder than ever, and the old Archbishop of York came close to being killed as he made his way to the House of Lords—he was grabbed by a mob and roughly handled after scolding a loud boy who was shouting ‘No Bishops!’ In response, he called for all the Bishops in town and suggested they sign a statement declaring that, since they could no longer safely attend their duties in Parliament, they protested against the legality of any actions taken during their absence. They requested the King to send this to the House of Lords, which he did. Then the House of Commons impeached all the Bishops and sent them to the Tower:

Taking no warning from this; but encouraged by there being a moderate party in the Parliament who objected to these strong measures, the King, on the third of January, one thousand six hundred and forty-two, took the rashest step that ever was taken by mortal man.

Taking no warning from this, and encouraged by the presence of a moderate group in Parliament who opposed these extreme measures, the King, on January 3, 1642, took the most reckless step ever taken by a human being.

Of his own accord and without advice, he sent the Attorney-General to the House of Lords, to accuse of treason certain members of Parliament who as popular leaders were the most obnoxious to him; Lord Kimbolton, Sir Arthur Haselrig, Denzil Hollis, John Pym (they used to call him King Pym, he possessed such power and looked so big), John Hampden, and William Strode. The houses of those members he caused to be entered, and their papers to be sealed up. At the same time, he sent a messenger to the House of Commons demanding to have the five gentlemen who were members of that House immediately produced. To this the House replied that they should appear as soon as there was any legal charge against them, and immediately adjourned.

On his own initiative and without any advice, he sent the Attorney-General to the House of Lords to accuse certain members of Parliament of treason—those who, as popular leaders, he found most intolerable: Lord Kimbolton, Sir Arthur Haselrig, Denzil Hollis, John Pym (they used to call him King Pym because he held so much power and had such a commanding presence), John Hampden, and William Strode. He ordered their homes to be searched and their documents to be sealed. At the same time, he sent a messenger to the House of Commons demanding the immediate production of the five gentlemen who were members of that House. In response, the House stated that they would appear as soon as there was a legal charge against them and then adjourned immediately.

Next day, the House of Commons send into the City to let the Lord Mayor know that their privileges are invaded by the King, and that there is no safety for anybody or anything. Then, when the five members are gone out of the way, down comes the King himself, with all his guard and from two to three hundred gentlemen and soldiers, of whom the greater part were armed. These he leaves in the hall; and then, with his nephew at his side, goes into the House, takes off his hat, and walks up to the Speaker’s chair. The Speaker leaves it, the King stands in front of it, looks about him steadily for a little while, and says he has come for those five members. No one speaks, and then he calls John Pym by name. No one speaks, and then he calls Denzil Hollis by name. No one speaks, and then he asks the Speaker of the House where those five members are? The Speaker, answering on his knee, nobly replies that he is the servant of that House, and that he has neither eyes to see, nor tongue to speak, anything but what the House commands him. Upon this, the King, beaten from that time evermore, replies that he will seek them himself, for they have committed treason; and goes out, with his hat in his hand, amid some audible murmurs from the members.

The next day, the House of Commons sent a message to the City to inform the Lord Mayor that the King is infringing on their privileges and that there’s no safety for anyone or anything. Then, after the five members step out, the King himself arrives with his guard and about two to three hundred gentlemen and soldiers, most of whom are armed. He leaves them in the hall and, with his nephew by his side, enters the House, takes off his hat, and approaches the Speaker’s chair. The Speaker vacates it, and the King stands in front, looking around steadily for a moment before stating he has come for those five members. No one responds, so he calls out John Pym’s name. Again, no one answers, so he calls Denzil Hollis’s name. Still, no response. He then asks the Speaker where those five members are. The Speaker, responding on his knees, nobly declares that he is the servant of that House and has neither the eyes to see nor the tongue to speak anything except what the House instructs him to. In response, the King, feeling defeated from that moment forward, replies that he will find them himself, as they have committed treason, and walks out, hat in hand, amid some murmurs from the members.

No words can describe the hurry that arose out of doors when all this was known. The five members had gone for safety to a house in Coleman-street, in the City, where they were guarded all night; and indeed the whole city watched in arms like an army. At ten o’clock in the morning, the King, already frightened at what he had done, came to the Guildhall, with only half a dozen lords, and made a speech to the people, hoping they would not shelter those whom he accused of treason. Next day, he issued a proclamation for the apprehension of the five members; but the Parliament minded it so little that they made great arrangements for having them brought down to Westminster in great state, five days afterwards. The King was so alarmed now at his own imprudence, if not for his own safety, that he left his palace at Whitehall, and went away with his Queen and children to Hampton Court.

No words can describe the rush that happened outside when all this became known. The five members had taken refuge in a house on Coleman Street in the City, where they were guarded all night; in fact, the entire city was on high alert like an army. By ten o’clock the next morning, the King, already scared of what he had done, came to the Guildhall with just a handful of lords and made a speech to the people, hoping they wouldn’t protect those he accused of treason. The following day, he issued a proclamation for the arrest of the five members; however, Parliament paid little attention to it and made extensive plans to bring them to Westminster in grand fashion five days later. The King was so shaken by his own rashness, if not his own safety, that he left his palace at Whitehall and took off with his Queen and children to Hampton Court.

It was the eleventh of May, when the five members were carried in state and triumph to Westminster. They were taken by water. The river could not be seen for the boats on it; and the five members were hemmed in by barges full of men and great guns, ready to protect them, at any cost. Along the Strand a large body of the train-bands of London, under their commander, Skippon, marched to be ready to assist the little fleet. Beyond them, came a crowd who choked the streets, roaring incessantly about the Bishops and the Papists, and crying out contemptuously as they passed Whitehall, ‘What has become of the King?’ With this great noise outside the House of Commons, and with great silence within, Mr. Pym rose and informed the House of the great kindness with which they had been received in the City. Upon that, the House called the sheriffs in and thanked them, and requested the train-bands, under their commander Skippon, to guard the House of Commons every day. Then, came four thousand men on horseback out of Buckinghamshire, offering their services as a guard too, and bearing a petition to the King, complaining of the injury that had been done to Mr. Hampden, who was their county man and much beloved and honoured.

It was May 11th when the five members were brought to Westminster in a grand and triumphant manner. They traveled by boat, and the river was filled with vessels; the five members were surrounded by barges full of men and heavy artillery, ready to protect them at any cost. Along the Strand, a large group of London’s train-bands, led by their commander, Skippon, marched to support the small fleet. Beyond them was a crowd that packed the streets, shouting non-stop about the Bishops and the Papists, and sneering as they passed Whitehall, “What happened to the King?” Amid this loud commotion outside the House of Commons and a great silence inside, Mr. Pym stood up and informed the House about the warm welcome they had received in the City. The House then called in the sheriffs to express their gratitude and requested the train-bands, under Commander Skippon, to guard the House of Commons every day. Following that, four thousand mounted men from Buckinghamshire arrived, offering their services as a guard as well and presenting a petition to the King, complaining about the harm done to Mr. Hampden, who was a well-respected and beloved figure from their county.

When the King set off for Hampton Court, the gentlemen and soldiers who had been with him followed him out of town as far as Kingston-upon-Thames; next day, Lord Digby came to them from the King at Hampton Court, in his coach and six, to inform them that the King accepted their protection. This, the Parliament said, was making war against the kingdom, and Lord Digby fled abroad. The Parliament then immediately applied themselves to getting hold of the military power of the country, well knowing that the King was already trying hard to use it against them, and that he had secretly sent the Earl of Newcastle to Hull, to secure a valuable magazine of arms and gunpowder that was there. In those times, every county had its own magazines of arms and powder, for its own train-bands or militia; so, the Parliament brought in a bill claiming the right (which up to this time had belonged to the King) of appointing the Lord Lieutenants of counties, who commanded these train-bands; also, of having all the forts, castles, and garrisons in the kingdom, put into the hands of such governors as they, the Parliament, could confide in. It also passed a law depriving the Bishops of their votes. The King gave his assent to that bill, but would not abandon the right of appointing the Lord Lieutenants, though he said he was willing to appoint such as might be suggested to him by the Parliament. When the Earl of Pembroke asked him whether he would not give way on that question for a time, he said, ‘By God! not for one hour!’ and upon this he and the Parliament went to war.

When the King left for Hampton Court, the gentlemen and soldiers who had been with him followed him out of town to Kingston-upon-Thames. The next day, Lord Digby came to them from the King at Hampton Court in a lavish carriage to inform them that the King accepted their protection. The Parliament claimed this was an act of war against the kingdom, and Lord Digby fled abroad. The Parliament then quickly focused on gaining control of the military power in the country, knowing that the King was already trying hard to use it against them, and that he had secretly sent the Earl of Newcastle to Hull to secure a valuable stockpile of arms and gunpowder located there. During this time, every county had its own stockpiles of arms and powder for its own local militias; so, the Parliament introduced a bill claiming the right (which had previously belonged to the King) to appoint the Lord Lieutenants of counties, who commanded these local forces. They also sought to take control of all the forts, castles, and garrisons in the kingdom, putting them into the hands of governors whom they could trust. Additionally, they passed a law that removed the Bishops' voting rights. The King approved that bill but refused to give up the right to appoint the Lord Lieutenants, although he said he was open to appointing those suggested by the Parliament. When the Earl of Pembroke asked him if he would reconsider that issue temporarily, he responded, ‘By God! not for one hour!’ and as a result, he and the Parliament went to war.

His young daughter was betrothed to the Prince of Orange. On pretence of taking her to the country of her future husband, the Queen was already got safely away to Holland, there to pawn the Crown jewels for money to raise an army on the King’s side. The Lord Admiral being sick, the House of Commons now named the Earl of Warwick to hold his place for a year. The King named another gentleman; the House of Commons took its own way, and the Earl of Warwick became Lord Admiral without the King’s consent. The Parliament sent orders down to Hull to have that magazine removed to London; the King went down to Hull to take it himself. The citizens would not admit him into the town, and the governor would not admit him into the castle. The Parliament resolved that whatever the two Houses passed, and the King would not consent to, should be called an Ordinance, and should be as much a law as if he did consent to it. The King protested against this, and gave notice that these ordinances were not to be obeyed. The King, attended by the majority of the House of Peers, and by many members of the House of Commons, established himself at York. The Chancellor went to him with the Great Seal, and the Parliament made a new Great Seal. The Queen sent over a ship full of arms and ammunition, and the King issued letters to borrow money at high interest. The Parliament raised twenty regiments of foot and seventy-five troops of horse; and the people willingly aided them with their money, plate, jewellery, and trinkets—the married women even with their wedding-rings. Every member of Parliament who could raise a troop or a regiment in his own part of the country, dressed it according to his taste and in his own colours, and commanded it. Foremost among them all, Oliver Cromwell raised a troop of horse—thoroughly in earnest and thoroughly well armed—who were, perhaps, the best soldiers that ever were seen.

His young daughter was engaged to the Prince of Orange. Under the guise of taking her to her future husband's country, the Queen had successfully escaped to Holland, where she planned to pawn the Crown jewels for money to support an army for the King. With the Lord Admiral unwell, the House of Commons appointed the Earl of Warwick to fill his position for a year. The King suggested another candidate; however, the House of Commons went its own way, and the Earl of Warwick became Lord Admiral without the King’s approval. Parliament ordered the magazine in Hull to be moved to London, and the King traveled to Hull to retrieve it himself. The citizens refused to let him into the town, and the governor denied him access to the castle. Parliament decided that whatever both Houses passed, which the King did not agree to, would be called an Law and would hold the same weight as law as if he had consented to it. The King protested against this and announced that these ordinances were not to be followed. The King, supported by most of the House of Peers and many members of the House of Commons, established himself at York. The Chancellor brought him the Great Seal, while Parliament created a new Great Seal. The Queen sent a ship loaded with arms and ammunition, and the King issued letters to borrow money at high interest. Parliament raised twenty regiments of foot and seventy-five troops of horse, and people willingly contributed their money, silver, jewelry, and trinkets—married women even gave up their wedding rings. Every member of Parliament who could form a troop or regiment in their region dressed it according to their preference and colors, taking command. Among them, Oliver Cromwell raised a troop of horse—fully committed and well-armed—who were possibly the best soldiers ever seen.

In some of their proceedings, this famous Parliament passed the bounds of previous law and custom, yielded to and favoured riotous assemblages of the people, and acted tyrannically in imprisoning some who differed from the popular leaders. But again, you are always to remember that the twelve years during which the King had had his own wilful way, had gone before; and that nothing could make the times what they might, could, would, or should have been, if those twelve years had never rolled away.

In some of their actions, this famous Parliament went beyond previous laws and customs, supported and encouraged unruly gatherings of the people, and acted harshly by imprisoning some who disagreed with the popular leaders. But remember, the twelve years during which the King had his own way had come before; and nothing could change how things would have been if those twelve years had never passed.

THIRD PART

I shall not try to relate the particulars of the great civil war between King Charles the First and the Long Parliament, which lasted nearly four years, and a full account of which would fill many large books. It was a sad thing that Englishmen should once more be fighting against Englishmen on English ground; but, it is some consolation to know that on both sides there was great humanity, forbearance, and honour. The soldiers of the Parliament were far more remarkable for these good qualities than the soldiers of the King (many of whom fought for mere pay without much caring for the cause); but those of the nobility and gentry who were on the King’s side were so brave, and so faithful to him, that their conduct cannot but command our highest admiration. Among them were great numbers of Catholics, who took the royal side because the Queen was so strongly of their persuasion.

I won’t try to go into the details of the great civil war between King Charles the First and the Long Parliament, which lasted nearly four years, and explaining it fully would take many large books. It was tragic that Englishmen were once again fighting against each other on English soil; however, it’s somewhat reassuring to know that there was a lot of humanity, patience, and honor on both sides. The Parliament soldiers were much more noted for these positive qualities than the King's soldiers (many of whom fought just for pay without much concern for the cause); but the nobles and gentlemen fighting for the King were so brave and so loyal to him that their actions deserve our highest admiration. Among them were many Catholics who supported the royal side because the Queen strongly shared their beliefs.

The King might have distinguished some of these gallant spirits, if he had been as generous a spirit himself, by giving them the command of his army. Instead of that, however, true to his old high notions of royalty, he entrusted it to his two nephews, Prince Rupert and Prince Maurice, who were of royal blood and came over from abroad to help him. It might have been better for him if they had stayed away; since Prince Rupert was an impetuous, hot-headed fellow, whose only idea was to dash into battle at all times and seasons, and lay about him.

The King could have recognized some of these brave individuals, if he had been a little more generous, by putting them in charge of his army. Instead, sticking to his traditional views on royalty, he handed control to his two nephews, Prince Rupert and Prince Maurice, who were of royal lineage and came from abroad to assist him. It might have been better for him if they had stayed away; because Prince Rupert was impulsive and hot-headed, always eager to dive into battle at any moment and fight recklessly.

The general-in-chief of the Parliamentary army was the Earl of Essex, a gentleman of honour and an excellent soldier. A little while before the war broke out, there had been some rioting at Westminster between certain officious law students and noisy soldiers, and the shopkeepers and their apprentices, and the general people in the streets. At that time the King’s friends called the crowd, Roundheads, because the apprentices wore short hair; the crowd, in return, called their opponents Cavaliers, meaning that they were a blustering set, who pretended to be very military. These two words now began to be used to distinguish the two sides in the civil war. The Royalists also called the Parliamentary men Rebels and Rogues, while the Parliamentary men called them Malignants, and spoke of themselves as the Godly, the Honest, and so forth.

The commander of the Parliamentary army was the Earl of Essex, a man of honor and a skilled soldier. Not long before the war started, there had been some disturbances in Westminster involving some meddlesome law students and rowdy soldiers, along with shopkeepers and their apprentices, and regular people in the streets. At that time, the King’s supporters referred to the crowd as Roundheads because the apprentices had short hair; in return, the crowd labeled their opponents Cavaliers, suggesting they were a loud group pretending to be very military. These two terms began to be used to differentiate the two sides in the civil war. The Royalists also called the Parliamentary men Rebels and Rogues, while the Parliamentary men referred to them as Malignants and described themselves as the Godly, the Honest, and so on.

The war broke out at Portsmouth, where that double traitor Goring had again gone over to the King and was besieged by the Parliamentary troops. Upon this, the King proclaimed the Earl of Essex and the officers serving under him, traitors, and called upon his loyal subjects to meet him in arms at Nottingham on the twenty-fifth of August. But his loyal subjects came about him in scanty numbers, and it was a windy, gloomy day, and the Royal Standard got blown down, and the whole affair was very melancholy. The chief engagements after this, took place in the vale of the Red Horse near Banbury, at Brentford, at Devizes, at Chalgrave Field (where Mr. Hampden was so sorely wounded while fighting at the head of his men, that he died within a week), at Newbury (in which battle Lord Falkland, one of the best noblemen on the King’s side, was killed), at Leicester, at Naseby, at Winchester, at Marston Moor near York, at Newcastle, and in many other parts of England and Scotland. These battles were attended with various successes. At one time, the King was victorious; at another time, the Parliament. But almost all the great and busy towns were against the King; and when it was considered necessary to fortify London, all ranks of people, from labouring men and women, up to lords and ladies, worked hard together with heartiness and good will. The most distinguished leaders on the Parliamentary side were Hampden, Sir Thomas Fairfax, and, above all, Oliver Cromwell, and his son-in-law Ireton.

The war started in Portsmouth, where the double traitor Goring had switched sides to the King again and was surrounded by the Parliamentary troops. In response, the King declared the Earl of Essex and his officers traitors and called on his loyal subjects to join him at Nottingham on August twenty-fifth. However, his loyal supporters gathered in small numbers, and it was a windy, gloomy day, causing the Royal Standard to fall, making the whole situation very disheartening. The main battles after this occurred in the vale of the Red Horse near Banbury, at Brentford, at Devizes, at Chalgrave Field (where Mr. Hampden was severely wounded while leading his men and died within a week), at Newbury (during which battle Lord Falkland, one of the finest noblemen on the King’s side, was killed), at Leicester, at Naseby, at Winchester, at Marston Moor near York, at Newcastle, and in many other regions of England and Scotland. These battles had mixed outcomes. At times, the King won; at other times, the Parliament did. But nearly all the major cities were against the King; and when it became necessary to defend London, people from all walks of life, from workers to nobles, all pitched in together with enthusiasm and cooperation. The most prominent leaders on the Parliamentary side were Hampden, Sir Thomas Fairfax, and especially Oliver Cromwell, along with his son-in-law Ireton.

During the whole of this war, the people, to whom it was very expensive and irksome, and to whom it was made the more distressing by almost every family being divided—some of its members attaching themselves to one side and some to the other—were over and over again most anxious for peace. So were some of the best men in each cause. Accordingly, treaties of peace were discussed between commissioners from the Parliament and the King; at York, at Oxford (where the King held a little Parliament of his own), and at Uxbridge. But they came to nothing. In all these negotiations, and in all his difficulties, the King showed himself at his best. He was courageous, cool, self-possessed, and clever; but, the old taint of his character was always in him, and he was never for one single moment to be trusted. Lord Clarendon, the historian, one of his highest admirers, supposes that he had unhappily promised the Queen never to make peace without her consent, and that this must often be taken as his excuse. He never kept his word from night to morning. He signed a cessation of hostilities with the blood-stained Irish rebels for a sum of money, and invited the Irish regiments over, to help him against the Parliament. In the battle of Naseby, his cabinet was seized and was found to contain a correspondence with the Queen, in which he expressly told her that he had deceived the Parliament—a mongrel Parliament, he called it now, as an improvement on his old term of vipers—in pretending to recognise it and to treat with it; and from which it further appeared that he had long been in secret treaty with the Duke of Lorraine for a foreign army of ten thousand men. Disappointed in this, he sent a most devoted friend of his, the Earl of Glamorgan, to Ireland, to conclude a secret treaty with the Catholic powers, to send him an Irish army of ten thousand men; in return for which he was to bestow great favours on the Catholic religion. And, when this treaty was discovered in the carriage of a fighting Irish Archbishop who was killed in one of the many skirmishes of those days, he basely denied and deserted his attached friend, the Earl, on his being charged with high treason; and—even worse than this—had left blanks in the secret instructions he gave him with his own kingly hand, expressly that he might thus save himself.

During the entire war, the people found it very costly and frustrating, especially since nearly every family was divided—some members supporting one side and some the other. They were repeatedly anxious for peace. The same was true for some of the most respected individuals on both sides. Treaties of peace were discussed between commissioners from Parliament and the King in York, Oxford (where the King held a small Parliament of his own), and Uxbridge. However, none of these efforts led to anything meaningful. Throughout these negotiations and his various troubles, the King presented himself at his best. He was brave, calm, composed, and intelligent; yet, the old flaws in his character remained, and he was never fully trustworthy. Lord Clarendon, the historian and one of his greatest supporters, suggested that the King had unfortunately promised the Queen never to make peace without her approval, which often served as his excuse. He never stuck to his word from one night to the next. He signed a ceasefire with the bloody Irish rebels in exchange for money and invited the Irish regiments to help him against Parliament. During the battle of Naseby, his cabinet was captured, revealing a correspondence with the Queen where he openly admitted to deceiving Parliament—a "mongrel Parliament," as he now called it, a slight upgrade from his previous term, "vipers." It also showed that he had been secretly negotiating with the Duke of Lorraine for a foreign army of ten thousand men. When that fell through, he sent his close friend, the Earl of Glamorgan, to Ireland to finalize a secret deal with the Catholic powers for an Irish army of ten thousand men; in exchange, he promised to grant significant favors to the Catholic Church. When this treaty was discovered with the body of a fighting Irish Archbishop who died in one of the numerous skirmishes of that time, he cowardly denied and abandoned his loyal friend, the Earl, when he was accused of high treason; and—even worse—he left blanks in the secret instructions he personally gave him, specifically so he could protect himself.

At last, on the twenty-seventh day of April, one thousand six hundred and forty-six, the King found himself in the city of Oxford, so surrounded by the Parliamentary army who were closing in upon him on all sides that he felt that if he would escape he must delay no longer. So, that night, having altered the cut of his hair and beard, he was dressed up as a servant and put upon a horse with a cloak strapped behind him, and rode out of the town behind one of his own faithful followers, with a clergyman of that country who knew the road well, for a guide. He rode towards London as far as Harrow, and then altered his plans and resolved, it would seem, to go to the Scottish camp. The Scottish men had been invited over to help the Parliamentary army, and had a large force then in England. The King was so desperately intriguing in everything he did, that it is doubtful what he exactly meant by this step. He took it, anyhow, and delivered himself up to the Earl of Leven, the Scottish general-in-chief, who treated him as an honourable prisoner. Negotiations between the Parliament on the one hand and the Scottish authorities on the other, as to what should be done with him, lasted until the following February. Then, when the King had refused to the Parliament the concession of that old militia point for twenty years, and had refused to Scotland the recognition of its Solemn League and Covenant, Scotland got a handsome sum for its army and its help, and the King into the bargain. He was taken, by certain Parliamentary commissioners appointed to receive him, to one of his own houses, called Holmby House, near Althorpe, in Northamptonshire.

Finally, on April 27, 1646, the King found himself in the city of Oxford, so surrounded by the Parliamentary army closing in on him from all sides that he felt he had no time to waste if he wanted to escape. That night, after changing his hairstyle and beard, he disguised himself as a servant, strapped a cloak behind him, and rode out of town behind one of his loyal followers, accompanied by a local clergyman who knew the way. He rode toward London as far as Harrow, then changed his plans and decided, it seems, to head for the Scottish camp. The Scots had been invited to assist the Parliamentary army and had a large force in England at that time. The King was so desperate in his actions that it’s unclear what exactly he aimed to achieve with this decision. Nevertheless, he took that step and surrendered to the Earl of Leven, the Scottish general in charge, who treated him as an honorable prisoner. Negotiations between Parliament and the Scottish authorities regarding his fate lasted until the following February. Then, after the King rejected Parliament's demand for conceding the old militia issue for twenty years and refused Scotland's recognition of its Solemn League and Covenant, Scotland received a substantial payment for its army's assistance, and the King as a bonus. He was taken by certain Parliamentary commissioners assigned to receive him to one of his own estates, called Holmby House, near Althorpe in Northamptonshire.

While the Civil War was still in progress, John Pym died, and was buried with great honour in Westminster Abbey—not with greater honour than he deserved, for the liberties of Englishmen owe a mighty debt to Pym and Hampden. The war was but newly over when the Earl of Essex died, of an illness brought on by his having overheated himself in a stag hunt in Windsor Forest. He, too, was buried in Westminster Abbey, with great state. I wish it were not necessary to add that Archbishop Laud died upon the scaffold when the war was not yet done. His trial lasted in all nearly a year, and, it being doubtful even then whether the charges brought against him amounted to treason, the odious old contrivance of the worst kings was resorted to, and a bill of attainder was brought in against him. He was a violently prejudiced and mischievous person; had had strong ear-cropping and nose-splitting propensities, as you know; and had done a world of harm. But he died peaceably, and like a brave old man.

While the Civil War was still ongoing, John Pym died and was buried with great honor in Westminster Abbey—not more honor than he deserved, as the freedoms of Englishmen owe a significant debt to Pym and Hampden. The war had only just ended when the Earl of Essex died from an illness caused by overheating himself during a stag hunt in Windsor Forest. He, too, was buried in Westminster Abbey with great ceremony. I regret to add that Archbishop Laud was executed on the scaffold while the war was still happening. His trial lasted nearly a year, and it was uncertain even then whether the charges against him amounted to treason. The despicable old tactic used by the worst kings was brought into play, and a bill of attainder was introduced against him. He was an extremely biased and troublesome individual; he had a strong inclination towards ear cropping and nose splitting, as you know, and had caused a lot of harm. But he died peacefully, like a brave old man.

FOURTH PART

When the Parliament had got the King into their hands, they became very anxious to get rid of their army, in which Oliver Cromwell had begun to acquire great power; not only because of his courage and high abilities, but because he professed to be very sincere in the Scottish sort of Puritan religion that was then exceedingly popular among the soldiers. They were as much opposed to the Bishops as to the Pope himself; and the very privates, drummers, and trumpeters, had such an inconvenient habit of starting up and preaching long-winded discourses, that I would not have belonged to that army on any account.

When Parliament had secured control of the King, they became eager to disband their army, where Oliver Cromwell was gaining significant influence; not just because of his bravery and skills, but also because he was very devoted to the Scottish-style Puritan faith that was incredibly popular among the soldiers at that time. They were as opposed to the Bishops as they were to the Pope himself; and even the common soldiers, drummers, and trumpeters had this annoying tendency to stand up and deliver long-winded sermons, which meant I wouldn’t have joined that army for anything.

So, the Parliament, being far from sure but that the army might begin to preach and fight against them now it had nothing else to do, proposed to disband the greater part of it, to send another part to serve in Ireland against the rebels, and to keep only a small force in England. But, the army would not consent to be broken up, except upon its own conditions; and, when the Parliament showed an intention of compelling it, it acted for itself in an unexpected manner. A certain cornet, of the name of Joice, arrived at Holmby House one night, attended by four hundred horsemen, went into the King’s room with his hat in one hand and a pistol in the other, and told the King that he had come to take him away. The King was willing enough to go, and only stipulated that he should be publicly required to do so next morning. Next morning, accordingly, he appeared on the top of the steps of the house, and asked Comet Joice before his men and the guard set there by the Parliament, what authority he had for taking him away? To this Cornet Joice replied, ‘The authority of the army.’ ‘Have you a written commission?’ said the King. Joice, pointing to his four hundred men on horseback, replied, ‘That is my commission.’ ‘Well,’ said the King, smiling, as if he were pleased, ‘I never before read such a commission; but it is written in fair and legible characters. This is a company of as handsome proper gentlemen as I have seen a long while.’ He was asked where he would like to live, and he said at Newmarket. So, to Newmarket he and Cornet Joice and the four hundred horsemen rode; the King remarking, in the same smiling way, that he could ride as far at a spell as Cornet Joice, or any man there.

So, the Parliament, uncertain about whether the army might start preaching and fighting against them now that they had nothing else to do, proposed to disband most of it, send a portion to serve in Ireland against the rebels, and keep only a small force in England. However, the army refused to be broken up, unless it was on its own terms; and when the Parliament indicated they might force this, the army responded unexpectedly. One night, a cornet named Joy arrived at Holmby House with four hundred horsemen. He entered the King’s room with his hat in one hand and a pistol in the other, telling the King that he was there to take him away. The King was ready to go, only insisting that he be publicly asked to do so the next morning. So, the next morning, he appeared at the top of the steps of the house and asked Cornet Joice, in front of his men and the guard placed there by Parliament, what authority he had for taking him away. Cornet Joice replied, “The authority of the army.” The King asked, “Do you have a written commission?” Joice pointed to his four hundred men on horseback and said, “That is my commission.” The King smiled, as if amused, and said, “I’ve never read such a commission before; but it’s written in clear and legible characters. This is a group of fine gentlemen as handsome as I’ve seen in a long time.” When asked where he would like to stay, he said Newmarket. So, to Newmarket he rode with Cornet Joice and the four hundred horsemen, the King noting, with the same smile, that he could ride just as far as Cornet Joice or anyone else there.

The King quite believed, I think, that the army were his friends. He said as much to Fairfax when that general, Oliver Cromwell, and Ireton, went to persuade him to return to the custody of the Parliament. He preferred to remain as he was, and resolved to remain as he was. And when the army moved nearer and nearer London to frighten the Parliament into yielding to their demands, they took the King with them. It was a deplorable thing that England should be at the mercy of a great body of soldiers with arms in their hands; but the King certainly favoured them at this important time of his life, as compared with the more lawful power that tried to control him. It must be added, however, that they treated him, as yet, more respectfully and kindly than the Parliament had done. They allowed him to be attended by his own servants, to be splendidly entertained at various houses, and to see his children—at Cavesham House, near Reading—for two days. Whereas, the Parliament had been rather hard with him, and had only allowed him to ride out and play at bowls.

The King truly believed, I think, that the army were his allies. He mentioned this to Fairfax when that general, Oliver Cromwell, and Ireton came to convince him to return to Parliament's custody. He preferred to stay as he was and was determined to do so. As the army got closer to London to pressure Parliament into giving in to their demands, they took the King along with them. It was a sad situation that England was at the mercy of a large group of armed soldiers; however, at this crucial point in his life, the King certainly favored them over the more lawful authority trying to control him. It should be noted, though, that they treated him, so far, with more respect and kindness than Parliament had. They let him have his own servants, enjoy lavish hospitality at various homes, and spend two days with his children at Cavesham House, near Reading. In contrast, Parliament had been rather harsh with him, only allowing him to ride out and play bowls.

It is much to be believed that if the King could have been trusted, even at this time, he might have been saved. Even Oliver Cromwell expressly said that he did believe that no man could enjoy his possessions in peace, unless the King had his rights. He was not unfriendly towards the King; he had been present when he received his children, and had been much affected by the pitiable nature of the scene; he saw the King often; he frequently walked and talked with him in the long galleries and pleasant gardens of the Palace at Hampton Court, whither he was now removed; and in all this risked something of his influence with the army. But, the King was in secret hopes of help from the Scottish people; and the moment he was encouraged to join them he began to be cool to his new friends, the army, and to tell the officers that they could not possibly do without him. At the very time, too, when he was promising to make Cromwell and Ireton noblemen, if they would help him up to his old height, he was writing to the Queen that he meant to hang them. They both afterwards declared that they had been privately informed that such a letter would be found, on a certain evening, sewed up in a saddle which would be taken to the Blue Boar in Holborn to be sent to Dover; and that they went there, disguised as common soldiers, and sat drinking in the inn-yard until a man came with the saddle, which they ripped up with their knives, and therein found the letter. I see little reason to doubt the story. It is certain that Oliver Cromwell told one of the King’s most faithful followers that the King could not be trusted, and that he would not be answerable if anything amiss were to happen to him. Still, even after that, he kept a promise he had made to the King, by letting him know that there was a plot with a certain portion of the army to seize him. I believe that, in fact, he sincerely wanted the King to escape abroad, and so to be got rid of without more trouble or danger. That Oliver himself had work enough with the army is pretty plain; for some of the troops were so mutinous against him, and against those who acted with him at this time, that he found it necessary to have one man shot at the head of his regiment to overawe the rest.

It’s widely believed that if the King could have been trusted, even at this moment, he might have been saved. Even Oliver Cromwell said he believed that no one could enjoy their possessions in peace unless the King had his rights. He wasn’t unfriendly towards the King; he had been present when he received his children and was deeply moved by the tragic nature of the scene. He saw the King often and frequently walked and talked with him in the long galleries and beautiful gardens of the Palace at Hampton Court, where he had been moved. In doing so, he risked some of his influence with the army. However, the King secretly hoped for help from the Scottish people; as soon as he was encouraged to join them, he began to distance himself from his new allies, the army, and told the officers that they couldn’t possibly do without him. At the very same time he was promising to make Cromwell and Ireton noblemen if they helped him regain his former power, he was writing to the Queen that he intended to hang them. Both later claimed they had been privately informed that such a letter would be found, on a certain evening, sewn into a saddle that was to be taken to the Blue Boar in Holborn to be sent to Dover. They went there dressed as common soldiers and sat drinking in the inn yard until a man arrived with the saddle, which they then ripped open with their knives, finding the letter inside. I have little reason to doubt this story. It’s certain that Oliver Cromwell told one of the King’s most loyal followers that the King couldn’t be trusted and that he wouldn’t be responsible if anything went wrong with him. Still, even after that, he kept a promise made to the King by informing him about a plot involving a certain part of the army to seize him. I believe that, in fact, he truly wanted the King to escape abroad, thus getting rid of him without further trouble or danger. It’s pretty clear that Oliver had enough on his plate with the army; some of the troops were so rebellious against him and those who sided with him at this time that he felt it necessary to have one man shot at the head of his regiment to intimidate the others.

The King, when he received Oliver’s warning, made his escape from Hampton Court; after some indecision and uncertainty, he went to Carisbrooke Castle in the Isle of Wight. At first, he was pretty free there; but, even there, he carried on a pretended treaty with the Parliament, while he was really treating with commissioners from Scotland to send an army into England to take his part. When he broke off this treaty with the Parliament (having settled with Scotland) and was treated as a prisoner, his treatment was not changed too soon, for he had plotted to escape that very night to a ship sent by the Queen, which was lying off the island.

The King, after getting Oliver’s warning, escaped from Hampton Court; after some hesitation and uncertainty, he went to Carisbrooke Castle on the Isle of Wight. At first, he had a fair amount of freedom there; but even then, he pretended to negotiate with Parliament while secretly dealing with commissioners from Scotland to send an army into England to support him. When he ended his negotiations with Parliament (having come to an agreement with Scotland) and was treated like a prisoner, his treatment didn't change immediately, because he had planned to escape that very night to a ship sent by the Queen that was anchored off the island.

He was doomed to be disappointed in his hopes from Scotland. The agreement he had made with the Scottish Commissioners was not favourable enough to the religion of that country to please the Scottish clergy; and they preached against it. The consequence was, that the army raised in Scotland and sent over, was too small to do much; and that, although it was helped by a rising of the Royalists in England and by good soldiers from Ireland, it could make no head against the Parliamentary army under such men as Cromwell and Fairfax. The King’s eldest son, the Prince of Wales, came over from Holland with nineteen ships (a part of the English fleet having gone over to him) to help his father; but nothing came of his voyage, and he was fain to return. The most remarkable event of this second civil war was the cruel execution by the Parliamentary General, of Sir Charles Lucas and Sir George Lisle, two grand Royalist generals, who had bravely defended Colchester under every disadvantage of famine and distress for nearly three months. When Sir Charles Lucas was shot, Sir George Lisle kissed his body, and said to the soldiers who were to shoot him, ‘Come nearer, and make sure of me.’ ‘I warrant you, Sir George,’ said one of the soldiers, ‘we shall hit you.’ ‘Ay?’ he returned with a smile, ‘but I have been nearer to you, my friends, many a time, and you have missed me.’

He was bound to be let down by his hopes from Scotland. The agreement he made with the Scottish Commissioners wasn't favorable enough to satisfy the clergy in that country, and they spoke out against it. As a result, the army raised in Scotland and sent over was too small to accomplish much; and even though it was bolstered by a Royalist uprising in England and some good soldiers from Ireland, it couldn’t stand up to the Parliamentary army led by Cromwell and Fairfax. The King’s eldest son, the Prince of Wales, came over from Holland with nineteen ships (some of the English fleet had joined him) to support his father; but nothing came from his trip, and he had to go back. The most notable event of this second civil war was the brutal execution ordered by the Parliamentary General of Sir Charles Lucas and Sir George Lisle, two prominent Royalist generals who had valiantly defended Colchester through almost three months of famine and hardship. When Sir Charles Lucas was shot, Sir George Lisle kissed his body and said to the soldiers who were supposed to shoot him, “Come closer, and make sure you get me.” “I promise you, Sir George,” one of the soldiers replied, “we won't miss.” “Oh?” he said with a smile, “but I’ve been closer to you, my friends, many times before, and you’ve missed me.”

The Parliament, after being fearfully bullied by the army—who demanded to have seven members whom they disliked given up to them—had voted that they would have nothing more to do with the King. On the conclusion, however, of this second civil war (which did not last more than six months), they appointed commissioners to treat with him. The King, then so far released again as to be allowed to live in a private house at Newport in the Isle of Wight, managed his own part of the negotiation with a sense that was admired by all who saw him, and gave up, in the end, all that was asked of him—even yielding (which he had steadily refused, so far) to the temporary abolition of the bishops, and the transfer of their church land to the Crown. Still, with his old fatal vice upon him, when his best friends joined the commissioners in beseeching him to yield all those points as the only means of saving himself from the army, he was plotting to escape from the island; he was holding correspondence with his friends and the Catholics in Ireland, though declaring that he was not; and he was writing, with his own hand, that in what he yielded he meant nothing but to get time to escape.

The Parliament, after being harshly pressured by the army—who demanded to have seven members they disliked handed over—voted that they wanted nothing more to do with the King. However, after this second civil war (which lasted no more than six months), they appointed commissioners to negotiate with him. The King, then allowed to stay in a private house in Newport on the Isle of Wight, conducted his part of the negotiations with a sense of purpose that was admired by everyone who witnessed it, ultimately agreeing to all that was asked of him—even conceding (which he had firmly rejected until then) to the temporary abolition of bishops and the transfer of their church lands to the Crown. Still, with his usual destructive habit, when his closest friends urged him to compromise on those points as the only way to save himself from the army, he was secretly planning to escape the island; he was maintaining correspondence with his allies and Catholics in Ireland, despite claiming otherwise; and he was writing, in his own hand, that his concessions were merely a way to buy time for his escape.

Matters were at this pass when the army, resolved to defy the Parliament, marched up to London. The Parliament, not afraid of them now, and boldly led by Hollis, voted that the King’s concessions were sufficient ground for settling the peace of the kingdom. Upon that, Colonel Rich and Colonel Pride went down to the House of Commons with a regiment of horse soldiers and a regiment of foot; and Colonel Pride, standing in the lobby with a list of the members who were obnoxious to the army in his hand, had them pointed out to him as they came through, and took them all into custody. This proceeding was afterwards called by the people, for a joke, Pride’s Purge. Cromwell was in the North, at the head of his men, at the time, but when he came home, approved of what had been done.

Things had reached this point when the army, determined to challenge Parliament, marched to London. Parliament, no longer intimidated and boldly led by Hollis, voted that the King’s concessions were enough to establish peace in the kingdom. Following that, Colonel Rich and Colonel Pride went to the House of Commons with a regiment of cavalry and a regiment of infantry; Colonel Pride, standing in the lobby with a list of members the army wanted to target, had them pointed out to him as they arrived and took them all into custody. This action was later humorously referred to by the public as Pride's Purge. Cromwell was in the North, leading his troops at the time, but when he returned, he endorsed what had happened.

What with imprisoning some members and causing others to stay away, the army had now reduced the House of Commons to some fifty or so. These soon voted that it was treason in a king to make war against his parliament and his people, and sent an ordinance up to the House of Lords for the King’s being tried as a traitor. The House of Lords, then sixteen in number, to a man rejected it. Thereupon, the Commons made an ordinance of their own, that they were the supreme government of the country, and would bring the King to trial.

With some members imprisoned and others staying away, the army had now reduced the House of Commons to about fifty members. They quickly voted that it was treason for a king to wage war against his parliament and his people, and sent a proposal to the House of Lords for the King to be tried as a traitor. The House of Lords, which had only sixteen members at the time, unanimously rejected it. In response, the Commons created their own proposal, declaring themselves the supreme government of the country and stating they would put the King on trial.

The King had been taken for security to a place called Hurst Castle: a lonely house on a rock in the sea, connected with the coast of Hampshire by a rough road two miles long at low water. Thence, he was ordered to be removed to Windsor; thence, after being but rudely used there, and having none but soldiers to wait upon him at table, he was brought up to St. James’s Palace in London, and told that his trial was appointed for next day.

The King had been taken for safety to a place called Hurst Castle: a remote house on a rock in the sea, linked to the shore of Hampshire by a rough two-mile road at low tide. From there, he was ordered to be moved to Windsor; after being treated poorly there and having only soldiers to serve him at the table, he was taken to St. James’s Palace in London and informed that his trial was scheduled for the next day.

On Saturday, the twentieth of January, one thousand six hundred and forty-nine, this memorable trial began. The House of Commons had settled that one hundred and thirty-five persons should form the Court, and these were taken from the House itself, from among the officers of the army, and from among the lawyers and citizens. John Bradshaw, serjeant-at-law, was appointed president. The place was Westminster Hall. At the upper end, in a red velvet chair, sat the president, with his hat (lined with plates of iron for his protection) on his head. The rest of the Court sat on side benches, also wearing their hats. The King’s seat was covered with velvet, like that of the president, and was opposite to it. He was brought from St. James’s to Whitehall, and from Whitehall he came by water to his trial.

On Saturday, January 20, 1649, this significant trial began. The House of Commons decided that 135 people would make up the Court, chosen from its own members, army officers, lawyers, and citizens. John Bradshaw, a serjeant-at-law, was appointed as the president. The location was Westminster Hall. At the front, in a red velvet chair, sat the president, wearing a hat (lined with iron plates for protection) on his head. The rest of the Court sat on side benches, also wearing their hats. The King's seat was covered in velvet, similar to the president's, and faced his chair. He was taken from St. James's to Whitehall and then transported by water to his trial.

When he came in, he looked round very steadily on the Court, and on the great number of spectators, and then sat down: presently he got up and looked round again. On the indictment ‘against Charles Stuart, for high treason,’ being read, he smiled several times, and he denied the authority of the Court, saying that there could be no parliament without a House of Lords, and that he saw no House of Lords there. Also, that the King ought to be there, and that he saw no King in the King’s right place. Bradshaw replied, that the Court was satisfied with its authority, and that its authority was God’s authority and the kingdom’s. He then adjourned the Court to the following Monday. On that day, the trial was resumed, and went on all the week. When the Saturday came, as the King passed forward to his place in the Hall, some soldiers and others cried for ‘justice!’ and execution on him. That day, too, Bradshaw, like an angry Sultan, wore a red robe, instead of the black robe he had worn before. The King was sentenced to death that day. As he went out, one solitary soldier said, ‘God bless you, Sir!’ For this, his officer struck him. The King said he thought the punishment exceeded the offence. The silver head of his walking-stick had fallen off while he leaned upon it, at one time of the trial. The accident seemed to disturb him, as if he thought it ominous of the falling of his own head; and he admitted as much, now it was all over.

When he came in, he looked around steadily at the Court and the large crowd of spectators, then sat down. After a moment, he got up and looked around again. When the indictment "against Charles Stuart, for high treason" was read, he smiled several times and challenged the authority of the Court, saying there couldn't be a Parliament without a House of Lords, and he didn't see one there. He also pointed out that the King should be present, and he saw no King in the appropriate place. Bradshaw replied that the Court was confident in its authority, claiming it was backed by God and the kingdom. He then adjourned the Court until the following Monday. On that day, the trial resumed and continued through the week. When Saturday arrived, as the King made his way to his spot in the Hall, some soldiers and others shouted for "justice!" and called for his execution. That day, Bradshaw, looking like an angry Sultan, wore a red robe instead of the black one he had previously worn. The King was sentenced to death that day. As he left, one lonely soldier said, "God bless you, Sir!" For this, his officer hit him. The King remarked that he thought the punishment was harsher than the offense. The silver head of his walking stick had fallen off while he leaned on it during the trial, and this seemed to trouble him, as he felt it signified the impending fall of his own head; he admitted as much now that it was all over.

Being taken back to Whitehall, he sent to the House of Commons, saying that as the time of his execution might be nigh, he wished he might be allowed to see his darling children. It was granted. On the Monday he was taken back to St. James’s; and his two children then in England, the Princess Elizabeth thirteen years old, and the Duke Of Gloucester nine years old, were brought to take leave of him, from Sion House, near Brentford. It was a sad and touching scene, when he kissed and fondled those poor children, and made a little present of two diamond seals to the Princess, and gave them tender messages to their mother (who little deserved them, for she had a lover of her own whom she married soon afterwards), and told them that he died ‘for the laws and liberties of the land.’ I am bound to say that I don’t think he did, but I dare say he believed so.

Being taken back to Whitehall, he sent a message to the House of Commons, stating that since his execution might be soon, he wanted to see his beloved children. His request was granted. On Monday, he was taken back to St. James's, where his two children in England, Princess Elizabeth, aged thirteen, and the Duke of Gloucester, aged nine, were brought to say goodbye to him from Sion House, near Brentford. It was a sad and emotional scene as he kissed and cuddled those poor children, gave the Princess a small gift of two diamond seals, sent them heartfelt messages for their mother (who didn’t deserve them, as she married her own lover shortly after), and told them that he died "for the laws and liberties of the land." I have to say that I don’t believe he did, but I imagine he thought so.

There were ambassadors from Holland that day, to intercede for the unhappy King, whom you and I both wish the Parliament had spared; but they got no answer. The Scottish Commissioners interceded too; so did the Prince of Wales, by a letter in which he offered as the next heir to the throne, to accept any conditions from the Parliament; so did the Queen, by letter likewise.

There were ambassadors from Holland that day, trying to advocate for the unfortunate King, whom you and I both wish the Parliament had shown mercy to; but they received no response. The Scottish Commissioners also intervened; the Prince of Wales did too, in a letter where he offered, as the next heir to the throne, to agree to any terms from the Parliament; the Queen also sent a letter.

Notwithstanding all, the warrant for the execution was this day signed. There is a story that as Oliver Cromwell went to the table with the pen in his hand to put his signature to it, he drew his pen across the face of one of the commissioners, who was standing near, and marked it with ink. That commissioner had not signed his own name yet, and the story adds that when he came to do it he marked Cromwell’s face with ink in the same way.

Notwithstanding everything, the order for the execution was signed today. There's a story that as Oliver Cromwell approached the table with a pen to sign it, he accidentally drew his pen across the face of one of the commissioners standing nearby, marking it with ink. That commissioner hadn’t signed his own name yet, and the story goes that when he finally did, he marked Cromwell’s face with ink in the same way.

The King slept well, untroubled by the knowledge that it was his last night on earth, and rose on the thirtieth of January, two hours before day, and dressed himself carefully. He put on two shirts lest he should tremble with the cold, and had his hair very carefully combed. The warrant had been directed to three officers of the army, Colonel Hacker, Colonel Hunks, and Colonel Phayer. At ten o’clock, the first of these came to the door and said it was time to go to Whitehall. The King, who had always been a quick walker, walked at his usual speed through the Park, and called out to the guard, with his accustomed voice of command, ‘March on apace!’ When he came to Whitehall, he was taken to his own bedroom, where a breakfast was set forth. As he had taken the Sacrament, he would eat nothing more; but, at about the time when the church bells struck twelve at noon (for he had to wait, through the scaffold not being ready), he took the advice of the good Bishop Juxon who was with him, and ate a little bread and drank a glass of claret. Soon after he had taken this refreshment, Colonel Hacker came to the chamber with the warrant in his hand, and called for Charles Stuart.

The King slept soundly, unaware that it was his last night on earth, and woke up on January 30th, two hours before dawn, and got dressed carefully. He wore two shirts to avoid shivering from the cold, and his hair was styled meticulously. The warrant had been addressed to three army officers, Colonel Hacker, Colonel Hunks, and Colonel Phayer. At ten o’clock, the first of them arrived at the door and said it was time to go to Whitehall. The King, who had always walked briskly, maintained his usual pace through the park and called out to the guard in his familiar commanding voice, “March on apace!” Upon arriving at Whitehall, he was led to his bedroom, where breakfast was laid out. Since he had taken the Sacrament, he wasn’t going to eat anything else; however, around the time when the church bells rang noon (as he had to wait for the scaffold to be ready), he heeded the advice of the good Bishop Juxon, who was with him, and had a little bread and a glass of claret. Shortly after enjoying this refreshment, Colonel Hacker entered the room with the warrant in hand and called for Charles Stuart.

And then, through the long gallery of Whitehall Palace, which he had often seen light and gay and merry and crowded, in very different times, the fallen King passed along, until he came to the centre window of the Banqueting House, through which he emerged upon the scaffold, which was hung with black. He looked at the two executioners, who were dressed in black and masked; he looked at the troops of soldiers on horseback and on foot, and all looked up at him in silence; he looked at the vast array of spectators, filling up the view beyond, and turning all their faces upon him; he looked at his old Palace of St. James’s; and he looked at the block. He seemed a little troubled to find that it was so low, and asked, ‘if there were no place higher?’ Then, to those upon the scaffold, he said, ‘that it was the Parliament who had begun the war, and not he; but he hoped they might be guiltless too, as ill instruments had gone between them. In one respect,’ he said, ‘he suffered justly; and that was because he had permitted an unjust sentence to be executed on another.’ In this he referred to the Earl of Strafford.

And then, through the long gallery of Whitehall Palace, which he had often seen bright, cheerful, and crowded during very different times, the fallen King walked until he reached the center window of the Banqueting House. There, he stepped out onto the scaffold, which was draped in black. He glanced at the two executioners, who were dressed in black and wearing masks; he looked at the troops of soldiers on horseback and on foot, all of whom stared at him in silence; he took in the vast crowd of spectators filling the view beyond, all turning their faces towards him; he looked at his old Palace of St. James’s; and he looked at the block. He seemed a bit troubled to see how low it was and asked, ‘Is there no higher place?’ Then, to those on the scaffold, he stated that it was Parliament who had started the war, not him; but he hoped they would be innocent too, as ill instruments had come between them. ‘In one way,’ he said, ‘I suffer justly; and that is because I allowed an unjust sentence to be carried out on someone else.’ In this, he referred to the Earl of Strafford.

He was not at all afraid to die; but he was anxious to die easily. When some one touched the axe while he was speaking, he broke off and called out, ‘Take heed of the axe! take heed of the axe!’ He also said to Colonel Hacker, ‘Take care that they do not put me to pain.’ He told the executioner, ‘I shall say but very short prayers, and then thrust out my hands’—as the sign to strike.

He wasn't afraid to die at all; he just wanted to make sure it was quick and easy. When someone touched the axe while he was talking, he paused and shouted, "Watch out for the axe! Watch out for the axe!" He also told Colonel Hacker, "Make sure they don't make me suffer." To the executioner, he said, "I'll only say a few quick prayers, and then I'll extend my hands"—as the signal to strike.

He put his hair up, under a white satin cap which the bishop had carried, and said, ‘I have a good cause and a gracious God on my side.’ The bishop told him that he had but one stage more to travel in this weary world, and that, though it was a turbulent and troublesome stage, it was a short one, and would carry him a great way—all the way from earth to Heaven. The King’s last word, as he gave his cloak and the George—the decoration from his breast—to the bishop, was, ‘Remember!’ He then kneeled down, laid his head on the block, spread out his hands, and was instantly killed. One universal groan broke from the crowd; and the soldiers, who had sat on their horses and stood in their ranks immovable as statues, were of a sudden all in motion, clearing the streets.

He put his hair up under a white satin cap that the bishop had brought and said, “I have a good cause and a gracious God on my side.” The bishop told him that he only had one last journey to make in this weary world, and although it was a difficult and challenging journey, it was a short one that would take him all the way from earth to Heaven. The King’s final words, as he handed his cloak and the George—the decoration from his chest—to the bishop, were, “Remember!” He then knelt down, rested his head on the block, spread out his hands, and was instantly killed. A collective groan rose from the crowd, and the soldiers, who had been sitting on their horses and standing in their ranks like statues, suddenly sprang into action, clearing the streets.

Thus, in the forty-ninth year of his age, falling at the same time of his career as Strafford had fallen in his, perished Charles the First. With all my sorrow for him, I cannot agree with him that he died ‘the martyr of the people;’ for the people had been martyrs to him, and to his ideas of a King’s rights, long before. Indeed, I am afraid that he was but a bad judge of martyrs; for he had called that infamous Duke of Buckingham ‘the Martyr of his Sovereign.’

Thus, in the forty-ninth year of his life, at the same point in his career where Strafford had fallen, Charles the First met his demise. I feel sorrow for him, but I can't agree with his claim that he died 'the martyr of the people;' because the people had been martyrs to him and his views on a king's rights long before. In fact, I'm afraid he was not a good judge of martyrs; he had referred to that notorious Duke of Buckingham as 'the Martyr of his Sovereign.'

CHAPTER XXXIV—ENGLAND UNDER OLIVER CROMWELL

Before sunset on the memorable day on which King Charles the First was executed, the House of Commons passed an act declaring it treason in any one to proclaim the Prince of Wales—or anybody else—King of England. Soon afterwards, it declared that the House of Lords was useless and dangerous, and ought to be abolished; and directed that the late King’s statue should be taken down from the Royal Exchange in the City and other public places. Having laid hold of some famous Royalists who had escaped from prison, and having beheaded the Duke Of Hamilton, Lord Holland, and Lord Capel, in Palace Yard (all of whom died very courageously), they then appointed a Council of State to govern the country. It consisted of forty-one members, of whom five were peers. Bradshaw was made president. The House of Commons also re-admitted members who had opposed the King’s death, and made up its numbers to about a hundred and fifty.

Before sunset on the significant day when King Charles the First was executed, the House of Commons passed a law stating that it was treason for anyone to declare the Prince of Wales—or anyone else—as King of England. Soon after, it announced that the House of Lords was ineffective and a threat, and should be abolished; it also ordered the removal of the late King’s statue from the Royal Exchange in the City and other public spaces. After capturing some notable Royalists who had escaped from prison, and beheading the Duke of Hamilton, Lord Holland, and Lord Capulet in Palace Yard (all of whom faced their deaths with great bravery), they established a Council of State to run the country. This council had forty-one members, five of whom were peers. Bradshaw was appointed president. The House of Commons also readmitted members who had opposed the King’s execution, increasing its membership to about one hundred and fifty.

But, it still had an army of more than forty thousand men to deal with, and a very hard task it was to manage them. Before the King’s execution, the army had appointed some of its officers to remonstrate between them and the Parliament; and now the common soldiers began to take that office upon themselves. The regiments under orders for Ireland mutinied; one troop of horse in the city of London seized their own flag, and refused to obey orders. For this, the ringleader was shot: which did not mend the matter, for, both his comrades and the people made a public funeral for him, and accompanied the body to the grave with sound of trumpets and with a gloomy procession of persons carrying bundles of rosemary steeped in blood. Oliver was the only man to deal with such difficulties as these, and he soon cut them short by bursting at midnight into the town of Burford, near Salisbury, where the mutineers were sheltered, taking four hundred of them prisoners, and shooting a number of them by sentence of court-martial. The soldiers soon found, as all men did, that Oliver was not a man to be trifled with. And there was an end of the mutiny.

But it still had an army of over forty thousand men to manage, and it was a tough job. Before the King’s execution, the army had chosen some officers to negotiate between them and Parliament; now the common soldiers were starting to take that role themselves. The regiments assigned to go to Ireland mutinied; one troop of cavalry in London took their own flag and refused to follow orders. The leader of this uprising was shot, which didn’t help matters, as both his fellow soldiers and the people organized a public funeral for him, accompanying the body to the grave with trumpet sounds and a somber procession of people carrying bundles of rosemary soaked in blood. Oliver was the only one capable of handling such challenges, and he quickly put an end to them by storming into the town of Burford, near Salisbury, at midnight, where the mutineers were hiding, capturing four hundred of them, and executing several by court-martial. The soldiers soon realized, like everyone else, that Oliver was not someone to mess with. And that was the end of the mutiny.

The Scottish Parliament did not know Oliver yet; so, on hearing of the King’s execution, it proclaimed the Prince of Wales King Charles the Second, on condition of his respecting the Solemn League and Covenant. Charles was abroad at that time, and so was Montrose, from whose help he had hopes enough to keep him holding on and off with commissioners from Scotland, just as his father might have done. These hopes were soon at an end; for, Montrose, having raised a few hundred exiles in Germany, and landed with them in Scotland, found that the people there, instead of joining him, deserted the country at his approach. He was soon taken prisoner and carried to Edinburgh. There he was received with every possible insult, and carried to prison in a cart, his officers going two and two before him. He was sentenced by the Parliament to be hanged on a gallows thirty feet high, to have his head set on a spike in Edinburgh, and his limbs distributed in other places, according to the old barbarous manner. He said he had always acted under the Royal orders, and only wished he had limbs enough to be distributed through Christendom, that it might be the more widely known how loyal he had been. He went to the scaffold in a bright and brilliant dress, and made a bold end at thirty-eight years of age. The breath was scarcely out of his body when Charles abandoned his memory, and denied that he had ever given him orders to rise in his behalf. O the family failing was strong in that Charles then!

The Scottish Parliament didn’t know Oliver yet; so, upon hearing about the King’s execution, it announced the Prince of Wales as King Charles the Second, provided that he respected the Solemn League and Covenant. Charles was overseas at the time, and so was Montrose, who he hoped would help him keep negotiating with commissioners from Scotland, just like his father might have done. Those hopes quickly disappeared; Montrose, having gathered a few hundred exiles in Germany and landed with them in Scotland, found that instead of joining him, the locals fled as he approached. He was soon captured and taken to Edinburgh. There, he was met with every possible insult and transported to prison in a cart, while his officers walked two by two in front of him. The Parliament sentenced him to be hanged on a thirty-foot gallows, have his head displayed on a spike in Edinburgh, and his limbs distributed to various places in the old brutal way. He claimed he had always acted under Royal orders and wished he had enough limbs to be spread across Christendom, so it would be more widely known how loyal he had been. He walked to the scaffold dressed brightly and boldly met his end at thirty-eight years old. Hardly had his breath left his body when Charles turned his back on him and denied ever giving Montrose orders to rise in his support. Oh, that family flaw was strong in Charles then!

Oliver had been appointed by the Parliament to command the army in Ireland, where he took a terrible vengeance for the sanguinary rebellion, and made tremendous havoc, particularly in the siege of Drogheda, where no quarter was given, and where he found at least a thousand of the inhabitants shut up together in the great church: every one of whom was killed by his soldiers, usually known as Oliver’s Ironsides. There were numbers of friars and priests among them, and Oliver gruffly wrote home in his despatch that these were ‘knocked on the head’ like the rest.

Oliver was appointed by Parliament to lead the army in Ireland, where he took brutal revenge for the bloody rebellion and caused massive destruction, especially during the siege of Drogheda, where no mercy was shown. He found at least a thousand inhabitants trapped in the large church, and every single one of them was killed by his soldiers, usually referred to as Oliver's Ironsides. Among them were many friars and priests, and Oliver bluntly wrote home in his report that these individuals were ‘knocked on the head’ just like everyone else.

But, Charles having got over to Scotland where the men of the Solemn League and Covenant led him a prodigiously dull life and made him very weary with long sermons and grim Sundays, the Parliament called the redoubtable Oliver home to knock the Scottish men on the head for setting up that Prince. Oliver left his son-in-law, Ireton, as general in Ireland in his stead (he died there afterwards), and he imitated the example of his father-in-law with such good will that he brought the country to subjection, and laid it at the feet of the Parliament. In the end, they passed an act for the settlement of Ireland, generally pardoning all the common people, but exempting from this grace such of the wealthier sort as had been concerned in the rebellion, or in any killing of Protestants, or who refused to lay down their arms. Great numbers of Irish were got out of the country to serve under Catholic powers abroad, and a quantity of land was declared to have been forfeited by past offences, and was given to people who had lent money to the Parliament early in the war. These were sweeping measures; but, if Oliver Cromwell had had his own way fully, and had stayed in Ireland, he would have done more yet.

But after Charles made it to Scotland, where the men of the Solemn League and Covenant led him an incredibly dull life and wore him out with long sermons and grim Sundays, Parliament summoned the formidable Oliver back to tackle the Scottish men for supporting that Prince. Oliver left his son-in-law, Ireton, as general in Ireland in his place (he later died there), and Ireton followed in his father-in-law's footsteps so effectively that he subdued the country and handed it over to Parliament. Eventually, they passed a law for the settlement of Ireland, generally pardoning all the common people, but excluding from this leniency those wealthier individuals involved in the rebellion, any killings of Protestants, or who refused to lay down their arms. A large number of Irish were sent out of the country to serve under Catholic powers abroad, and a significant amount of land, declared to have been forfeited due to past offenses, was given to those who had lent money to Parliament early in the war. These were sweeping measures; however, if Oliver Cromwell had had his way and stayed in Ireland, he would have done even more.

However, as I have said, the Parliament wanted Oliver for Scotland; so, home Oliver came, and was made Commander of all the Forces of the Commonwealth of England, and in three days away he went with sixteen thousand soldiers to fight the Scottish men. Now, the Scottish men, being then—as you will generally find them now—mighty cautious, reflected that the troops they had were not used to war like the Ironsides, and would be beaten in an open fight. Therefore they said, ‘If we live quiet in our trenches in Edinburgh here, and if all the farmers come into the town and desert the country, the Ironsides will be driven out by iron hunger and be forced to go away.’ This was, no doubt, the wisest plan; but as the Scottish clergy would interfere with what they knew nothing about, and would perpetually preach long sermons exhorting the soldiers to come out and fight, the soldiers got it in their heads that they absolutely must come out and fight. Accordingly, in an evil hour for themselves, they came out of their safe position. Oliver fell upon them instantly, and killed three thousand, and took ten thousand prisoners.

However, as I mentioned, Parliament wanted Oliver for Scotland; so, Oliver returned home and was appointed Commander of all the Forces of the Commonwealth of England. In just three days, he set off with sixteen thousand soldiers to confront the Scottish troops. Now, the Scottish men, who are generally quite cautious, realized that their forces were not as battle-hardened as the Ironsides and would likely be defeated in an open confrontation. So they thought, 'If we stay safe in our trenches here in Edinburgh, and if all the farmers come into the town and abandon the countryside, the Ironsides will be driven out by hunger and forced to leave.' This was undoubtedly the smartest strategy. However, since the Scottish clergy insisted on meddling in matters they didn’t understand and endlessly preached long sermons urging the soldiers to come out and fight, the soldiers became convinced that they absolutely had to engage in battle. Consequently, at a disastrous moment for themselves, they left their secure position. Oliver attacked them immediately, killing three thousand and capturing ten thousand.

To gratify the Scottish Parliament, and preserve their favour, Charles had signed a declaration they laid before him, reproaching the memory of his father and mother, and representing himself as a most religious Prince, to whom the Solemn League and Covenant was as dear as life. He meant no sort of truth in this, and soon afterwards galloped away on horseback to join some tiresome Highland friends, who were always flourishing dirks and broadswords. He was overtaken and induced to return; but this attempt, which was called ‘The Start,’ did him just so much service, that they did not preach quite such long sermons at him afterwards as they had done before.

To please the Scottish Parliament and maintain their support, Charles had signed a declaration they presented to him, which criticized the legacy of his father and mother, and portrayed himself as a deeply religious king, for whom the Solemn League and Covenant was as valuable as life itself. He didn’t mean any of it, and soon after, he rode off on horseback to meet up with some annoying Highland friends who were always waving their dirks and broadswords. He was caught up with and persuaded to return; however, this incident, known as ‘The Start,’ only helped him a little, as they didn’t give him such long lectures afterwards as they had before.

On the first of January, one thousand six hundred and fifty-one, the Scottish people crowned him at Scone. He immediately took the chief command of an army of twenty thousand men, and marched to Stirling. His hopes were heightened, I dare say, by the redoubtable Oliver being ill of an ague; but Oliver scrambled out of bed in no time, and went to work with such energy that he got behind the Royalist army and cut it off from all communication with Scotland. There was nothing for it then, but to go on to England; so it went on as far as Worcester, where the mayor and some of the gentry proclaimed King Charles the Second straightway. His proclamation, however, was of little use to him, for very few Royalists appeared; and, on the very same day, two people were publicly beheaded on Tower Hill for espousing his cause. Up came Oliver to Worcester too, at double quick speed, and he and his Ironsides so laid about them in the great battle which was fought there, that they completely beat the Scottish men, and destroyed the Royalist army; though the Scottish men fought so gallantly that it took five hours to do.

On January 1, 1651, the Scottish people crowned him at Scone. He quickly took command of an army of twenty thousand men and marched to Stirling. His hopes were boosted, I suppose, by the formidable Oliver being sick with a fever; but Oliver got out of bed in no time and worked with such determination that he positioned himself behind the Royalist army, cutting off all their communication with Scotland. With no other option, they had to move on to England, reaching as far as Worcester, where the mayor and some local gentry immediately proclaimed King Charles II. However, his proclamation didn't do him much good, as very few Royalists showed up, and on the same day, two people were publicly executed on Tower Hill for supporting him. Oliver rushed to Worcester as well, and he and his Ironsides fought fiercely in the major battle that took place there, completely defeating the Scottish forces and annihilating the Royalist army, even though the Scots fought so bravely that it took five hours to finish.

The escape of Charles after this battle of Worcester did him good service long afterwards, for it induced many of the generous English people to take a romantic interest in him, and to think much better of him than he ever deserved. He fled in the night, with not more than sixty followers, to the house of a Catholic lady in Staffordshire. There, for his greater safety, the whole sixty left him. He cropped his hair, stained his face and hands brown as if they were sunburnt, put on the clothes of a labouring countryman, and went out in the morning with his axe in his hand, accompanied by four wood-cutters who were brothers, and another man who was their brother-in-law. These good fellows made a bed for him under a tree, as the weather was very bad; and the wife of one of them brought him food to eat; and the old mother of the four brothers came and fell down on her knees before him in the wood, and thanked God that her sons were engaged in saving his life. At night, he came out of the forest and went on to another house which was near the river Severn, with the intention of passing into Wales; but the place swarmed with soldiers, and the bridges were guarded, and all the boats were made fast. So, after lying in a hayloft covered over with hay, for some time, he came out of his place, attended by Colonel Careless, a Catholic gentleman who had met him there, and with whom he lay hid, all next day, up in the shady branches of a fine old oak. It was lucky for the King that it was September-time, and that the leaves had not begun to fall, since he and the Colonel, perched up in this tree, could catch glimpses of the soldiers riding about below, and could hear the crash in the wood as they went about beating the boughs.

The escape of Charles after the battle of Worcester served him well for a long time, as it inspired many generous English people to take a romantic interest in him and think much better of him than he deserved. He fled at night with no more than sixty followers to the home of a Catholic woman in Staffordshire. There, for his safety, all sixty of them left him. He chopped his hair, stained his face and hands brown to look sunburned, put on the clothes of a working farmer, and went out in the morning with an axe in hand, accompanied by four brothers who were wood-cutters and another man who was their brother-in-law. These kind men made a bed for him under a tree because the weather was bad; one of their wives brought him food to eat, and their elderly mother came to kneel before him in the woods, thanking God that her sons were helping to save his life. At night, he left the forest and went to another house near the river Severn, intending to cross into Wales; however, the area was swarming with soldiers, the bridges were guarded, and all the boats were secured. So, after lying in a hayloft covered with hay for a while, he came out of his hiding place, joined by Colonel Unconcerned, a Catholic gentleman he had encountered, and they hid together up in the shady branches of a great old oak the next day. It was fortunate for the King that it was September and the leaves hadn’t started to fall, as he and the Colonel, perched in this tree, could see glimpses of the soldiers riding below and hear the crashing in the woods as they beat the branches.

After this, he walked and walked until his feet were all blistered; and, having been concealed all one day in a house which was searched by the troopers while he was there, went with Lord Wilmot, another of his good friends, to a place called Bentley, where one Miss Lane, a Protestant lady, had obtained a pass to be allowed to ride through the guards to see a relation of hers near Bristol. Disguised as a servant, he rode in the saddle before this young lady to the house of Sir John Winter, while Lord Wilmot rode there boldly, like a plain country gentleman, with dogs at his heels. It happened that Sir John Winter’s butler had been servant in Richmond Palace, and knew Charles the moment he set eyes upon him; but, the butler was faithful and kept the secret. As no ship could be found to carry him abroad, it was planned that he should go—still travelling with Miss Lane as her servant—to another house, at Trent near Sherborne in Dorsetshire; and then Miss Lane and her cousin, Mr. Lascelles, who had gone on horseback beside her all the way, went home. I hope Miss Lane was going to marry that cousin, for I am sure she must have been a brave, kind girl. If I had been that cousin, I should certainly have loved Miss Lane.

After that, he kept walking until his feet were completely blistered; and, after hiding for a day in a house that the soldiers searched while he was there, he went with Lord Wilmot, another good friend, to a place called Bentley, where a Protestant woman named Ms. Lane had secured a pass to ride through the guards to visit a relative near Bristol. Disguised as a servant, he rode in front of this young lady to the home of Sir John Winter, while Lord Wilmot confidently rode there like a regular country gentleman, with dogs following him. It turned out that Sir John Winter’s butler had previously worked at Richmond Palace and recognized Charles the moment he saw him; however, the butler was loyal and kept it a secret. Since no ship was available to take him abroad, they planned for him to go—still traveling as Miss Lane's servant—to another house in Trent near Sherborne in Dorsetshire; after which, Miss Lane and her cousin, Mr. Lascelles, who had accompanied her on horseback the whole way, headed home. I hope Miss Lane was planning to marry that cousin, because she must have been a brave, kind girl. If I had been that cousin, I definitely would have loved Miss Lane.

When Charles, lonely for the loss of Miss Lane, was safe at Trent, a ship was hired at Lyme, the master of which engaged to take two gentlemen to France. In the evening of the same day, the King—now riding as servant before another young lady—set off for a public-house at a place called Charmouth, where the captain of the vessel was to take him on board. But, the captain’s wife, being afraid of her husband getting into trouble, locked him up and would not let him sail. Then they went away to Bridport; and, coming to the inn there, found the stable-yard full of soldiers who were on the look-out for Charles, and who talked about him while they drank. He had such presence of mind, that he led the horses of his party through the yard as any other servant might have done, and said, ‘Come out of the way, you soldiers; let us have room to pass here!’ As he went along, he met a half-tipsy ostler, who rubbed his eyes and said to him, ‘Why, I was formerly servant to Mr. Potter at Exeter, and surely I have sometimes seen you there, young man?’ He certainly had, for Charles had lodged there. His ready answer was, ‘Ah, I did live with him once; but I have no time to talk now. We’ll have a pot of beer together when I come back.’

When Charles, missing Miss Lane, was safely at Trent, a ship was hired at Lyme, and the captain agreed to take two gentlemen to France. That evening, the King—now serving another young lady—left for a pub in a place called Charmouth, where the captain was supposed to take him aboard. However, the captain’s wife, fearing her husband would get into trouble, locked him up and wouldn’t let him sail. They then headed to Bridport, and upon arriving at the inn there, they found the stable yard filled with soldiers looking for Charles, who were talking about him as they drank. Charles kept his cool and led the horses through the yard as any servant would, saying, “Move out of the way, soldiers; let us pass!” As he made his way through, he ran into a slightly drunk stable hand who rubbed his eyes and said, “Hey, I used to work for Mr. Potter in Exeter, and I think I’ve seen you there before, young man?” He certainly had, since Charles had stayed there. Charles quickly replied, “Yes, I did work for him once, but I don’t have time to chat now. We’ll share a beer together when I get back.”

From this dangerous place he returned to Trent, and lay there concealed several days. Then he escaped to Heale, near Salisbury; where, in the house of a widow lady, he was hidden five days, until the master of a collier lying off Shoreham in Sussex, undertook to convey a ‘gentleman’ to France. On the night of the fifteenth of October, accompanied by two colonels and a merchant, the King rode to Brighton, then a little fishing village, to give the captain of the ship a supper before going on board; but, so many people knew him, that this captain knew him too, and not only he, but the landlord and landlady also. Before he went away, the landlord came behind his chair, kissed his hand, and said he hoped to live to be a lord and to see his wife a lady; at which Charles laughed. They had had a good supper by this time, and plenty of smoking and drinking, at which the King was a first-rate hand; so, the captain assured him that he would stand by him, and he did. It was agreed that the captain should pretend to sail to Deal, and that Charles should address the sailors and say he was a gentleman in debt who was running away from his creditors, and that he hoped they would join him in persuading the captain to put him ashore in France. As the King acted his part very well indeed, and gave the sailors twenty shillings to drink, they begged the captain to do what such a worthy gentleman asked. He pretended to yield to their entreaties, and the King got safe to Normandy.

From that dangerous place, he returned to Trent and stayed hidden there for several days. Then he escaped to Heale, near Salisbury, where he was concealed in a widow's house for five days, until the master of a collier anchored off Shoreham in Sussex agreed to help a ‘gentleman’ get to France. On the night of October 15th, accompanied by two colonels and a merchant, the King rode to Brighton, which was then just a small fishing village, to have dinner with the ship's captain before boarding. However, too many people recognized him, including the captain, the landlord, and the landlady. Before leaving, the landlord came behind his chair, kissed his hand, and expressed his hope to someday become a lord and see his wife as a lady, which made Charles laugh. By that point, they had enjoyed a good meal with plenty of smoking and drinking, where the King was quite the enthusiast; so the captain assured him he would support him, and he did. They agreed that the captain would pretend to sail to Deal, and Charles would tell the sailors he was a gentleman in debt trying to escape his creditors, hoping they would convince the captain to let him off in France. Since the King played his part very convincingly and gave the sailors twenty shillings for drinks, they urged the captain to grant such a worthy gentleman's request. He feigned compliance, and the King made it safely to Normandy.

Ireland being now subdued, and Scotland kept quiet by plenty of forts and soldiers put there by Oliver, the Parliament would have gone on quietly enough, as far as fighting with any foreign enemy went, but for getting into trouble with the Dutch, who in the spring of the year one thousand six hundred and fifty-one sent a fleet into the Downs under their Admiral Van Tromp, to call upon the bold English Admiral Blake (who was there with half as many ships as the Dutch) to strike his flag. Blake fired a raging broadside instead, and beat off Van Tromp; who, in the autumn, came back again with seventy ships, and challenged the bold Blake—who still was only half as strong—to fight him. Blake fought him all day; but, finding that the Dutch were too many for him, got quietly off at night. What does Van Tromp upon this, but goes cruising and boasting about the Channel, between the North Foreland and the Isle of Wight, with a great Dutch broom tied to his masthead, as a sign that he could and would sweep the English of the sea! Within three months, Blake lowered his tone though, and his broom too; for, he and two other bold commanders, Dean and Monk, fought him three whole days, took twenty-three of his ships, shivered his broom to pieces, and settled his business.

Ireland was now under control, and Scotland was kept calm by the many forts and soldiers Oliver had stationed there. The Parliament would have continued smoothly, without any fighting against foreign enemies, except for a conflict with the Dutch. In the spring of 1651, they sent a fleet into the Downs led by their Admiral Van Tromp to demand that the brave English Admiral Blake (who had only half as many ships as the Dutch) strike his flag. Instead, Blake fired back with a powerful broadside and drove Van Tromp away. However, in the autumn, Van Tromp returned with seventy ships and challenged Blake, who was still only half as strong, to fight. Blake engaged in battle all day, but realizing the Dutch were overwhelming him, he made a quiet escape at night. Following this, Van Tromp began cruising and boasting in the Channel, between the North Foreland and the Isle of Wight, with a large Dutch broom tied to his masthead as a sign that he could and would sweep the English from the sea! Within three months, though, Blake changed his approach, along with his broom; he and two other brave commanders, Dean and Monk, fought Van Tromp for three whole days, captured twenty-three of his ships, shattered his broom, and settled the score.

Things were no sooner quiet again, than the army began to complain to the Parliament that they were not governing the nation properly, and to hint that they thought they could do it better themselves. Oliver, who had now made up his mind to be the head of the state, or nothing at all, supported them in this, and called a meeting of officers and his own Parliamentary friends, at his lodgings in Whitehall, to consider the best way of getting rid of the Parliament. It had now lasted just as many years as the King’s unbridled power had lasted, before it came into existence. The end of the deliberation was, that Oliver went down to the House in his usual plain black dress, with his usual grey worsted stockings, but with an unusual party of soldiers behind him. These last he left in the lobby, and then went in and sat down. Presently he got up, made the Parliament a speech, told them that the Lord had done with them, stamped his foot and said, ‘You are no Parliament. Bring them in! Bring them in!’ At this signal the door flew open, and the soldiers appeared. ‘This is not honest,’ said Sir Harry Vane, one of the members. ‘Sir Harry Vane!’ cried Cromwell; ‘O, Sir Harry Vane! The Lord deliver me from Sir Harry Vane!’ Then he pointed out members one by one, and said this man was a drunkard, and that man a dissipated fellow, and that man a liar, and so on. Then he caused the Speaker to be walked out of his chair, told the guard to clear the House, called the mace upon the table—which is a sign that the House is sitting—‘a fool’s bauble,’ and said, ‘here, carry it away!’ Being obeyed in all these orders, he quietly locked the door, put the key in his pocket, walked back to Whitehall again, and told his friends, who were still assembled there, what he had done.

Things were hardly quiet again when the army started complaining to Parliament that they weren’t running the country properly, hinting that they thought they could do a better job themselves. Oliver, who had now decided he wanted to be the head of state or nothing at all, backed them up and called a meeting with officers and his Parliamentary allies at his place in Whitehall to figure out how to get rid of Parliament. It had lasted as many years as the King’s unchecked power before it was established. The result of their discussions was that Oliver went down to the House in his usual plain black clothes and grey wool stockings, but with an unusual group of soldiers behind him. He left the soldiers in the lobby and then went in and took a seat. Soon, he stood up, gave a speech to Parliament, told them that the Lord had finished with them, stamped his foot, and declared, "You are no Parliament. Bring them in! Bring them in!" At this signal, the door burst open, and the soldiers came in. “This isn’t right,” said Sir Harry Vane, one of the members. “Sir Harry Vane!” shouted Cromwell; “Oh, Sir Harry Vane! The Lord save me from Sir Harry Vane!” Then he pointed out members one by one, declaring this man a drunkard, that man a no-good person, and that man a liar, among other accusations. He had the Speaker removed from his chair, ordered the guard to clear the House, referred to the mace on the table—which signifies the House is in session—as “a fool’s bauble,” and said, “Here, take it away!” After all his commands were followed, he calmly locked the door, put the key in his pocket, walked back to Whitehall, and told his friends, who were still gathered there, what he had done.

They formed a new Council of State after this extraordinary proceeding, and got a new Parliament together in their own way: which Oliver himself opened in a sort of sermon, and which he said was the beginning of a perfect heaven upon earth. In this Parliament there sat a well-known leather-seller, who had taken the singular name of Praise God Barebones, and from whom it was called, for a joke, Barebones’s Parliament, though its general name was the Little Parliament. As it soon appeared that it was not going to put Oliver in the first place, it turned out to be not at all like the beginning of heaven upon earth, and Oliver said it really was not to be borne with. So he cleared off that Parliament in much the same way as he had disposed of the other; and then the council of officers decided that he must be made the supreme authority of the kingdom, under the title of the Lord Protector of the Commonwealth.

They set up a new Council of State after this unusual event and organized a new Parliament in their own way. Oliver kicked it off with a sort of sermon, claiming it was the start of a perfect paradise on earth. In this Parliament, there was a well-known leather seller who went by the unique name of Praise God Barebones, which led to it being humorously dubbed Barebones’s Parliament, although its official name was the Little Parliament. It quickly became clear that this Parliament wasn’t going to position Oliver at the top, and it turned out to be nothing like the beginning of paradise on earth that Oliver had promised. He stated it really couldn’t be tolerated. So, he disbanded that Parliament much like he had dealt with the previous one, and then the council of officers decided that he should be established as the supreme authority of the kingdom, under the title of the Lord Protector of the Commonwealth.

So, on the sixteenth of December, one thousand six hundred and fifty-three, a great procession was formed at Oliver’s door, and he came out in a black velvet suit and a big pair of boots, and got into his coach and went down to Westminster, attended by the judges, and the lord mayor, and the aldermen, and all the other great and wonderful personages of the country. There, in the Court of Chancery, he publicly accepted the office of Lord Protector. Then he was sworn, and the City sword was handed to him, and the seal was handed to him, and all the other things were handed to him which are usually handed to Kings and Queens on state occasions. When Oliver had handed them all back, he was quite made and completely finished off as Lord Protector; and several of the Ironsides preached about it at great length, all the evening.

So, on December 16, 1653, a big procession gathered at Oliver's door. He stepped out wearing a black velvet suit and a large pair of boots, climbed into his coach, and headed to Westminster, accompanied by the judges, the lord mayor, the aldermen, and all the other important figures in the country. There, in the Court of Chancery, he officially accepted the role of Lord Protector. He took an oath, was presented with the City sword, received the seal, and got all the other items that are typically given to Kings and Queens during official ceremonies. Once Oliver returned everything, he was fully sworn in as Lord Protector, and several of the Ironsides preached about it in detail throughout the evening.

SECOND PART

Oliver Cromwell—whom the people long called Old Noll—in accepting the office of Protector, had bound himself by a certain paper which was handed to him, called ‘the Instrument,’ to summon a Parliament, consisting of between four and five hundred members, in the election of which neither the Royalists nor the Catholics were to have any share. He had also pledged himself that this Parliament should not be dissolved without its own consent until it had sat five months.

Oliver Cromwell—whom people often called Old Noll—when he took on the role of Protector, committed himself to a document given to him, known as 'the Instrument,' which required him to call a Parliament made up of four to five hundred members, excluding both the Royalists and the Catholics from participating in the election. He also promised that this Parliament wouldn't be dissolved without its own agreement until it had been in session for five months.

When this Parliament met, Oliver made a speech to them of three hours long, very wisely advising them what to do for the credit and happiness of the country. To keep down the more violent members, he required them to sign a recognition of what they were forbidden by ‘the Instrument’ to do; which was, chiefly, to take the power from one single person at the head of the state or to command the army. Then he dismissed them to go to work. With his usual vigour and resolution he went to work himself with some frantic preachers—who were rather overdoing their sermons in calling him a villain and a tyrant—by shutting up their chapels, and sending a few of them off to prison.

When this Parliament convened, Oliver gave a speech that lasted three hours, wisely advising them on how to promote the country's well-being and reputation. To control the more extreme members, he made them sign a statement acknowledging what they were prohibited by ‘the Instrument’ from doing; mainly, this meant preventing anyone from taking power away from a single person at the head of the state or commanding the army. After that, he sent them off to get to work. With his usual energy and determination, he took action himself against some overly enthusiastic preachers—who were going a bit too far in labeling him a villain and a tyrant—by shutting down their chapels and sending a few of them to prison.

There was not at that time, in England or anywhere else, a man so able to govern the country as Oliver Cromwell. Although he ruled with a strong hand, and levied a very heavy tax on the Royalists (but not until they had plotted against his life), he ruled wisely, and as the times required. He caused England to be so respected abroad, that I wish some lords and gentlemen who have governed it under kings and queens in later days would have taken a leaf out of Oliver Cromwell’s book. He sent bold Admiral Blake to the Mediterranean Sea, to make the Duke of Tuscany pay sixty thousand pounds for injuries he had done to British subjects, and spoliation he had committed on English merchants. He further despatched him and his fleet to Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli, to have every English ship and every English man delivered up to him that had been taken by pirates in those parts. All this was gloriously done; and it began to be thoroughly well known, all over the world, that England was governed by a man in earnest, who would not allow the English name to be insulted or slighted anywhere.

At that time, there was no one in England or anywhere else who could govern the country as well as Oliver Cromwell. Although he ruled firmly and imposed heavy taxes on the Royalists (only after they had plotted against his life), he did so wisely and as the situation demanded. He made England so respected abroad that I wish some lords and gentlemen who have governed it under kings and queens in later years had taken a page from Oliver Cromwell’s playbook. He sent the bold Admiral Blake to the Mediterranean Sea to make the Duke of Tuscany pay sixty thousand pounds for the harm he caused to British subjects and the plundering he committed against English merchants. He also dispatched Blake and his fleet to Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli to recover every English ship and every English man captured by pirates in those regions. All of this was accomplished with great success, and it became well-known worldwide that England was governed by a serious leader who wouldn’t let the English name be insulted or disregarded anywhere.

These were not all his foreign triumphs. He sent a fleet to sea against the Dutch; and the two powers, each with one hundred ships upon its side, met in the English Channel off the North Foreland, where the fight lasted all day long. Dean was killed in this fight; but Monk, who commanded in the same ship with him, threw his cloak over his body, that the sailors might not know of his death, and be disheartened. Nor were they. The English broadsides so exceedingly astonished the Dutch that they sheered off at last, though the redoubtable Van Tromp fired upon them with his own guns for deserting their flag. Soon afterwards, the two fleets engaged again, off the coast of Holland. There, the valiant Van Tromp was shot through the heart, and the Dutch gave in, and peace was made.

These weren't all his foreign victories. He sent a fleet to battle the Dutch, and both sides, each with a hundred ships, faced off in the English Channel near the North Foreland, where the fight went on all day. Dean was killed in the battle, but Monk, who was in the same ship, draped his cloak over Dean's body so the sailors wouldn't see he was dead and lose heart. And they didn't. The English cannons shocked the Dutch so much that they eventually retreated, even though the formidable Van Tromp fired on them with his own guns for abandoning their flag. Soon after, the two fleets clashed again off the coast of Holland. There, the brave Van Tromp was shot in the heart, and the Dutch surrendered, leading to peace.

Further than this, Oliver resolved not to bear the domineering and bigoted conduct of Spain, which country not only claimed a right to all the gold and silver that could be found in South America, and treated the ships of all other countries who visited those regions, as pirates, but put English subjects into the horrible Spanish prisons of the Inquisition. So, Oliver told the Spanish ambassador that English ships must be free to go wherever they would, and that English merchants must not be thrown into those same dungeons, no, not for the pleasure of all the priests in Spain. To this, the Spanish ambassador replied that the gold and silver country, and the Holy Inquisition, were his King’s two eyes, neither of which he could submit to have put out. Very well, said Oliver, then he was afraid he (Oliver) must damage those two eyes directly.

Further than this, Oliver decided he wouldn’t tolerate the domineering and prejudiced behavior of Spain, which not only claimed the right to all the gold and silver found in South America and treated the ships of all other countries visiting those areas like pirates, but also locked English subjects away in the terrible Spanish prisons of the Inquisition. So, Oliver told the Spanish ambassador that English ships had to be free to go wherever they wanted, and that English merchants shouldn’t be thrown into those dungeons, not even for the pleasure of all the priests in Spain. In response, the Spanish ambassador said that the gold and silver territory and the Holy Inquisition were his King’s two eyes, and he could never allow them to be harmed. “Very well,” said Oliver, “then I’m afraid I must directly damage those two eyes.”

So, another fleet was despatched under two commanders, Penn and Venables, for Hispaniola; where, however, the Spaniards got the better of the fight. Consequently, the fleet came home again, after taking Jamaica on the way. Oliver, indignant with the two commanders who had not done what bold Admiral Blake would have done, clapped them both into prison, declared war against Spain, and made a treaty with France, in virtue of which it was to shelter the King and his brother the Duke of York no longer. Then, he sent a fleet abroad under bold Admiral Blake, which brought the King of Portugal to his senses—just to keep its hand in—and then engaged a Spanish fleet, sunk four great ships, and took two more, laden with silver to the value of two millions of pounds: which dazzling prize was brought from Portsmouth to London in waggons, with the populace of all the towns and villages through which the waggons passed, shouting with all their might. After this victory, bold Admiral Blake sailed away to the port of Santa Cruz to cut off the Spanish treasure-ships coming from Mexico. There, he found them, ten in number, with seven others to take care of them, and a big castle, and seven batteries, all roaring and blazing away at him with great guns. Blake cared no more for great guns than for pop-guns—no more for their hot iron balls than for snow-balls. He dashed into the harbour, captured and burnt every one of the ships, and came sailing out again triumphantly, with the victorious English flag flying at his masthead. This was the last triumph of this great commander, who had sailed and fought until he was quite worn out. He died, as his successful ship was coming into Plymouth Harbour amidst the joyful acclamations of the people, and was buried in state in Westminster Abbey. Not to lie there, long.

So, another fleet was sent out under two commanders, Penn State and Venables, for Hispaniola; however, the Spaniards won the fight. As a result, the fleet returned home after stopping by Jamaica. Oliver, furious with the two commanders who hadn’t accomplished what the daring Admiral Blake would have, imprisoned them both, declared war on Spain, and made a treaty with France, which stipulated that it would no longer protect the King and his brother, the Duke of York. Then, he dispatched a fleet under the daring Admiral Blake, who managed to bring the King of Portugal to his senses—just to stay active—and then engaged a Spanish fleet, sinking four large ships and capturing two more, loaded with silver worth two million pounds: this stunning treasure was transported from Portsmouth to London in wagons, with crowds from all the towns and villages along the route cheering loudly. After this victory, Admiral Blake sailed to the port of Santa Cruz to intercept the Spanish treasure ships coming from Mexico. There, he found ten ships guarded by seven others and a big fort with seven batteries, all firing at him with heavy guns. Blake cared as little for their big guns as he did for toy guns—no more for their hot iron balls than for snowballs. He stormed into the harbor, captured and burned every one of the ships, and sailed out again triumphantly, with the victorious English flag flying at his masthead. This was the last triumph of this great commander, who had battled until he was completely worn out. He died just as his victorious ship was entering Plymouth Harbour amidst the joyful cheers of the people and was buried with honors in Westminster Abbey. Not to rest there long.

Over and above all this, Oliver found that the Vaudois, or Protestant people of the valleys of Lucerne, were insolently treated by the Catholic powers, and were even put to death for their religion, in an audacious and bloody manner. Instantly, he informed those powers that this was a thing which Protestant England would not allow; and he speedily carried his point, through the might of his great name, and established their right to worship God in peace after their own harmless manner.

Over and above all this, Oliver found that the Vaudois, or Protestant people of the valleys of Lucerne, were treated with disdain by the Catholic powers and were even killed for their faith in an outrageous and brutal way. Immediately, he informed those powers that this was something Protestant England would not tolerate; and he quickly succeeded, thanks to his prominent reputation, establishing their right to worship God in peace as they saw fit.

Lastly, his English army won such admiration in fighting with the French against the Spaniards, that, after they had assaulted the town of Dunkirk together, the French King in person gave it up to the English, that it might be a token to them of their might and valour.

Lastly, his English army earned so much respect for fighting alongside the French against the Spaniards that, after they attacked the town of Dunkirk together, the French King himself surrendered it to the English as a symbol of their strength and bravery.

There were plots enough against Oliver among the frantic religionists (who called themselves Fifth Monarchy Men), and among the disappointed Republicans. He had a difficult game to play, for the Royalists were always ready to side with either party against him. The ‘King over the water,’ too, as Charles was called, had no scruples about plotting with any one against his life; although there is reason to suppose that he would willingly have married one of his daughters, if Oliver would have had such a son-in-law. There was a certain Colonel Saxby of the army, once a great supporter of Oliver’s but now turned against him, who was a grievous trouble to him through all this part of his career; and who came and went between the discontented in England and Spain, and Charles who put himself in alliance with Spain on being thrown off by France. This man died in prison at last; but not until there had been very serious plots between the Royalists and Republicans, and an actual rising of them in England, when they burst into the city of Salisbury, on a Sunday night, seized the judges who were going to hold the assizes there next day, and would have hanged them but for the merciful objections of the more temperate of their number. Oliver was so vigorous and shrewd that he soon put this revolt down, as he did most other conspiracies; and it was well for one of its chief managers—that same Lord Wilmot who had assisted in Charles’s flight, and was now Earl of Rochester—that he made his escape. Oliver seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere, and secured such sources of information as his enemies little dreamed of. There was a chosen body of six persons, called the Sealed Knot, who were in the closest and most secret confidence of Charles. One of the foremost of these very men, a Sir Richard Willis, reported to Oliver everything that passed among them, and had two hundred a year for it.

There were plenty of plots against Oliver from the frantic religious groups (who called themselves Fifth Monarchy Men) and the dissatisfied Republicans. He had a tough job, as the Royalists were always ready to side with either group against him. The 'King over the water,' as Charles was known, had no qualms about colluding with anyone against him; although it's believed he would have liked to marry one of his daughters to Oliver's son if it had been possible. There was a certain Colonel Saxby in the army, once a strong supporter of Oliver who had now turned against him, causing him significant trouble during this part of his life. He would go back and forth between the disgruntled factions in England and Spain, and Charles, who allied himself with Spain after being rejected by France. This man eventually died in prison, but not before there were serious plots involving the Royalists and Republicans, including an actual uprising when they stormed the city of Salisbury on a Sunday night, capturing the judges who were set to hold the assizes the next day and nearly executing them if it hadn't been for the objections of some of their more moderate members. Oliver was so active and clever that he quickly put down this revolt, as he did with most other conspiracies; and it was fortunate for one of the main conspirators, that same Lord Wilmot who had helped Charles escape and was now Earl of Rochester, that he managed to flee. Oliver seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere, securing sources of information that his enemies never suspected. There was an exclusive group of six individuals, known as the Sealed Knot, who were in the tightest and most secret confidence of Charles. One of the leading members, a Sir Richard Willis, reported everything that happened among them to Oliver and was paid two hundred a year for it.

Miles Syndarcomb, also of the old army, was another conspirator against the Protector. He and a man named Cecil, bribed one of his Life Guards to let them have good notice when he was going out—intending to shoot him from a window. But, owing either to his caution or his good fortune, they could never get an aim at him. Disappointed in this design, they got into the chapel in Whitehall, with a basketful of combustibles, which were to explode by means of a slow match in six hours; then, in the noise and confusion of the fire, they hoped to kill Oliver. But, the Life Guardsman himself disclosed this plot; and they were seized, and Miles died (or killed himself in prison) a little while before he was ordered for execution. A few such plotters Oliver caused to be beheaded, a few more to be hanged, and many more, including those who rose in arms against him, to be sent as slaves to the West Indies. If he were rigid, he was impartial too, in asserting the laws of England. When a Portuguese nobleman, the brother of the Portuguese ambassador, killed a London citizen in mistake for another man with whom he had had a quarrel, Oliver caused him to be tried before a jury of Englishmen and foreigners, and had him executed in spite of the entreaties of all the ambassadors in London.

Miles Syndarcomb, also a former army member, was another conspirator against the Protector. He and a man named Cecil bribed one of his Life Guards to alert them when he was going out—planning to shoot him from a window. However, due to either his caution or good luck, they could never get a clear shot at him. Frustrated with this plan, they snuck into the chapel in Whitehall with a basket full of explosives, set to go off with a slow match in six hours; in the chaos of the fire, they hoped to kill Oliver. But the Life Guardsman revealed this plot, and they were captured. Miles died (or took his own life in prison) shortly before his execution order. Oliver had a few of these plotters beheaded, a few more hanged, and many others, including those who rebelled against him, sent off as slaves to the West Indies. While he was strict, he was also fair in enforcing the laws of England. When a Portuguese nobleman, the brother of the Portuguese ambassador, mistakenly killed a London citizen thinking he was someone else he had a dispute with, Oliver had him tried by a jury of Englishmen and foreigners and executed despite the pleas from all the ambassadors in London.

One of Oliver’s own friends, the Duke of Oldenburgh, in sending him a present of six fine coach-horses, was very near doing more to please the Royalists than all the plotters put together. One day, Oliver went with his coach, drawn by these six horses, into Hyde Park, to dine with his secretary and some of his other gentlemen under the trees there. After dinner, being merry, he took it into his head to put his friends inside and to drive them home: a postillion riding one of the foremost horses, as the custom was. On account of Oliver’s being too free with the whip, the six fine horses went off at a gallop, the postillion got thrown, and Oliver fell upon the coach-pole and narrowly escaped being shot by his own pistol, which got entangled with his clothes in the harness, and went off. He was dragged some distance by the foot, until his foot came out of the shoe, and then he came safely to the ground under the broad body of the coach, and was very little the worse. The gentlemen inside were only bruised, and the discontented people of all parties were much disappointed.

One of Oliver's friends, the Duke of Oldenburg, nearly did more to please the Royalists than all the conspirators combined by sending him a gift of six beautiful coach horses. One day, Oliver took these six horses out into Hyde Park in his coach to have lunch with his secretary and some other gentlemen under the trees. After lunch, feeling cheerful, he decided to let his friends ride inside and he would drive them home, with a postillion riding one of the lead horses, as was the custom. Because Oliver was a bit too enthusiastic with the whip, the six horses took off at a gallop, the postillion was thrown off, and Oliver fell onto the coach pole, narrowly avoiding being shot by his own pistol, which got tangled in his clothes in the harness and went off. He was dragged for a while by his foot until it slipped out of his shoe, and then he landed safely on the ground beneath the broad body of the coach, only slightly worse for wear. The gentlemen inside were just bruised, and the disgruntled people from all factions were quite let down.

The rest of the history of the Protectorate of Oliver Cromwell is a history of his Parliaments. His first one not pleasing him at all, he waited until the five months were out, and then dissolved it. The next was better suited to his views; and from that he desired to get—if he could with safety to himself—the title of King. He had had this in his mind some time: whether because he thought that the English people, being more used to the title, were more likely to obey it; or whether because he really wished to be a king himself, and to leave the succession to that title in his family, is far from clear. He was already as high, in England and in all the world, as he would ever be, and I doubt if he cared for the mere name. However, a paper, called the ‘Humble Petition and Advice,’ was presented to him by the House of Commons, praying him to take a high title and to appoint his successor. That he would have taken the title of King there is no doubt, but for the strong opposition of the army. This induced him to forbear, and to assent only to the other points of the petition. Upon which occasion there was another grand show in Westminster Hall, when the Speaker of the House of Commons formally invested him with a purple robe lined with ermine, and presented him with a splendidly bound Bible, and put a golden sceptre in his hand. The next time the Parliament met, he called a House of Lords of sixty members, as the petition gave him power to do; but as that Parliament did not please him either, and would not proceed to the business of the country, he jumped into a coach one morning, took six Guards with him, and sent them to the right-about. I wish this had been a warning to Parliaments to avoid long speeches, and do more work.

The rest of the story of Oliver Cromwell's Protectorate revolves around his Parliaments. He wasn’t happy with the first one at all, so he waited until the five months were up and then dissolved it. The next Parliament was more aligned with his views, and he wanted to obtain—if it was safe for him—the title of King. He had been thinking about this for a while: whether it was because he believed the English people were more accustomed to the title and would be more likely to obey it, or if he genuinely wanted to be a king himself and leave the legacy of that title to his family, is unclear. He was already at the highest point in England and the world that he would ever achieve, and I doubt he cared much for just the title. However, a document known as the ‘Humble Petition and Advice’ was presented to him by the House of Commons, asking him to take a high title and appoint his successor. There’s no doubt he would have accepted the title of King if it weren't for strong opposition from the army. This led him to hold back and agree only to the other points of the petition. On that occasion, there was another grand event in Westminster Hall, where the Speaker of the House of Commons formally dressed him in a purple robe lined with ermine, presented him with a beautifully bound Bible, and handed him a golden sceptre. The next time Parliament met, he called a House of Lords with sixty members, as the petition allowed him to do; but since this Parliament also didn’t please him and wouldn’t address the country’s business, one morning he jumped into a coach, took six Guards with him, and sent them away. I wish this had served as a warning to Parliaments to keep speeches short and focus on doing more work.

It was the month of August, one thousand six hundred and fifty-eight, when Oliver Cromwell’s favourite daughter, Elizabeth Claypole (who had lately lost her youngest son), lay very ill, and his mind was greatly troubled, because he loved her dearly. Another of his daughters was married to Lord Falconberg, another to the grandson of the Earl of Warwick, and he had made his son Richard one of the Members of the Upper House. He was very kind and loving to them all, being a good father and a good husband; but he loved this daughter the best of the family, and went down to Hampton Court to see her, and could hardly be induced to stir from her sick room until she died. Although his religion had been of a gloomy kind, his disposition had been always cheerful. He had been fond of music in his home, and had kept open table once a week for all officers of the army not below the rank of captain, and had always preserved in his house a quiet, sensible dignity. He encouraged men of genius and learning, and loved to have them about him. Milton was one of his great friends. He was good humoured too, with the nobility, whose dresses and manners were very different from his; and to show them what good information he had, he would sometimes jokingly tell them when they were his guests, where they had last drunk the health of the ‘King over the water,’ and would recommend them to be more private (if they could) another time. But he had lived in busy times, had borne the weight of heavy State affairs, and had often gone in fear of his life. He was ill of the gout and ague; and when the death of his beloved child came upon him in addition, he sank, never to raise his head again. He told his physicians on the twenty-fourth of August that the Lord had assured him that he was not to die in that illness, and that he would certainly get better. This was only his sick fancy, for on the third of September, which was the anniversary of the great battle of Worcester, and the day of the year which he called his fortunate day, he died, in the sixtieth year of his age. He had been delirious, and had lain insensible some hours, but he had been overheard to murmur a very good prayer the day before. The whole country lamented his death. If you want to know the real worth of Oliver Cromwell, and his real services to his country, you can hardly do better than compare England under him, with England under Charles the Second.

It was August 1658 when Oliver Cromwell's favorite daughter, Elizabeth Claypole (who had recently lost her youngest son), was very ill, and he was deeply troubled because he loved her so much. Another daughter was married to Lord Falconberg, another to the grandson of the Earl of Warwick, and he had made his son Richard one of the Members of the Upper House. He was very kind and loving to them all, being a good father and husband; however, he loved this daughter the most and went to Hampton Court to see her, barely leaving her sick room until she passed away. Although his religion had been rather somber, his personality was always cheerful. He enjoyed music at home and hosted a weekly open table for all army officers of captain rank and above, while maintaining a quiet, sensible dignity in his household. He encouraged talented people and loved having them around him. Milton was one of his close friends. He was also good-humored with the nobility, whose styles and manners differed greatly from his own; he would sometimes jokingly point out to them, when they were his guests, where they had last toasted the health of the "King over the water," recommending that they keep it more private next time (if they could). However, he had lived through turbulent times, carried the burden of heavy State affairs, and often lived in fear for his life. He suffered from gout and fever; when the death of his beloved child hit him, he fell into despair and never recovered. On August 24, he told his doctors that the Lord had assured him he wouldn’t die from this illness and that he would definitely get better. This was just his sick imagination, as on September 3, the anniversary of the great battle of Worcester—the day he considered his lucky day—he died at the age of sixty. He had been delirious and unresponsive for several hours, but he was heard murmuring a heartfelt prayer the day before. The entire country mourned his death. If you want to understand Oliver Cromwell's true worth and his genuine contributions to his country, you could hardly do better than compare England under his leadership with England under Charles II.

He had appointed his son Richard to succeed him, and after there had been, at Somerset House in the Strand, a lying in state more splendid than sensible—as all such vanities after death are, I think—Richard became Lord Protector. He was an amiable country gentleman, but had none of his father’s great genius, and was quite unfit for such a post in such a storm of parties. Richard’s Protectorate, which only lasted a year and a half, is a history of quarrels between the officers of the army and the Parliament, and between the officers among themselves; and of a growing discontent among the people, who had far too many long sermons and far too few amusements, and wanted a change. At last, General Monk got the army well into his own hands, and then in pursuance of a secret plan he seems to have entertained from the time of Oliver’s death, declared for the King’s cause. He did not do this openly; but, in his place in the House of Commons, as one of the members for Devonshire, strongly advocated the proposals of one Sir John Greenville, who came to the House with a letter from Charles, dated from Breda, and with whom he had previously been in secret communication. There had been plots and counterplots, and a recall of the last members of the Long Parliament, and an end of the Long Parliament, and risings of the Royalists that were made too soon; and most men being tired out, and there being no one to head the country now great Oliver was dead, it was readily agreed to welcome Charles Stuart. Some of the wiser and better members said—what was most true—that in the letter from Breda, he gave no real promise to govern well, and that it would be best to make him pledge himself beforehand as to what he should be bound to do for the benefit of the kingdom. Monk said, however, it would be all right when he came, and he could not come too soon.

He had chosen his son Richard to take over, and after a very extravagant lying in state at Somerset House in the Strand—which I believe is a pointless show of vanity after death—Richard became Lord Protector. He was a decent country gentleman but lacked his father's brilliance and was completely unsuited for such a role in a time filled with political turmoil. Richard's time as Protector lasted just a year and a half, marked by conflicts between the army officials and Parliament, as well as infighting among the officers themselves. Meanwhile, the public grew discontented, fed up with too many long sermons and too few entertainments, and they wanted change. Eventually, General Monk took control of the army and, following a secret plan he seemed to have had since Oliver's death, he declared his support for the King's return. He didn't do this openly; instead, during his time in the House of Commons, representing Devonshire, he strongly backed the proposals of Sir John Greenville, who arrived in the House with a letter from Charles, dated from Breda, and with whom he had previously communicated in secret. There had been various plots and counterplots, the recall and then the dismissal of the last members of the Long Parliament, and premature uprisings by the Royalists. With most people exhausted and no one to lead the country now that great Oliver was gone, it was easily agreed to welcome Charles Stuart. Some of the wiser and more principled members pointed out—rightly—that Charles's letter from Breda didn’t guarantee good governance, and it would be wise to have him commit to specific responsibilities before agreeing to his return for the kingdom's benefit. However, Monk insisted it would all work out when Charles arrived, and that he couldn’t come soon enough.

So, everybody found out all in a moment that the country must be prosperous and happy, having another Stuart to condescend to reign over it; and there was a prodigious firing off of guns, lighting of bonfires, ringing of bells, and throwing up of caps. The people drank the King’s health by thousands in the open streets, and everybody rejoiced. Down came the Arms of the Commonwealth, up went the Royal Arms instead, and out came the public money. Fifty thousand pounds for the King, ten thousand pounds for his brother the Duke of York, five thousand pounds for his brother the Duke of Gloucester. Prayers for these gracious Stuarts were put up in all the churches; commissioners were sent to Holland (which suddenly found out that Charles was a great man, and that it loved him) to invite the King home; Monk and the Kentish grandees went to Dover, to kneel down before him as he landed. He kissed and embraced Monk, made him ride in the coach with himself and his brothers, came on to London amid wonderful shoutings, and passed through the army at Blackheath on the twenty-ninth of May (his birthday), in the year one thousand six hundred and sixty. Greeted by splendid dinners under tents, by flags and tapestry streaming from all the houses, by delighted crowds in all the streets, by troops of noblemen and gentlemen in rich dresses, by City companies, train-bands, drummers, trumpeters, the great Lord Mayor, and the majestic Aldermen, the King went on to Whitehall. On entering it, he commemorated his Restoration with the joke that it really would seem to have been his own fault that he had not come long ago, since everybody told him that he had always wished for him with all his heart.

So, everyone found out in an instant that the country must be prosperous and happy, having another Stuart to graciously rule over it; and there was a huge celebration with gunfire, bonfires, ringing bells, and tossing caps in the air. People toasted the King’s health by the thousands in the streets, and everyone celebrated. Down came the Arms of the Commonwealth, up went the Royal Arms, and public funds were released. Fifty thousand pounds for the King, ten thousand pounds for his brother the Duke of York, and five thousand pounds for his brother the Duke of Gloucester. Prayers for these gracious Stuarts were offered in all the churches; commissioners were sent to Holland (which suddenly realized that Charles was a great man and that it loved him) to invite the King home; Monk and the influential figures from Kent went to Dover to kneel before him as he arrived. He kissed and embraced Monk, made him ride in the coach with him and his brothers, and entered London amid overwhelming cheers, passing through the army at Blackheath on the twenty-ninth of May (his birthday), in the year sixteen sixty. Welcomed by lavish dinners under tents, with flags and tapestries hanging from every house, delighted crowds lining the streets, and groups of noblemen and gentlemen in fancy attire, along with City companies, train-bands, drummers, trumpeters, the great Lord Mayor, and the impressive Aldermen, the King proceeded to Whitehall. Upon entering, he marked his Restoration with a joke that it seemed to be his own fault for not coming back sooner, since everyone told him they had always wished for him with all their hearts.

CHAPTER XXXV—ENGLAND UNDER CHARLES THE SECOND, CALLED THE MERRY MONARCH

There never were such profligate times in England as under Charles the Second. Whenever you see his portrait, with his swarthy, ill-looking face and great nose, you may fancy him in his Court at Whitehall, surrounded by some of the very worst vagabonds in the kingdom (though they were lords and ladies), drinking, gambling, indulging in vicious conversation, and committing every kind of profligate excess. It has been a fashion to call Charles the Second ‘The Merry Monarch.’ Let me try to give you a general idea of some of the merry things that were done, in the merry days when this merry gentleman sat upon his merry throne, in merry England.

There were never such outrageous times in England as during the reign of Charles the Second. Whenever you see his portrait, with his dark, unflattering face and prominent nose, you can picture him at his Court in Whitehall, surrounded by some of the worst misfits in the kingdom (even though they were nobles), drinking, gambling, engaging in scandalous conversations, and indulging in every kind of reckless excess. It has become common to refer to Charles the Second as "The Merry Monarch." Let me give you a general idea of some of the fun activities that took place during the lively days when this cheerful man ruled from his vibrant throne in merry England.

The first merry proceeding was—of course—to declare that he was one of the greatest, the wisest, and the noblest kings that ever shone, like the blessed sun itself, on this benighted earth. The next merry and pleasant piece of business was, for the Parliament, in the humblest manner, to give him one million two hundred thousand pounds a year, and to settle upon him for life that old disputed tonnage and poundage which had been so bravely fought for. Then, General Monk being made Earl of Albemarle, and a few other Royalists similarly rewarded, the law went to work to see what was to be done to those persons (they were called Regicides) who had been concerned in making a martyr of the late King. Ten of these were merrily executed; that is to say, six of the judges, one of the council, Colonel Hacker and another officer who had commanded the Guards, and Hugh Peters, a preacher who had preached against the martyr with all his heart. These executions were so extremely merry, that every horrible circumstance which Cromwell had abandoned was revived with appalling cruelty. The hearts of the sufferers were torn out of their living bodies; their bowels were burned before their faces; the executioner cut jokes to the next victim, as he rubbed his filthy hands together, that were reeking with the blood of the last; and the heads of the dead were drawn on sledges with the living to the place of suffering. Still, even so merry a monarch could not force one of these dying men to say that he was sorry for what he had done. Nay, the most memorable thing said among them was, that if the thing were to do again they would do it.

The first cheerful act was to announce that he was one of the greatest, wisest, and noblest kings to ever shine, like the blessed sun itself, on this darkened earth. The next happy and straightforward task for Parliament was, in the humblest way, to grant him one million two hundred thousand pounds a year and secure for him for life that old disputed tonnage and poundage that had been so fiercely fought over. Then, General Monk was made Earl of Albemarle, along with a few other Royalists who were similarly rewarded, as the law began to determine what to do with those individuals (referred to as Regicides) who were involved in making a martyr of the late King. Ten of these individuals were happily executed; specifically, six of the judges, one council member, Colonel Hacker, another officer who had commanded the Guards, and Hugh Peters, a preacher who had passionately preached against the martyr. These executions were so extremely cheerful that every horrible act that Cromwell had abandoned was revived with shocking cruelty. The hearts of the victims were ripped from their living bodies; their insides were burned before their eyes; the executioner made jokes to the next victim while rubbing his filthy hands together, still dripping with the blood of the last; and the heads of the dead were pulled on sledges alongside the living to the place of execution. Still, even this merry monarch could not force any of these dying men to express remorse for their actions. In fact, the most memorable statement made among them was that if they had to do it all over again, they would do it.

Sir Harry Vane, who had furnished the evidence against Strafford, and was one of the most staunch of the Republicans, was also tried, found guilty, and ordered for execution. When he came upon the scaffold on Tower Hill, after conducting his own defence with great power, his notes of what he had meant to say to the people were torn away from him, and the drums and trumpets were ordered to sound lustily and drown his voice; for, the people had been so much impressed by what the Regicides had calmly said with their last breath, that it was the custom now, to have the drums and trumpets always under the scaffold, ready to strike up. Vane said no more than this: ‘It is a bad cause which cannot bear the words of a dying man:’ and bravely died.

Sir Harry Vane, who had provided the evidence against Strafford and was one of the most dedicated Republicans, was also tried, found guilty, and sentenced to execution. When he stood on the scaffold at Tower Hill, after expertly defending himself, his notes on what he had planned to say to the crowd were snatched away from him, and drums and trumpets were commanded to play loudly to drown out his voice. The crowd had been so moved by the calm words of the Regicides in their final moments that it became customary to have drums and trumpets ready under the scaffold. Vane said only this: “It’s a bad cause that can’t withstand the words of a dying man:” and bravely accepted his fate.

These merry scenes were succeeded by another, perhaps even merrier. On the anniversary of the late King’s death, the bodies of Oliver Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshaw, were torn out of their graves in Westminster Abbey, dragged to Tyburn, hanged there on a gallows all day long, and then beheaded. Imagine the head of Oliver Cromwell set upon a pole to be stared at by a brutal crowd, not one of whom would have dared to look the living Oliver in the face for half a moment! Think, after you have read this reign, what England was under Oliver Cromwell who was torn out of his grave, and what it was under this merry monarch who sold it, like a merry Judas, over and over again.

These joyful scenes were followed by another, perhaps even more joyful. On the anniversary of the late King’s death, the bodies of Oliver Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshaw were dug up from their graves in Westminster Abbey, dragged to Tyburn, hanged there on a gallows all day, and then beheaded. Imagine Oliver Cromwell's head mounted on a pole for a brutal crowd to gawk at, none of whom would have dared to look the living Oliver in the eye for even a moment! Think, after you’ve read about this reign, about what England was like under Oliver Cromwell, who was pulled from his grave, and what it became under this merry monarch who sold it, like a cheerful Judas, over and over again.

Of course, the remains of Oliver’s wife and daughter were not to be spared either, though they had been most excellent women. The base clergy of that time gave up their bodies, which had been buried in the Abbey, and—to the eternal disgrace of England—they were thrown into a pit, together with the mouldering bones of Pym and of the brave and bold old Admiral Blake.

Of course, the remains of Oliver's wife and daughter weren't spared either, even though they had been incredible women. The lowly clergy of that time gave up their bodies, which had been buried in the Abbey, and—to the lasting shame of England—they were tossed into a pit, along with the decaying bones of Pym and the courageous old Admiral Blake.

The clergy acted this disgraceful part because they hoped to get the nonconformists, or dissenters, thoroughly put down in this reign, and to have but one prayer-book and one service for all kinds of people, no matter what their private opinions were. This was pretty well, I think, for a Protestant Church, which had displaced the Romish Church because people had a right to their own opinions in religious matters. However, they carried it with a high hand, and a prayer-book was agreed upon, in which the extremest opinions of Archbishop Laud were not forgotten. An Act was passed, too, preventing any dissenter from holding any office under any corporation. So, the regular clergy in their triumph were soon as merry as the King. The army being by this time disbanded, and the King crowned, everything was to go on easily for evermore.

The clergy played this disgraceful role because they wanted to thoroughly suppress the nonconformists, or dissenters, during this reign, aiming for just one prayer book and one service for everyone, regardless of their personal beliefs. This seemed quite contradictory for a Protestant Church that had replaced the Roman Church based on the idea that people should have the freedom to hold their own religious opinions. However, they enforced their views forcefully, and a prayer book was approved that took into account the most extreme beliefs of Archbishop Laud. An Act was also passed that barred any dissenter from holding a position in any corporation. So, the regular clergy, in their victory, were soon as cheerful as the King. With the army disbanded and the King crowned, everything was set to continue smoothly from then on.

I must say a word here about the King’s family. He had not been long upon the throne when his brother the Duke of Gloucester, and his sister the Princess of Orange, died within a few months of each other, of small-pox. His remaining sister, the Princess Henrietta, married the Duke of Orleans, the brother of Louis the Fourteenth, King of France. His brother James, Duke of York, was made High Admiral, and by-and-by became a Catholic. He was a gloomy, sullen, bilious sort of man, with a remarkable partiality for the ugliest women in the country. He married, under very discreditable circumstances, Anne Hyde, the daughter of Lord Clarendon, then the King’s principal Minister—not at all a delicate minister either, but doing much of the dirty work of a very dirty palace. It became important now that the King himself should be married; and divers foreign Monarchs, not very particular about the character of their son-in-law, proposed their daughters to him. The King of Portugal offered his daughter, Catherine of Braganza, and fifty thousand pounds: in addition to which, the French King, who was favourable to that match, offered a loan of another fifty thousand. The King of Spain, on the other hand, offered any one out of a dozen of Princesses, and other hopes of gain. But the ready money carried the day, and Catherine came over in state to her merry marriage.

I need to mention the King's family. He hadn’t been on the throne long when his brother, the Duke of Gloucester, and his sister, the Princess of Orange, both died within a few months of each other from smallpox. His other sister, the Princess Henrietta, married the Duke of Orléans, the brother of Louis XIV, King of France. His brother James, Duke of York, was made High Admiral and eventually became Catholic. He was a gloomy, sullen guy with a strange taste for the ugliest women in the country. He married Anne Hyde, the daughter of Lord Clarendon, who was the King’s main minister—not someone known for his delicacy, but for handling a lot of the dirty work in a very dirty palace. Now it was important for the King to get married, and several foreign monarchs, not too concerned about their daughter's husband’s character, proposed their daughters to him. The King of Portugal offered his daughter, Catherine of Braganza, along with fifty thousand pounds, and the French King, who supported that match, offered an additional loan of another fifty thousand. On the other hand, the King of Spain offered a choice from a dozen princesses and other incentives. But the cash won out, and Catherine arrived in style for her joyful wedding.

The whole Court was a great flaunting crowd of debauched men and shameless women; and Catherine’s merry husband insulted and outraged her in every possible way, until she consented to receive those worthless creatures as her very good friends, and to degrade herself by their companionship. A Mrs. Palmer, whom the King made Lady Castlemaine, and afterwards Duchess of Cleveland, was one of the most powerful of the bad women about the Court, and had great influence with the King nearly all through his reign. Another merry lady named Moll Davies, a dancer at the theatre, was afterwards her rival. So was Nell Gwyn, first an orange girl and then an actress, who really had good in her, and of whom one of the worst things I know is, that actually she does seem to have been fond of the King. The first Duke of St. Albans was this orange girl’s child. In like manner the son of a merry waiting-lady, whom the King created Duchess Of Portsmouth, became the Duke of Richmond. Upon the whole it is not so bad a thing to be a commoner.

The whole Court was a flashy crowd of debauched men and shameless women, and Catherine's joyful husband insulted and outraged her in every way possible, until she agreed to accept those worthless people as her close friends, degrading herself by their company. A Mrs. Palmer, whom the King made Lady Castlemaine and later Duchess of Cleveland, was one of the most powerful bad women at Court and had great influence over the King throughout his reign. Another lively lady named Moll Davies, a dancer at the theater, later became her rival. So did Nell Gwynne, who started as an orange girl and then became an actress, and who actually had some good in her; one of the worst things I know about her is that she genuinely seemed to care for the King. The first Duke of St. Albans was the child of this orange girl. Similarly, the son of a cheerful waiting lady, whom the King made Duchess of Portsmouth, became the Duke of Richmond. Overall, being a commoner isn't such a bad thing.

The Merry Monarch was so exceedingly merry among these merry ladies, and some equally merry (and equally infamous) lords and gentlemen, that he soon got through his hundred thousand pounds, and then, by way of raising a little pocket-money, made a merry bargain. He sold Dunkirk to the French King for five millions of livres. When I think of the dignity to which Oliver Cromwell raised England in the eyes of foreign powers, and when I think of the manner in which he gained for England this very Dunkirk, I am much inclined to consider that if the Merry Monarch had been made to follow his father for this action, he would have received his just deserts.

The Merry Monarch was really enjoying himself among these cheerful ladies, as well as some equally lively (and infamous) lords and gentlemen, that he quickly blew through his hundred thousand pounds. To grab a bit of pocket money, he made a fun deal. He sold Dunkirk to the French King for five million livres. When I think about the respect Oliver Cromwell gained for England in the eyes of foreign nations, and how he managed to acquire this very Dunkirk for England, I can't help but feel that if the Merry Monarch had been held accountable for this action like his father was, he would have faced proper consequences.

Though he was like his father in none of that father’s greater qualities, he was like him in being worthy of no trust. When he sent that letter to the Parliament, from Breda, he did expressly promise that all sincere religious opinions should be respected. Yet he was no sooner firm in his power than he consented to one of the worst Acts of Parliament ever passed. Under this law, every minister who should not give his solemn assent to the Prayer-Book by a certain day, was declared to be a minister no longer, and to be deprived of his church. The consequence of this was that some two thousand honest men were taken from their congregations, and reduced to dire poverty and distress. It was followed by another outrageous law, called the Conventicle Act, by which any person above the age of sixteen who was present at any religious service not according to the Prayer-Book, was to be imprisoned three months for the first offence, six for the second, and to be transported for the third. This Act alone filled the prisons, which were then most dreadful dungeons, to overflowing.

Although he didn't share any of his father's greater qualities, he was just as untrustworthy. When he sent that letter to Parliament from Breda, he specifically promised that all sincere religious beliefs would be respected. However, as soon as he secured his power, he agreed to one of the worst Acts of Parliament ever enacted. According to this law, any minister who failed to give his formal approval of the Prayer-Book by a certain deadline would no longer be considered a minister and would lose his church. As a result, about two thousand honest men were removed from their congregations and plunged into severe poverty and distress. This was soon followed by another outrageous law, known as the Conventicle Act, which stated that anyone over the age of sixteen attending any religious service not in line with the Prayer-Book would face three months in prison for the first offense, six months for the second, and exile for the third. This Act alone led to overcrowded prisons, which at the time were horrific dungeons.

The Covenanters in Scotland had already fared no better. A base Parliament, usually known as the Drunken Parliament, in consequence of its principal members being seldom sober, had been got together to make laws against the Covenanters, and to force all men to be of one mind in religious matters. The Marquis of Argyle, relying on the King’s honour, had given himself up to him; but, he was wealthy, and his enemies wanted his wealth. He was tried for treason, on the evidence of some private letters in which he had expressed opinions—as well he might—more favourable to the government of the late Lord Protector than of the present merry and religious King. He was executed, as were two men of mark among the Covenanters; and Sharp, a traitor who had once been the friend of the Presbyterians and betrayed them, was made Archbishop of St. Andrew’s, to teach the Scotch how to like bishops.

The Covenanters in Scotland were doing no better. A disreputable Parliament, commonly referred to as the Drunken Parliament because its main members were rarely sober, convened to create laws against the Covenanters and to force everyone to agree on religious issues. The Marquess of Argyle, trusting in the King’s honor, had surrendered to him; however, he was wealthy, and his enemies desired that wealth. He was tried for treason based on private letters in which he expressed views—justifiably—more favorable to the former Lord Protector's government than to the current merry and devout King’s. He was executed, along with two notable men among the Covenanters; and Keen, a traitor who had once been a friend to the Presbyterians but betrayed them, was appointed Archbishop of St. Andrew’s to teach the Scots to accept bishops.

Things being in this merry state at home, the Merry Monarch undertook a war with the Dutch; principally because they interfered with an African company, established with the two objects of buying gold-dust and slaves, of which the Duke of York was a leading member. After some preliminary hostilities, the said Duke sailed to the coast of Holland with a fleet of ninety-eight vessels of war, and four fire-ships. This engaged with the Dutch fleet, of no fewer than one hundred and thirteen ships. In the great battle between the two forces, the Dutch lost eighteen ships, four admirals, and seven thousand men. But, the English on shore were in no mood of exultation when they heard the news.

Things being in a good place at home, the Merry Monarch started a war with the Dutch, mainly because they were disrupting an African company that aimed to buy gold dust and slaves, with the Duke of York being a key player. After some initial skirmishes, the Duke sailed to the Dutch coast with a fleet of ninety-eight warships and four fire ships. This engaged the Dutch fleet, which had no fewer than one hundred and thirteen ships. In the major battle between the two forces, the Dutch lost eighteen ships, four admirals, and seven thousand men. However, the English onshore weren't in a celebratory mood when they heard the news.

For, this was the year and the time of the Great Plague in London. During the winter of one thousand six hundred and sixty-four it had been whispered about, that some few people had died here and there of the disease called the Plague, in some of the unwholesome suburbs around London. News was not published at that time as it is now, and some people believed these rumours, and some disbelieved them, and they were soon forgotten. But, in the month of May, one thousand six hundred and sixty-five, it began to be said all over the town that the disease had burst out with great violence in St. Giles’s, and that the people were dying in great numbers. This soon turned out to be awfully true. The roads out of London were choked up by people endeavouring to escape from the infected city, and large sums were paid for any kind of conveyance. The disease soon spread so fast, that it was necessary to shut up the houses in which sick people were, and to cut them off from communication with the living. Every one of these houses was marked on the outside of the door with a red cross, and the words, Lord, have mercy upon us! The streets were all deserted, grass grew in the public ways, and there was a dreadful silence in the air. When night came on, dismal rumblings used to be heard, and these were the wheels of the death-carts, attended by men with veiled faces and holding cloths to their mouths, who rang doleful bells and cried in a loud and solemn voice, ‘Bring out your dead!’ The corpses put into these carts were buried by torchlight in great pits; no service being performed over them; all men being afraid to stay for a moment on the brink of the ghastly graves. In the general fear, children ran away from their parents, and parents from their children. Some who were taken ill, died alone, and without any help. Some were stabbed or strangled by hired nurses who robbed them of all their money, and stole the very beds on which they lay. Some went mad, dropped from the windows, ran through the streets, and in their pain and frenzy flung themselves into the river.

For this was the year and time of the Great Plague in London. During the winter of 1664, it was whispered that a few people had died here and there from the disease called the Plague in some of the unhealthy suburbs around London. News wasn’t shared back then like it is now, and some people believed these rumors while others didn’t, and they were soon forgotten. But in May 1665, it began to circulate throughout the town that the disease had erupted violently in St. Giles’s, and that people were dying in large numbers. This soon turned out to be horrifyingly true. The roads out of London were clogged with people trying to escape the infected city, and large sums were paid for any type of transport. The disease spread so quickly that it became necessary to quarantine houses with sick people and to cut them off from communication with the outside world. Each of these houses was marked on the front door with a red cross and the words, “Lord, have mercy upon us!” The streets were completely deserted, grass grew on the roads, and a dreadful silence hung in the air. When night fell, mournful sounds could be heard, which were the wheels of the death-carts, attended by men with veiled faces who held cloths to their mouths, ringing somber bells and calling out in a loud and solemn voice, “Bring out your dead!” The bodies placed in these carts were buried by torchlight in large pits, with no service performed over them; everyone was too scared to stay even for a moment at the edge of the ghastly graves. In the general panic, children ran away from their parents, and parents from their children. Some who fell ill died alone, without any help. Some were stabbed or strangled by hired nurses who stole all their money and even the beds they lay on. Some went mad, jumped from windows, raced through the streets, and in their pain and frenzy threw themselves into the river.

These were not all the horrors of the time. The wicked and dissolute, in wild desperation, sat in the taverns singing roaring songs, and were stricken as they drank, and went out and died. The fearful and superstitious persuaded themselves that they saw supernatural sights—burning swords in the sky, gigantic arms and darts. Others pretended that at nights vast crowds of ghosts walked round and round the dismal pits. One madman, naked, and carrying a brazier full of burning coals upon his head, stalked through the streets, crying out that he was a Prophet, commissioned to denounce the vengeance of the Lord on wicked London. Another always went to and fro, exclaiming, ‘Yet forty days, and London shall be destroyed!’ A third awoke the echoes in the dismal streets, by night and by day, and made the blood of the sick run cold, by calling out incessantly, in a deep hoarse voice, ‘O, the great and dreadful God!’

These weren’t all the horrors of the time. The wicked and reckless, in a frenzy, sat in the bars singing loud songs, getting drunk, and then stumbling out to die. The fearful and superstitious convinced themselves they saw supernatural visions—burning swords in the sky, massive arms and weapons. Others claimed that at night, huge crowds of ghosts wandered around the gloomy pits. One maniac, naked and carrying a brazier full of burning coals on his head, walked through the streets, shouting that he was a Prophet sent to announce God’s wrath on wicked London. Another person kept going back and forth, yelling, “In just forty days, London will be destroyed!” A third man filled the dark streets with his voice, day and night, chilling the sick to the bone by calling out repeatedly in a deep, raspy voice, “Oh, the great and terrible God!”

Through the months of July and August and September, the Great Plague raged more and more. Great fires were lighted in the streets, in the hope of stopping the infection; but there was a plague of rain too, and it beat the fires out. At last, the winds which usually arise at that time of the year which is called the equinox, when day and night are of equal length all over the world, began to blow, and to purify the wretched town. The deaths began to decrease, the red crosses slowly to disappear, the fugitives to return, the shops to open, pale frightened faces to be seen in the streets. The Plague had been in every part of England, but in close and unwholesome London it had killed one hundred thousand people.

Through July, August, and September, the Great Plague grew worse and worse. Huge fires were lit in the streets, hoping to stop the infection; but there was also a plague of rain that extinguished the fires. Finally, the winds that usually come at the equinox, when day and night are equal all over the world, started to blow and cleanse the miserable town. The number of deaths began to decline, the red crosses slowly vanished, the displaced people returned, stores reopened, and pale, scared faces appeared in the streets. The Plague had spread throughout England, but in cramped and unhealthy London, it had claimed one hundred thousand lives.

All this time, the Merry Monarch was as merry as ever, and as worthless as ever. All this time, the debauched lords and gentlemen and the shameless ladies danced and gamed and drank, and loved and hated one another, according to their merry ways.

All this time, the Merry Monarch was just as cheerful as ever, and just as useless as always. During this time, the debauched lords, gentlemen, and shameless ladies danced, gambled, drank, and loved and hated each other, all in their own merry fashion.

So little humanity did the government learn from the late affliction, that one of the first things the Parliament did when it met at Oxford (being as yet afraid to come to London), was to make a law, called the Five Mile Act, expressly directed against those poor ministers who, in the time of the Plague, had manfully come back to comfort the unhappy people. This infamous law, by forbidding them to teach in any school, or to come within five miles of any city, town, or village, doomed them to starvation and death.

So little compassion did the government show after the recent crisis that one of the first actions taken by Parliament when it convened in Oxford (still too scared to return to London) was to pass a law known as the Five Mile Act. This law was specifically aimed at those poor ministers who bravely returned to support the suffering people during the Plague. This disgraceful law prohibited them from teaching in any school or coming within five miles of any city, town, or village, leaving them facing starvation and death.

The fleet had been at sea, and healthy. The King of France was now in alliance with the Dutch, though his navy was chiefly employed in looking on while the English and Dutch fought. The Dutch gained one victory; and the English gained another and a greater; and Prince Rupert, one of the English admirals, was out in the Channel one windy night, looking for the French Admiral, with the intention of giving him something more to do than he had had yet, when the gale increased to a storm, and blew him into Saint Helen’s. That night was the third of September, one thousand six hundred and sixty-six, and that wind fanned the Great Fire of London.

The fleet had been at sea and was healthy. The King of France was now allied with the Dutch, although his navy mostly just watched while the English and Dutch fought. The Dutch had one victory, and the English had another, which was even greater; Prince Rupert, one of the English admirals, was out in the Channel one windy night, searching for the French Admiral, intending to give him more to do than he had so far, when the strong wind turned into a storm and pushed him into Saint Helen’s. That night was the third of September, sixteen sixty-six, and that wind fueled the Great Fire of London.

It broke out at a baker’s shop near London Bridge, on the spot on which the Monument now stands as a remembrance of those raging flames. It spread and spread, and burned and burned, for three days. The nights were lighter than the days; in the daytime there was an immense cloud of smoke, and in the night-time there was a great tower of fire mounting up into the sky, which lighted the whole country landscape for ten miles round. Showers of hot ashes rose into the air and fell on distant places; flying sparks carried the conflagration to great distances, and kindled it in twenty new spots at a time; church steeples fell down with tremendous crashes; houses crumbled into cinders by the hundred and the thousand. The summer had been intensely hot and dry, the streets were very narrow, and the houses mostly built of wood and plaster. Nothing could stop the tremendous fire, but the want of more houses to burn; nor did it stop until the whole way from the Tower to Temple Bar was a desert, composed of the ashes of thirteen thousand houses and eighty-nine churches.

It started at a bakery near London Bridge, where the Monument now stands as a reminder of those raging flames. It spread and spread, burning for three days. The nights were brighter than the days; during the day, there was a massive cloud of smoke, and at night, a huge tower of fire shot up into the sky, illuminating the countryside for ten miles around. Showers of hot ashes floated into the air and landed in far-off places; flying sparks carried the fire to great distances, igniting it in twenty new spots at once. Church steeples collapsed with huge crashes; houses turned to ash by the hundreds and thousands. The summer had been extremely hot and dry, the streets were very narrow, and most houses were made of wood and plaster. Nothing could stop the massive fire except the lack of more houses to burn; it didn't cease until the entire stretch from the Tower to Temple Bar was a wasteland made up of the ashes of thirteen thousand houses and eighty-nine churches.

This was a terrible visitation at the time, and occasioned great loss and suffering to the two hundred thousand burnt-out people, who were obliged to lie in the fields under the open night sky, or in hastily-made huts of mud and straw, while the lanes and roads were rendered impassable by carts which had broken down as they tried to save their goods. But the Fire was a great blessing to the City afterwards, for it arose from its ruins very much improved—built more regularly, more widely, more cleanly and carefully, and therefore much more healthily. It might be far more healthy than it is, but there are some people in it still—even now, at this time, nearly two hundred years later—so selfish, so pig-headed, and so ignorant, that I doubt if even another Great Fire would warm them up to do their duty.

This was a terrible disaster at the time and caused great loss and suffering to the two hundred thousand people who lost everything. They were forced to sleep in fields under the open sky or in hastily built huts made of mud and straw, while the streets were blocked by carts that broke down as they tried to save their belongings. However, the fire turned out to be a blessing for the city later on, as it rebuilt itself from the ruins in a much better way—more organized, more spacious, cleaner, and more thoughtfully designed, leading to a healthier environment. It could be even healthier than it is now, but there are still some people living there—even now, nearly two hundred years later—who are so selfish, stubborn, and ignorant that I doubt another Great Fire would motivate them to fulfill their responsibilities.

The Catholics were accused of having wilfully set London in flames; one poor Frenchman, who had been mad for years, even accused himself of having with his own hand fired the first house. There is no reasonable doubt, however, that the fire was accidental. An inscription on the Monument long attributed it to the Catholics; but it is removed now, and was always a malicious and stupid untruth.

The Catholics were accused of intentionally setting London on fire; one unfortunate Frenchman, who had been insane for years, even claimed he had started the first fire himself. However, there is no reasonable doubt that the fire was accidental. An inscription on the Monument used to blame the Catholics, but it has since been removed and was always a malicious and foolish falsehood.

SECOND PART

That the Merry Monarch might be very merry indeed, in the merry times when his people were suffering under pestilence and fire, he drank and gambled and flung away among his favourites the money which the Parliament had voted for the war. The consequence of this was that the stout-hearted English sailors were merrily starving of want, and dying in the streets; while the Dutch, under their admirals De Witt and De Ruyter, came into the River Thames, and up the River Medway as far as Upnor, burned the guard-ships, silenced the weak batteries, and did what they would to the English coast for six whole weeks. Most of the English ships that could have prevented them had neither powder nor shot on board; in this merry reign, public officers made themselves as merry as the King did with the public money; and when it was entrusted to them to spend in national defences or preparations, they put it into their own pockets with the merriest grace in the world.

That the Merry Monarch could be very cheerful indeed, during those joyful times when his people were suffering from disease and fire, he drank, gambled, and squandered the money that Parliament had allocated for the war among his favorites. As a result, the brave English sailors were joyfully starving and dying in the streets, while the Dutch, under their admirals De Witt and De Ruyter, sailed up the River Thames and up the River Medway as far as Upnor, burned the guard ships, silenced the weak batteries, and wreaked havoc on the English coast for six whole weeks. Most of the English ships that could have stopped them were lacking in gunpowder and ammunition; during this cheerful reign, public officials enjoyed themselves as much as the King did with public funds; and when they were given the responsibility to spend it on national defenses or preparations, they pocketed it with the utmost cheerfulness.

Lord Clarendon had, by this time, run as long a course as is usually allotted to the unscrupulous ministers of bad kings. He was impeached by his political opponents, but unsuccessfully. The King then commanded him to withdraw from England and retire to France, which he did, after defending himself in writing. He was no great loss at home, and died abroad some seven years afterwards.

Lord Clarendon had, by this point, gone through as much as is typically given to the unprincipled advisors of bad kings. He was impeached by his political rivals, but it didn’t work. The King then ordered him to leave England and go to France, which he did after defending himself in writing. He wasn’t really missed back home and died abroad about seven years later.

There then came into power a ministry called the Cabal Ministry, because it was composed of Lord Clifford, the Earl of Arlington, the Duke of Buckingham (a great rascal, and the King’s most powerful favourite), Lord Ashley, and the Duke of Lauderdale, c. a. b. a. l. As the French were making conquests in Flanders, the first Cabal proceeding was to make a treaty with the Dutch, for uniting with Spain to oppose the French. It was no sooner made than the Merry Monarch, who always wanted to get money without being accountable to a Parliament for his expenditure, apologised to the King of France for having had anything to do with it, and concluded a secret treaty with him, making himself his infamous pensioner to the amount of two millions of livres down, and three millions more a year; and engaging to desert that very Spain, to make war against those very Dutch, and to declare himself a Catholic when a convenient time should arrive. This religious king had lately been crying to his Catholic brother on the subject of his strong desire to be a Catholic; and now he merrily concluded this treasonable conspiracy against the country he governed, by undertaking to become one as soon as he safely could. For all of which, though he had had ten merry heads instead of one, he richly deserved to lose them by the headsman’s axe.

There came into power a group known as the Cabal Ministry, made up of Lord Clifford, the Earl Arlington, the Duke of Buckingham (a notorious rogue and the King’s most favored ally), Lord Ashley, and the Duke of Lauderdale, c.a.b.a.l. With the French conquering territories in Flanders, the first action of the Cabal was to strike a deal with the Dutch to join forces with Spain against the French. As soon as the treaty was established, the Merry Monarch, who constantly sought to collect money without answering to Parliament for his spending, apologized to the King of France for his involvement and secretly made a deal with him, making himself his notorious pensioner with a sum of two million livres upfront and an additional three million per year. He also agreed to abandon Spain, wage war against the Dutch, and declare himself a Catholic when the time was right. This devout king had recently been expressing to his Catholic brother his strong desire to convert, and now he cheerfully wrapped up this treasonous plot against his own nation by promising to embrace Catholicism as soon as it was safe to do so. For all of this, even if he had ten merry heads instead of one, he truly deserved to lose them at the hands of the executioner.

As his one merry head might have been far from safe, if these things had been known, they were kept very quiet, and war was declared by France and England against the Dutch. But, a very uncommon man, afterwards most important to English history and to the religion and liberty of this land, arose among them, and for many long years defeated the whole projects of France. This was William of Nassau, Prince of Orange, son of the last Prince of Orange of the same name, who married the daughter of Charles the First of England. He was a young man at this time, only just of age; but he was brave, cool, intrepid, and wise. His father had been so detested that, upon his death, the Dutch had abolished the authority to which this son would have otherwise succeeded (Stadtholder it was called), and placed the chief power in the hands of John de Witt, who educated this young prince. Now, the Prince became very popular, and John de Witt’s brother Cornelius was sentenced to banishment on a false accusation of conspiring to kill him. John went to the prison where he was, to take him away to exile, in his coach; and a great mob who collected on the occasion, then and there cruelly murdered both the brothers. This left the government in the hands of the Prince, who was really the choice of the nation; and from this time he exercised it with the greatest vigour, against the whole power of France, under its famous generals Condé and Turenne, and in support of the Protestant religion. It was full seven years before this war ended in a treaty of peace made at Nimeguen, and its details would occupy a very considerable space. It is enough to say that William of Orange established a famous character with the whole world; and that the Merry Monarch, adding to and improving on his former baseness, bound himself to do everything the King of France liked, and nothing the King of France did not like, for a pension of one hundred thousand pounds a year, which was afterwards doubled. Besides this, the King of France, by means of his corrupt ambassador—who wrote accounts of his proceedings in England, which are not always to be believed, I think—bought our English members of Parliament, as he wanted them. So, in point of fact, during a considerable portion of this merry reign, the King of France was the real King of this country.

As his carefree position might have been quite at risk if these things got out, they were kept very quiet, and war was declared by France and England against the Dutch. But a very remarkable man, who later became crucial to English history and to the faith and freedom of this land, emerged among them and for many long years thwarted all of France's plans. This was William of Nassau, Prince of Orange, the son of the last Prince of Orange of the same name, who married the daughter of Charles the First of England. He was just a young man at this time, barely of age; but he was brave, composed, fearless, and wise. His father had been so hated that upon his death, the Dutch abolished the position his son would have inherited (called Stadtholder) and put the main power in the hands of John de Witt, who took care of this young prince's education. The Prince soon gained a lot of popularity, while John de Witt’s brother Cornelius was falsely accused of plotting to kill him and sentenced to exile. John went to the prison to take Cornelius away in his coach, but a large crowd gathered at that moment and brutally murdered both brothers. This left the government in the hands of the Prince, who was truly the people's choice; and from that point, he governed with great energy against the full might of France, led by its famous generals Condé and Turenne, and in support of Protestantism. The war lasted a full seven years before ending in a peace treaty made at Nimeguen, and its details would take up a significant amount of space. It's enough to say that William of Orange gained a renowned reputation worldwide; meanwhile, the Merry Monarch, building on his previous misdeeds, committed to doing everything the King of France wanted and nothing he didn't want, in exchange for a pension of one hundred thousand pounds a year, which was later doubled. Besides this, the King of France, through his corrupt ambassador—who reported on his activities in England, which I believe are not always trustworthy—bribed our English members of Parliament as he wished. So, during a substantial part of this merry reign, the King of France was essentially the true ruler of this country.

But there was a better time to come, and it was to come (though his royal uncle little thought so) through that very William, Prince of Orange. He came over to England, saw Mary, the elder daughter of the Duke of York, and married her. We shall see by-and-by what came of that marriage, and why it is never to be forgotten.

But a better time was ahead, and it was coming (even if his royal uncle didn’t think so) through none other than William, Prince of Orange. He came to England, met Mary, the older daughter of the Duke of York, and married her. We’ll find out later what happened because of that marriage and why it should never be forgotten.

This daughter was a Protestant, but her mother died a Catholic. She and her sister Anne, also a Protestant, were the only survivors of eight children. Anne afterwards married George, Prince of Denmark, brother to the King of that country.

This daughter was a Protestant, but her mother passed away a Catholic. She and her sister Anne, who was also a Protestant, were the only ones to survive out of eight children. Later, Anne married George, Danish Prince, the brother of the King of that country.

Lest you should do the Merry Monarch the injustice of supposing that he was even good humoured (except when he had everything his own way), or that he was high spirited and honourable, I will mention here what was done to a member of the House of Commons, Sir John Coventry. He made a remark in a debate about taxing the theatres, which gave the King offence. The King agreed with his illegitimate son, who had been born abroad, and whom he had made Duke of Monmouth, to take the following merry vengeance. To waylay him at night, fifteen armed men to one, and to slit his nose with a penknife. Like master, like man. The King’s favourite, the Duke of Buckingham, was strongly suspected of setting on an assassin to murder the Duke of Ormond as he was returning home from a dinner; and that Duke’s spirited son, Lord Ossory, was so persuaded of his guilt, that he said to him at Court, even as he stood beside the King, ‘My lord, I know very well that you are at the bottom of this late attempt upon my father. But I give you warning, if he ever come to a violent end, his blood shall be upon you, and wherever I meet you I will pistol you! I will do so, though I find you standing behind the King’s chair; and I tell you this in his Majesty’s presence, that you may be quite sure of my doing what I threaten.’ Those were merry times indeed.

Lest you think the Merry Monarch was ever good-natured (except when everything went his way) or that he was noble and honorable, I’ll mention what happened to a member of the House of Commons, Sir John Coventry. He made a comment during a debate about taxing theaters that upset the King. The King, along with his illegitimate son, born abroad and made Duke of Monmouth, decided on a rather wicked revenge. They had fifteen armed men ambush him at night and slit his nose with a penknife. Like father, like son. The King’s favorite, the Duke of Buckingham, was strongly suspected of hiring an assassin to kill the Duke of Ormond as he was returning home from dinner; and that Duke’s spirited son, Lord Ossory, was so convinced of his guilt that he confronted him at Court, even while standing next to the King. He said, “My lord, I know very well you are behind this recent attack on my father. But I warn you, if he comes to a violent end, his blood will be on your hands, and wherever I see you, I will shoot you! I’ll do it, even if you’re standing behind the King’s chair; and I’m telling you this in the presence of his Majesty, so you know I mean what I say.” Those were indeed wild times.

There was a fellow named Blood, who was seized for making, with two companions, an audacious attempt to steal the crown, the globe, and sceptre, from the place where the jewels were kept in the Tower. This robber, who was a swaggering ruffian, being taken, declared that he was the man who had endeavoured to kill the Duke of Ormond, and that he had meant to kill the King too, but was overawed by the majesty of his appearance, when he might otherwise have done it, as he was bathing at Battersea. The King being but an ill-looking fellow, I don’t believe a word of this. Whether he was flattered, or whether he knew that Buckingham had really set Blood on to murder the Duke, is uncertain. But it is quite certain that he pardoned this thief, gave him an estate of five hundred a year in Ireland (which had had the honour of giving him birth), and presented him at Court to the debauched lords and the shameless ladies, who made a great deal of him—as I have no doubt they would have made of the Devil himself, if the King had introduced him.

There was a guy named Blood who was caught trying, along with two friends, to steal the crown, globe, and scepter from the place where the jewels were kept in the Tower. This robber, who was a loudmouth tough guy, when caught, claimed he was the one who had tried to kill the Duke of Ormond and that he had also intended to kill the King, but he was intimidated by the King's presence while he was bathing at Battersea. Since the King wasn't exactly handsome, I don't believe a word of it. It's unclear whether he was just flattering himself or if he knew that Buckingham had actually put Blood up to murdering the Duke. But it's definitely true that he pardoned this thief, gave him an estate worth five hundred a year in Ireland (where he was originally from), and introduced him at Court to the corrupt lords and shameless ladies who made a big deal out of him—as I’m sure they would have done for the Devil himself if the King had introduced him.

Infamously pensioned as he was, the King still wanted money, and consequently was obliged to call Parliaments. In these, the great object of the Protestants was to thwart the Catholic Duke of York, who married a second time; his new wife being a young lady only fifteen years old, the Catholic sister of the Duke of Modena. In this they were seconded by the Protestant Dissenters, though to their own disadvantage: since, to exclude Catholics from power, they were even willing to exclude themselves. The King’s object was to pretend to be a Protestant, while he was really a Catholic; to swear to the bishops that he was devoutly attached to the English Church, while he knew he had bargained it away to the King of France; and by cheating and deceiving them, and all who were attached to royalty, to become despotic and be powerful enough to confess what a rascal he was. Meantime, the King of France, knowing his merry pensioner well, intrigued with the King’s opponents in Parliament, as well as with the King and his friends.

Infamously on a pension as he was, the King still needed money, and as a result, he had to call Parliaments. In these meetings, the main goal of the Protestants was to block the Catholic Duke of York, who had married again; his new wife was a young lady just fifteen years old, the Catholic sister of the Duke of Modena. They were supported in this by the Protestant Dissenters, even to their own detriment: to keep Catholics out of power, they were willing to exclude themselves. The King aimed to pretend to be a Protestant while being a Catholic; to swear to the bishops that he was devoted to the English Church, while knowing he had traded it away to the King of France; and by cheating and deceiving them, as well as all those loyal to the crown, to become tyrannical and strong enough to admit what a scoundrel he was. Meanwhile, the King of France, knowing his cheerful pensioner well, conspired with the King’s opponents in Parliament, as well as with the King and his allies.

The fears that the country had of the Catholic religion being restored, if the Duke of York should come to the throne, and the low cunning of the King in pretending to share their alarms, led to some very terrible results. A certain Dr. Tonge, a dull clergyman in the City, fell into the hands of a certain Titus Oates, a most infamous character, who pretended to have acquired among the Jesuits abroad a knowledge of a great plot for the murder of the King, and the re-establishment if the Catholic religion. Titus Oates, being produced by this unlucky Dr. Tonge and solemnly examined before the council, contradicted himself in a thousand ways, told the most ridiculous and improbable stories, and implicated Coleman, the Secretary of the Duchess of York. Now, although what he charged against Coleman was not true, and although you and I know very well that the real dangerous Catholic plot was that one with the King of France of which the Merry Monarch was himself the head, there happened to be found among Coleman’s papers, some letters, in which he did praise the days of Bloody Queen Mary, and abuse the Protestant religion. This was great good fortune for Titus, as it seemed to confirm him; but better still was in store. Sir Edmundbury Godfrey, the magistrate who had first examined him, being unexpectedly found dead near Primrose Hill, was confidently believed to have been killed by the Catholics. I think there is no doubt that he had been melancholy mad, and that he killed himself; but he had a great Protestant funeral, and Titus was called the Saver of the Nation, and received a pension of twelve hundred pounds a year.

The country's fear of the Catholic religion being brought back if the Duke of York ascended to the throne, combined with the King's slyness in pretending to share their concerns, led to some really awful outcomes. A certain Dr. Tonge, a dull clergyman in the City, fell into the clutches of Titus Oates, a notorious character who claimed to have learned about a major plot among Jesuits abroad to assassinate the King and restore the Catholic faith. When Titus Oates was dragged in by the unfortunate Dr. Tonge and officially questioned by the council, he contradicted himself in countless ways, spun the wildest and least believable tales, and accused Coleman, the Secretary of the Duchess of York. Although what he accused Coleman of wasn’t true, and even though we both know that the real dangerous Catholic plot was the one involving the King of France, which the Merry Monarch was actually leading, some letters were found among Coleman's papers where he praised the reign of Bloody Queen Mary and criticized the Protestant faith. This was a lucky break for Titus, as it seemed to back him up; but even better was yet to come. Sir Edmundbury Godfrey, the magistrate who first investigated him, was unexpectedly found dead near Primrose Hill, and it was widely believed that Catholics had murdered him. I think it’s clear that he was probably troubled and took his own life, but he was given a grand Protestant funeral, and Titus was hailed as the Savior of the Nation and awarded a pension of twelve hundred pounds a year.

As soon as Oates’s wickedness had met with this success, up started another villain, named William Bedloe, who, attracted by a reward of five hundred pounds offered for the apprehension of the murderers of Godfrey, came forward and charged two Jesuits and some other persons with having committed it at the Queen’s desire. Oates, going into partnership with this new informer, had the audacity to accuse the poor Queen herself of high treason. Then appeared a third informer, as bad as either of the two, and accused a Catholic banker named Stayley of having said that the King was the greatest rogue in the world (which would not have been far from the truth), and that he would kill him with his own hand. This banker, being at once tried and executed, Coleman and two others were tried and executed. Then, a miserable wretch named Prance, a Catholic silversmith, being accused by Bedloe, was tortured into confessing that he had taken part in Godfrey’s murder, and into accusing three other men of having committed it. Then, five Jesuits were accused by Oates, Bedloe, and Prance together, and were all found guilty, and executed on the same kind of contradictory and absurd evidence. The Queen’s physician and three monks were next put on their trial; but Oates and Bedloe had for the time gone far enough and these four were acquitted. The public mind, however, was so full of a Catholic plot, and so strong against the Duke of York, that James consented to obey a written order from his brother, and to go with his family to Brussels, provided that his rights should never be sacrificed in his absence to the Duke of Monmouth. The House of Commons, not satisfied with this as the King hoped, passed a bill to exclude the Duke from ever succeeding to the throne. In return, the King dissolved the Parliament. He had deserted his old favourite, the Duke of Buckingham, who was now in the opposition.

As soon as Oates’s wrongdoing found success, another villain named William Bedloe emerged. He was drawn in by a reward of five hundred pounds offered for the capture of Godfrey's murderers. Bedloe stepped forward and accused two Jesuits and others of committing the murder at the Queen’s request. Oates, partnering with this new informer, shamelessly accused the unfortunate Queen herself of high treason. Then a third informer appeared, just as bad as the other two, who accused a Catholic banker named Stayley of saying that the King was the greatest rogue in the world (which was not too far from the truth) and that he would kill him personally. This banker was tried and executed immediately, along with Coleman and two others. Next, a miserable wretch named Skip, a Catholic silversmith, was accused by Bedloe and tortured into confessing that he had participated in Godfrey’s murder, and he named three other men who supposedly committed it. Then, five Jesuits were accused together by Oates, Bedloe, and Prance, all found guilty, and executed based on the same contradictory and absurd evidence. The Queen’s physician and three monks were next tried; however, Oates and Bedloe had pushed things far enough, and these four were acquitted. Despite this, public opinion was so consumed with a Catholic plot and so hostile towards the Duke of York that James agreed to follow a written order from his brother and go with his family to Brussels, as long as his rights wouldn’t be compromised during his absence by the Duke of Monmouth. The House of Commons, not satisfied as the King had hoped, passed a bill to exclude the Duke from ever succeeding to the throne. In response, the King dissolved Parliament. He had abandoned his former favorite, the Duke of Buckingham, who was now in the opposition.

To give any sufficient idea of the miseries of Scotland in this merry reign, would occupy a hundred pages. Because the people would not have bishops, and were resolved to stand by their solemn League and Covenant, such cruelties were inflicted upon them as make the blood run cold. Ferocious dragoons galloped through the country to punish the peasants for deserting the churches; sons were hanged up at their fathers’ doors for refusing to disclose where their fathers were concealed; wives were tortured to death for not betraying their husbands; people were taken out of their fields and gardens, and shot on the public roads without trial; lighted matches were tied to the fingers of prisoners, and a most horrible torment called the Boot was invented, and constantly applied, which ground and mashed the victims’ legs with iron wedges. Witnesses were tortured as well as prisoners. All the prisons were full; all the gibbets were heavy with bodies; murder and plunder devastated the whole country. In spite of all, the Covenanters were by no means to be dragged into the churches, and persisted in worshipping God as they thought right. A body of ferocious Highlanders, turned upon them from the mountains of their own country, had no greater effect than the English dragoons under Grahame of Claverhouse, the most cruel and rapacious of all their enemies, whose name will ever be cursed through the length and breadth of Scotland. Archbishop Sharp had ever aided and abetted all these outrages. But he fell at last; for, when the injuries of the Scottish people were at their height, he was seen, in his coach-and-six coming across a moor, by a body of men, headed by one John Balfour, who were waiting for another of their oppressors. Upon this they cried out that Heaven had delivered him into their hands, and killed him with many wounds. If ever a man deserved such a death, I think Archbishop Sharp did.

To give a complete idea of the suffering in Scotland during this so-called merry reign would take a hundred pages. Because the people refused to accept bishops and were committed to their solemn League and Covenant, they faced brutal cruelty that chills the blood. Savage dragoons rode through the countryside to punish peasants for leaving the churches; sons were hanged at their fathers' doors for not revealing where their fathers were hiding; wives were tortured to death for not betraying their husbands; people were dragged from their fields and shot on the roads without any trial; lit matches were tied to the fingers of prisoners, and a horrific torture method called the Boot was created and continuously used, which ground and crushed victims' legs with iron wedges. Witnesses were tortured just like prisoners. All the jails were overcrowded; every gallows was weighed down with bodies; murder and theft ravaged the whole country. Despite everything, the Covenanters refused to be forced into the churches and persisted in worshiping God in their own way. A group of savage Highlanders, descending from their mountains, had no more success than the English dragoons led by Grahame of Claverhouse, the cruelest and most greedy of all their enemies, whose name will always be cursed throughout Scotland. Archbishop Sharp consistently supported these horrors. But he eventually met his fate; when the suffering of the Scottish people reached its peak, he was spotted in his coach-and-six crossing a moor by a group of men led by John Balfour, who were waiting for another of their oppressors. They shouted that Heaven had delivered him into their hands and killed him with many wounds. If anyone ever deserved such a death, I believe it was Archbishop Sharp.

It made a great noise directly, and the Merry Monarch—strongly suspected of having goaded the Scottish people on, that he might have an excuse for a greater army than the Parliament were willing to give him—sent down his son, the Duke of Monmouth, as commander-in-chief, with instructions to attack the Scottish rebels, or Whigs as they were called, whenever he came up with them. Marching with ten thousand men from Edinburgh, he found them, in number four or five thousand, drawn up at Bothwell Bridge, by the Clyde. They were soon dispersed; and Monmouth showed a more humane character towards them, than he had shown towards that Member of Parliament whose nose he had caused to be slit with a penknife. But the Duke of Lauderdale was their bitter foe, and sent Claverhouse to finish them.

It made a lot of noise right away, and the Merry Monarch—strongly suspected of pushing the Scottish people to rise up so he could justify having a larger army than Parliament was willing to provide—sent his son, the Duke of Monmouth, as the commander-in-chief, with orders to attack the Scottish rebels, or Whigs as they were known, whenever he found them. Marching with ten thousand men from Edinburgh, he encountered them, numbering about four or five thousand, gathered at Bothwell Bridge by the Clyde. They were quickly scattered, and Monmouth displayed a more humane attitude toward them than he had toward that Member of Parliament whose nose he had ordered to be sliced with a penknife. But the Duke of Lauderdale was their fierce enemy and sent Claverhouse to finish them off.

As the Duke of York became more and more unpopular, the Duke of Monmouth became more and more popular. It would have been decent in the latter not to have voted in favour of the renewed bill for the exclusion of James from the throne; but he did so, much to the King’s amusement, who used to sit in the House of Lords by the fire, hearing the debates, which he said were as good as a play. The House of Commons passed the bill by a large majority, and it was carried up to the House of Lords by Lord Russell, one of the best of the leaders on the Protestant side. It was rejected there, chiefly because the bishops helped the King to get rid of it; and the fear of Catholic plots revived again. There had been another got up, by a fellow out of Newgate, named Dangerfield, which is more famous than it deserves to be, under the name of the Meal-Tub Plot. This jail-bird having been got out of Newgate by a Mrs. Cellier, a Catholic nurse, had turned Catholic himself, and pretended that he knew of a plot among the Presbyterians against the King’s life. This was very pleasant to the Duke of York, who hated the Presbyterians, who returned the compliment. He gave Dangerfield twenty guineas, and sent him to the King his brother. But Dangerfield, breaking down altogether in his charge, and being sent back to Newgate, almost astonished the Duke out of his five senses by suddenly swearing that the Catholic nurse had put that false design into his head, and that what he really knew about, was, a Catholic plot against the King; the evidence of which would be found in some papers, concealed in a meal-tub in Mrs. Cellier’s house. There they were, of course—for he had put them there himself—and so the tub gave the name to the plot. But, the nurse was acquitted on her trial, and it came to nothing.

As the Duke of York became increasingly unpopular, the Duke of Monmouth gained more and more popularity. It would have been considerate of him not to support the renewed bill to exclude James from the throne, but he did so, much to the King’s amusement, who would sit by the fire in the House of Lords listening to the debates, saying they were as entertaining as a play. The House of Commons passed the bill by a significant majority, and it was brought to the House of Lords by Lord Russell, one of the top leaders on the Protestant side. It was rejected there, mainly because the bishops helped the King dismiss it, and fears of Catholic plots resurfaced. Another plot had emerged, led by a guy from Newgate named Dangerfield, which became more famous than it deserved, known as the Meal-Tub Scheme. This ex-convict was released from Newgate by a Catholic nurse named Ms. Cellier, converted to Catholicism himself, and claimed to know about a plot among the Presbyterians against the King’s life. This was quite pleasing to the Duke of York, who despised the Presbyterians, who also reciprocated the feeling. He gave Dangerfield twenty guineas and sent him to his brother, the King. However, Dangerfield completely fell apart under questioning and was sent back to Newgate, nearly shocking the Duke with his sudden claim that the Catholic nurse had planted that false idea in his mind and that what he truly knew was of a Catholic plot against the King; the proof of which would supposedly be found in some papers hidden in a meal-tub at Mrs. Cellier’s house. And there they were, since he had put them there himself—hence the name of the plot. However, the nurse was acquitted during her trial, and it all amounted to nothing.

Lord Ashley, of the Cabal, was now Lord Shaftesbury, and was strong against the succession of the Duke of York. The House of Commons, aggravated to the utmost extent, as we may well suppose, by suspicions of the King’s conspiracy with the King of France, made a desperate point of the exclusion, still, and were bitter against the Catholics generally. So unjustly bitter were they, I grieve to say, that they impeached the venerable Lord Stafford, a Catholic nobleman seventy years old, of a design to kill the King. The witnesses were that atrocious Oates and two other birds of the same feather. He was found guilty, on evidence quite as foolish as it was false, and was beheaded on Tower Hill. The people were opposed to him when he first appeared upon the scaffold; but, when he had addressed them and shown them how innocent he was and how wickedly he was sent there, their better nature was aroused, and they said, ‘We believe you, my Lord. God bless you, my Lord!’

Lord Ashley, part of the Cabal, was now Lord Shaftesbury, and he strongly opposed the Duke of York's succession. The House of Commons, understandably frustrated by suspicions of a conspiracy between the King and the King of France, desperately pushed for exclusion and harbored bitterness toward Catholics in general. It’s sadly unjust how bitter they were, as they impeached the elderly Lord Stafford, a Catholic nobleman at seventy years old, accusing him of plotting to kill the King. The witnesses included the notorious Oates and two others just like him. He was found guilty based on evidence that was as foolish as it was false, and he was beheaded at Tower Hill. The crowd was against him when he first appeared on the scaffold, but after he addressed them and proved his innocence and the wickedness of his situation, their better instincts surfaced, and they shouted, ‘We believe you, my Lord. God bless you, my Lord!’

The House of Commons refused to let the King have any money until he should consent to the Exclusion Bill; but, as he could get it and did get it from his master the King of France, he could afford to hold them very cheap. He called a Parliament at Oxford, to which he went down with a great show of being armed and protected as if he were in danger of his life, and to which the opposition members also went armed and protected, alleging that they were in fear of the Papists, who were numerous among the King’s guards. However, they went on with the Exclusion Bill, and were so earnest upon it that they would have carried it again, if the King had not popped his crown and state robes into a sedan-chair, bundled himself into it along with them, hurried down to the chamber where the House of Lords met, and dissolved the Parliament. After which he scampered home, and the members of Parliament scampered home too, as fast as their legs could carry them.

The House of Commons refused to give the King any money until he agreed to the Exclusion Bill. However, since he was able to get funds from his ally, the King of France, he didn’t take them seriously. He called a Parliament at Oxford, showing up with a big show of being armed and protected, as if his life were in danger. The opposition members also came equipped, claiming they were afraid of the Papists, who were numerous among the King’s guards. Still, they pushed forward with the Exclusion Bill and were so determined that they would have passed it again if the King hadn’t thrown on his crown and state robes, jumped into a sedan-chair with them, rushed down to where the House of Lords was meeting, and dissolved Parliament. After that, he hurried home, and the members of Parliament rushed home too, as fast as they could.

The Duke of York, then residing in Scotland, had, under the law which excluded Catholics from public trust, no right whatever to public employment. Nevertheless, he was openly employed as the King’s representative in Scotland, and there gratified his sullen and cruel nature to his heart’s content by directing the dreadful cruelties against the Covenanters. There were two ministers named Cargill and Cameron who had escaped from the battle of Bothwell Bridge, and who returned to Scotland, and raised the miserable but still brave and unsubdued Covenanters afresh, under the name of Cameronians. As Cameron publicly posted a declaration that the King was a forsworn tyrant, no mercy was shown to his unhappy followers after he was slain in battle. The Duke of York, who was particularly fond of the Boot and derived great pleasure from having it applied, offered their lives to some of these people, if they would cry on the scaffold ‘God save the King!’ But their relations, friends, and countrymen, had been so barbarously tortured and murdered in this merry reign, that they preferred to die, and did die. The Duke then obtained his merry brother’s permission to hold a Parliament in Scotland, which first, with most shameless deceit, confirmed the laws for securing the Protestant religion against Popery, and then declared that nothing must or should prevent the succession of the Popish Duke. After this double-faced beginning, it established an oath which no human being could understand, but which everybody was to take, as a proof that his religion was the lawful religion. The Earl of Argyle, taking it with the explanation that he did not consider it to prevent him from favouring any alteration either in the Church or State which was not inconsistent with the Protestant religion or with his loyalty, was tried for high treason before a Scottish jury of which the Marquis of Montrose was foreman, and was found guilty. He escaped the scaffold, for that time, by getting away, in the disguise of a page, in the train of his daughter, Lady Sophia Lindsay. It was absolutely proposed, by certain members of the Scottish Council, that this lady should be whipped through the streets of Edinburgh. But this was too much even for the Duke, who had the manliness then (he had very little at most times) to remark that Englishmen were not accustomed to treat ladies in that manner. In those merry times nothing could equal the brutal servility of the Scottish fawners, but the conduct of similar degraded beings in England.

The Duke of York, living in Scotland at the time, had no right to public employment due to the law that banned Catholics from holding public office. Still, he was openly serving as the King’s representative in Scotland, where he cruelly indulged his grim nature by directing brutal acts against the Covenanters. Two ministers, named Cargill and Cameron, who had escaped the battle of Bothwell Bridge, returned to Scotland and rallied the suffering yet still brave and resilient Covenanters under the name of Cameronians. When Cameron publicly declared that the King was a perjured tyrant, no mercy was shown to his unfortunate followers after he was killed in battle. The Duke of York, who particularly enjoyed the Boot and took pleasure in applying it, offered their lives to some of these people if they would shout "God save the King!" from the scaffold. However, their relatives, friends, and countrymen had been so brutally tortured and murdered during this festive reign that they chose to die instead, and they did. The Duke then got his merry brother’s permission to hold a Parliament in Scotland, which first shamelessly confirmed the laws protecting the Protestant religion from Catholicism, and then stated that nothing could or should prevent the succession of the Catholic Duke. After this duplicitous start, it established an oath that no one could understand, but that everyone was required to take as proof that their religion was the true one. The Earl of Argyle, taking it with the belief that it didn’t stop him from supporting any changes in the Church or State that didn’t contradict the Protestant religion or his loyalty, was tried for treason before a Scottish jury led by Marquess of Montrose, and was found guilty. He escaped execution this time by disguising himself as a page in his daughter’s entourage, Sophia Lindsay. There was even a proposal from certain members of the Scottish Council that this lady should be whipped through the streets of Edinburgh. However, this was too much even for the Duke, who, despite having very little manliness most of the time, remarked that Englishmen didn’t treat ladies that way. During those joyous times, nothing could match the brutal submission of the Scottish flatterers, except, perhaps, the behavior of similarly degraded individuals in England.

After the settlement of these little affairs, the Duke returned to England, and soon resumed his place at the Council, and his office of High Admiral—all this by his brother’s favour, and in open defiance of the law. It would have been no loss to the country, if he had been drowned when his ship, in going to Scotland to fetch his family, struck on a sand-bank, and was lost with two hundred souls on board. But he escaped in a boat with some friends; and the sailors were so brave and unselfish, that, when they saw him rowing away, they gave three cheers, while they themselves were going down for ever.

After taking care of those small matters, the Duke went back to England and quickly returned to his position on the Council and his role as High Admiral—all thanks to his brother's support and in blatant disregard of the law. It wouldn't have been a loss for the country if he had drowned when his ship, on its way to Scotland to bring back his family, hit a sandbank and sank with two hundred people on board. But he managed to escape in a boat with some friends; the sailors were so brave and selfless that, as they saw him rowing away, they cheered three times, even as they were going down for good.

The Merry Monarch, having got rid of his Parliament, went to work to make himself despotic, with all speed. Having had the villainy to order the execution of Oliver Plunket, Bishop of Armagh, falsely accused of a plot to establish Popery in that country by means of a French army—the very thing this royal traitor was himself trying to do at home—and having tried to ruin Lord Shaftesbury, and failed—he turned his hand to controlling the corporations all over the country; because, if he could only do that, he could get what juries he chose, to bring in perjured verdicts, and could get what members he chose returned to Parliament. These merry times produced, and made Chief Justice of the Court of King’s Bench, a drunken ruffian of the name of Jeffreys; a red-faced, swollen, bloated, horrible creature, with a bullying, roaring voice, and a more savage nature perhaps than was ever lodged in any human breast. This monster was the Merry Monarch’s especial favourite, and he testified his admiration of him by giving him a ring from his own finger, which the people used to call Judge Jeffreys’s Bloodstone. Him the King employed to go about and bully the corporations, beginning with London; or, as Jeffreys himself elegantly called it, ‘to give them a lick with the rough side of his tongue.’ And he did it so thoroughly, that they soon became the basest and most sycophantic bodies in the kingdom—except the University of Oxford, which, in that respect, was quite pre-eminent and unapproachable.

The Merry Monarch, having eliminated his Parliament, quickly set out to make himself a dictator. He had the audacity to order the execution of Oliver Plunkett, Archbishop of Armagh, who was falsely accused of plotting to impose Catholicism in the country with a French army—the very thing this royal traitor was trying to do at home. After failing to ruin Lord Shaftesbury, he focused on taking control of corporations across the country. If he could manage that, he could pick juries that would deliver false verdicts and choose which members to return to Parliament. During these chaotic times, he appointed a drunken bully named Jeffreys as Chief Justice of the Court of King’s Bench; a red-faced, swollen, grotesque figure with a loud, aggressive voice and a brutal nature like perhaps no one else in history. This monster was the Merry Monarch’s favorite, and he showed his admiration by giving him a ring from his own finger, which the people called Judge Jeffreys’s Bloodstone. The King sent him out to intimidate the corporations, starting with London; or, as Jeffreys himself refined it, ‘to give them a lick with the rough side of his tongue.’ He did it so well that they quickly became the most servile and sycophantic groups in the kingdom—except for the University of Oxford, which was in a league of its own in that regard.

Lord Shaftesbury (who died soon after the King’s failure against him), Lord William Russell, the Duke of Monmouth, Lord Howard, Lord Jersey, Algernon Sidney, John Hampden (grandson of the great Hampden), and some others, used to hold a council together after the dissolution of the Parliament, arranging what it might be necessary to do, if the King carried his Popish plot to the utmost height. Lord Shaftesbury having been much the most violent of this party, brought two violent men into their secrets—Rumsey, who had been a soldier in the Republican army; and West, a lawyer. These two knew an old officer of Cromwell’s, called Rumbold, who had married a maltster’s widow, and so had come into possession of a solitary dwelling called the Rye House, near Hoddesdon, in Hertfordshire. Rumbold said to them what a capital place this house of his would be from which to shoot at the King, who often passed there going to and fro from Newmarket. They liked the idea, and entertained it. But, one of their body gave information; and they, together with Shepherd a wine merchant, Lord Russell, Algernon Sidney, Lord Essex, Lord Howard, and Hampden, were all arrested.

Lord Shaftesbury (who died soon after the King failed to defeat him), Lord William Russell, the Duke of Monmouth, Lord Howard, Lord Jersey, Algernon Sidney, John Hampden (the grandson of the great Hampden), and a few others used to meet in council after Parliament was dissolved, figuring out what actions to take if the King fully pursued his Popish plot. Lord Shaftesbury, being the most aggressive of this group, brought two intense individuals into their confidence—Rumsey, who had served as a soldier in the Republican army; and West, a lawyer. These two knew an old officer from Cromwell’s time, named Rumbold, who had married a maltster's widow and gained ownership of a secluded house called the Rye House, located near Hoddesdon in Hertfordshire. Rumbold told them what a perfect spot his house would be to ambush the King, who frequently passed by on his way to and from Newmarket. They liked the idea and considered it. However, one of their group leaked the information, leading to the arrests of them all, including Shepherd, a wine merchant, Lord Russell, Algernon Sidney, Essex, Lord Howard, and Hampden.

Lord Russell might have easily escaped, but scorned to do so, being innocent of any wrong; Lord Essex might have easily escaped, but scorned to do so, lest his flight should prejudice Lord Russell. But it weighed upon his mind that he had brought into their council, Lord Howard—who now turned a miserable traitor—against a great dislike Lord Russell had always had of him. He could not bear the reflection, and destroyed himself before Lord Russell was brought to trial at the Old Bailey.

Lord Russell could have easily escaped, but he refused to do so because he was innocent of any wrongdoing; Lord Essex could have easily escaped as well, but he chose not to in order to avoid harming Lord Russell's situation. However, it troubled him that he had brought Lord Howard into their council, who later became a pathetic traitor, despite Lord Russell's longstanding dislike for him. He couldn't stand the thought of it and ended his own life before Lord Russell was put on trial at the Old Bailey.

He knew very well that he had nothing to hope, having always been manful in the Protestant cause against the two false brothers, the one on the throne, and the other standing next to it. He had a wife, one of the noblest and best of women, who acted as his secretary on his trial, who comforted him in his prison, who supped with him on the night before he died, and whose love and virtue and devotion have made her name imperishable. Of course, he was found guilty, and was sentenced to be beheaded in Lincoln’s Inn-fields, not many yards from his own house. When he had parted from his children on the evening before his death, his wife still stayed with him until ten o’clock at night; and when their final separation in this world was over, and he had kissed her many times, he still sat for a long while in his prison, talking of her goodness. Hearing the rain fall fast at that time, he calmly said, ‘Such a rain to-morrow will spoil a great show, which is a dull thing on a rainy day.’ At midnight he went to bed, and slept till four; even when his servant called him, he fell asleep again while his clothes were being made ready. He rode to the scaffold in his own carriage, attended by two famous clergymen, Tillotson and Burnet, and sang a psalm to himself very softly, as he went along. He was as quiet and as steady as if he had been going out for an ordinary ride. After saying that he was surprised to see so great a crowd, he laid down his head upon the block, as if upon the pillow of his bed, and had it struck off at the second blow. His noble wife was busy for him even then; for that true-hearted lady printed and widely circulated his last words, of which he had given her a copy. They made the blood of all the honest men in England boil.

He knew very well that he had nothing to hope for, having always been courageous in the Protestant cause against the two false brothers—the one on the throne and the other standing beside him. He had a wife, one of the noblest and kindest women, who acted as his secretary during his trial, comforted him in prison, shared a meal with him the night before he died, and whose love, virtue, and devotion have made her name unforgettable. Naturally, he was found guilty and sentenced to be beheaded in Lincoln's Inn Fields, just a few yards from his own house. After he said his goodbyes to his children the evening before his death, his wife stayed with him until ten o'clock at night. When their final separation came, and he had kissed her many times, he sat for a long while in his prison, talking about her goodness. Hearing the rain fall heavily at that time, he calmly remarked, "Such rain tomorrow will ruin a big event, which is a dull thing on a rainy day." At midnight, he went to bed and slept until four; even when his servant called him, he fell asleep again while his clothes were being prepared. He rode to the scaffold in his own carriage, accompanied by two well-known clergymen, Tillotson and Burnet, and softly sang a psalm to himself as he went along. He was as calm and steady as if he were just going for an ordinary ride. After expressing surprise at the large crowd, he laid his head on the block as if it were his bed's pillow and had it struck off with the second blow. His noble wife was busy for him even then; that true-hearted lady printed and circulated his last words widely, which he had given her a copy of. They made the blood of all the honest men in England boil.

The University of Oxford distinguished itself on the very same day by pretending to believe that the accusation against Lord Russell was true, and by calling the King, in a written paper, the Breath of their Nostrils and the Anointed of the Lord. This paper the Parliament afterwards caused to be burned by the common hangman; which I am sorry for, as I wish it had been framed and glazed and hung up in some public place, as a monument of baseness for the scorn of mankind.

The University of Oxford made a reputation for itself that day by feigning belief in the accusation against Lord Russell and referring to the King in a written document as the Breath of their Nostrils and the Anointed of the Lord. Later, Parliament had this document burned by the public executioner; I regret this, as I wish it had been framed, glassed, and displayed in a public place as a reminder of cowardice for everyone to see.

Next, came the trial of Algernon Sidney, at which Jeffreys presided, like a great crimson toad, sweltering and swelling with rage. ‘I pray God, Mr. Sidney,’ said this Chief Justice of a merry reign, after passing sentence, ‘to work in you a temper fit to go to the other world, for I see you are not fit for this.’ ‘My lord,’ said the prisoner, composedly holding out his arm, ‘feel my pulse, and see if I be disordered. I thank Heaven I never was in better temper than I am now.’ Algernon Sidney was executed on Tower Hill, on the seventh of December, one thousand six hundred and eighty-three. He died a hero, and died, in his own words, ‘For that good old cause in which he had been engaged from his youth, and for which God had so often and so wonderfully declared himself.’

Next came the trial of Algernon Sidney, where Jeffreys presided, like a huge crimson toad, seething and swelling with anger. “I pray God, Mr. Sidney,” said this Chief Justice of a cheerful reign, after passing sentence, “to work in you a temperament suitable for the afterlife, for I see you are not fit for this world.” “My lord,” replied the prisoner, calmly extending his arm, “check my pulse and see if I'm disordered. I thank Heaven I have never been in better spirits than I am now.” Algernon Sidney was executed on Tower Hill on December 7, 1683. He died a hero, and in his own words, “For that good old cause in which he had been engaged from his youth, and for which God had so often and so wonderfully declared himself.”

The Duke of Monmouth had been making his uncle, the Duke of York, very jealous, by going about the country in a royal sort of way, playing at the people’s games, becoming godfather to their children, and even touching for the King’s evil, or stroking the faces of the sick to cure them—though, for the matter of that, I should say he did them about as much good as any crowned king could have done. His father had got him to write a letter, confessing his having had a part in the conspiracy, for which Lord Russell had been beheaded; but he was ever a weak man, and as soon as he had written it, he was ashamed of it and got it back again. For this, he was banished to the Netherlands; but he soon returned and had an interview with his father, unknown to his uncle. It would seem that he was coming into the Merry Monarch’s favour again, and that the Duke of York was sliding out of it, when Death appeared to the merry galleries at Whitehall, and astonished the debauched lords and gentlemen, and the shameless ladies, very considerably.

The Duke of Monmouth had been making his uncle, the Duke of York, really jealous by traveling around the country like royalty, participating in the people's games, becoming a godfather to their kids, and even touching the sick to cure them—though honestly, I’d say he helped them about as much as any crowned king could have. His father got him to write a letter admitting he was involved in the conspiracy that led to Lord Russell's execution; however, he was always a weak man, and as soon as he finished it, he felt ashamed and retrieved it. Because of this, he was exiled to the Netherlands, but he quickly returned and met with his father without his uncle knowing. It seemed he was regaining the favor of the Merry Monarch, while the Duke of York was losing his, when Death unexpectedly showed up in the lively gatherings at Whitehall, shocking the debauched lords, gentlemen, and shameless ladies quite a bit.

On Monday, the second of February, one thousand six hundred and eighty-five, the merry pensioner and servant of the King of France fell down in a fit of apoplexy. By the Wednesday his case was hopeless, and on the Thursday he was told so. As he made a difficulty about taking the sacrament from the Protestant Bishop of Bath, the Duke of York got all who were present away from the bed, and asked his brother, in a whisper, if he should send for a Catholic priest? The King replied, ‘For God’s sake, brother, do!’ The Duke smuggled in, up the back stairs, disguised in a wig and gown, a priest named Huddleston, who had saved the King’s life after the battle of Worcester: telling him that this worthy man in the wig had once saved his body, and was now come to save his soul.

On Monday, February 2, 1685, the cheerful retiree and servant of the King of France collapsed from a stroke. By Wednesday, his situation was hopeless, and on Thursday, he was informed of it. When he hesitated to receive communion from the Protestant Bishop of Bath, the Duke of York quietly gathered everyone away from the bed and asked his brother in a whisper if he should call for a Catholic priest. The King replied, "For God's sake, brother, do!" The Duke secretly brought in, up the back stairs, a priest named Huddleston, who had saved the King’s life after the battle of Worcester, telling him that this good man in the wig had once saved his body and was now here to save his soul.

The Merry Monarch lived through that night, and died before noon on the next day, which was Friday, the sixth. Two of the last things he said were of a human sort, and your remembrance will give him the full benefit of them. When the Queen sent to say she was too unwell to attend him and to ask his pardon, he said, ‘Alas! poor woman, she beg my pardon! I beg hers with all my heart. Take back that answer to her.’ And he also said, in reference to Nell Gwyn, ‘Do not let poor Nelly starve.’

The Merry Monarch lived through that night and died before noon the next day, which was Friday, the sixth. Two of the last things he said were very human, and your memory will give him the full benefit of them. When the Queen sent word that she was too unwell to see him and asked for his forgiveness, he said, ‘Alas! poor woman, she asks my forgiveness! I ask hers with all my heart. Please tell her that.’ He also said, regarding Nell Gwyn, ‘Don’t let poor Nelly starve.’

He died in the fifty-fifth year of his age, and the twenty-fifth of his reign.

He died at the age of fifty-five, in the twenty-fifth year of his reign.

CHAPTER XXXVI—ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE SECOND

King James the Second was a man so very disagreeable, that even the best of historians has favoured his brother Charles, as becoming, by comparison, quite a pleasant character. The one object of his short reign was to re-establish the Catholic religion in England; and this he doggedly pursued with such a stupid obstinacy, that his career very soon came to a close.

King James the Second was such a disagreeable man that even the best historians have portrayed his brother Charles as a much more likable character by comparison. The main goal of his brief reign was to restore the Catholic religion in England, and he stubbornly pursued this aim with such foolish persistence that his time in power came to an end rather quickly.

The first thing he did, was, to assure his council that he would make it his endeavour to preserve the Government, both in Church and State, as it was by law established; and that he would always take care to defend and support the Church. Great public acclamations were raised over this fair speech, and a great deal was said, from the pulpits and elsewhere, about the word of a King which was never broken, by credulous people who little supposed that he had formed a secret council for Catholic affairs, of which a mischievous Jesuit, called Father Petre, was one of the chief members. With tears of joy in his eyes, he received, as the beginning of his pension from the King of France, five hundred thousand livres; yet, with a mixture of meanness and arrogance that belonged to his contemptible character, he was always jealous of making some show of being independent of the King of France, while he pocketed his money. As—notwithstanding his publishing two papers in favour of Popery (and not likely to do it much service, I should think) written by the King, his brother, and found in his strong-box; and his open display of himself attending mass—the Parliament was very obsequious, and granted him a large sum of money, he began his reign with a belief that he could do what he pleased, and with a determination to do it.

The first thing he did was assure his council that he would strive to uphold the Government, both in Church and State, as it was established by law; and that he would always make it a priority to defend and support the Church. Great public cheers followed this impressive speech, and a lot was said from the pulpits and elsewhere about a King’s word never being broken, by gullible people who had no idea he had formed a secret council for Catholic matters, of which a scheming Jesuit named Father Peter was a key member. With tears of joy in his eyes, he accepted, as the start of his pension from the King of France, five hundred thousand livres; yet, with a mix of pettiness and arrogance that suited his despicable character, he was always keen to show that he was independent of the King of France while taking his money. Even though he published two papers supporting Catholicism (which probably wouldn’t do him much good, I suspect), written by the King, his brother, and found in his strongbox; and openly showed himself attending mass—the Parliament was very subservient, and granted him a large sum of money, leading him to begin his reign believing he could do whatever he wanted, with a determination to do just that.

Before we proceed to its principal events, let us dispose of Titus Oates. He was tried for perjury, a fortnight after the coronation, and besides being very heavily fined, was sentenced to stand twice in the pillory, to be whipped from Aldgate to Newgate one day, and from Newgate to Tyburn two days afterwards, and to stand in the pillory five times a year as long as he lived. This fearful sentence was actually inflicted on the rascal. Being unable to stand after his first flogging, he was dragged on a sledge from Newgate to Tyburn, and flogged as he was drawn along. He was so strong a villain that he did not die under the torture, but lived to be afterwards pardoned and rewarded, though not to be ever believed in any more. Dangerfield, the only other one of that crew left alive, was not so fortunate. He was almost killed by a whipping from Newgate to Tyburn, and, as if that were not punishment enough, a ferocious barrister of Gray’s Inn gave him a poke in the eye with his cane, which caused his death; for which the ferocious barrister was deservedly tried and executed.

Before we get to the main events, let’s talk about Titus Oates. He was put on trial for perjury just two weeks after the coronation. Along with a hefty fine, he was sentenced to stand in the pillory twice, be whipped from Aldgate to Newgate one day, and from Newgate to Tyburn two days later, and to be in the pillory five times a year for the rest of his life. This harsh sentence was actually carried out on him. After his first flogging, he couldn’t stand, so he was dragged on a sledge from Newgate to Tyburn, getting whipped the whole way. Amazingly, he was so tough that he didn’t die from the punishment, but he lived on to be pardoned and even rewarded, though no one ever believed him again. Dangerfield, the only other member of that group still alive, wasn’t so lucky. He was nearly killed by a whipping from Newgate to Tyburn, and as if that wasn’t enough, a vicious barrister from Gray’s Inn poked him in the eye with his cane, which ultimately led to his death. The brutal barrister was rightfully tried and executed for that.

As soon as James was on the throne, Argyle and Monmouth went from Brussels to Rotterdam, and attended a meeting of Scottish exiles held there, to concert measures for a rising in England. It was agreed that Argyle should effect a landing in Scotland, and Monmouth in England; and that two Englishmen should be sent with Argyle to be in his confidence, and two Scotchmen with the Duke of Monmouth.

As soon as James took the throne, Argyle and Monmouth traveled from Brussels to Rotterdam, where they joined a meeting of Scottish exiles to plan an uprising in England. They agreed that Argyle would land in Scotland and Monmouth in England, and that two Englishmen would go with Argyle to gain his trust, along with two Scotsmen accompanying the Duke of Monmouth.

Argyle was the first to act upon this contract. But, two of his men being taken prisoners at the Orkney Islands, the Government became aware of his intention, and was able to act against him with such vigour as to prevent his raising more than two or three thousand Highlanders, although he sent a fiery cross, by trusty messengers, from clan to clan and from glen to glen, as the custom then was when those wild people were to be excited by their chiefs. As he was moving towards Glasgow with his small force, he was betrayed by some of his followers, taken, and carried, with his hands tied behind his back, to his old prison in Edinburgh Castle. James ordered him to be executed, on his old shamefully unjust sentence, within three days; and he appears to have been anxious that his legs should have been pounded with his old favourite the boot. However, the boot was not applied; he was simply beheaded, and his head was set upon the top of Edinburgh Jail. One of those Englishmen who had been assigned to him was that old soldier Rumbold, the master of the Rye House. He was sorely wounded, and within a week after Argyle had suffered with great courage, was brought up for trial, lest he should die and disappoint the King. He, too, was executed, after defending himself with great spirit, and saying that he did not believe that God had made the greater part of mankind to carry saddles on their backs and bridles in their mouths, and to be ridden by a few, booted and spurred for the purpose—in which I thoroughly agree with Rumbold.

Argyle was the first to act on this agreement. But when two of his men were captured in the Orkney Islands, the government found out about his plans and took swift action to stop him from rallying more than two or three thousand Highlanders. He sent a fiery cross, through trusted messengers, from clan to clan and from glen to glen, as was the custom back then to rally those wild people by their chiefs. As he was heading towards Glasgow with his small group, he was betrayed by some of his followers, captured, and taken, with his hands tied behind his back, to his old prison in Edinburgh Castle. James ordered him to be executed based on his previous unjust sentence, within three days; he seemed eager for his legs to be crushed in the old torture device known as the boot. However, the boot was not used; he was simply beheaded, and his head was displayed on top of Edinburgh Jail. One of the Englishmen assigned to him was the old soldier Rumbold, master of the Rye House. He was severely injured, and within a week after Argyle bravely faced his fate, he was brought up for trial to avoid disappointing the King if he were to die. He, too, was executed after defending himself fiercely, stating that he didn’t believe God made most people to carry saddles on their backs and bridles in their mouths, just to be ridden by a few, booted and spurred for that purpose—which I completely agree with Rumbold.

The Duke of Monmouth, partly through being detained and partly through idling his time away, was five or six weeks behind his friend when he landed at Lyme, in Dorset: having at his right hand an unlucky nobleman called Lord Grey of Werk, who of himself would have ruined a far more promising expedition. He immediately set up his standard in the market-place, and proclaimed the King a tyrant, and a Popish usurper, and I know not what else; charging him, not only with what he had done, which was bad enough, but with what neither he nor anybody else had done, such as setting fire to London, and poisoning the late King. Raising some four thousand men by these means, he marched on to Taunton, where there were many Protestant dissenters who were strongly opposed to the Catholics. Here, both the rich and poor turned out to receive him, ladies waved a welcome to him from all the windows as he passed along the streets, flowers were strewn in his way, and every compliment and honour that could be devised was showered upon him. Among the rest, twenty young ladies came forward, in their best clothes, and in their brightest beauty, and gave him a Bible ornamented with their own fair hands, together with other presents.

The Duke of Monmouth, partly because he was held up and partly due to wasting time, was five or six weeks behind his friend when he landed in Lyme, Dorset. He had an unfortunate nobleman named Lord Grey of Warke with him, who would have ruined a much more promising mission. He immediately raised his flag in the marketplace and declared the King a tyrant and a Popish usurper, among other things, accusing him not only of his actual wrongdoings, which were bad enough, but also of things that neither he nor anyone else had done, like setting fire to London and poisoning the late King. By these means, he gathered about four thousand men and marched on to Taunton, where many Protestant dissenters who strongly opposed Catholics lived. In Taunton, both the wealthy and the poor came out to greet him; ladies waved at him from the windows as he walked through the streets, flowers were scattered in his path, and he was showered with every compliment and honor imaginable. Among others, twenty young ladies approached him, dressed in their finest clothes and looking their most beautiful, and presented him with a Bible decorated by their own fair hands, along with other gifts.

Encouraged by this homage, he proclaimed himself King, and went on to Bridgewater. But, here the Government troops, under the Earl of Feversham, were close at hand; and he was so dispirited at finding that he made but few powerful friends after all, that it was a question whether he should disband his army and endeavour to escape. It was resolved, at the instance of that unlucky Lord Grey, to make a night attack on the King’s army, as it lay encamped on the edge of a morass called Sedgemoor. The horsemen were commanded by the same unlucky lord, who was not a brave man. He gave up the battle almost at the first obstacle—which was a deep drain; and although the poor countrymen, who had turned out for Monmouth, fought bravely with scythes, poles, pitchforks, and such poor weapons as they had, they were soon dispersed by the trained soldiers, and fled in all directions. When the Duke of Monmouth himself fled, was not known in the confusion; but the unlucky Lord Grey was taken early next day, and then another of the party was taken, who confessed that he had parted from the Duke only four hours before. Strict search being made, he was found disguised as a peasant, hidden in a ditch under fern and nettles, with a few peas in his pocket which he had gathered in the fields to eat. The only other articles he had upon him were a few papers and little books: one of the latter being a strange jumble, in his own writing, of charms, songs, recipes, and prayers. He was completely broken. He wrote a miserable letter to the King, beseeching and entreating to be allowed to see him. When he was taken to London, and conveyed bound into the King’s presence, he crawled to him on his knees, and made a most degrading exhibition. As James never forgave or relented towards anybody, he was not likely to soften towards the issuer of the Lyme proclamation, so he told the suppliant to prepare for death.

Encouraged by this tribute, he declared himself King and went on to Bridgewater. However, the Government troops, led by the Earl of Feversham, were nearby, and he felt so discouraged by discovering that he had few strong allies after all that he considered disbanding his army and trying to escape. At the suggestion of the unfortunate Lord Grey, they decided to launch a nighttime attack on the King’s camp, which was set up on the edge of a swamp called Sedgemoor. The cavalry was under the command of the same unfortunate lord, who wasn’t particularly brave. He gave up the fight almost immediately when faced with the first obstacle—a deep drain. Although the poor locals who had rallied for Monmouth fought valiantly with scythes, poles, pitchforks, and whatever makeshift weapons they had, they were quickly scattered by the trained soldiers and fled in all directions. It was unclear when the Duke of Monmouth himself took off amidst the chaos, but the unfortunate Lord Grey was captured the following day, and then another member of the group was caught, revealing that he had separated from the Duke only four hours earlier. A thorough search revealed the Duke disguised as a peasant, hiding in a ditch under ferns and nettles, with a few peas in his pocket that he had picked from the fields for food. The only other items he had were a few papers and little books, one of which was a strange mix, in his own handwriting, of charms, songs, recipes, and prayers. He was utterly defeated. He wrote a pitiful letter to the King, pleading to be allowed to see him. When he was taken to London and brought, bound, into the King’s presence, he crawled on his knees and made an utterly humiliating display. Since James never forgave or showed mercy to anyone, he was unlikely to show compassion towards the author of the Lyme proclamation, so he told the supplicant to prepare for death.

On the fifteenth of July, one thousand six hundred and eighty-five, this unfortunate favourite of the people was brought out to die on Tower Hill. The crowd was immense, and the tops of all the houses were covered with gazers. He had seen his wife, the daughter of the Duke of Buccleuch, in the Tower, and had talked much of a lady whom he loved far better—the Lady Harriet Wentworth—who was one of the last persons he remembered in this life. Before laying down his head upon the block he felt the edge of the axe, and told the executioner that he feared it was not sharp enough, and that the axe was not heavy enough. On the executioner replying that it was of the proper kind, the Duke said, ‘I pray you have a care, and do not use me so awkwardly as you used my Lord Russell.’ The executioner, made nervous by this, and trembling, struck once and merely gashed him in the neck. Upon this, the Duke of Monmouth raised his head and looked the man reproachfully in the face. Then he struck twice, and then thrice, and then threw down the axe, and cried out in a voice of horror that he could not finish that work. The sheriffs, however, threatening him with what should be done to himself if he did not, he took it up again and struck a fourth time and a fifth time. Then the wretched head at last fell off, and James, Duke of Monmouth, was dead, in the thirty-sixth year of his age. He was a showy, graceful man, with many popular qualities, and had found much favour in the open hearts of the English.

On July 15, 1685, this unfortunate favorite of the people was brought out to die on Tower Hill. The crowd was huge, and the rooftops were filled with onlookers. He had seen his wife, the daughter of the Duke of Buccleuch, in the Tower, but he spoke more often of a lady he loved far more—the Lady Harriet Wentworth—who was one of the last people he remembered in this life. Before resting his head on the block, he felt the edge of the axe and told the executioner that he feared it wasn’t sharp enough and that it wasn’t heavy enough. When the executioner replied that it was the right kind, the Duke said, "Please be careful and don’t handle me as awkwardly as you did my Lord Russell." The executioner, nervous and shaking, struck once and only made a small gash in his neck. At this, the Duke of Monmouth raised his head and looked reproachfully at the man. Then he struck twice, then three times, and then threw down the axe, crying out in horror that he couldn't complete the task. However, the sheriffs threatened him with what would happen to him if he didn’t finish, so he picked it up again and struck a fourth and fifth time. At last, the poor head fell off, and James, Duke of Monmouth, was dead at the age of thirty-six. He was a flashy, graceful man with many popular traits, and he had found much favor among the open-hearted English.

The atrocities, committed by the Government, which followed this Monmouth rebellion, form the blackest and most lamentable page in English history. The poor peasants, having been dispersed with great loss, and their leaders having been taken, one would think that the implacable King might have been satisfied. But no; he let loose upon them, among other intolerable monsters, a Colonel Kirk, who had served against the Moors, and whose soldiers—called by the people Kirk’s lambs, because they bore a lamb upon their flag, as the emblem of Christianity—were worthy of their leader. The atrocities committed by these demons in human shape are far too horrible to be related here. It is enough to say, that besides most ruthlessly murdering and robbing them, and ruining them by making them buy their pardons at the price of all they possessed, it was one of Kirk’s favourite amusements, as he and his officers sat drinking after dinner, and toasting the King, to have batches of prisoners hanged outside the windows for the company’s diversion; and that when their feet quivered in the convulsions of death, he used to swear that they should have music to their dancing, and would order the drums to beat and the trumpets to play. The detestable King informed him, as an acknowledgment of these services, that he was ‘very well satisfied with his proceedings.’ But the King’s great delight was in the proceedings of Jeffreys, now a peer, who went down into the west, with four other judges, to try persons accused of having had any share in the rebellion. The King pleasantly called this ‘Jeffreys’s campaign.’ The people down in that part of the country remember it to this day as The Bloody Assize.

The atrocities committed by the government following the Monmouth rebellion are one of the darkest and saddest chapters in English history. The poor peasants, having been scattered with great losses, and their leaders taken, one might think the unyielding King would be satisfied. But no; he unleashed upon them, among other unbearable monsters, a Colonel Kirk, who had fought against the Moors. His soldiers—known as Kirk’s lambs, because they carried a lamb on their flag as a symbol of Christianity—were just as brutal as their leader. The horrors inflicted by these demons are far too terrible to recount here. It’s enough to say that, in addition to ruthlessly murdering, robbing, and ruining people by forcing them to buy their pardons at the cost of everything they owned, it became one of Kirk’s favorite pastimes, while he and his officers drank after dinner and toasted the King, to have groups of prisoners hanged outside their windows for their entertainment. When the prisoners' bodies twitched in death, he would swear they should have music for their dancing and would order the drums to beat and the trumpets to play. The despicable King expressed his approval of these actions, stating that he was ‘very well satisfied with his proceedings.’ But the King particularly enjoyed the actions of Jeffreys, now a peer, who went down to the west with four other judges to try those accused of involvement in the rebellion. The King jovially referred to this as ‘Jeffreys’s campaign.’ The people in that region remember it to this day as The Bloody Assize.

It began at Winchester, where a poor deaf old lady, Mrs. Alicia Lisle, the widow of one of the judges of Charles the First (who had been murdered abroad by some Royalist assassins), was charged with having given shelter in her house to two fugitives from Sedgemoor. Three times the jury refused to find her guilty, until Jeffreys bullied and frightened them into that false verdict. When he had extorted it from them, he said, ‘Gentlemen, if I had been one of you, and she had been my own mother, I would have found her guilty;’—as I dare say he would. He sentenced her to be burned alive, that very afternoon. The clergy of the cathedral and some others interfered in her favour, and she was beheaded within a week. As a high mark of his approbation, the King made Jeffreys Lord Chancellor; and he then went on to Dorchester, to Exeter, to Taunton, and to Wells. It is astonishing, when we read of the enormous injustice and barbarity of this beast, to know that no one struck him dead on the judgment-seat. It was enough for any man or woman to be accused by an enemy, before Jeffreys, to be found guilty of high treason. One man who pleaded not guilty, he ordered to be taken out of court upon the instant, and hanged; and this so terrified the prisoners in general that they mostly pleaded guilty at once. At Dorchester alone, in the course of a few days, Jeffreys hanged eighty people; besides whipping, transporting, imprisoning, and selling as slaves, great numbers. He executed, in all, two hundred and fifty, or three hundred.

It started in Winchester, where a poor deaf old lady, Ms. Alicia Lisle, the widow of one of Charles the First's judges (who had been murdered abroad by some Royalist assassins), was accused of sheltering two fugitives from Sedgemoor in her home. Three times the jury refused to find her guilty until Jeffreys intimidated and coerced them into a false verdict. After he got this verdict from them, he said, ‘Gentlemen, if I had been one of you, and she had been my own mother, I would have found her guilty;’—which I have no doubt he would have. He sentenced her to be burned alive that very afternoon. The cathedral clergy and a few others intervened on her behalf, and she was beheaded within a week. As a sign of his approval, the King appointed Jeffreys as Lord Chancellor, and he then proceeded to Dorchester, Exeter, Taunton, and Wells. It’s shocking, when we read about the immense injustice and cruelty of this monster, to know that no one struck him dead right there in the courtroom. It was sufficient for anyone to be accused by an enemy before Jeffreys to be found guilty of high treason. One man who pleaded not guilty was ordered to be removed from the court and hanged immediately; this terrified the other prisoners so much that most of them pleaded guilty at once. In Dorchester alone, in just a few days, Jeffreys hanged eighty people, alongside whipping, deporting, imprisoning, and selling as slaves many more. In total, he executed around two hundred fifty or three hundred people.

These executions took place, among the neighbours and friends of the sentenced, in thirty-six towns and villages. Their bodies were mangled, steeped in caldrons of boiling pitch and tar, and hung up by the roadsides, in the streets, over the very churches. The sight and smell of heads and limbs, the hissing and bubbling of the infernal caldrons, and the tears and terrors of the people, were dreadful beyond all description. One rustic, who was forced to steep the remains in the black pot, was ever afterwards called ‘Tom Boilman.’ The hangman has ever since been called Jack Ketch, because a man of that name went hanging and hanging, all day long, in the train of Jeffreys. You will hear much of the horrors of the great French Revolution. Many and terrible they were, there is no doubt; but I know of nothing worse, done by the maddened people of France in that awful time, than was done by the highest judge in England, with the express approval of the King of England, in The Bloody Assize.

These executions happened among the neighbors and friends of those sentenced in thirty-six towns and villages. Their bodies were mutilated, soaked in boiling pitch and tar, and hung up by the roadsides, in the streets, and even over the churches. The sight and smell of heads and limbs, the hissing and bubbling of those hellish cauldrons, and the tears and fears of the people were beyond horrific. One countryman, who had to soak the remains in the black pot, was forever nicknamed ‘Tom Boilman.’ The executioner has since been called Jack Ketch, because a man by that name was constantly hanging people all day long, in the company of Jeffreys. You will hear a lot about the horrors of the great French Revolution. Many of them were terrible, that’s for sure; but I don’t know of anything worse, carried out by the frenzied people of France during that dreadful time, than what was executed by the highest judge in England, with the full approval of the King of England, in The Bloody Assize.

Nor was even this all. Jeffreys was as fond of money for himself as of misery for others, and he sold pardons wholesale to fill his pockets. The King ordered, at one time, a thousand prisoners to be given to certain of his favourites, in order that they might bargain with them for their pardons. The young ladies of Taunton who had presented the Bible, were bestowed upon the maids of honour at court; and those precious ladies made very hard bargains with them indeed. When The Bloody Assize was at its most dismal height, the King was diverting himself with horse-races in the very place where Mrs. Lisle had been executed. When Jeffreys had done his worst, and came home again, he was particularly complimented in the Royal Gazette; and when the King heard that through drunkenness and raging he was very ill, his odious Majesty remarked that such another man could not easily be found in England. Besides all this, a former sheriff of London, named Cornish, was hanged within sight of his own house, after an abominably conducted trial, for having had a share in the Rye House Plot, on evidence given by Rumsey, which that villain was obliged to confess was directly opposed to the evidence he had given on the trial of Lord Russell. And on the very same day, a worthy widow, named Elizabeth Gaunt, was burned alive at Tyburn, for having sheltered a wretch who himself gave evidence against her. She settled the fuel about herself with her own hands, so that the flames should reach her quickly: and nobly said, with her last breath, that she had obeyed the sacred command of God, to give refuge to the outcast, and not to betray the wanderer.

Nor was this all. Jeffreys loved money for himself just as much as he relished causing misery for others, and he sold pardons in bulk to line his pockets. The King once ordered that a thousand prisoners be handed over to some of his favorites so they could negotiate their pardons. The young women of Taunton who had gifted the Bible were given to the maids of honor at court, and those precious ladies made very tough deals with them. When The Bloody Assize reached its most terrible point, the King was off enjoying horse races right where Mrs. Lisle had been executed. After Jeffreys had done his worst and returned home, he received special praise in the Royal Gazette; and when the King learned that he was seriously ill from drunkenness and rage, his despicable Majesty remarked that it would be hard to find another man like him in England. Additionally, a former sheriff of London named Cornish was hanged in view of his own house after a horribly managed trial for his involvement in the Rye House Plot, based on testimony given by Rumsey, which that scoundrel had to admit was totally contradictory to what he had said during Lord Russell's trial. On the very same day, a respectable widow named Elizabeth Gaunt was burned alive at Tyburn for providing shelter to a wretch who testified against her. She arranged the fuel around herself with her own hands so the flames would reach her quickly, nobly stating with her last breath that she had followed God's sacred command to give refuge to the outcast and not betray the wanderer.

After all this hanging, beheading, burning, boiling, mutilating, exposing, robbing, transporting, and selling into slavery, of his unhappy subjects, the King not unnaturally thought that he could do whatever he would. So, he went to work to change the religion of the country with all possible speed; and what he did was this.

After all the hanging, beheading, burning, boiling, mutilating, exposing, robbing, transporting, and selling into slavery of his unfortunate subjects, the King naturally believed he could do whatever he wanted. So, he set out to change the religion of the country as quickly as possible; and what he did was this.

He first of all tried to get rid of what was called the Test Act—which prevented the Catholics from holding public employments—by his own power of dispensing with the penalties. He tried it in one case, and, eleven of the twelve judges deciding in his favour, he exercised it in three others, being those of three dignitaries of University College, Oxford, who had become Papists, and whom he kept in their places and sanctioned. He revived the hated Ecclesiastical Commission, to get rid of Compton, Bishop of London, who manfully opposed him. He solicited the Pope to favour England with an ambassador, which the Pope (who was a sensible man then) rather unwillingly did. He flourished Father Petre before the eyes of the people on all possible occasions. He favoured the establishment of convents in several parts of London. He was delighted to have the streets, and even the court itself, filled with Monks and Friars in the habits of their orders. He constantly endeavoured to make Catholics of the Protestants about him. He held private interviews, which he called ‘closetings,’ with those Members of Parliament who held offices, to persuade them to consent to the design he had in view. When they did not consent, they were removed, or resigned of themselves, and their places were given to Catholics. He displaced Protestant officers from the army, by every means in his power, and got Catholics into their places too. He tried the same thing with the corporations, and also (though not so successfully) with the Lord Lieutenants of counties. To terrify the people into the endurance of all these measures, he kept an army of fifteen thousand men encamped on Hounslow Heath, where mass was openly performed in the General’s tent, and where priests went among the soldiers endeavouring to persuade them to become Catholics. For circulating a paper among those men advising them to be true to their religion, a Protestant clergyman, named Johnson, the chaplain of the late Lord Russell, was actually sentenced to stand three times in the pillory, and was actually whipped from Newgate to Tyburn. He dismissed his own brother-in-law from his Council because he was a Protestant, and made a Privy Councillor of the before-mentioned Father Petre. He handed Ireland over to Richard Talbot, Earl of Tyrconnell, a worthless, dissolute knave, who played the same game there for his master, and who played the deeper game for himself of one day putting it under the protection of the French King. In going to these extremities, every man of sense and judgment among the Catholics, from the Pope to a porter, knew that the King was a mere bigoted fool, who would undo himself and the cause he sought to advance; but he was deaf to all reason, and, happily for England ever afterwards, went tumbling off his throne in his own blind way.

He first tried to get rid of the Test Act, which kept Catholics from holding public jobs, by using his own power to excuse the penalties. He attempted this in one case, and with eleven out of twelve judges agreeing with him, he applied it in three other cases for three officials from University College, Oxford, who had converted to Catholicism, keeping them in their positions and approving their status. He revived the unpopular Ecclesiastical Commission to remove Compton, the Bishop of London, who boldly opposed him. He asked the Pope for an ambassador to England, which the Pope (who was sensible at the time) reluctantly provided. He prominently displayed Father Petre to the public whenever he could. He supported the establishment of convents in several parts of London. He was pleased to see the streets, and even the court itself, filled with Monks and Friars dressed in their religious habits. He continually tried to convert the Protestants around him to Catholicism. He held private meetings, which he called 'closetings,' with Members of Parliament who held positions, to convince them to agree to his plans. When they disagreed, they were removed or resigned, and their positions were given to Catholics. He ousted Protestant officers from the army by any means available and replaced them with Catholics as well. He attempted the same strategy with city corporations, and also (although less successfully) with the Lord Lieutenants of counties. To intimidate the public into accepting all these measures, he stationed an army of fifteen thousand men at Hounslow Heath, where mass was openly held in the General’s tent, and priests walked among the soldiers trying to persuade them to convert to Catholicism. For distributing a paper among those soldiers urging them to stay true to their religion, a Protestant clergyman named Johnson, who was the chaplain of the late Lord Russell, was actually sentenced to stand in the pillory three times and was whipped from Newgate to Tyburn. He dismissed his own brother-in-law from his Council because he was a Protestant, promoting the aforementioned Father Petre to Privy Councillor. He handed Ireland over to Richard Talbot, Earl of Tyrconnell, a worthless and dissolute man, who played the same game for his master there and schemed for his own benefit to one day put it under the protection of the French King. In taking these extreme actions, every sensible and discerning Catholic, from the Pope to a porter, realized that the King was just a bigoted fool who would ruin himself and the cause he intended to support; but he ignored all reason and, fortunately for England in the future, ended up tumbling off his throne in his own oblivious manner.

A spirit began to arise in the country, which the besotted blunderer little expected. He first found it out in the University of Cambridge. Having made a Catholic a dean at Oxford without any opposition, he tried to make a monk a master of arts at Cambridge: which attempt the University resisted, and defeated him. He then went back to his favourite Oxford. On the death of the President of Magdalen College, he commanded that there should be elected to succeed him, one Mr. Anthony Farmer, whose only recommendation was, that he was of the King’s religion. The University plucked up courage at last, and refused. The King substituted another man, and it still refused, resolving to stand by its own election of a Mr. Hough. The dull tyrant, upon this, punished Mr. Hough, and five-and-twenty more, by causing them to be expelled and declared incapable of holding any church preferment; then he proceeded to what he supposed to be his highest step, but to what was, in fact, his last plunge head-foremost in his tumble off his throne.

A spirit started to rise in the country that the clueless blunderer never saw coming. He first discovered it at the University of Cambridge. After making a Catholic the dean at Oxford without any pushback, he attempted to appoint a monk as a master of arts at Cambridge, which the University resisted and succeeded in blocking. He then returned to his favorite Oxford. When the President of Magdalen College passed away, he ordered the election of one Mr. Anthony Farmer, whose only qualification was that he belonged to the King’s religion. The University finally found its courage and refused. The King tried to replace him with someone else, but the University stood its ground, insisting on its own choice of Mr. Hough. In response, the dull tyrant punished Mr. Hough and twenty-five others by expelling them and declaring them unfit for any church position; then he went on to what he thought was his biggest move, but it turned out to be his final plunge off his throne.

He had issued a declaration that there should be no religious tests or penal laws, in order to let in the Catholics more easily; but the Protestant dissenters, unmindful of themselves, had gallantly joined the regular church in opposing it tooth and nail. The King and Father Petre now resolved to have this read, on a certain Sunday, in all the churches, and to order it to be circulated for that purpose by the bishops. The latter took counsel with the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was in disgrace; and they resolved that the declaration should not be read, and that they would petition the King against it. The Archbishop himself wrote out the petition, and six bishops went into the King’s bedchamber the same night to present it, to his infinite astonishment. Next day was the Sunday fixed for the reading, and it was only read by two hundred clergymen out of ten thousand. The King resolved against all advice to prosecute the bishops in the Court of King’s Bench, and within three weeks they were summoned before the Privy Council, and committed to the Tower. As the six bishops were taken to that dismal place, by water, the people who were assembled in immense numbers fell upon their knees, and wept for them, and prayed for them. When they got to the Tower, the officers and soldiers on guard besought them for their blessing. While they were confined there, the soldiers every day drank to their release with loud shouts. When they were brought up to the Court of King’s Bench for their trial, which the Attorney-General said was for the high offence of censuring the Government, and giving their opinion about affairs of state, they were attended by similar multitudes, and surrounded by a throng of noblemen and gentlemen. When the jury went out at seven o’clock at night to consider of their verdict, everybody (except the King) knew that they would rather starve than yield to the King’s brewer, who was one of them, and wanted a verdict for his customer. When they came into court next morning, after resisting the brewer all night, and gave a verdict of not guilty, such a shout rose up in Westminster Hall as it had never heard before; and it was passed on among the people away to Temple Bar, and away again to the Tower. It did not pass only to the east, but passed to the west too, until it reached the camp at Hounslow, where the fifteen thousand soldiers took it up and echoed it. And still, when the dull King, who was then with Lord Feversham, heard the mighty roar, asked in alarm what it was, and was told that it was ‘nothing but the acquittal of the bishops,’ he said, in his dogged way, ‘Call you that nothing? It is so much the worse for them.’

He made a statement that there shouldn't be any religious tests or penalties so that Catholics could be accepted more easily; however, the Protestant dissenters, oblivious to their own situation, bravely sided with the established church to fight it fiercely. The King and Father Petre decided to have this statement read in all churches on a specific Sunday and instructed the bishops to circulate it for that purpose. The bishops consulted with the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was not in favor, and they agreed that the declaration should not be read and that they would petition the King against it. The Archbishop himself wrote the petition, and that very night, six bishops went to the King’s bedroom to present it, much to his surprise. The next day was the Sunday planned for the reading, but only two hundred out of ten thousand clergy actually read it. The King, ignoring all advice, decided to prosecute the bishops in the Court of King’s Bench, and within three weeks, they were summoned before the Privy Council and sent to the Tower. As the six bishops were taken by boat to that grim place, large crowds fell to their knees, weeping and praying for them. Upon reaching the Tower, the officers and soldiers on guard requested their blessing. While they were imprisoned there, soldiers toasted to their release with loud cheers every day. When they were taken to the Court of King’s Bench for their trial, which the Attorney-General claimed was for the serious crime of criticizing the Government and sharing their views on state matters, they were accompanied by large crowds and surrounded by many noblemen and gentlemen. When the jury left the room at seven o’clock that evening to deliberate on their verdict, everyone (except the King) knew they would rather starve than give in to the King’s brewer, who was one of them and wanted a verdict in his favor. The following morning, after resisting the brewer all night, the jury returned with a verdict of not guilty, causing a roar in Westminster Hall that had never been heard before. This cheer spread among the people all the way to Temple Bar and continued to the Tower. It didn’t just go east but also west, until it reached the camp at Hounslow, where fifteen thousand soldiers joined in the excitement. Meanwhile, when the clueless King, who was with Lord Feversham, heard the enormous roar and asked what it was, he was told it was just the bishops being acquitted, to which he stubbornly replied, “Do you call that nothing? It’s even worse for them.”

Between the petition and the trial, the Queen had given birth to a son, which Father Petre rather thought was owing to Saint Winifred. But I doubt if Saint Winifred had much to do with it as the King’s friend, inasmuch as the entirely new prospect of a Catholic successor (for both the King’s daughters were Protestants) determined the Earls of Shrewsbury, Danby, and Devonshire, Lord Lumley, the Bishop of London, Admiral Russell, and Colonel Sidney, to invite the Prince of Orange over to England. The Royal Mole, seeing his danger at last, made, in his fright, many great concessions, besides raising an army of forty thousand men; but the Prince of Orange was not a man for James the Second to cope with. His preparations were extraordinarily vigorous, and his mind was resolved.

Between the petition and the trial, the Queen had given birth to a son, which Father Petre believed was due to Saint Winifred. However, I doubt Saint Winifred had a significant role, considering the entirely new possibility of a Catholic successor (since both of the King’s daughters were Protestants) prompted the Earls of Shrewsbury, Danby, and Devon, Lord Lumley, the London Bishop, Admiral Russell, and Colonel Sidney to invite the Prince of Orange to England. The Royal Mole, realizing his danger at last, made many significant concessions in his fright, in addition to raising an army of forty thousand men; but the Prince of Orange was not someone James the Second could handle. His preparations were exceptionally vigorous, and he was resolute.

For a fortnight after the Prince was ready to sail for England, a great wind from the west prevented the departure of his fleet. Even when the wind lulled, and it did sail, it was dispersed by a storm, and was obliged to put back to refit. At last, on the first of November, one thousand six hundred and eighty-eight, the Protestant east wind, as it was long called, began to blow; and on the third, the people of Dover and the people of Calais saw a fleet twenty miles long sailing gallantly by, between the two places. On Monday, the fifth, it anchored at Torbay in Devonshire, and the Prince, with a splendid retinue of officers and men, marched into Exeter. But the people in that western part of the country had suffered so much in The Bloody Assize, that they had lost heart. Few people joined him; and he began to think of returning, and publishing the invitation he had received from those lords, as his justification for having come at all. At this crisis, some of the gentry joined him; the Royal army began to falter; an engagement was signed, by which all who set their hand to it declared that they would support one another in defence of the laws and liberties of the three Kingdoms, of the Protestant religion, and of the Prince of Orange. From that time, the cause received no check; the greatest towns in England began, one after another, to declare for the Prince; and he knew that it was all safe with him when the University of Oxford offered to melt down its plate, if he wanted any money.

For two weeks after the Prince was set to sail for England, a strong wind from the west held up his fleet. Even when the wind died down and they did set sail, a storm scattered them, forcing them to turn back for repairs. Finally, on November 1st, 1688, the Protestant east wind— as it was known— started to blow; and on the 3rd, the people of Dover and Calais saw a fleet stretching twenty miles sailing proudly between the two places. On Monday, the 5th, it anchored at Torbay in Devonshire, and the Prince, accompanied by a remarkable group of officers and men, marched into Exeter. However, the people in that part of the country had suffered greatly during The Bloody Assize, leading them to lose hope. Few people joined him, and he started to consider going back, using the invitation from the lords as an excuse for coming at all. At this critical moment, some gentry came to his side; the Royal army began to waver; and an agreement was signed, in which everyone who signed pledged to support each other in defending the laws and freedoms of the three Kingdoms, the Protestant religion, and the Prince of Orange. From that point on, the cause faced no setbacks; the largest towns in England began to declare their support for the Prince, and he realized he was secure when the University of Oxford offered to sell off its silver if he needed funds.

By this time the King was running about in a pitiable way, touching people for the King’s evil in one place, reviewing his troops in another, and bleeding from the nose in a third. The young Prince was sent to Portsmouth, Father Petre went off like a shot to France, and there was a general and swift dispersal of all the priests and friars. One after another, the King’s most important officers and friends deserted him and went over to the Prince. In the night, his daughter Anne fled from Whitehall Palace; and the Bishop of London, who had once been a soldier, rode before her with a drawn sword in his hand, and pistols at his saddle. ‘God help me,’ cried the miserable King: ‘my very children have forsaken me!’ In his wildness, after debating with such lords as were in London, whether he should or should not call a Parliament, and after naming three of them to negotiate with the Prince, he resolved to fly to France. He had the little Prince of Wales brought back from Portsmouth; and the child and the Queen crossed the river to Lambeth in an open boat, on a miserable wet night, and got safely away. This was on the night of the ninth of December.

By this time, the King was running around in a pathetic way, touching people for the King’s evil in one spot, inspecting his troops in another, and bleeding from his nose in yet another. The young Prince was sent to Portsmouth, Father Petre dashed off to France, and there was a quick and widespread dispersal of all the priests and friars. One after another, the King’s most important officers and allies abandoned him and joined the Prince. That night, his daughter Anne escaped from Whitehall Palace; the Bishop of London, who had once been a soldier, rode ahead of her with a drawn sword in hand and pistols at his saddle. “God help me,” cried the miserable King: “my own children have betrayed me!” In his despair, after discussing with the lords present in London whether he should call a Parliament or not, and after naming three of them to negotiate with the Prince, he decided to flee to France. He had the young Prince of Wales brought back from Portsmouth; and the child and the Queen crossed the river to Lambeth in an open boat on a dreary, wet night, and managed to escape. This occurred on the night of December ninth.

At one o’clock on the morning of the eleventh, the King, who had, in the meantime, received a letter from the Prince of Orange, stating his objects, got out of bed, told Lord Northumberland who lay in his room not to open the door until the usual hour in the morning, and went down the back stairs (the same, I suppose, by which the priest in the wig and gown had come up to his brother) and crossed the river in a small boat: sinking the great seal of England by the way. Horses having been provided, he rode, accompanied by Sir Edward Hales, to Feversham, where he embarked in a Custom House Hoy. The master of this Hoy, wanting more ballast, ran into the Isle of Sheppy to get it, where the fishermen and smugglers crowded about the boat, and informed the King of their suspicions that he was a ‘hatchet-faced Jesuit.’ As they took his money and would not let him go, he told them who he was, and that the Prince of Orange wanted to take his life; and he began to scream for a boat—and then to cry, because he had lost a piece of wood on his ride which he called a fragment of Our Saviour’s cross. He put himself into the hands of the Lord Lieutenant of the county, and his detention was made known to the Prince of Orange at Windsor—who, only wanting to get rid of him, and not caring where he went, so that he went away, was very much disconcerted that they did not let him go. However, there was nothing for it but to have him brought back, with some state in the way of Life Guards, to Whitehall. And as soon as he got there, in his infatuation, he heard mass, and set a Jesuit to say grace at his public dinner.

At 1 AM on the 11th, the King, who had received a letter from the Prince of Orange outlining his intentions, got out of bed and told Lord Northumberland, who was in his room, not to open the door until morning. He then went down the back stairs (the same ones, I guess, that the priest in the wig and gown used to reach his brother) and crossed the river in a small boat, losing the Great Seal of England in the process. With horses arranged, he rode, accompanied by Sir Edward Hales, to Feversham, where he boarded a Customs House Hoy. The captain of this Hoy, needing more ballast, sailed into the Isle of Sheppy to find it. There, fishermen and smugglers gathered around the boat, suspicious that he was a ‘hatchet-faced Jesuit.’ While they took his money and wouldn't let him leave, he revealed his identity and said the Prince of Orange wanted him dead. He started yelling for a boat and then cried because he had lost a piece of wood during his ride, which he claimed was a fragment of Our Saviour’s cross. He surrendered himself to the Lord Lieutenant of the county, and news of his detention reached the Prince of Orange at Windsor—who, wanting only to be rid of him, didn't care where he went as long as he left, and was quite upset they wouldn’t let him go. Nevertheless, the only option was to bring him back with some pomp from the Life Guards to Whitehall. As soon as he arrived, in his madness, he attended mass and had a Jesuit say grace at his public dinner.

The people had been thrown into the strangest state of confusion by his flight, and had taken it into their heads that the Irish part of the army were going to murder the Protestants. Therefore, they set the bells a ringing, and lighted watch-fires, and burned Catholic Chapels, and looked about in all directions for Father Petre and the Jesuits, while the Pope’s ambassador was running away in the dress of a footman. They found no Jesuits; but a man, who had once been a frightened witness before Jeffreys in court, saw a swollen, drunken face looking through a window down at Wapping, which he well remembered. The face was in a sailor’s dress, but he knew it to be the face of that accursed judge, and he seized him. The people, to their lasting honour, did not tear him to pieces. After knocking him about a little, they took him, in the basest agonies of terror, to the Lord Mayor, who sent him, at his own shrieking petition, to the Tower for safety. There, he died.

The people were thrown into a bizarre state of confusion by his escape and had convinced themselves that the Irish part of the army was going to kill the Protestants. So, they started ringing bells, lighting watch-fires, burning Catholic chapels, and searching in all directions for Father Petre and the Jesuits, while the Pope’s ambassador was fleeing dressed as a footman. They didn’t find any Jesuits, but a man who had once been a terrified witness before Jeffreys in court spotted a bloated, drunken face peering through a window down at Wapping, which he recognized well. The face was dressed like a sailor, but he knew it belonged to that cursed judge, and he grabbed him. The crowd, to their lasting credit, did not tear him apart. After roughing him up a bit, they brought him, in sheer terror, to the Lord Mayor, who sent him, at his own desperate request, to the Tower for safety. There, he died.

Their bewilderment continuing, the people now lighted bonfires and made rejoicings, as if they had any reason to be glad to have the King back again. But, his stay was very short, for the English guards were removed from Whitehall, Dutch guards were marched up to it, and he was told by one of his late ministers that the Prince would enter London, next day, and he had better go to Ham. He said, Ham was a cold, damp place, and he would rather go to Rochester. He thought himself very cunning in this, as he meant to escape from Rochester to France. The Prince of Orange and his friends knew that, perfectly well, and desired nothing more. So, he went to Gravesend, in his royal barge, attended by certain lords, and watched by Dutch troops, and pitied by the generous people, who were far more forgiving than he had ever been, when they saw him in his humiliation. On the night of the twenty-third of December, not even then understanding that everybody wanted to get rid of him, he went out, absurdly, through his Rochester garden, down to the Medway, and got away to France, where he rejoined the Queen.

Their confusion still lingering, the people lit bonfires and celebrated as if they had any reason to be happy about the King’s return. But his time there was very brief, as the English guards were taken away from Whitehall, Dutch guards were brought in, and one of his former ministers informed him that the Prince would be entering London the next day, so he should head to Ham. He protested, saying Ham was a cold, damp place, and he would prefer to go to Rochester. He thought he was being clever with this plan, as he intended to escape from Rochester to France. The Prince of Orange and his allies were fully aware of this and wanted nothing more. So, he made his way to Gravesend in his royal barge, accompanied by certain lords, watched by Dutch troops, and sympathized with by the kind-hearted people, who were far more forgiving than he had ever been, especially upon seeing him in his disgrace. On the night of December 23rd, still not grasping that everyone wanted him gone, he left absurdly through his Rochester garden, made his way down to the Medway, and escaped to France, where he rejoined the Queen.

There had been a council in his absence, of the lords, and the authorities of London. When the Prince came, on the day after the King’s departure, he summoned the Lords to meet him, and soon afterwards, all those who had served in any of the Parliaments of King Charles the Second. It was finally resolved by these authorities that the throne was vacant by the conduct of King James the Second; that it was inconsistent with the safety and welfare of this Protestant kingdom, to be governed by a Popish prince; that the Prince and Princess of Orange should be King and Queen during their lives and the life of the survivor of them; and that their children should succeed them, if they had any. That if they had none, the Princess Anne and her children should succeed; that if she had none, the heirs of the Prince of Orange should succeed.

There had been a council during his absence, consisting of the lords and the officials of London. When the Prince arrived, the day after the King’s departure, he called the Lords to meet with him, and soon after, all those who had served in any of the Parliaments of King Charles the Second. It was ultimately decided by these leaders that the throne was vacant due to the actions of King James the Second; that it was incompatible with the safety and well-being of this Protestant kingdom to be ruled by a Catholic prince; that the Prince and Princess of Orange should be King and Queen for their lifetimes and for the life of whichever one survived; and that their children should inherit, if they had any. If they had none, then Princess Anne and her children should inherit; if she had none, the heirs of the Prince of Orange should inherit.

On the thirteenth of January, one thousand six hundred and eighty-nine, the Prince and Princess, sitting on a throne in Whitehall, bound themselves to these conditions. The Protestant religion was established in England, and England’s great and glorious Revolution was complete.

On January 13, 1689, the Prince and Princess, seated on a throne in Whitehall, committed themselves to these conditions. The Protestant religion was established in England, and England's great and glorious Revolution was achieved.

CHAPTER XXXVII

I have now arrived at the close of my little history. The events which succeeded the famous Revolution of one thousand six hundred and eighty-eight, would neither be easily related nor easily understood in such a book as this.

I have now reached the end of my little story. The events that followed the famous Revolution of 1688 would be neither easy to explain nor easy to grasp in a book like this.

William and Mary reigned together, five years. After the death of his good wife, William occupied the throne, alone, for seven years longer. During his reign, on the sixteenth of September, one thousand seven hundred and one, the poor weak creature who had once been James the Second of England, died in France. In the meantime he had done his utmost (which was not much) to cause William to be assassinated, and to regain his lost dominions. James’s son was declared, by the French King, the rightful King of England; and was called in France The Chevalier Saint George, and in England The Pretender. Some infatuated people in England, and particularly in Scotland, took up the Pretender’s cause from time to time—as if the country had not had Stuarts enough!—and many lives were sacrificed, and much misery was occasioned. King William died on Sunday, the seventh of March, one thousand seven hundred and two, of the consequences of an accident occasioned by his horse stumbling with him. He was always a brave, patriotic Prince, and a man of remarkable abilities. His manner was cold, and he made but few friends; but he had truly loved his queen. When he was dead, a lock of her hair, in a ring, was found tied with a black ribbon round his left arm.

William and Mary ruled together for five years. After the death of his beloved wife, William was on the throne alone for another seven years. During his reign, on September 16, 1701, the frail man who had once been James II of England died in France. In the meantime, he did everything he could (which wasn’t much) to have William assassinated and to regain his lost territories. James’s son was declared the rightful King of England by the French King and was known in France as The Knight Saint George and in England as The Pretender. Some deluded people in England, especially in Scotland, occasionally supported the Pretender's claim—as if the country hadn't had enough Stuarts!—leading to many lost lives and a lot of suffering. King William died on Sunday, March 7, 1702, due to the aftermath of an accident when his horse stumbled. He was always a brave, patriotic prince with remarkable abilities. Although he was somewhat cold and made few friends, he truly loved his queen. When he passed away, a lock of her hair, in a ring, was found tied with a black ribbon around his left arm.

He was succeeded by the Princess Anne, a popular Queen, who reigned twelve years. In her reign, in the month of May, one thousand seven hundred and seven, the Union between England and Scotland was effected, and the two countries were incorporated under the name of Great Britain. Then, from the year one thousand seven hundred and fourteen to the year one thousand, eight hundred and thirty, reigned the four Georges.

He was succeeded by Princess Anne, a beloved queen who ruled for twelve years. During her reign, in May 1707, the Union between England and Scotland took place, and the two countries were unified under the name United Kingdom. After that, from 1714 to 1830, the four Georges reigned.

It was in the reign of George the Second, one thousand seven hundred and forty-five, that the Pretender did his last mischief, and made his last appearance. Being an old man by that time, he and the Jacobites—as his friends were called—put forward his son, Charles Edward, known as the young Chevalier. The Highlanders of Scotland, an extremely troublesome and wrong-headed race on the subject of the Stuarts, espoused his cause, and he joined them, and there was a Scottish rebellion to make him king, in which many gallant and devoted gentlemen lost their lives. It was a hard matter for Charles Edward to escape abroad again, with a high price on his head; but the Scottish people were extraordinarily faithful to him, and, after undergoing many romantic adventures, not unlike those of Charles the Second, he escaped to France. A number of charming stories and delightful songs arose out of the Jacobite feelings, and belong to the Jacobite times. Otherwise I think the Stuarts were a public nuisance altogether.

It was during the reign of George II, in 1745, that the Pretender caused his last trouble and made his final appearance. By then, he was an old man, and he and his supporters, known as the Jacobites, promoted his son, Charles Edward, called the young Chevalier. The Highlanders of Scotland, a notoriously difficult and misguided group regarding the Stuarts, rallied to his cause, and he joined them in a Scottish rebellion to crown him king, in which many brave and loyal gentlemen lost their lives. It was quite challenging for Charles Edward to escape abroad again, with a bounty on his head; however, the Scottish people remained remarkably loyal to him, and after going through many adventurous experiences reminiscent of Charles II, he made it to France. Numerous delightful stories and enchanting songs emerged from the Jacobite spirit during that time. Otherwise, I think the Stuarts were just a public nuisance overall.

It was in the reign of George the Third that England lost North America, by persisting in taxing her without her own consent. That immense country, made independent under Washington, and left to itself, became the United States; one of the greatest nations of the earth. In these times in which I write, it is honourably remarkable for protecting its subjects, wherever they may travel, with a dignity and a determination which is a model for England. Between you and me, England has rather lost ground in this respect since the days of Oliver Cromwell.

It was during the reign of George the Third that England lost North America by insisting on taxing it without its consent. That vast country, which became independent under Washington, D.C. and was left to develop on its own, turned into the United States; one of the greatest nations on the planet. In these times when I’m writing, it’s commendably known for protecting its citizens wherever they travel, with a level of dignity and determination that sets a standard for England. Between you and me, England has definitely lost some ground in this regard since the days of Oliver Cromwell.

The Union of Great Britain with Ireland—which had been getting on very ill by itself—took place in the reign of George the Third, on the second of July, one thousand seven hundred and ninety-eight.

The Union of Great Britain with Ireland—which had been struggling on its own—happened during the reign of George III, on July 2, 1798.

William the Fourth succeeded George the Fourth, in the year one thousand eight hundred and thirty, and reigned seven years. Queen Victoria, his niece, the only child of the Duke of Kent, the fourth son of George the Third, came to the throne on the twentieth of June, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-seven. She was married to Prince Albert of Saxe Gotha on the tenth of February, one thousand eight hundred and forty. She is very good, and much beloved. So I end, like the crier, with

William IV took over from George the Fourth in 1830 and ruled for seven years. Queen Vic, his niece and the only child of the Duke of Kent, the fourth son of George the Third, became queen on June 20, 1837. She married Prince Albert of Saxe Gotha on February 10, 1840. She is very kind and greatly loved. So I conclude, like the crier, with

God Save the Queen!

SKETCHES BY BOZ

Illustrative of Every-Day Life and Every-Day People

By Charles Dickens

With Illustrations by George Cruickshank and Phiz

CONTENTS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE

OUR PARISH

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

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

CHAPTER III-THE FOUR SISTERS

CHAPTER IV-THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE

CHAPTER V-THE BROKER'S MAN

CHAPTER VI-THE LADIES' SOCIETIES

CHAPTER VII-OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR

SCENES

CHAPTER I-THE STREETS-MORNING

CHAPTER II-THE STREETS-NIGHT

CHAPTER III-SHOPS AND THEIR TENANTS

CHAPTER IV-SCOTLAND-YARD

CHAPTER V-SEVEN DIALS

CHAPTER VI-MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH-STREET

CHAPTER VII-HACKNEY-COACH STANDS

CHAPTER VIII-DOCTORS' COMMONS

CHAPTER IX-LONDON RECREATIONS

CHAPTER X-THE RIVER

CHAPTER XI-ASTLEY'S

CHAPTER XII-GREENWICH FAIR

CHAPTER XIII-PRIVATE THEATRES

CHAPTER XIV-VAUXHALL-GARDENS BY DAY

CHAPTER XV-EARLY COACHES

CHAPTER XVI-OMNIBUSES

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

CHAPTER XVIII-A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH

CHAPTER XIX-PUBLIC DINNERS

CHAPTER XX-THE FIRST OF MAY

CHAPTER XXI-BROKERS' AND MARINE-STORE SHOPS

CHAPTER XXII-GIN-SHOPS

CHAPTER XXIII-THE PAWNBROKER'S SHOP

CHAPTER XXIV-CRIMINAL COURTS

CHAPTER XXV-A VISIT TO NEWGATE

CHARACTERS

CHAPTER I-THOUGHTS ABOUT PEOPLE

CHAPTER II-A CHRISTMAS DINNER

CHAPTER III-THE NEW YEAR

CHAPTER IV-MISS EVANS AND THE EAGLE

CHAPTER V-THE PARLOUR ORATOR

CHAPTER VI-THE HOSPITAL PATIENT

CHAPTER VII-THE MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. JOHN DOUNCE

CHAPTER VIII-THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. A TALE OF AMBITION

CHAPTER IX-THE DANCING ACADEMY

CHAPTER X-SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE

CHAPTER XI-MAKING A NIGHT OF IT

CHAPTER XII-THE PRISONERS' VAN

TALES

CHAPTER I-THE BOARDING-HOUSE

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

CHAPTER II-MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN

CHAPTER III-SENTIMENT

CHAPTER IV-THE TUGGSES AT RAMSGATE

CHAPTER V-HORATIO SPARKINS

CHAPTER VI-THE BLACK VEIL

CHAPTER VII-THE STEAM EXCURSION

CHAPTER VIII-THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL

CHAPTER IX-MRS. JOSEPH PORTER

CHAPTER X-A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF MR. WATKINS TOTTLE

CHAPTER THE FIRST

CHAPTER THE SECOND

CHAPTER XI-THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING

CHAPTER XII-THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH

FOOTNOTES:

PREFACE

The whole of these Sketches were written and published, one by one, when I was a very young man. They were collected and republished while I was still a very young man; and sent into the world with all their imperfections (a good many) on their heads.

The entire collection of these Sketches was written and published one at a time when I was quite young. They were gathered and republished while I was still young, and released into the world with all their flaws (quite a few) on display.

They comprise my first attempts at authorship-with the exception of certain tragedies achieved at the mature age of eight or ten, and represented with great applause to overflowing nurseries. I am conscious of their often being extremely crude and ill-considered, and bearing obvious marks of haste and inexperience; particularly in that section of the present volume which is comprised under the general head of Tales.

They are my first attempts at writing—except for a few plays I created when I was around eight or ten, which were performed to enthusiastic audiences of my family. I'm aware that they are often very rough and poorly thought out, clearly showing signs of being rushed and inexperienced, especially in the part of this book that falls under the general category of Tales.

But as this collection is not originated now, and was very leniently and favourably received when it was first made, I have not felt it right either to remodel or expunge, beyond a few words and phrases here and there.

But since this collection wasn’t created recently, and was received quite well when it was first made, I didn’t think it was appropriate to completely revise or remove anything, except for a few words and phrases here and there.

OUR PARISH

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

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

How much is captured in those two short words—'The Parish!' And with how many stories of hardship and despair, of lost fortunes and shattered dreams, often linked to ongoing misery and cunning deceit, are they associated! A poor man, with a low income and a large family, barely manages to scrape by day to day, only able to afford food as needs arise; he has just enough to satisfy his immediate hunger and can’t think about the future. His taxes are overdue, the quarter-day comes and goes, and when the next quarter-day arrives, he can’t secure any more. He is summoned by the parish. His belongings are seized, his children are crying from cold and hunger, and even the bed his sick wife lies in is taken away. What can he do? Who can he turn to for help? Private charity? Kind individuals? Certainly not—there’s his parish. There’s the parish vestry, the parish infirmary, the parish surgeon, the parish officers, the parish beadle. Great institutions, and gentle, caring men. The woman dies—she’s buried by the parish. The children have no guardian—they’re looked after by the parish. The man first loses track of work, and then can’t find any—he receives aid from the parish; and when hardship and alcoholism take their toll on him, he ends up as a harmless, talking fool in the parish asylum.

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

The parish beadle is one of the most, if not the most, important members of the local administration. He isn't as well off as the churchwardens, definitely not as educated as the vestry-clerk, nor does he have as much control over things as either of them. But his power is still considerable, and the dignity of his position is never diminished by his efforts to uphold it. The beadle of our parish is a remarkable person. It's quite enjoyable to listen to him as he explains the current poor laws to the deaf old women in the board-room passage on meeting nights; to hear what he said to the senior churchwarden, and what the senior churchwarden said back to him; and what 'we' (the beadle and the other gentlemen) decided to do. A miserable-looking woman is called into the boardroom and presents a case of extreme poverty affecting herself—a widow with six small children. "Where do you live?" asks one of the overseers. "I rent a two-pair back, gentlemen, at Mrs. Brown's, Number 3, Little King William's-alley, where I've lived for the past fifteen years, and she knows me to be very hard-working and industrious, and when my poor husband was alive, gentlemen, he died in the hospital—" "Well, well," interrupts the overseer, taking note of the address, "I'll send Simmons, the beadle, tomorrow morning to check whether your story is true; and if it is, I suppose you’ll need an order for the House—Simmons, go to this woman's place first thing tomorrow morning, will you?" Simmons nods in agreement and shows the woman out. Her previous admiration for 'the board' (who all sit behind big books, wearing their hats) fades completely compared to her respect for her lace-trimmed guide; and her account of what happened inside only increases—if that's possible—the signs of respect shown by the assembled crowd for that serious official. As for taking out a summons, it's pretty hopeless if Simmons is there on behalf of the parish. He knows all the titles of the Lord Mayor by heart, presents the case without a single stutter, and it's even said that on one occasion he dared to make a joke, which the Lord Mayor’s head footman (who happened to be there) later told a close friend was almost as good as one of Mr. Hobler's.

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

See him again on Sunday in his official coat and tricorn hat, holding a large-headed staff for show in his left hand and a small cane for use in his right. How pompously he directs the children into their places! And how shyly the little kids glance at him sideways as he looks them over when they're all seated, with a glare that's unique to beadles! With the churchwardens and overseers properly settled in their curtained pews, he sits on a mahogany bracket made just for him at the top of the aisle, dividing his attention between his prayer book and the boys. Suddenly, just as the communion service begins and the entire congregation is plunged into deep silence, broken only by the voice of the officiating clergyman, a penny rings out clearly on the stone floor of the aisle. Notice the beadle's response. His involuntary look of shock instantly turns into one of complete indifference, as if he’s the only person who didn’t hear the noise. The trick works. After hesitantly stretching out his leg a few times, the person who dropped the coin dares to make a couple of attempts to reach for it; and the beadle, gliding softly around, taps his little round head with the cane he was holding, delighting three young men in a nearby pew, who cough violently at intervals until the sermon ends.

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

Here are some traits that highlight the significance and seriousness of a parish beadle—a seriousness that has never been shaken in any situation we've observed, except when the services of that particularly handy tool, a parish fire-engine, are needed: then, it's all chaos. Two little boys rush to the beadle as fast as they can and report firsthand that a nearby chimney is on fire; the engine is quickly brought out, and a bunch of boys is gathered and tied to it with ropes, rattling away over the pavement, with the beadle running—no exaggeration—alongside, until they reach a house that smells strongly of soot. The beadle knocks on the door with a lot of seriousness for half an hour. When there’s no response to these knocks, and the turn-cock has turned on the water, the engine pulls away amidst the cheers of the boys; it stops again at the workhouse, and the beadle tracks down the unfortunate householder the next day for his legal fee. We only saw a parish engine at a real fire once. It arrived in impressive style—three miles in half an hour, at least; there was a great water supply, and it was the first to reach the scene. The pumps started banging, the crowd cheered, and the beadle was sweating buckets; but unfortunately, just as they were about to put out the fire, they realized that no one knew how to fill the engine with water, and that eighteen boys and one man had worn themselves out pumping for twenty minutes without making any difference!

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

The next most important people after the beadle are the head of the workhouse and the parish schoolmaster. The vestry clerk, as everyone knows, is a short, chubby little guy in black, sporting a thick gold watch chain that's quite long, ending with two big seals and a key. He's a lawyer and is always in a rush, especially when he's hurrying to some church meeting, with his gloves crumpled in one hand and a big red book tucked under the other arm. As for the churchwardens and overseers, we leave them out completely because all we know is that they are usually respectable tradesmen who wear hats with flat brims and sometimes display in gold letters on a blue background, in some noticeable spot in the church, the important fact that a gallery has been enlarged and beautified or an organ has been rebuilt.

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

The master of the workhouse is not, in our parish—nor is he usually in any other—a man whose better years have passed him by, dragging the rest of his life in some lesser role, with just enough nostalgia to feel degraded by and unhappy with the present. We can't quite figure out what position he might have held before; perhaps he was a low-level attorney's clerk, or maybe the head of a local school—whatever it was, it's clear that his current role is an upgrade. His income is definitely small, as his faded black coat and worn velvet collar show: but he doesn't have to pay rent, gets a limited supply of coal and candles, and has nearly unlimited authority in his tiny domain. He is a tall, thin, bony man; always wears shoes and black cotton stockings with his overcoat; and watches you from his parlor window as if he wished you were a pauper, just to show off his power. He is a perfect example of a small tyrant: sullen, brutish, and bad-tempered; he bullies his subordinates, grovels to his superiors, and is envious of the beadle's influence and authority.

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

Our schoolmaster is the complete opposite of this friendly official. He’s one of those guys you sometimes hear about, who seems to have misfortune written all over him; nothing he did or was involved in ever seemed to succeed. A wealthy old relative who raised him and openly promised to take care of him left him £10,000 in his will but then took it back in a later document. Suddenly forced to fend for himself, he got a job in a public office. The young clerks below him seemed to drop like flies, while the old guys above him, for whose positions he was eagerly waiting, just kept going on as if they were going to live forever. He tried his luck in investments and lost. He tried again and won—but never got the money. He was talented; his personality was easy-going, generous, and open-handed. His friends took advantage of his talent and took him for granted because of his kindness. One loss followed another; misfortune piled on more misfortune; each day brought him closer to absolute poverty, and the former friends who had been the most supportive grew strangely cold and indifferent. He had children he loved and a wife he adored. The kids turned their backs on him; his wife passed away heartbroken. He went along with what life threw at him—it had always been his weakness, and he didn’t have the strength to withstand so many blows—he had never looked out for himself, and the only person who cared for him during his hard times was no longer there for him. It was at this time that he sought help from the parish. A kind-hearted man who had known him in better days happened to be the churchwarden that year, and thanks to his connections, he was given his current job.

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

He’s an old man now. Of the many who used to surround him in all the fake camaraderie of friendship, some have died, some have fallen like him, some have succeeded—all have forgotten him. Time and misfortune have thankfully dulled his memory, and routine has gotten him used to his current state. Humble, uncomplaining, and dedicated to his duties, he has been allowed to keep his job long past when most would have retired; and he will probably continue to do so until illness makes him incapable, or death sets him free. As the grey-haired old man slowly walks back and forth in the sunny courtyard during breaks, it would be very hard for even his closest former friends to recognize their once lively and cheerful companion in the figure of the Pauper Schoolmaster.

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

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

We started our last chapter with the parish beadle because we really understand the importance and dignity of his role. We'll kick off this one with the clergyman. Our curate is a young man with such an attractive appearance and charming manners that within a month of his arrival in the parish, half the young ladies were feeling somber about religion, and the other half were heartbroken over love. Never before had so many young women attended our parish church on a Sunday, and never had the little cherubic faces on Mr. Tomkins's monument in the side aisle witnessed such devotion as they did then. He was about twenty-five when he first captivated the parishioners. He parted his hair down the middle in the shape of a Norman arch, wore a dazzling ring on the fourth finger of his left hand (which he would always touch to his left cheek while reading prayers), and had a deep, grave voice that was unusually solemn. Countless were the visits made by cautious mothers to our new curate, and countless were the invitations he received, all of which, to give him credit, he happily accepted. If his demeanor in the pulpit made a favorable impression, the effect was magnified tenfold during his appearances in social settings. Seats near the pulpit or reading desk became more desirable; spots in the center aisle were in high demand; no one could find an inch of room in the front row of the gallery for love or money; and some even claimed that the three Miss Browns, who had a tucked-away family pew right behind the churchwardens', were caught one Sunday in the free seats by the communion table, actually waiting for the curate as he walked to the vestry! He began delivering off-the-cuff sermons, and even serious fathers caught the bug. He got out of bed at 12:30 one winter night to half-baptize a washerwoman's baby in a basin, and the gratitude of the parishioners was boundless—the churchwardens even became generous and insisted that the parish cover the cost of the portable watch-box the new curate had ordered to use for funerals in wet weather. He sent three pints of gruel and a quarter pound of tea to a poor woman who had just given birth to four small children all at once—the parish was enchanted. He organized a subscription for her—the woman's fortune was made. He spoke for an hour and twenty-five minutes at an anti-slavery meeting at the Goat and Boots—the enthusiasm was through the roof. A proposal was made to present the curate with a piece of silver as a token of appreciation for his valuable services to the parish. The subscription list filled up in no time; the competition was not about avoiding contributions, but rather who would be the first to sign up. A magnificent silver inkstand was crafted and engraved with an appropriate inscription; the curate was invited to a public breakfast at the aforementioned Goat and Boots; the inkstand was presented in a heartfelt speech by Mr. Gubbins, the former churchwarden, and graciously acknowledged by the curate in a way that brought tears to everyone's eyes—even the waiters were moved.

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

One would think that by now, the theme of universal admiration would be at the height of popularity. Not at all. The curate started coughing; he had four coughing fits one morning between the Litany and the Epistle, and five during the afternoon service. Here was the revelation—a discovery that the curate was consumptive. How interestingly sad! If the young ladies were enthusiastic before, their sympathy and concern were now limitless. Such a man as the curate—such a dear, such a perfect love—to be consumptive! It was too much. Anonymous gifts of black-currant jam, lozenges, elastic vests, close friends, and warm socks flooded in for the curate until he was completely decked out in winter clothing, as if he were about to embark on an expedition to the North Pole: updates on his health were shared throughout the parish half a dozen times a day; and the curate was at the peak of his popularity.

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

About this time, a change came over the spirit of the parish. A very quiet, respectable, dozing old gentleman, who had served in our chapel-of-ease for twelve years, passed away one fine morning without any warning. This event sparked the first wave of excitement, and the arrival of his replacement caused the second wave. He was a pale, thin, gaunt man with large black eyes and long, unkempt black hair. His attire was extremely careless, his manner awkward, and his teachings shocking; in short, he was the complete opposite of the previous curate. Crowds of our female parishioners came to listen to him; initially, because he looked so peculiar, then because his face was so expressive, then because he preached so well; and finally, because they genuinely believed there was something about him that was impossible to describe. As for the curate, he was fine and all, but there was no denying that—well, the curate just wasn’t unique, and the new clergyman was. The fickleness of public opinion is well known: the congregation gradually switched over one by one. The curate coughed until he turned blue—it was pointless. He struggled to breathe—it was equally useless in garnering sympathy. Seats are once again available anywhere in our parish church, and the chapel-of-ease is going to be expanded since it is packed to capacity every Sunday!

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

The best known and most respected among our parishioners is an old lady who has lived in our parish for a long time, even before our name was added to the baptismal register. Our parish is in the suburbs, and the old lady lives in a tidy row of houses in the most pleasant and breezy area. The house is hers, and everything about it, except for the old lady herself—who looks a bit older than she did ten years ago—is just as it was when her husband was alive. The small front parlor, which is her usual sitting room, is a perfect picture of serene neatness; the carpet is covered with a brown Holland cloth, and the glass and picture frames are carefully wrapped in yellow muslin. The table covers are never removed except when they are cleaned with turpentine and beeswax, a task that is regularly started every other morning at half past nine—and the little knickknacks are always arranged in exactly the same way. Most of them are gifts from little girls whose parents live in the same row, but some, like the two old-fashioned watches (which never display the same time, as one is always fifteen minutes slow and the other is fifteen minutes fast), the small picture of Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold as they appeared in the Royal Box at Drury Lane Theatre, and others like them, have been in the old lady's possession for years. Here, the old lady sits with her glasses on, busy with needlework—by the window in the summer. If she sees you coming up the steps and you happen to be a favorite, she hurries to open the front door for you before you knock. Since you must be tired after that hot walk, she insists you have two glasses of sherry before you even start talking. If you stop by in the evening, you'll find her cheerful but a little more serious than usual, with an open Bible on the table in front of her, from which 'Sarah,' who is just as neat and organized as her mistress, regularly reads two or three chapters aloud in the parlor.

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

The old lady doesn’t see much company, except for the little girls mentioned earlier, each of whom has a regular day for their tea time with her, which the child looks forward to as the biggest treat in their life. She rarely visits further than the house next door but one on either side; and when she has tea there, Sarah runs out first and knocks twice to make sure her 'Missis' doesn’t catch cold waiting at the door. She is very careful about returning these little invitations, and when she invites Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so to meet Mr. and Mrs. Somebody-else, Sarah and she dust the urn, the best china tea set, and the Pope Joan board; and the visitors are received in the drawing-room with great pomp. She has few relatives, and they are scattered across different parts of the country, so she hardly sees them. She has a son in India, whom she always describes as a fine, handsome guy—just like the profile of his poor dear father over the sideboard—but the old lady adds, shaking her head sadly, that he has always been one of her greatest trials; in fact, he once nearly broke her heart. However, she says it pleased God to help her get through it, and she would rather you never mention it again. She has many pensioners, and on Saturday, after coming back from the market, there is a regular gathering of old men and women in the hallway, waiting for their weekly donation. Her name always tops the list of any charitable contributions, and she always makes the most generous donations to the Winter Coal and Soup Distribution Society. She contributed twenty pounds towards building an organ in our parish church and was so overwhelmed the first Sunday the children sang with it that she had to be carried out by the pew-opener. Whenever she enters the church on Sunday, it causes a little commotion in the side aisle, with a general nod and curtsey from the poor people until the pew-opener has escorted the old lady to her usual seat, performed a respectful curtsey, and shut the door; the same thing happens when she leaves church, and she walks home with the family next door but one, discussing the sermon all the way, always starting the conversation by asking the youngest boy what the text was.

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

Thus, with her yearly trips to a peaceful spot by the coast, the old lady's life goes on. It has flowed along in the same steady and kind way for many years now, and will soon come to an end. She looks towards that ending with tranquility and no fear. She has everything to look forward to and nothing to worry about.

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

A very different character, but one who has made himself quite noticeable in our neighborhood, is one of the old lady's next-door neighbors. He’s an old naval officer living on half-pay, and his blunt, casual behavior really disrupts the old lady's home life. For starters, he smokes cigars in the front yard, and whenever he wants something to drink to go with them—which is pretty common—he bangs on the old lady's knocker with his walking stick and asks for a glass of table ale to be passed over the fence. On top of this bold move, he’s a bit of a jack-of-all-trades, or to use his own words, "a regular Robinson Crusoe," and there's nothing he enjoys more than experimenting on the old lady's property. One morning, he woke up early and planted three or four full-grown marigold roots in each of her front garden beds, leaving the old lady completely astonished. When she woke up and looked out the window, she thought it was some strange eruption that had appeared overnight. Another time, he dismantled the eight-day clock on the front landing, claiming he was cleaning the works, and managed to put it back together in such a mysterious way that the big hand has been tripping up the little hand ever since. Then he decided to breed silkworms, which he would bring over two or three times a day in little paper boxes to show the old lady, generally dropping a worm or two during each visit. As a result, one morning a very fat silkworm was found making its way upstairs—probably to check on its friends—because upon closer inspection, it turned out some of its buddies had already made their way into every room in the house. The old lady went to the seaside in frustration, and while she was away, he completely wiped the name off her brass doorplate in his attempts to polish it with aqua regia.

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

But all this is nothing compared to his rebellious behavior in public life. He attends every vestry meeting that takes place; always goes against the established authorities of the parish, criticizes the reckless actions of the churchwardens, disputes legal points with the vestry clerk, will make the tax collector come for his money until he gives up, and then he sends it. He finds fault with the sermon every Sunday, says the organist should be embarrassed, and challenges anyone to a bet that he can sing the psalms better than all the kids combined, boys and girls; and, in short, he acts in the most disruptive and noisy way. The worst part is that, having a high regard for the old lady, he wants to convince her to adopt his views, so he walks into her little sitting room with his newspaper in hand and talks about intense politics for hours. He’s a kind-hearted, generous old guy deep down, after all; so, even though he occasionally annoys the old lady, they generally get along quite well, and she laughs just as much at his antics when it’s all over as anyone else does.

CHAPTER III-THE FOUR SISTERS

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

The row of houses where the old lady and her difficult neighbor live definitely has more characters within its small area than the rest of the parish combined. Since we can’t include more than six parish sketches in our current plan, it might be best to choose the most unique ones and introduce them right away without any more introduction.

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

The four Miss Willises moved into our neighborhood thirteen years ago. It's a sad reminder that the saying, 'time and tide wait for no man,' applies just as much to women; and we would prefer to hide the fact that even thirteen years ago, the Miss Willises were far from young. Our responsibility as local chroniclers, however, is more important than any other concern, and we must report that thirteen years ago, the authorities in marriage cases considered the youngest Miss Willis to be in a rather uncertain position, while the oldest sister was deemed completely beyond hope. Well, the Miss Willises signed a lease on the house; it was freshly painted and wallpapered from top to bottom: the interior paint was all wainscoted, the marble was polished, the old grates were removed, and register stoves, bright enough to dress by, were installed; four trees were planted in the back garden, several small baskets of gravel were scattered in the front garden, elegant furniture was delivered, spring blinds were fitted to the windows, and carpenters involved in various preparations and repairs shared secretive comments with the different maidservants in the area about how grand the Miss Willises were starting out; the maidservants shared this information with their 'Missises,' the 'Missises' told their friends, and vague rumors spread throughout the neighborhood that No. 25 in Gordon Place had been taken by four wealthy single ladies.

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

At last, the Miss Willises moved in, and then the social visits began. The house was perfectly neat—just like the four Miss Willises. Everything was formal, stiff, and cold—so were the four Miss Willises. Not a single chair in the whole set was ever seen out of its place—not one of the four Miss Willises was ever seen out of hers. They always sat in the same spots, doing exactly the same things at the same time. The oldest Miss Willis would knit, the second would draw, and the two others would play duets on the piano. They seemed to have no separate lives but had decided to get through life together. They were three long graces in drapery, plus, like a school dinner, another long grace afterward—the three fates with an extra sister—the Siamese twins multiplied by two. When the oldest Miss Willis got annoyed, all four Miss Willises got annoyed immediately. When the oldest Miss Willis became ill-tempered and religious, the other three followed suit right away. Whatever the oldest did, the others did, and whatever anyone else did, they all disapproved of. And so they just went through life—living in perfect harmony with each other, and occasionally going out or having visitors at home in a subdued way, sometimes putting off the neighbors. Three years went by like this, when an unexpected and extraordinary event occurred. The Miss Willises started showing signs of summer; the frost began to thaw; a complete melting happened. Could it be possible? One of the four Miss Willises was going to get married!

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

Now, where the husband came from, what feelings the poor man had, or how the four Miss Willises convinced themselves that a man could marry one of them without marrying all of them are questions too deep for us to answer. What is certain, however, is that Mr. Robinson's visits (a man with a government job, a good salary, and some property) were welcomed— that Mr. Robinson officially courted all four Miss Willises— that the neighbors were completely frantic to figure out which of the four was the lucky one, and that the difficulty they had in solving the mystery wasn’t at all eased by the announcement from the eldest Miss Willis: "We're going to marry Mr. Robinson."

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

It was really unusual. They were so completely connected that the curiosity of everyone in the row—even the old lady herself—was almost too much to handle. The topic was talked about at every card game and tea gathering. The old gentleman known for his silk-worm fame confidently stated his belief that Mr. Robinson was of Eastern background and intended to marry the entire family at once; the rest of the row nodded their heads thoughtfully, declaring that the situation was very mysterious. They hoped it would all turn out well; it certainly seemed quite strange, but it would be unfair to share any opinions without solid evidence, and of course, the Miss Willises were more than capable of making their own decisions, and people should really know their own business best, and so on.

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

At last, one beautiful morning, at a quarter to eight, two glass coaches pulled up to the Miss Willises' door, where Mr. Robinson had arrived in a taxi ten minutes earlier, dressed in a light blue coat and heavy wool pants, a white neckerchief, pumps, and dress gloves. His demeanor showed, as indicated by the testimony of the housemaid at No. 23, who was sweeping the steps at the time, a considerable amount of nervous excitement. It was also quickly reported based on the same testimony that the cook who opened the door wore a large white bow of unusual size, along with a much fancier hairstyle than the standard cap that the Miss Willises usually allowed their female staff.

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

The news spread quickly from house to house. It was obvious that the exciting morning had finally arrived; everyone positioned themselves behind their first and second floor blinds, waiting anxiously for what would happen next.

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

At last, the Miss Willises' door opened, and so did the door of the first glass coach. Two gentlemen and a pair of ladies—probably family friends—went up the steps, the door slammed shut, the first-class coach took off, and the second one arrived.

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

The street door opened again, and the excitement of everyone in the row grew—Mr. Robinson and the oldest Miss Willis. "I knew it!" said the lady at No. 19; "I always said it was Miss Willis!" "Well, I can't believe it!" exclaimed the young lady at No. 18 to the young lady at No. 17. "Did you ever, dear!" responded the young lady at No. 17 to the young lady at No. 18. "It's just too ridiculous!" shouted a spinster of uncertain age at No. 16, joining in the conversation. But who could capture the shock of Gordon-place when Mr. Robinson ushered in all the Miss Willises one by one and then squeezed himself into an awkward corner of the glass coach, which then took off at a quick pace after the other glass coach, which had also sped away in the direction of the parish church! Who could describe the confusion of the clergyman when all the Miss Willises knelt at the communion table and loudly repeated the responses during the marriage service—or who could detail the chaos that erupted when—even after they sorted out all the issues that arose—all the Miss Willises broke into hysterics at the end of the ceremony, filling the sacred space with their collective wailing!

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

As the four sisters and Mr. Robinson continued living in the same house after that memorable event, and since the married sister, whoever she was, never went out in public without the other three, it’s unclear if the neighbors would have ever figured out who the real Mrs. Robinson was, if not for a rather delightful situation that sometimes occurs in well-organized families. After three months passed, the people in the row, who seemed to have been getting curious for a while, started to talk with a kind of unwritten confidence about the situation, wondering how Mrs. Robinson—the youngest Miss Willis—was doing. Servants could be seen rushing up the steps around nine or ten every morning, delivering 'Missis's compliments and asking how Mrs. Robinson felt today.' The answer was always, 'Mrs. Robinson's compliments; she's in great spirits and feels just fine.' The piano was no longer heard, the knitting needles were set aside, drawing was ignored, and dressmaking and millinery on the tiniest scale possible seemed to have become the family's favorite pastime. The parlor wasn’t quite as neat as it used to be, and if you dropped by in the morning, you would see two or three unusually small caps on a table, slightly bigger than those made for a moderate-sized doll, with a small piece of lace shaped like a horseshoe sewn in the back. Or perhaps a white robe, not very wide but excessively long, with a little tucker around the top and a frill at the bottom. Once, when we visited, we spotted a long white roller with a blue edge on each side, and we couldn’t guess its purpose. Then we suspected Dr. Dawson, the surgeon, who puts up a large lamp with different colors in each glass pane at the corner of the row, began to be called at night more frequently than before; and once we were quite startled to hear a cab stop at Mrs. Robinson's door at half-past two in the morning, from which a heavyset old woman in a cloak and nightcap emerged, holding a bundle in one hand and a pair of pattens in the other, looking as if she had been abruptly awakened from bed for some urgent reason.

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

When we woke up in the morning, we noticed that the knocker was tied up in an old white kid glove. We, in our naivety (we were still single at the time), wondered what it could possibly mean until we heard the eldest Miss Willis, speaking in her own dignified way, respond to the next question with, "My compliments, and Mrs. Robinson's doing as well as can be expected, and the little girl is thriving wonderfully." Then, like the rest of the row, our curiosity was satisfied, and we started to wonder why it had never occurred to us what was going on before.

CHAPTER IV-THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE

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

A big event recently happened in our community. A highly significant contest just ended; there’s been a shake-up in the parish. It’s followed by a glorious win that the country—or at least the parish—it’s all the same—will remember for a long time. We’ve had an election; an election for beadle. The backers of the old beadle system have been defeated in their stronghold, and the champions of the new beadle principles have achieved a proud victory.

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

Our parish, like all other parishes, is its own little world. For a long time, it has been divided into two groups, whose arguments, which may have quieted down for a bit, never fail to flare up with full force whenever there's a chance to rekindle them. Watching rates, lighting rates, paving rates, sewer rates, church rates, poor rates—every kind of rate has been a major topic of conflict; and when it comes to issues of patronage, the intensity and commitment with which they've been argued over is almost unbelievable.

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

The leader of the official party—the consistent supporter of the churchwardens and the unwavering ally of the overseers—is an elderly gentleman who lives on our street. He owns about six houses in the area and always crosses to the other side of the street so he can get a view of all his properties at once. He is a tall, thin, bony man with a nose that looks like it’s always questioning and little, restless eyes that seem to have been given to him just for snooping into other people's business. He takes the parish matters very seriously and takes a lot of pride in addressing the parishioners during meetings. His views are rather narrow, not broad; his principles are more limited than generous. He has been heard speaking loudly in favor of freedom of the press and pushes for the repeal of the stamp duty on newspapers because the daily papers that currently have a monopoly on the public never give complete reports of the parish meetings. He wouldn't want to seem self-centered for anything, but at the same time, he feels that there are speeches—like his famous speech about the sexton’s salary and the responsibilities of the role, for instance—that could greatly benefit the public if shared.

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

His main rival in public life is Captain Purday, the retired naval officer on half-pay, whom we’ve already introduced. The captain, being a staunch opponent of the authorities, no matter who they are, and our other friend being their consistent supporter, with equal disregard for their individual qualities, it’s easy to imagine that there are plenty of chances for them to clash directly. They split the vestry fourteen times over a motion to heat the church with warm water instead of coal, delivering speeches about freedom, spending, extravagance, and hot water that stirred up the entire parish. Then the captain, while serving on the visiting committee and with his opponent as overseer, brought up specific accusations regarding the management of the workhouse, openly stating his complete lack of confidence in the current authorities, and requested “a copy of the recipe used to prepare the paupers’ soup, along with any related documents.” The overseer firmly opposed this; he backed himself with precedent, referred to established practices, and refused to provide the papers, arguing that it would harm the public service if strictly private documents exchanged between the workhouse master and the cook were exposed because of a motion from any individual member of the vestry. The motion was defeated by a majority of two; then the captain, who never accepts defeat, called for a committee to investigate the entire issue. The situation became serious: the question was debated at meeting after meeting, and vestry after vestry; speeches were made, attacks countered, personal challenges exchanged, clarifications given, and there was considerable excitement, until, just when the question was about to be settled, the vestry discovered they had somehow become stuck in a procedural issue that they couldn’t escape with any dignity. So, the motion was dropped, and everyone acted extremely serious, seeming very satisfied with the commendable nature of the whole process.

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

This was the situation in our parish a week or two ago when Simmons, the beadle, suddenly passed away. The sad news was that he had overexerted himself a day or two earlier while helping an elderly woman, who was very drunk, get to the strong room of the workhouse. The excitement from that incident, combined with a bad cold he caught while managing the parish engine—after accidentally spraying himself instead of the fire—was too much for his already weakened body due to age. One evening, the Board was informed that Simmons had died and sent his regards.

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

The moment the breath left the deceased official, the field was swarming with contenders for the open position, each one basing their claims for public support solely on the size of their families, as if the beadle's role had been created to promote population growth. 'Bung for Beadle. Five small kids!' – 'Hopkins for Beadle. Seven small kids!!' – 'Timkins for Beadle. Nine small kids!!!' These were the placards in bold black letters on a white background that were plastered on walls and displayed in shop windows everywhere. Timkins was thought to be a sure winner; several mothers hinted they would vote for him, and the nine small kids would have made a strong showing, but then came another placard announcing a truly impressive candidate. 'Spruggins for Beadle. Ten small kids (two of them twins), and a wife!!!' This was impossible to ignore; ten kids alone would have been hard to resist, and the mention of the twins, along with the touching reference to Mrs. Spruggins, practically guaranteed his victory. Spruggins quickly became the favorite, and the sight of his wife asking for votes (sparking hopeful speculation about even more additions to the Spruggins family soon) boosted his appeal even further. The other candidates, except for Bung, conceded defeat. Election day was set; the campaigning continued with energy and determination from both sides.

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

The vestry members couldn't help but get swept up in the contagious excitement of the moment. Most of the women in the parish quickly rallied behind Spruggins; even the former overseer joined his side, arguing that men with large families had always been elected to the position. He admitted that, in other ways, Spruggins was the least qualified candidate, but he believed it was a longstanding tradition, and there was no reason to change that. This was enough for the captain. He immediately supported Bung, campaigned for him everywhere, wrote snarky pieces about Spruggins, and had his butcher display them prominently in his shop. He even scared his neighbor, the old lady, into a panic with his terrible rants against Spruggins's supporters, and he moved around so much—jumping in and out, up and down, back and forth—that all the sensible people in the parish thought he would surely die of a brain fever long before the election started.

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

The election day arrived. It was no longer just an individual fight, but a contest between the ruling party and the opposition. The question was whether the diminishing power of the overseers, the control of the churchwardens, and the oppressive rule of the vestry-clerk should be allowed to turn the election of the beadle into a meaningless formality: whether they should force a vestry-elected beadle onto the parish to carry out their orders and support their agenda, or whether the parishioners, bravely claiming their undeniable rights, should elect an independent beadle on their own.

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

The nomination was set to happen in the vestry, but the crowd of anxious spectators was so large that it was necessary to move to the church, where the ceremony began with the appropriate seriousness. The arrival of the churchwardens, overseers, former churchwardens, and ex-overseers, with Spruggins following behind, drew everyone's attention. Spruggins was a small, skinny man dressed in worn black, with a long, pale face that showed signs of worry and exhaustion, which could be due to the size of his family or his anxious feelings. His rival wore a hand-me-down coat from the captain—a blue coat with shiny buttons, white trousers, and a pair of shoes commonly known as 'high-lows.' There was a calmness in Bung's open expression—a sort of moral dignity in his confident demeanor—along with an 'I hope you don’t get it' look in his eyes—that energized his supporters and clearly discouraged his opponents.

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

The former churchwarden stood up to nominate Thomas Spruggins for the role of beadle. He had known him for a long time. He had been closely observing him for years; he had been watching him even more carefully for months. (A parishioner suggested that this could be called 'taking a double sight,' but the comment was drowned out by loud calls for 'Order!') He would insist that he had been monitoring him for years, and he would emphasize that he had never met a more well-behaved, well-mannered, sober, and calm man with a more organized mind. He had never known a man with a larger family (cheers). The parish needed someone dependable ('Hear!' came from the Spruggins supporters, answered by sarcastic cheers from the Bung faction). Such a man he now proposed ('No,' 'Yes'). He would not mention any individuals (the former churchwarden continued, using the famous negative style favored by great speakers). He wouldn’t bring up a gentleman who had once held a high position in the service of the crown; he wouldn’t claim that this gentleman was no gentleman; he would not say that he was not a man; he wouldn’t say that he was a disruptive parishioner; he wouldn’t say that he had seriously misbehaved, not just this time but in all previous instances; he wouldn’t say that he was one of those disgruntled and traitorous individuals who spread chaos and disorder wherever they went; he wouldn’t say that he harbored envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness in his heart. No! He wanted everything to be comfortable and pleasant, and so he would say nothing about him (cheers).

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

The captain responded in a similar formal way. He wouldn't say that he was shocked by the speech they just heard; he wouldn't say he was disgusted (cheers). He wouldn't retaliate against the insults thrown at him (renewed cheering); he wouldn't mention the people who had once been in office and are now thankfully out, who had messed up the workhouse, taken advantage of the poor, watered down the beer, undercooked the bread, skimped on the meat, increased the workload, and reduced the soup (tremendous cheers). He wouldn't question what those people deserved (a voice, 'Nothing a day, and find themselves!'). He wouldn't suggest that one wave of collective outrage should drive them from the community they tainted with their presence ('Give it him!'). He wouldn't refer to the unfortunate man who had been proposed—he wouldn't say, as the vestry's tool, but as Beadle. He wouldn't mention that man's family; he wouldn't say that nine children, including twins, and a wife, were terrible examples for the poor to follow (loud cheers). He wouldn't go into detail about Bung's qualifications. The man stood before him, and he wouldn't say in his presence what he might think about him if he were not there. (Here Mr. Bung signaled to a friend nearby, covered by his hat, by squinting with his left eye and placing his right thumb on the tip of his nose). It had been pointed out that Bung had only five children ('Hear, hear!' from the opposition). Well, he still needed to learn that the legislature had specified any exact number of children needed for the beadle role; but assuming that having a large family was a major requirement, he urged everyone to look at the facts and compare the data, which could not be mistaken. Bung was 35 years old. Spruggins—whom he wished to speak about with all possible respect—was 50. Was it not more than possible—was it not very likely—that by the time Bung reached that age, he might have a family even larger than the one Spruggins currently claimed (deafening cheers and waving of handkerchiefs)? The captain concluded, amidst loud applause, by calling on the parishioners to ring the alarm, rush to the polls, free themselves from control, or be enslaved forever.

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

The next day, the polling started, and we haven’t seen such a commotion in our parish since we put together our well-known anti-slavery petition, which was so significant that the House of Commons ordered it to be printed, following a motion from the local member. The captain hired two hackney carriages and a cab for Bung's supporters—the cab for the drunken voters and the two carriages for the elderly women, most of whom, due to the captain's eagerness, were rushed to the poll and back home again before they could even grasp what was happening. The opposing party completely overlooked these arrangements, leading to many ladies who were casually walking to the church—since it was a very hot day—to vote for Spruggins being cleverly lured into the carriages and voting for Bung instead. The captain's persuasive talks had a significant impact: the vestry's attempted manipulation had even more effect. A threat of exclusive dealing was clearly established against the vestry clerk—a case of cold-hearted and outrageous behavior. It turned out that the clerk had been buying six pennies’ worth of muffins each week from an elderly woman who rents a small house in the parish and lives among the original settlers. During her last weekly visit, a message was relayed to her through the cook, framed in mysterious terms but clearly indicating that the clerk's future muffin supply depended entirely on her vote for the beadleship. This was enough: an existing shift in sentiment was amplified by this pressure, directing its final outcome. The Bung party ordered one shilling’s worth of muffins weekly for the rest of the old woman’s life; the parishioners were vocally outraged; and Spruggins' fate was sealed.

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

It was pointless for the twins to be dressed in matching outfits and nightcaps at the church door: the boy in Mrs. Spruggins's right arm and the girl in her left—even Mrs. Spruggins herself no longer drew sympathy. Bung received four hundred and twenty-eight votes in the general election, and the parishioners' cause won.

CHAPTER V-THE BROKER'S MAN

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

The excitement of the recent election has calmed down, and our parish has returned to a state of relative peace, allowing us to focus on those parishioners who aren't very involved in our party contests or the chaos of public life. We are genuinely pleased to acknowledge that Mr. Bung himself has greatly helped us in gathering information for this task, creating a debt of gratitude we doubt we can ever repay. This gentleman's life has been quite varied: he has gone through changes—not from serious to cheerful, as he’s never been serious—nor from lively to harsh, since harshness isn’t part of his nature; his ups and downs have been between extreme poverty and a slightly better situation, or, to use his own emphatic words, 'between having nothing to eat and just half enough.' He is not, as he strongly points out, 'one of those lucky guys who, if they were to dive under one side of a barge completely naked, would come up on the other side with a new suit of clothes and a soup ticket in their pocket.' Nor is he one of those whose spirit has been crushed beyond all hope by misfortune and need. He is just one of those carefree, fun-loving guys who float along like a cork, letting the world knock him around: pushed this way and that, sometimes up in the air, sometimes down to the bottom, but always bouncing back and riding the current cheerfully and happily along. A few months before he was convinced to run in a contested election for the position of beadle, necessity led him to work for a broker; during his time there, he learned about the situation of many of the poorer residents in the parish, which helped him earn public support from his patron, the captain. Recently, chance brought the man into our lives. At first, we were drawn to his charming boldness during the election; as we got to know him better, we were not surprised to find he was a clever, perceptive character with a good eye for details; after chatting with him a bit, we were somewhat taken aback (as we believe our readers have often experienced in other cases) by the ability some people have to not only empathize with but seemingly understand feelings that are completely foreign to them. We had been expressing to the new beadle our surprise that he had ever served in the role we just mentioned, when we gradually got him to share one or two stories from his experience. Upon reflection, we believe they will be better told in his own words, rather than through any embellishments of ours, so we will present them as they are.

MR BUNG'S NARRATIVE

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

"It's very true, as you say, sir," Mr. Bung started, "that being a broker's man is not a life anyone would envy. You know as well as I do, even if you don't say it, that people despise and criticize them because they're the ones who bring misery to poor people. But what could I do, sir? It wasn't any better because I did it instead of someone else; and if owning a house would give me three and sixpence a day and seizing another man's belongings would relieve my struggles and those of my family, you can't expect me not to take the job and go through with it. I never liked it, God knows; I always looked for something else, and the moment I found other work, I left it. If there's anything wrong with being the agent in such matters—not the principal, mind you—I'm sure the job, for a beginner like I was, has its own punishment. I wished many times that people would just let me have it or confront me—I wouldn't have minded, that's part of the job; but it's being locked up in one room for five days with not even an old newspaper to look at, or anything to see out the window but roofs and chimneys, or anything to listen to other than the ticking of an old Dutch clock, the occasional sob of the missus, or soft whispers from friends in the next room who speak quietly so "the man" won't overhear them, or maybe the door opening as a child peeks in and then runs away half-frightened—it's all this that makes you feel sneaky somehow and ashamed of yourself; and then, if it's winter, they just give you enough fire to make you want more and bring your food as if they hope it will choke you—most likely they do, honestly. If they're really nice, they make you a bed in the room at night, and if they don't, your boss sends one in for you; but there you are, not washed or shaved the whole time, avoided by everyone, and spoken to by no one, unless someone comes in at dinner and asks if you want more with a tone that says, 'I hope you don't,' or in the evening asks if you'd like a candle after you've been sitting in the dark half the night. When I was left like this, I would sit, think, think, think, until I felt as lonely as a kitten in a wash-house copper with the lid on; but I believe the old brokers' men who are regularly trained for this never think at all. I've heard some of them say, in fact, that they don't even know how!"

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

'I’ve dealt with quite a few troubles in my time,' continued Mr. Bung, 'and it didn’t take long for me to realize that some people deserve less sympathy than others. Those with good incomes who get into financial trouble and keep patching things up day after day eventually grow so accustomed to it that they hardly feel it at all. I remember the very first property I was assigned to, which was a gentleman’s house right here in this parish. Everyone would assume he was wealthy if he tried. I went with old Fixem, my former boss, around half past eight in the morning; rang the area bell; and a servant in livery opened the door. “Is the boss at home?” “Yes, he is,” the man replied, “but he’s having breakfast right now.” “That’s fine,” said Fixem, “just tell him there’s a gentleman here who wants to speak with him urgently.” The servant widened his eyes, looking around as if searching for the gentleman, which struck me as funny because I don’t think anyone but a blind man would mistake Fixem for one. As for me, I looked as shabby as a cheap cucumber. Anyway, the servant turned and went to the breakfast room, which was a cozy little space at the end of the hallway. Fixem, as we always did in that line of work, walked in after him without waiting to be announced, and before the servant could leave, he looked in at the door, as friendly as could be, and said, “Please, sir, here’s a man who wants to speak to you.” “Who the hell are you, and how dare you walk into a gentleman’s house uninvited?” the master boomed, as fierce as a bull in a rage. “My name,” said Fixem, winking at the master to send the servant away and passing the issued warrant folded like a note, “is Smith, and I’m here on behalf of Johnson regarding Thompson’s matter.” “Oh,” the gentleman said, immediately calming down, “How is Thompson? Please sit down, Mr. Smith; John, leave the room.” Out went the servant, and the gentleman and Fixem exchanged glances until they couldn’t anymore, at which point they turned their attention to me, who had been standing on the mat the whole time. “One hundred fifty pounds, I see,” said the gentleman finally. “One hundred fifty pounds,” Fixem replied, “plus the cost of the levy, sheriff’s poundage, and all other incidental expenses.” “Um,” said the gentleman, “I won’t be able to settle this until tomorrow afternoon.” “I’m very sorry; however, I’ll have to leave my man here until then,” Fixem replied, pretending to look quite miserable about it. “That’s very unfortunate,” said the gentleman, “because I have a big party tonight, and I’m ruined if my guests find out about this—just step here, Mr. Smith,” he added after a brief pause. So Fixem walked with him over to the window, and after a bit of whispering and some tinkling of coins, he came back and said, “Bung, you’re a capable fellow, and I know you’re very honest. This gentleman needs an assistant to clean the silver and serve at the table today, and if you’re not especially busy,” old Fixem said, grinning like mad and shoving a couple of sovereigns into my hand, “he’d be happy to have your help.” Well, I laughed, and the gentleman laughed, and we all laughed; I went home, cleaned myself up, leaving Fixem there, and when I returned, Fixem left, and I polished the silver, served at the table, and charmed the servants. Nobody had a clue I was in possession, although it almost came out after all; one of the last gentlemen who remained came down to the hall where I was sitting pretty late at night and handed me half a crown, saying, “Here, my man, run and get me a cab, will you?” I thought it was a setup to get me out of the house and was about to say so sulkily when the gentleman (who was sharp to everything) came running down the stairs, looking quite anxious. “Bung,” he said, pretending to be extremely upset. “Sir,” I replied. “Why the hell aren’t you looking after that silver?” “I was just about to send him for a cab for me,” said the other gentleman. “And I was just about to say,” I started, but the master of the house interrupted, pushing me down the hall to get me out of the way, “anyone else; but I’ve put this man in possession of all the silver and valuables, and I can’t allow him to leave the house under any circumstances. Bung, you scoundrel, go and count those forks in the breakfast room right now.” You can be sure I left laughing pretty hard when I found everything was alright. The money was paid the next day, with a little extra for myself, and that was the best gig that I (and I suspect old Fixem too) ever landed in that line of work.

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

'But this is the bright side of things, sir,' Mr. Bung continued, dropping the knowing look he had when he shared his earlier story. 'And I’m sad to say, it’s a side you rarely see compared to the dark one. The politeness that money can buy is seldom offered to those who don’t have any; and there’s even a bit of comfort in being able to fix one problem, even if it just makes room for another, something very poor people don’t know. I once stayed in a house on George’s Yard— that little dirty court behind the gas works; and I’ll never forget the misery of those people, dear me! They were in distress over half a year’s rent—two pounds ten, I think. The house had only two rooms, and with no hallway, the upstairs tenants had to go through the main room to come and go; and every time they did—about four times every quarter-hour—they got incredibly upset: their things had been seized too and included in the inventory. There was a small patch of dust in front of the house, with a cinder path leading up to the door, and an open rainwater barrel on one side. A dirty striped curtain hung loosely in the window, and a little triangular piece of broken mirror sat on the sill inside. I guess it was meant for the people’s use, but their condition was so pitiful that I’m sure they never mustered the courage to look at themselves a second time if they survived the shock of doing it once. There were two or three chairs that might have been worth eightpence to a shilling each in better days, a small deal table, an old corner cupboard with nothing in it, and one of those bed frames that fold up halfway, leaving the legs sticking out where you could bump your head or hang your hat; no bed, no bedding. There was an old sack serving as a rug in front of the fireplace, and four or five children were crawling around in the sand on the floor. The eviction was only executed to get them out since there was nothing to take to cover the costs; and I stayed there for three days, though that was just a formality too: because, of course, I knew, and everyone knew, they could never pay the money. In one of the chairs, next to where the fire should have been, sat an old woman— the ugliest and dirtiest I ever saw—rocking back and forth, back and forth, without stopping, except occasionally to clasp her wrinkled hands together, which she constantly rubbed on her knees, raising and lowering her fingers in a convulsive rhythm with the rocking of the chair. On the other side sat the mother with a baby in her arms, which cried until it wore itself out, and when it woke, cried again until it fell back asleep. I never heard a sound from the old woman; she seemed completely dazed. As for the mother, it would have been better if she had been dazed too, because misery had turned her into a monster. If you had heard how she cursed the little naked children rolling on the floor and seen how fiercely she hit the infant when it cried from hunger, you would have shuddered just like I did. They just stayed there the whole time: the children had a bit of bread once or twice, and I gave them most of the dinners my wife brought me, but the woman ate nothing; they never even laid down on the bed frame, nor was the room cleaned the entire time. The neighbors were too poor themselves to take any notice of them, but from what I gathered from the woman upstairs yelling, it seemed the husband had been transported a few weeks before. When the time was up, the landlord and old Fixem got a bit worried about the family, so they made a fuss and had them taken to the workhouse. They sent a sick cart for the old woman, and Simmons took the children away at night. The old woman went into the infirmary and soon died. The children are all in the house to this day, and they are fairly comfortable compared to before. As for the mother, there was no taming her at all. I believe she had been a quiet, hard-working woman, but her suffering had driven her insane; so after being sent to the workhouse half a dozen times for throwing inkstands at the overseers, cursing the churchwardens, and attacking anyone who came near her, she burst a blood vessel one morning and died too; and it was a happy release for both her and the old pensioners, male and female, that she used to knock over in every direction, as if they were skittles and she was the ball.'

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

'Now, this was already pretty bad,' Mr. Bung continued, taking a step towards the door as if to suggest he was almost done. 'This was bad enough, but there was a kind of quiet misery—if you know what I mean—about a woman at one place I was sent to, which affected me even more. It doesn’t really matter where it was; honestly, I’d prefer not to say, but it was the same type of situation. I went with Fixem like usual—there was a year's rent overdue; a very small girl opened the door, and three or four good-looking little kids were in the front parlor we were shown into, which was very clean but sparsely furnished, much like the children themselves. "Bung," Fixem said to me in a low voice when we were left alone for a minute, "I know a bit about this family, and my guess is, it's not going to work out." "Do you think they can't settle?" I asked, genuinely worried because I liked how the kids looked. Fixem shook his head and was just about to answer when the door opened, and in walked a lady as pale as anyone I’ve ever seen, except around her eyes, which were red from crying. She walked in as confidently as I could have, carefully shut the door behind her, and sat down with a face as expressionless as stone. "What’s going on, gentlemen?" she asked in a surprisingly steady voice. "Is this an eviction?" "It is, ma'am," Fixem replied. The lady looked at him steadily, seeming not to comprehend. "It is, ma'am," Fixem repeated; "this is my warrant of distress, ma'am," he said, handing it over as politely as if it were a newspaper that had been ordered after the next customer.

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

The lady's lip shook as she picked up the printed paper. She glanced at it, and old Fixem started to explain the form, but he saw she wasn’t actually reading it, poor thing. “Oh, my God!” she suddenly burst into tears, dropping the warrant and hiding her face in her hands. “Oh, my God! What will become of us!” The noise she made drew in a young woman about nineteen or twenty, who I guess had been eavesdropping at the door and was holding a little boy. She set him down in the lady's lap without saying a word, and the lady hugged the poor little guy to her chest, crying over him until even old Fixem had to put on his blue glasses to hide the tears trickling down his cheeks. “Now, dear mom,” said the young woman, “you know how much you've been through. For all our sakes—for dad’s sake,” she said, “please don’t lose it!” “No, no, I won’t!” replied the lady, quickly pulling herself together and drying her eyes. “I’m being foolish, but I feel better now—much better.” Then she got up, went with us into every room as we took the inventory, opened all the drawers on her own, and sorted the children's little clothes to make things easier; and aside from moving in a strange rush, she seemed as calm and composed as if nothing had happened. When we came back downstairs, she hesitated for a minute or two and finally said, “Gentlemen,” she said, “I’m afraid I’ve done something wrong, and it might get you into trouble. I just secretly hid the only piece of jewelry I have left in the world—here it is.” She set a little gold-mounted miniature on the table. “It’s a miniature of my poor dear father! I never thought I’d thank God for taking away the original, but I do, and I have for years now, very fervently. Take it away, sir,” she said, “it’s a face that never turned away from me in sickness and distress, and I can hardly bear to turn away from it now, when, God knows, I’m suffering both in a major way.” I couldn’t say anything, but I lifted my head from the inventory I was filling out and looked at Fixem; the old guy nodded at me knowingly, so I scratched out the “Mini” I had just written and left the miniature on the table.

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

Well, to cut a long story short, I was left in charge, and I stayed in charge; and even though I was an ignorant man and the master of the house was clever, I noticed something he never did but would give anything to have realized sooner. I saw that his wife was slowly deteriorating under burdens she never voiced and sorrows she never shared. I realized she was dying right in front of him; I knew that one effort from him could have saved her, but he never made that effort. I don’t blame him: I don’t think he could summon the energy. She had taken care of all his needs for so long that he was helpless when left on his own. I used to think, whenever I saw her in those clothes she used to wear, which looked worn even on her and would barely have been appropriate on anyone else, that if I were a gentleman, it would break my heart to see the woman who was once a lively and cheerful girl when I pursued her, now so changed because of her love for me. It was bitterly cold and damp, yet even with her thin dress and not-so-great shoes, she spent three whole days outside, running around trying to raise the money. The money was raised, and the debt was settled. The whole family crowded into the room where I was when the money came in. The father was quite happy that the inconvenience was lifted—I imagine he didn’t even know how; the children looked joyful and lighthearted again; the oldest girl was bustling around, preparing for their first decent meal since the crisis began; and the mother looked happy to see them all like that. But if I ever saw death in a woman’s face, it was in hers that night.

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

'I was right, sir,' Mr. Bung continued, quickly wiping his face with his coat sleeve. 'The family became more successful, and luck came their way. But it was too late. Those kids are without their mother now, and their father would give up everything he has gained—house, home, possessions, money—everything he has, or ever will have, to bring back the wife he lost.'

CHAPTER VI-THE LADIES' SOCIETIES

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

Our parish has a lot of women's charitable organizations. In winter, when wet feet are common and colds are rampant, we have the women's soup distribution group, the women's coal distribution group, and the women's blanket distribution group. In summer, when fresh fruits are abundant and stomachaches are frequent, we have the women's dispensary and the women's sick visitation committee. And all year round, we have the women's children's examination group, the women's Bible and prayer book distribution group, and the women's monthly loan group for childbed linens. The last two are definitely the most significant; while we can't say if they provide more benefit than the others, we can confidently state that they create more excitement and activity than all the others combined.

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

At first glance, it might seem that the Bible and Prayer Book Society isn't as popular as the Childbed Linen Society; however, the Bible and Prayer Book Society has gained significant importance over the past year or two, partly due to the contentious opposition from the Child's Examination Society. This opposition arose in the following way: when the young curate became popular, and all the unmarried ladies in the parish started to take things seriously, the charity children suddenly became a focus of intense interest. The three Miss Browns, who were enthusiastic admirers of the curate, taught, tested, and re-tested the unfortunate children to the point where the boys looked pale and the girls became worn out from studying. The three Miss Browns managed well because they supported each other, but the children, having no breaks at all, clearly showed signs of exhaustion and distress. The less thoughtful parishioners just laughed it off, but the more considerate residents held back their opinions until they understood the curate's view on the matter.

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

The opportunity didn't take long to present itself. The curate delivered a charity sermon for the charity school, and in that sermon, he passionately praised the tireless efforts of some remarkable individuals. Sobs could be heard from the pew of the three Miss Browns; the pew-opener of that section hurried down the center aisle to the vestry door and quickly returned with a glass of water. A soft moaning followed, and two more pew-openers rushed to the scene. The three Miss Browns, each being supported by a pew-opener, were escorted out of the church and came back in five minutes later with white handkerchiefs to their eyes, as if they had just attended a funeral in the nearby graveyard. Any doubt about who the sermon was referring to was immediately cleared up. The desire to educate the charity children became widespread, and everyone unanimously urged the three Miss Browns to split the school into classes and assign each class the supervision of two young ladies.

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

A little knowledge can be risky, but a little favoritism is even worse; the three Miss Browns chose all the old maids and made sure to leave out the younger ones. The older single women celebrated while the mothers sank into despair, and it’s hard to say how far the collective outrage against the three Miss Browns might have escalated if not for a very fortunate event that changed public opinion. Mrs. Johnson Parker, the mother of seven very admirable girls—all single—quickly informed several other mothers of various unmarried families that five old men, six old women, and countless children in the free seats near her pew regularly came to church every Sunday without a Bible or prayer book. Could this be accepted in a civilized society? Could such things happen in a Christian nation? Absolutely not! A ladies' Bible and prayer book distribution society was immediately established: president, Mrs. Johnson Parker; treasurers, auditors, and secretary, the Misses Johnson Parker. Contributions were collected, books were purchased, and all the people in the free seats were supplied with them. When the first lesson was announced on the first Sunday after these events, there was such a clattering of books and rustling of pages that it was impossible to hear a single word of the service for the next five minutes.

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

The three Miss Browns and their group saw the looming threat and tried to deflect it with mocking and sarcasm. “Neither the old men nor the old women could read their books now that they had them,” said the three Miss Browns. “That’s okay; they can learn,” replied Mrs. Johnson Parker. “The children couldn’t read either,” the Miss Browns suggested. “Doesn’t matter; they can be taught,” Mrs. Johnson Parker shot back. A standoff between the groups ensued. The Miss Browns held a public examination, and public sentiment leaned towards the children’s examination society. The Miss Johnson Parkers organized a public distribution, which sparked a reaction in favor of distributing prayer books. A small change could have tipped the scales, and it did. A missionary returned from the West Indies; he was set to be introduced to the Dissenters' Missionary Society on his marriage to a wealthy widow. The Johnson Parkers reached out to the Dissenters, proposing a joint meeting for both societies. The idea was embraced. The meeting was publicly announced, and the room was packed to capacity. The Missionary took the stage and was greeted with excitement. He recounted a conversation he had overheard between two Black men behind a hedge discussing distribution societies; the audience’s approval was overwhelming. He mimicked the two men in broken English, and the crowd erupted in applause. From this point onward, we saw (with one minor exception) a daily rise in the popularity of the distribution society, which only intensified due to the weak and ineffective opposition from the examination group.

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

Now, the great things about the monthly childbed-linen loan society are that it relies less on the ups and downs of public opinion than both the distribution and the child's examination, and that, no matter what happens, there’s always a steady demand for its charitable efforts. Our parish is quite populous and probably adds more than its fair share to the total number of births in the city and its surroundings. As a result, the monthly loan society thrives and provides its members with an impressive level of active support. The society (whose only way of tracking time seems to be dividing it into months) hosts monthly tea gatherings where they receive the monthly report, elect a new secretary for the upcoming month, and carefully check any of the monthly boxes that aren’t currently out on loan.

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

We were never present at one of these meetings, and it’s hardly necessary to mention that gentlemen are carefully excluded. However, Mr. Bung has been called before the board a couple of times, and we have his permission to say that the meetings are conducted with great order and regularity, with no more than four members allowed to speak at once for any reason. The regular committee is made up entirely of married women, but a large number of young unmarried women aged eighteen to twenty-five are admitted as honorary members. This is partly because they are very useful in replenishing supplies and visiting the sick, partly because it's important for them to learn about the more serious and motherly duties of later life early on, and partly because clever mothers have often turned this situation to their advantage in marriage proposals.

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

In addition to the monthly boxes (which are always painted blue with the society's name in large white letters on the lid), the society occasionally provides grants of beef-tea and a mix of warm beer, spices, eggs, and sugar, commonly referred to as 'candle,' to its patients. Once again, the honorary members step up to help, and they do so with great enthusiasm. Small groups of two or three are sent out to visit the patients, and during these visits, there’s a lot of tasting of candle and beef-tea, stirring of small portions in little saucepans on the stove, dressing and undressing of infants, tying, folding, and pinning; nurturing and warming tiny legs and feet by the fire, and a delightful chaos of talking, cooking, busyness, importance, and helpfulness that can only be fully appreciated during such occasions.

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

In competition with these two organizations, and as a final effort to gain local popularity, the exam committee decided to hold a big public examination for the students. The spacious classroom of the national school was, with the approval of the parish authorities, dedicated to this event. Invitation letters were sent out to all the main parish members, including, of course, the leaders of the other two groups, for whose benefit and understanding the display was intended; a large audience was confidently expected for the event. The floor was thoroughly cleaned the day before, overseen by the three Miss Browns; rows of seats were arranged in the room for visitors, writing samples were carefully chosen and edited until they amazed the children who created them even more than the guests who read them; complex addition problems were practiced and rehearsed until all the kids had the answers memorized; and the overall preparations were extensive and thorough. The big day finally came: the children were scrubbed and polished until their faces shone; each pupil's hair was styled to fall in front of their eyes, as needed; the girls wore bright white shawls and caps adorned with a single purple ribbon around their heads; the older boys had collars of eye-catching size.

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

The doors swung open, revealing the Misses Brown and Co. in simple white muslin dresses and matching caps—this was the child’s examination uniform. The room filled up quickly as the company exchanged loud and warm greetings. The organizers were nervous, knowing their popularity was on the line. The eldest boy stumbled forward and gave a conciliatory speech from behind his collar. It was written by Mr. Henry Brown; the applause was overwhelming, leaving the Johnson Parkers shocked. The examination went smoothly and ended in triumph. The child’s examination society claimed a brief victory, while the Johnson Parkers left in disappointment.

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

A secret meeting of the distributionists took place that night, with Mrs. Johnson Parker leading, to figure out how to regain the support they had lost in the parish. What could they do? Another meeting? But who would show up? The Missionary wouldn’t come again, and the slaves were free. They had to take bold action. The parish needed to be surprised somehow, but no one could suggest what to do. Finally, a very old lady was heard mumbling something about “Exeter Hall.” Suddenly, everyone had an idea. They unanimously decided that a group of older women should approach a well-known speaker, asking for his help and for a speech, and they would also reach out to two or three other clueless old women from outside the parish and request their presence. Their efforts paid off; the meeting happened, and the speaker (who was Irish) arrived. He spoke about green islands, distant shores, the vast Atlantic, the deep sea, Christian charity, bloodshed, mercy in hearts, arms in hands, altars and homes, household gods. He wiped his eyes, blew his nose, and quoted some Latin. The impact was huge—the Latin was a big hit. Nobody really understood what he was talking about, but everyone felt it must be powerful, since even the speaker was moved. The distribution society has gained unprecedented popularity among the ladies in our parish, while the child's examination is quickly fading.

CHAPTER VII-OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR

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

We really enjoy imagining the personalities and interests of the people living on a street as we walk by, and nothing helps us do this more than the look of their front doors. The different expressions on people's faces provide a fascinating study, but there's something about the look of door knockers that's just as telling and almost just as reliable. Whenever we visit someone for the first time, we examine their knocker with a lot of curiosity because we know there's likely to be some resemblance or connection between the person and their knocker.

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

For example, there’s a type of door knocker that used to be pretty common but is now fading away—a large round one featuring a cheerful lion's face grinning at you while you twist your hair into a curl or adjust your shirt collar as you wait for the door to be opened; we never saw that knocker on the door of a rude person—in our experience, it always indicated a warm welcome and an offer of another drink.

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

No one has ever seen this knocker on the door of a small lawyer or bill broker; they always go for the other lion, a big, fierce-looking guy with a face that shows a kind of savage stupidity—like a grand master among knockers and a big favorite with the selfish and brutal.

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

Then there's a small, stylish Egyptian doorknocker, with a long, thin face, a pinched nose, and a very sharp chin; he's quite popular among government office workers in light colors and crisp ties; small, uptight men who are completely satisfied with their own opinions and see themselves as incredibly important.

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

We were really bothered a few years ago by a new type of door knocker that didn’t have a face at all, just a wreath hanging from a hand or a small stick. With a bit of effort and focus, though, we managed to get past this issue and even align the new design with our favorite theory. You’ll always see this knocker on the doors of cold and formal people, who always ask you why you don’t visit but never actually invite you.

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

Everybody knows that the brass knocker is typical for suburban homes and large boarding schools; having acknowledged this type, we have summarized all the most notable and clearly defined varieties.

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

Some phrenologists claim that the way a person’s brain is affected by different emotions leads to changes in the shape of their skull. Don’t misunderstand us; we’re not saying that any change in a person’s character would visibly alter the look of their door knocker. What we mean is that in such a case, the connection that exists between a person and their knocker would motivate the person to switch it out for one that feels more in tune with their new emotions. If you ever see someone moving to a new place without a clear reason, trust that, even if they don’t realize it, it’s because they and their knocker are out of sync. This is a new idea, but we’re putting it out there anyway, as it’s just as clever and reliable as many of the learned theories that are frequently proposed for the benefit of society and personal gain.

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

Entertaining these feelings about knockers, you can imagine how shocked we were when the knocker was completely taken off the door of the house next door to ours some time ago and replaced with a bell. This was a disaster we had never expected. The thought of anyone being able to get by without a knocker seemed so outlandish and far-fetched that it had never crossed our minds for even a moment.

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

We walked away from the spot, feeling down, and headed towards Eaton Square, which was still being built. We were shocked and outraged to discover that doorbells were becoming the norm, while door knockers were becoming rare! Our theory wavered under the surprise. We rushed home, and imagining that the rapid changes would lead to the complete elimination of door knockers, we decided from that day on to share our thoughts with our next-door neighbors in person. The house next to ours on the left was empty, so we had plenty of time to observe the neighbors on the other side.

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

The house without the knocker was occupied by a city clerk, and there was a neatly written sign in the parlor window indicating that rooms were available for a single gentleman within.

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

It was a tidy, plain little house on the shady side of the street, with new, narrow floor covering in the hallway and new, narrow stair carpets leading up to the first floor. The wallpaper was fresh, the paint was fresh, and the furniture was fresh; and all three—wallpaper, paint, and furniture—reflected the tenant's modest means. There was a small red and black carpet in the living room, surrounded by a border of flooring all the way around; a few stained chairs and a Pembroke table. A pink shell sat on each of the little sideboards, along with a tea tray and a caddy, a few more shells on the mantelpiece, and three peacock feathers arranged above them, which completed the decor of the apartment.

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

This was the room set aside for the single gentleman during the day, and a small back room on the same floor was designated as his sleeping quarters at night.

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

The ad hadn’t been up for long when a cheerful, hefty gentleman in his mid-thirties showed up wanting to rent the place. They quickly agreed on the terms, and the ad was taken down right after his first visit. A day or two later, the single gentleman returned, and soon after, his true nature was revealed.

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

First of all, he had a peculiar habit of staying up until three or four in the morning, drinking whiskey and water and smoking cigars. Then he would invite friends over who arrived at ten o'clock and started to enjoy themselves in the early hours. They showed their happiness by singing songs with six verses of two lines each and a chorus of ten lines, which everyone would shout out with all their energy, much to the annoyance of the neighbors and the obvious discomfort of another single guy living upstairs.

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

Now, this was bad enough since it happened about three times a week on average, but that wasn't all; when the group did leave, instead of quietly walking down the street like any other group would, they entertained themselves by making shocking and terrifying noises, mimicking the screams of women in distress. One night, a red-faced guy in a white hat urgently knocked on the door of the powdered-haired old gentleman at No. 3. The old gentleman, who thought one of his married daughters might have fallen ill unexpectedly, fumbled his way downstairs, and after a lot of unbolting and turning keys, opened the front door. The red-faced man in the white hat said he hoped the old gentleman would forgive him for the trouble, but he would appreciate it if he could get a glass of cold spring water and borrow a shilling for a cab to get home. At this, the old gentleman slammed the door and went back upstairs, then threw the contents of his water jug out the window—very accurately, only it hit the wrong man; and the whole street erupted in chaos.

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

A joke is a joke; even practical jokes can be great if the other person gets the humor. But the people on our street were so dull that they completely missed the fun of it. As a result, our next-door neighbor had to tell the single guy that unless he stopped hosting his friends at home, he would really have to ask him to leave.

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

The single gentleman took the criticism in stride and promised from that point on to spend his evenings at a coffee shop—a decision that brought everyone complete and unreserved satisfaction.

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

The next night went really well, and everyone loved the change; but the following night, the noises started up again, even louder than before. The single gentleman's friends, unable to visit him at his place every other night, decided to come over every night instead. With the loud farewells from the friends when they left, the noise from the single gentleman making his way upstairs, and his struggles to take off his boots, it was too much to handle. So, our next-door neighbor gave the single gentleman, who was a great lodger in other ways, notice to leave; and the single gentleman moved out and entertained his friends in a different place.

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

The next applicant for the vacant first floor was very different from the troublesome single gentleman who had just left. He was a tall, thin young man with a lot of brown hair, reddish whiskers, and lightly developed mustaches. He wore a braided coat with decorative fastenings, light gray trousers, and soft leather gloves, giving him quite a military look. He was nothing like the boisterous single gentleman. His manners were charming, and he had a delightful way of speaking! He seemed very serious, too. When he first came to check out the lodgings, he specifically asked if he would definitely be able to get a seat in the parish church. And once he agreed to take the place, he asked for a list of local charities because he intended to contribute to the most deserving ones.

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

Our next-door neighbor was now completely happy. He finally got a lodger who shared his views—a serious, good-natured guy who disliked noise and preferred solitude. He took down the sign with a light heart and imagined a long stretch of quiet Sundays, where he and his lodger would enjoy each other's company and read the Sunday papers.

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

The serious man arrived, and his luggage was scheduled to come from the countryside the next morning. He borrowed a clean shirt and a prayer book from our next-door neighbor and went to bed early, asking to be woken up promptly at ten o'clock the next morning—not before, since he was very tired.

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

He was called, but he didn’t respond; he was called again, but there was still no answer. Our neighbor got worried and kicked the door open. The serious guy had left the house in a strange way, taking the shirt, the prayer book, a teaspoon, and the bedding with him.

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

Whether this event, along with the odd behavior of his previous tenant, caused our next-door neighbor to have a dislike for single guys, we can't say; we only know that the next sign that appeared in the parlor window generally indicated that there were furnished apartments available for rent on the first floor. The sign was taken down quickly. The new tenants initially piqued our curiosity and later sparked our interest.

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

They were a young guy, around eighteen or nineteen, and his mother, a woman of about fifty, or maybe a bit younger. The mother was dressed in mourning clothes, and the boy was also wearing dark attire. They were really poor; their only source of income came from the small amount the boy made by copying documents and translating for booksellers.

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

They moved from their rural home and settled in London; partly because it offered better job opportunities for the boy, and partly, maybe, out of the natural desire to leave a place where they had better circumstances and where their poverty was known. They took pride in their struggles and were reluctant to reveal their needs and hardships to strangers. How bitter those hardships were, and how hard the boy worked to overcome them, no one ever knew but them. Night after night, two, three, four hours after midnight, we could hear the occasional stirring of the meager fire or the muffled, half-stifled cough that signaled he was still working; and day after day, we could see more clearly that nature had put that strange light in his sorrowful face, which is the sign of her worst affliction.

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

Moved, we hope, by something deeper than simple curiosity, we managed to build, first a friendship, and then a close bond, with the struggling newcomers. Our worst fears came true; the boy was rapidly deteriorating. Throughout part of the winter, and all of the following spring and summer, his efforts stretched on endlessly: and the mother tried to find sewing, embroidery—anything to put food on the table.

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

A few shillings here and there were all she could earn. The boy worked steadily, suffering little by little, but never once complaining or making a sound.

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

One lovely autumn evening, we went to our usual visit with the invalid. His strength had been fading quickly over the past couple of days, and he was lying on the sofa by the open window, watching the sunset. His mother had been reading the Bible to him, as she closed the book when we walked in and came to greet us.

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

"I was telling William," she said, "that we need to find a place in the country for him so he can get better. He’s not really sick, you know, but he’s not very strong and has overdone it lately." Poor thing! The tears that fell through her fingers as she turned away, pretending to fix her tight widow's cap, clearly revealed how futile her attempt was to fool herself.

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

We settled down at the head of the sofa, but didn’t say anything, as we noticed the life was gently but quickly slipping away from the young person in front of us. With each breath, his heart was slowing down more and more.

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

The boy took one of our hands, grabbed his mom's arm with the other, pulled her close, and passionately kissed her cheek. There was a moment of silence. He leaned back on his pillow and stared intently at his mom's face.

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

'William, William!' whispered the mother, after a long pause, 'don't look at me like that—talk to me, dear!'

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

The boy smiled lazily, but moments later his expression turned back to the same cold, serious look.

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

'William, my dear William! Wake up; please don’t look at me like that, my love—please don’t! Oh my God! What am I going to do!' cried the widow, holding her hands together in despair. 'My dear boy! He’s dying!' The boy pushed himself up with great effort and clasped his hands together. 'Mother! My dear, dear mother, please bury me in the open fields—anywhere but in these awful streets. I’d like to be somewhere you can see my grave, but not in these crowded, dirty streets; they have taken my life. Kiss me again, mother; wrap your arm around my neck—'

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

He leaned back, and a strange look came over his face; not of pain or suffering, but an indescribable tension in every line and muscle.

The boy was dead.

The boy is dead.

SCENES

CHAPTER I-THE STREETS-MORNING

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

The scene on the streets of London an hour before sunrise on a summer morning is really striking, even for those few whose unfortunate quests for pleasure or equally unfortunate business matters make them familiar with it. There's a sense of cold, lonely desolation in the quiet streets that we usually see filled with a busy, eager crowd at other times, and the stillness surrounding the tightly shut buildings, which are bustling with activity and life during the day, is very striking.

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

The last drunk guy, who is going to find his way home before sunrise, has just stumbled by, loudly singing the drinking song from last night. The final homeless person, abandoned by poverty and the police, has curled up in some cold corner of the pavement, dreaming of food and warmth. The drunk, the reckless, and the miserable have vanished; the more responsible and organized people haven’t woken up to start their day yet, and the streets are as still as death; even their color seems cold and lifeless in the gray, gloomy light of dawn. The taxi stands on the main roads are empty: the nightclubs are shut down; and the usual spots of reckless despair are deserted.

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

An occasional police officer can be seen at the street corners, listlessly gazing at the empty view in front of him; and now and then, a scruffy-looking cat sneaks across the road and quietly makes its way down its own area with as much caution and sneakiness—first jumping onto the water butt, then onto the dust hole, and finally landing on the flagstones—as if it knows that its reputation depends on its cleverness from the night before avoiding notice. A partially opened bedroom window here and there indicates the heat of the weather and the restless sleep of its occupant; and the faint, flickering glow of the rushlight through the window blind suggests the presence of someone who is either keeping watch or unwell. Aside from these few exceptions, the streets show no signs of life, nor do the houses show any signs of occupation.

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

An hour passes; the spires of the churches and rooftops of the main buildings are softly lit by the rising sun; and the streets gradually start to come back to life and activity. Market carts roll slowly by: the sleepy driver impatiently urging his tired horses or trying in vain to wake the boy, who, comfortably sprawled on top of the fruit baskets, happily forgets his long-held desire to see the sights of London.

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

Rough, sleepy-looking animals with odd appearances, somewhere between stable hands and cab drivers, start taking down the shutters of early pubs; and small wooden tables set up with typical items for a street breakfast show up at the usual spots. Lots of men and women (mostly women) carrying heavy fruit baskets on their heads make their way down the park side of Piccadilly, heading to Covent Garden, and, rapidly following one another, create a long, winding line all the way to the turn of the road at Knightsbridge.

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

Here and there, a bricklayer's laborer, with his lunch wrapped in a handkerchief, walks quickly to work, and occasionally a small group of three or four schoolboys on a sneaky swimming trip rush over the pavement, their loud laughter sharply contrasting with the demeanor of the young chimney sweep, who, after knocking and ringing until his arm aches, and being prevented by a kind law from risking his lungs by shouting, sits patiently on the doorstep until the housemaid might finally wake up.

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

Covent Garden market and the streets leading to it are packed with all kinds of carts, from the heavy, lumbering wagon with its four strong horses to the jingly costermonger's cart pulled by a sickly donkey. The pavement is already covered with wilted cabbage leaves, broken hay bands, and all the other messy debris of a vegetable market; men are shouting, carts are reversing, horses are neighing, boys are fighting, women with baskets are chatting, pie sellers are boasting about the quality of their pastries, and donkeys are braying. These and countless other sounds create a chaotic racket that is pretty jarring for a Londoner and particularly unpleasant for country gentlemen who are staying at the Hummums for the first time.

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

Another hour goes by, and the day really begins. The all-purpose servant, who claims to be sleeping deeply, has completely ignored 'Missis's' calls for the last half hour. Master, whom Missis has sent upstairs in his pajamas to deliver the message, informs her that it’s half-past six. She suddenly wakes up, feigning surprise, and sulkily heads downstairs, wishing as she lights a match that spontaneous combustion could happen to the coals and kitchen range. Once the fire is lit, she opens the front door to fetch the milk, when, by the most incredible coincidence, she finds out that the neighbor's servant has just taken in her milk as well, and that Mr. Todd's young man across the street is, by an equally strange chance, pulling down his master's shutters. Naturally, she steps over, milk jug in hand, to say 'good morning' to Betsy Clark, and Mr. Todd's young man also crosses the street to greet both of them. As it happens, Mr. Todd's young man is almost as attractive and charming as the baker himself, turning the conversation quite lively, and it might have gotten even more interesting if Betsy Clark's Missis, who always follows her around, didn’t bang on her bedroom window in annoyance. Mr. Todd's young man tries to whistle casually as he makes his way back to the shop much quicker than he arrived, while the two girls hurry back to their homes, shutting their doors surprisingly softly. A minute later, though, each pokes her head out of the front parlor window, ostensibly to watch the mail passing by, but really to sneak another look at Mr. Todd's young man, who likes watching the mails but likes girls even more, taking a quick glance at the mails and a long look at the girls, much to everyone's delight.

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

The mail itself makes its way to the coach station in due time, and the passengers heading out on the early coach stare in disbelief at the passengers coming in on the early coach, who look gloomy and dreary, clearly affected by that strange feeling that comes from traveling. It makes yesterday morning seem like it happened at least six months ago and leads people to seriously wonder if the friends and family they said goodbye to two weeks ago have changed much since they left. The coach station is buzzing, and the coaches about to depart are surrounded by the usual crowd of traders and others who inexplicably believe that no one can board a coach without needing at least six pence worth of oranges, a penknife, a pocketbook, last year’s annual, a pencil case, a piece of sponge, and a few caricatures.

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

Half an hour later, the sun beams brightly down the still half-empty streets, shining strong enough to shake the lazy apprentice from his gloom. He stops every minute from sweeping the shop and watering the pavement in front, just to tell another apprentice doing the same about how hot it's going to be today, or he stands with his right hand shading his eyes and his left resting on the broom, watching the 'Wonder,' the 'Tally-ho,' or the 'Nimrod,' or some other fast coach until it disappears from sight. Then he goes back inside, envying the passengers on the outside of the fast coach and thinking about the old red brick house 'down in the country' where he went to school. The bad memories of bland food and stale bread fade away in comparison to the happy memories of the green field where the boys used to play and the green pond he was punished for falling into, along with other schoolboy memories.

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

Cabs, with trunks and boxes between the drivers' legs and outside the apron, rattle quickly up and down the streets on their way to the coach offices or steam packet docks; and the cab drivers and hackney coachmen waiting in line polish the decorative parts of their worn-out vehicles—the former wondering how anyone can prefer 'those wild beast caravans of omnibuses' to a proper cab with a fast trotter, and the latter amazed that people would risk their necks in one of 'those crazy cabs' when they could have a respectable hackney coach with a pair of horses that won't run away with anyone; a reassurance undoubtedly based on truth, considering that a hackney coach horse has never been known to run at all, 'except,' as the clever cab driver at the front of the rank notes, 'except one, and he ran backwards.'

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

The shops are all open now, and apprentices and shopkeepers are busy cleaning and decorating the windows for the day. The bakeries in town are filled with staff and kids waiting for the first batch of rolls, which was made an hour ago in the suburbs. The early clerks from Somers and Camden towns, Islington, and Pentonville are quickly heading into the city or making their way toward Chancery-lane and the Inns of Court. Middle-aged men, whose salaries haven't increased as much as their family size, plod along with seemingly no purpose other than reaching their offices. They recognize almost everyone they pass or catch up with, having seen them every morning (except Sundays) for the last twenty years, but they don’t talk to anyone. If they happen to see a friend, they exchange a quick greeting and continue walking, either beside or ahead of the person, depending on their pace. They seem to think that stopping to shake hands or take a friend's arm isn’t worth it since it’s not part of their job. Young office boys in oversized hats, already feeling the pressure of adulthood before they've really grown up, rush by in pairs, their first coats neatly brushed, and their white trousers from last Sunday covered in dust and ink. It clearly takes some mental effort to resist spending part of their lunch money on the stale pastries temptingly displayed in dusty tins at the pastry shop doors. However, their sense of self-importance and their income of seven shillings a week, with the potential to soon earn eight, helps them stay strong. They adjust their hats slightly and check out the milliners' and stay-makers' apprentices they pass—poor girls—the most overworked, underpaid, and often mistreated group in society.

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

It's eleven o'clock, and a new crowd fills the streets. The items in the shop windows are attractively displayed; the shopkeepers, dressed in their white neckerchiefs and smart coats, look like they couldn't clean a window to save their lives; the carts have vanished from Covent Garden; the wagon drivers have returned, and the street vendors are back at their usual spots in the suburbs; office workers are at their desks, and carriages, cabs, buses, and saddle horses are taking their owners to the same places. The streets are packed with a large mix of people, both cheerful and worn, wealthy and poor, lazy and hardworking; and we arrive at the heat, hustle, and energy of noon.

CHAPTER II-THE STREETS-NIGHT

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

But the streets of London, in all their glory, should be experienced on a dark, gloomy winter night, when there’s just enough moisture in the air to make the pavement slippery, without washing away any of its grime; and when the thick, lazy mist that hangs over everything makes the gas lamps appear brighter and the well-lit shops look even more stunning against the darkness. Everyone staying in on a night like this seems to be trying to make themselves as cozy and comfortable as possible, and the people out on the streets have every reason to envy those lucky enough to be settled by their own fireplaces.

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

In the wider and nicer streets, dining room curtains are tightly shut, kitchen fires burn brightly, and the delicious smells of hot dinners greet the hungry passerby as he trudges wearily by the area railings. In the suburbs, the muffin guy slowly makes his way down the small street, much slower than usual; because Mrs. Macklin from No. 4 has barely opened her little front door and yelled 'Muffins!' at the top of her lungs when Mrs. Walker from No. 5 sticks her head out of the living room window and shouts 'Muffins!' too; and as soon as Mrs. Walker finishes speaking, Mrs. Peplow across the street sends out Master Peplow, who races down the street with a speed that only the thought of buttered muffins could inspire, and pulls the boy back with all his might. Then, to save the boy some hassle and to exchange a few friendly words with Mrs. Peplow, Mrs. Macklin and Mrs. Walker rush over and buy their muffins at Mrs. Peplow's door, when it turns out from Mrs. Walker's enthusiastic comment that her 'kettle's just boiling, and the cups and saucers are ready,' and that, since it was such a dreadful night outside, she'd decided to have a nice, hot, comforting cup of tea—a decision that, oddly enough, the other two ladies had also independently come to.

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

After chatting a bit about how awful the weather is and how great tea is, with a side note on how boys can be pretty terrible overall but Master Peplow being a nice exception, Mrs. Walker spots her husband coming down the street. Since he must be eager for his tea after his dirty walk from the Docks, she quickly rushes over with muffins in hand, and Mrs. Macklin does the same. After exchanging a few words with Mrs. Walker, they all head into their little houses and slam their front doors, which stay shut for the rest of the evening, except for the nine o'clock 'beer' delivery guy who comes by with a lantern in front of his tray. He tells Mrs. Walker, as he hands her 'Yesterday's 'Tiser,' that he can hardly hold the pot, let alone feel the paper, because it's one of the coldest nights he's ever experienced, except for that night when a man froze to death in the Brickfield.

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

After a brief chat with the policeman at the corner about a possible shift in the weather and the arrival of a hard frost, the nine o'clock beer returns to his master's house and spends the rest of the evening diligently tending to the fire in the taproom, while respectfully engaging in the conversation of the notable individuals gathered around it.

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

The streets near the Marsh-gate and Victoria Theatre look dirty and uncomfortable on a night like this, and the groups hanging around don’t help at all. Even the small tin stand selling baked potatoes, topped with a fancy display of colorful lights, seems less cheerful than usual, and as for the kidney-pie stand, its former charm has completely faded. The candle in the see-through lamp made of oil-paper, decorated with ‘characters,’ has been blown out fifty times, so the kidney-pie seller, exhausted from running back and forth to the nearest wine vaults for a light, has given up on lighting it altogether. The only signs of his presence are the bright sparks that shoot down the street every time he opens his portable oven to hand a hot kidney-pie to a customer.

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

Flatfish, oyster, and fruit vendors hang around aimlessly in the kennel, trying unsuccessfully to attract customers; and the scruffy boys who usually play around the streets huddle in small groups in some protruding doorway or under the canvas awning of a cheesemonger's, where bright gas lights, uncovered by any glass, show off big stacks of bright red and pale yellow cheeses, mixed with small five-penny pieces of stale bacon, various tubs of weekly Dorset, and cloudy loaves of 'best fresh.'

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

Here they entertain themselves with theatrical discussions, inspired by their recent half-price trip to the Victoria gallery, admire the amazing performance that gets an encore every night, and rave about the unique way Bill Thompson can do the 'double monkey' or perform the tricky moves of a sailor's hornpipe.

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

It’s almost eleven o’clock, and the cold light rain that has been drizzling for so long is starting to come down heavily; the baked potato vendor has left—the kidney pie vendor has just walked away with his goods under his arm—the cheesemonger has pulled down his blind, and the boys have scattered. The constant click of pattens on the slick and uneven pavement, and the rustling of umbrellas as the wind hits the shop windows, show how awful the night is; and the police officer, with his oilskin cape tightly buttoned around him, seems far from pleased with the wet and windy conditions as he holds his hat on his head and turns to shield himself from the gusts of wind and rain at the street corner.

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

The small candle shop with the broken bell behind the door, whose sad ringing has been influenced by the need for quarters of sugar and half-ounces of coffee, is closing down. The crowds that have been coming and going all day are quickly fading away, and the shouting and arguing from the pubs are almost the only noises that interrupt the sorrowful quiet of the night.

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

There was another one, but it has stopped. That unfortunate woman with the baby in her arms, wrapped in the little bits of her own thin shawl, has been trying to sing some popular song, hoping to get a few coins from the sympathetic passersby. The only response she gets is a cruel laugh at her weak voice. Tears stream down her pale face; the baby is cold and hungry, and its soft, muffled cries only add to the suffering of its miserable mother as she moans and despairingly collapses onto a cold, damp doorstep.

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

Singing! How few of those who pass by such a miserable person like this think about the heartache, the despair, and the struggle that comes with even trying to sing. What a cruel joke! Illness, neglect, and starvation barely managing to sing the words of the cheerful tune that has brightened your moments of celebration and joy, who knows how many times! This is not something to laugh at. The weak, shaky voice tells a horrifying story of need and starvation; and the feeble singer of this loud song might walk away, only to succumb to cold and hunger.

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

One o'clock! Groups returning from the various theaters hurry through the muddy streets; cabs, taxis, carriages, and theater buses roll by quickly; watermen with dim, dirty lanterns in their hands and big brass plates on their chests, who have been shouting and rushing around for the last two hours, head back to their pubs to enjoy the comforts of pipes and drinks; the bargain pit and box-goers from the theaters crowd into different places to eat; and chops, kidneys, rabbits, oysters, stout, cigars, and countless drinks are served up amid a noise and chaos of smoking, running, clattering utensils, and waiters chatting that is simply indescribable.

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

The more musical part of the theater-going crowd heads to some musical gathering. Out of curiosity, let’s follow them there for a moment.

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

In a spacious room, around eighty to a hundred guests are gathered, banging their small pewter mugs on the tables and tapping away with the handles of their knives like they’re all trunk-makers. They’re cheering for a song that was just performed by three "professional gentlemen" at the center table, one of whom is in the chair—the short, pompous man with a bald head just peeking out from under the collar of his green coat. The others are sitting on either side of him—the chubby man with the quiet voice and the thin-faced dark man in black. The little guy in the chair is quite the character—such an air of superiority and such a voice!

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

'Bass!' the young man next to us with the blue necktie forcefully states to his friend, 'bass! I believe you; he can go lower than anyone: so low sometimes that you can't even hear him.' And he really does. Listening to him growl, gradually going lower and lower until he can't come back up, is the most delightful experience in the world, and it's impossible to watch the impressive seriousness with which he shares his soul in 'My heart's in the Highlands' or 'The brave old Oak' without being moved. The hefty man is also into sentimentality and sings 'Fly, fly from the world, my Bessy, with me,' or a similar song, with a lady-like sweetness and in the most seductive tones you can imagine.

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

'Please give your orders, gentlemen—please give your orders,' says the pale-faced man with the red head; and calls out for shots of gin and shots of brandy, pints of stout, and very mild cigars, which are loudly requested from all corners of the room. The 'professional gentlemen' are in their prime, offering condescending nods or even a word or two of acknowledgment to the more familiar patrons of the room, in the most smooth and patronizing way possible.

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

The little round-faced man, wearing a small brown coat, white stockings, and shoes, is part of the comedy act; the mix of self-denial and awareness of his own talents as he acknowledges the call of the chair is particularly enjoyable. “Gentlemen,” says the little pompous man, tapping the table with the president's gavel, “Gentlemen, let me get your attention—our friend, Mr. Smuggins, will perform.” “Bravo!” shout the crowd, and after some significant coughing to warm up, along with a few funny sniffles that everyone loves, Smuggins sings a comic song, finishing each verse with a catchy chorus that's much longer than the verse itself. It gets a huge round of applause, and after one ambitious person tries to recite something and fails miserably, the little pompous man gives another tap and says, “Gentlemen, let's try a glee, if you please.” This announcement gets loud applause, and the more enthusiastic members show their approval by knocking a couple of heavy glasses off the table—a humorous trick; however, it often leads to a bit of a disagreement when the bill for the damage is discussed with the waiter.

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

Scenes like these go on until three or four in the morning; and even when they end, new ones open up for the curious beginner. However, describing all of them, even briefly, would take an entire book, and while it might be informative, it wouldn't be enjoyable at all, so we take our leave and draw the curtain.

CHAPTER III-SHOPS AND THEIR TENANTS

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

What endless material for thought the streets of London provide! We could never agree with Sterne in feeling sorry for the person who can travel from Dan to Beersheba and claim that everything is empty; we don’t have the slightest sympathy for someone who can grab their hat and stick and walk from Covent Garden to St. Paul's Churchyard, only to turn around and head back, without finding some enjoyment—we might even say some insight—in their stroll. And yet, such people exist: we encounter them every day. Tall black socks and light vests, shiny canes and discontented faces, define this group; while other folks pass quickly, focused on work or happily chasing after fun. These men meander aimlessly, looking as animated and cheerful as a policeman on duty. Nothing seems to register in their minds: only a collision with a porter or being run over by a cab can break their calm. You’ll spot them on a nice day on any of the main streets: peek through the window of a west-end cigar shop in the evening, if you can manage to catch a glimpse between the blue curtains that shield against the common eye, and you’ll see them enjoying their existence. There they are, lounging on round barrels and pipe boxes, all the prestige of their whiskers and gold watch chains; whispering sweet nothings to the young lady in amber with large earrings, who, as she sits behind the counter glowing with adoration and gaslight, is admired by all the female staff in the area and envied by every milliner's apprentice in a two-mile radius.

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

One of our main pastimes is watching the slow changes—the rise or fall—of certain shops. We’ve gotten to know several of them well, across different areas of town, and we know their entire history. We could easily list at least twenty that we’re sure haven’t paid taxes in the last six years. They never stay occupied for more than two months at a time, and we honestly believe they’ve seen every retail business in the directory come and go.

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

There’s one place whose story is a typical example of many, and we’ve taken a special interest in its fate since we’ve known it since it became a shop. It’s located on the Surrey side of the river, just a little past the Marsh-gate. It used to be a solid, attractive private house; however, the landlord ran into trouble, the house ended up in Chancery, the tenant left, and the place fell into disrepair. This is when we first became acquainted with it; the paint was completely faded, the windows were broken, the area was overgrown and neglected, and the water butt was without a lid. The front door was a perfect picture of despair. The main activity for the kids in the area was to gather on the steps and take turns loudly banging on the door, much to the delight of the neighbors, especially the jumpy old lady next door. There were plenty of complaints, and several small bowls of water were poured over the kids, but it didn’t change anything. At this point, the marine store dealer at the corner kindly took the knocker off the door and sold it, leaving the poor house looking even more miserable.

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

We left our friend for a few weeks. What a shock it was when we returned to find no sign of its existence! Instead, there was a nice shop almost ready to open, and on the shutters were big signs telling everyone it would soon be launching with "a wide selection of linen and haberdashery." It opened as expected; the proprietor's name, 'and Co.,' was in shiny gold letters that were almost blinding to look at. The store had such beautiful ribbons and shawls! And there were two stylish young men behind the counter, both wearing clean collars and white neckties, like the romantic lead in a comedy. As for the owner, he just walked back and forth in the shop, offered seats to the ladies, and held important chats with the most handsome young man, who the neighbors cleverly suspected was the 'Co.' We watched all this with sadness; we had a terrible feeling that the shop was destined to fail—and it did. Its decline was slow but certain. Signs started to show up in the windows; then rolls of flannel with labels were stuck outside the door; next, a notice was posted on the street door saying the first floor was available to rent unfurnished; then one of the young men vanished completely, while the other switched to a black neckerchief, and the owner started drinking. The shop grew dirty, broken windows went unrepaired, and the stock vanished piece by piece. Eventually, the company’s representative came to cut off the water, and then the linen-draper left as well, leaving the landlord a note and the key.

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

The next tenant was an upscale stationery store. The shop was painted more modestly than before, but it was still tidy; however, we always thought, as we walked by, that it seemed like a struggling business. We wished the man well, but we worried about his success. He was clearly a widower and worked elsewhere, as he passed us every morning on his way to the city. The business was run by his eldest daughter. Poor girl! she didn’t need any help. We occasionally caught a glimpse of two or three children, dressed in mourning like her, sitting in the small parlor behind the shop; and we never walked past at night without seeing the eldest girl working, either for them or making some pretty little item for sale. We often thought, as her pale face appeared more sad and reflective in the dim candlelight, that if those thoughtless women who meddle in the unfortunate market of poor souls like these knew even half of the suffering they went through, and the harsh sacrifices they endured in their honorable attempts to make a meager living, they might even give up opportunities to indulge in vanity and a misguided desire for attention, rather than push them to a final, terrible solution, which it would shock the delicate feelings of these charitable women to even hear mentioned.

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

But we’re forgetting about the shop. Well, we kept watching it, and every day made it clear that the people living there were getting poorer. The kids were clean, it’s true, but their clothes were worn out and ragged; no one had rented the upper part of the house, which was supposed to help pay the rent, and a slow decline kept the oldest girl from continuing her efforts. Rent day came. The landlord had been affected by the last tenant's recklessness, and he had no sympathy for the struggles of the new one; he brought in the bailiffs. One morning, as we walked by, the movers were taking out the little furniture that was left in the house, and a newly posted sign told us it was up for rent again. We never found out what happened to the last tenant; we believe the girl is free from all suffering and beyond all sorrow. God help her! We hope she is.

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

We were pretty curious to find out what the next step would be—because it was clear that the place had no chance of success now. The sign was taken down quickly, and some changes were being made inside the shop. We were filled with anticipation; we ran through every possible guess—we imagined all sorts of businesses, none of which really fit with the obvious decline of the building. When it finally opened, we couldn’t believe we hadn’t figured out what was really going on before. The shop—not large to begin with—had been turned into two: one was a hat maker's, and the other was run by a tobacconist who also sold walking sticks and Sunday newspapers; the two were divided by a flimsy partition covered with cheap striped wallpaper.

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

The tobacconist held the shop longer than any tenant we can remember. He was a red-faced, cocky, worthless guy, clearly used to taking life as it came and making the best out of a bad situation. He sold as many cigars as he could and smoked the rest. He ran the shop for as long as he could keep things cool with the landlord, and when he could no longer live peacefully, he casually locked the door and bolted himself inside. Since then, the two little spaces have gone through countless changes. The tobacconist was followed by a theatrical hairdresser, who decorated the window with a wide variety of 'characters' and dramatic scenes. The hat-maker was replaced by a greengrocer, and the dramatizing barber was succeeded in turn by a tailor. There have been so many changes that recently we've done little more than notice the peculiar but clear signs of a poorly inhabited house. It has been changing almost imperceptibly. The shop occupants have gradually given up room after room until they’ve only kept the little parlor for themselves. First, a brass plate appeared on the private door, clearly marked 'Ladies' School'; shortly after, we noticed a second brass plate, then a bell, and then another bell.

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

When we stopped in front of our old friend's place and noticed the clear signs of poverty, we thought as we turned away that the house had hit rock bottom. We were mistaken. The last time we passed by, a 'dairy' had opened up in the area, and a group of dreary-looking chickens were entertaining themselves by going in the front door and out the back door.

CHAPTER IV-SCOTLAND-YARD

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

Scotland Yard is a small—actually, very small—piece of land, bordered on one side by the River Thames and on the other by the gardens of Northumberland House: one end touching the bottom of Northumberland Street and the other end at the back of Whitehall Place. When this area was first discovered by a country gentleman who got lost in the Strand some years ago, the original inhabitants were a tailor, a pub owner, two restaurant owners, and a fruit pie maker; it was also home to a group of strong, hefty men who showed up at the wharfs in Scotland Yard every morning around five or six o'clock to load heavy wagons with coal. They would then take the coal to far-off places in the country, providing locals with fuel. Once they emptied their wagons, they would return for another load, and this trade continued throughout the year.

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

As the settlers made a living by catering to the needs of these basic traders, the items for sale and the places selling them clearly reflected their tastes and preferences. The tailor showcased a tiny pair of leather gaiters and a small round frock in his window, while each doorframe was decorated with a model of a coal sack. The two restaurant owners displayed meat joints and puddings that only coal workers could truly appreciate, and the pie maker featured large white pastries made of flour and grease on his clean window ledge, adorned with pink stains, hinting at the delicious fruit inside that made their mouths water as they passed by.

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

But the best spot in all of Scotland Yard was the old pub in the corner. Here, in a dark-paneled room with an old-fashioned look, warmed by the glow of a huge fire and decorated with an enormous clock that had a white face and black numbers, sat the rowdy coal workers, downing big glasses of Barclay's best and blowing out clouds of smoke that rose heavily above their heads, filling the room with a thick dark haze. From this room, their voices could be heard on a winter night, carrying all the way to the riverbank as they shouted out some strong chorus or belted out the refrain of a popular song; lingering on the last few words with such force and length that the very roof above them seemed to shake.

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

Here, too, they would share old legends about what the Thames was like in ancient times, before the Patent Shot Manufactory was built and Waterloo Bridge was even conceived. They would shake their heads with serious expressions, deeply enlightening the younger generation of workers who gathered around them, curious about how all this would turn out. The tailor would solemnly take his pipe out of his mouth and say he hoped it would end well, but he doubted it would and couldn't really say what to make of it—his mysterious opinion delivered with a semi-prophetic tone, which always got full agreement from everyone present. They would keep drinking and speculating until ten o'clock, when the tailor's wife would come to take him home, and the little gathering would break up, only to reconvene in the same room, doing and saying exactly the same things the next evening at the same time.

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

Around this time, the barges traveling up the river started bringing vague rumors to Scotland Yard that someone in the city had claimed the Lord Mayor had openly threatened to tear down the old London Bridge and build a new one. At first, these rumors were dismissed as meaningless stories with no basis, since no one at Scotland Yard believed that if the Lord Mayor had any such sinister plan, he wouldn’t just be locked away in the Tower for a week or two and then executed for high treason.

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

Gradually, however, the reports became stronger and more frequent, and finally a barge, loaded with numerous loads of the best Wallsend coal, brought the definite news that several arches of the old bridge were blocked, and that work was actually underway to build a new one. What excitement filled the old taproom on that unforgettable night! Each man looked into his neighbor's face, pale with fear and shock, and found a reflection of the feelings that filled his own heart. The oldest worker present insisted that once the piers were removed, all the water in the Thames would run dry, leaving only a barren gully behind. What would happen to the coal barges, to the trade of Scotland Yard, to the very survival of its residents? The tailor shook his head more wisely than usual and, grimly pointing to a knife on the table, told them to wait and see what would happen. He said nothing more—if the Lord Mayor wasn't a target of public outrage, he would be quite surprised; that was all.

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

They waited; barge after barge came in, and still no news about the assassination of the Lord Mayor. The first stone was laid: it was done by a Duke—the King's brother. Years went by, and the bridge was opened by the King himself. Eventually, the piers were taken out; and when the people in Scotland Yard woke up the next morning, expecting to walk over to Pedlar's Acre without getting their shoes wet, they found, to their utter shock, that the water was exactly where it used to be.

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

A result so different from what they had expected from this first improvement had a big impact on the people at Scotland Yard. One of the restaurant owners started to seek public favor and look for customers from a new group of people. He placed white tablecloths on his small dining tables and had a painter's apprentice write something about hot meals available from noon to two on one of the little panes in his shop window. Improvement started to make rapid progress right up to the doorstep of Scotland Yard. A new market opened at Hungerford, and the Police Commissioners set up their office on Whitehall Place. The activity in Scotland Yard increased; new Members were added to the House of Commons, the Metropolitan Representatives found it a shortcut, and many other pedestrians followed suit.

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

We noticed the progress of civilization and sighed. The pub owner who bravely stood against the trend of tablecloths was losing ground daily, while his competitor thrived, leading to a fierce rivalry between them. The refined patrons no longer enjoyed their evening drink in Scotland Yard, but instead sipped gin and tonic at a bar on Parliament Street. The fruit pie baker still visited the old spot, but now he smoked cigars, called himself a pastry chef, and started reading the news. The old workers still gathered around the classic fireplace, but their conversations were somber; the loud songs and joyful shouts had disappeared.

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

And what is Scotland Yard now? How have its old traditions changed, and how has the straightforwardness of its residents faded away! The old, crumbling pub has been turned into a spacious and tall 'wine vault;' gold leaf has been used for the letters that decorate its exterior, and poetic flair has been employed to suggest that if you drink a certain type of ale, you need to hold on to the rail. The tailor showcases a pattern of a fancy-looking brown overcoat in his window, complete with silk buttons, a fur collar, and fur cuffs. He sports a stripe down the outside of each leg of his trousers, and we’ve spotted his employees (he has employees now) sitting on the shop counter in the same outfit.

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

At the other end of the row of houses, a shoemaker has set up shop in a brick building with the added feature of a second floor. He sells boots—real Wellington boots—which just a few years ago, none of the original residents had ever seen or even heard of. Recently, a dressmaker opened another little shop in the middle of the row; just when we thought that change wouldn’t bring anything more, a jeweler came along and, not satisfied with displaying countless gold rings and copper bracelets, put up a sign that still hangs in his window announcing that 'ladies can get their ears pierced here.' The dressmaker employs a young woman who has pockets in her apron, and the tailor lets the public know that gentlemen can bring in their own fabric to be made into clothes.

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

Amid all this change, restlessness, and innovation, there is still one old man who seems to mourn the decline of this ancient place. He doesn’t engage with anyone, but sits on a wooden bench at the corner of the wall facing the crossing from Whitehall Place, silently watching his sleek, well-fed dogs play. He is the guardian spirit of Scotland Yard. Years have passed, but no matter the weather—good or bad, hot or cold, wet or dry, in hail, rain, or snow—he remains in his usual spot. You can see misery and hardship in his face; his body is hunched from age, and his hair is grey from years of struggle. Yet, day after day, he sits there, lost in thoughts about the past, and he will keep coming back with his frail body until his eyes close for the last time on Scotland Yard and the world.

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

A few years from now, an antiquarian from a future generation looking into some old record of the conflicts and emotions that stirred the world in these times might glance over the pages we've just filled. And not all his knowledge of past history, not all his expertise in rare books, or his skill in collecting, nor all the tedious studies of a long life, or the dusty volumes that have cost him a fortune, will help him find either Scotland Yard or any of the landmarks we've mentioned in describing it.

CHAPTER V-SEVEN DIALS

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

We’ve always believed that if Tom King and the Frenchman hadn't made Seven Dials famous, Seven Dials would have made a name for itself anyway. Seven Dials! The place of song and poetry—first expressions and last words: blessed by the names of Catnach and Pitts—names that will forever be linked with street vendors and barrel organs, long after cheap magazines have replaced cheap song sheets and capital punishment is a thing of the past!

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

Look at how this place is constructed. The Gordian knot was impressive in its own way; so was the maze at Hampton Court; so is the maze at Beulah Spa; and so were the awkward stiff white neckties, where the challenge of putting one on was matched only by the struggle to get it off again. But what twists and turns can compare to those of Seven Dials? Where can you find such a confusing network of streets, courts, lanes, and alleys? Where is there such a mix of Englishmen and Irishmen as in this complicated area of London? We confidently say we doubt the truth of the legend we've mentioned. We can imagine a person reckless enough to randomly ask at a house with lodgers for a Mr. Thompson, fully expecting to find at least two or three Thompsons in any place of moderate size; but a Frenchman—a Frenchman in Seven Dials! Nonsense! He was an Irishman. Tom King had missed out on a proper education in his childhood, and since he could only understand half of what the man was saying, he assumed he was speaking French.

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

The newcomer who finds himself in 'The Dials' for the first time, standing at the entrance of seven hidden passages, unsure of which one to choose, will see enough around him to keep his curiosity and attention engaged for quite a while. From the uneven square he’s stepped into, the streets and courts extend in every direction until they vanish into the unhealthy mist that hangs over the rooftops, making the grim view seem unclear and claustrophobic. At every corner, groups of people linger, as if they’ve come to catch a few breaths of the limited fresh air that has managed to reach this far but is already too stale to push into the narrow alleys nearby. Their looks and the places they live would astonish anyone who isn’t a typical Londoner.

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

On one side, a small crowd has gathered around a couple of women who, after consuming several drinks of gin and bitters throughout the morning, have finally disagreed over some household issue and are about to resolve their argument with a fight. This has sparked the interest of other women living in the same house and nearby apartments, all of whom are taking sides in the dispute.

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

'Why don't you go after her, Sarah?' exclaims one half-dressed woman, encouragingly. 'Why don't you? If my husband had treated her badly last night, without me knowing, I'd rip her precious eyes out—a witch!'

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

'What's wrong, ma'am?' asks another old woman, who has just hurried over to the scene.

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

'Matter!' replies the first speaker, addressing the annoying combatant, 'matter! Here’s poor Mrs. Sulliwin, who has five lovely children of her own. She can’t go out to do any cleaning for even one afternoon without some hussies coming around, trying to steal her own husband, whom she’s been married to for twelve years by next Easter Monday. I saw the certificate when I was having a cup of tea with her, just last Wednesday. I happened to say casually, "Mrs. Sulliwin," I said—'

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

'What do you mean by hussies?' interrupts a supporter of the opposing side, who has shown a strong desire to start a separate argument for herself ('Hooroar,' yells a barmaid as a side comment, 'call her out on that, Mary!'), 'What do you mean by hussies?' the supporter repeats.

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

'Niver mind,' replies the opposition with emphasis, 'never mind; you go home, and when you're completely sober, fix your stockings.'

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

This somewhat personal reference, not just to the woman's drinking habits but also to the condition of her clothes, sparks her maximum anger. She then quickly agrees to the crowd's urgent request to 'join in.' The brawl escalates and ends, in typical playbill language, with 'the arrival of the police, the inside of the station, and a dramatic conclusion.'

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

Besides the many groups hanging out at the pubs and arguing in the middle of the road, every post in the open area has someone leaning against it for hours, with a lazy determination. It’s strange that one group of men in London seem to find no pleasure outside of leaning against posts. We’ve never seen a typical bricklayer’s laborer engage in any other pastime, fighting aside. Walk through St. Giles’s on a weekday evening, and there they are in their work clothes, stained with brick dust and whitewash, leaning against posts. Stroll through Seven Dials on a Sunday morning: there they are again, in drab or light corduroy pants, Blucher boots, blue jackets, and bright yellow vests, leaning against posts. The thought of a man putting on his best clothes just to lean against a post all day is amusing!

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

The strange character of these streets, and how similar each one is to its neighbor, definitely doesn't reduce the confusion that an inexperienced traveler in 'the Dials' feels. They navigate through streets filled with dirty, haphazard houses, occasionally coming across an unexpected courtyard featuring buildings as oddly shaped and misshapen as the half-naked kids playing in the gutters. Here and there, a small, dimly lit shop, with a cracked bell hanging behind the door to signal when a customer enters, or to reveal the presence of a young person who’s developed an early interest in shopping: others seem to lean against some attractive tall building that takes the place of a shabby pub; long rows of broken and patched windows show off plants that might have thrived when 'the Dials' were first built, housed in containers as filthy as 'the Dials' itself; and shops buying rags, bones, scrap metal, and kitchen scraps are just as dirty as the bird shops and rabbit dealers, which you might think were like many little arks, if it weren’t for the strong feeling that no sensible bird, once allowed to leave one of them, would ever return. Broker shops, appearing to be set up by caring people as shelters for unfortunate bugs, are mixed in with signs for day schools, penny theaters, petition-writers, laundries, and music for dances or parties, completing the ‘still life’ of the scene; and dirty men, filthy women, ragged children, fluttering shuttlecocks, noisy rackets, smelly pipes, bad fruit, questionable oysters, scrawny cats, sad dogs, and butchered chickens are its joyful companions.

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

If the outside looks of the houses, or a quick look at the people living in them, don’t seem very appealing, getting to know either of them better isn’t likely to change that first impression. Each room has its own resident, and each resident, by the same strange twist of fate that makes a country priest 'grow and multiply' in amazing ways, is usually the head of a large family.

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

The man in the shop might be selling baked goods, firewood, or anything else that needs a small amount of start-up money, around eighteen pence or so. He and his family live in the shop along with a tiny back room behind it. There’s an Irish laborer and his family in the back kitchen, and a handyman carpet-beater and his family in the front kitchen. On the first floor, there’s another man with his wife and family, and in the back flat, there’s a young woman who does tambour work and dresses quite nicely; she often talks about "my friend" and can’t stand anything low-class. The front second floor and the other lodgers are just a repeat of those below, except for a somewhat shabby gentleman in the back attic who gets his half-pint of coffee every morning from the coffee shop next door, which has a little area called a coffee room with a fireplace, above which is a sign politely asking customers to "please pay on delivery to prevent mistakes." The shabby gentleman is a bit of a mystery since he keeps to himself and is only known to buy the occasional pen, along with half-pints of coffee, penny loaves, and small amounts of ink. His fellow lodgers naturally assume he’s an author; rumors float around in the area that he writes poems for Mr. Warren.

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

Now anyone who passes through the Dials on a hot summer evening and sees the different women chatting on the steps would probably think that everything is peaceful among them, and that a more basic group of people than the local Diallers couldn’t be imagined. Unfortunately, the man in the shop mistreats his family; the carpet-beater takes out his work frustrations on his wife; the one-pair front has a lifelong feud with the two-pair front because the two-pair front keeps dancing over his (the one-pair front's) head when he and his family have gone to bed; the two-pair back meddles with the front kitchen’s children; the Irishman comes home drunk every other night and starts fights with everyone; and the one-pair back yells at everything. Tensions rise between floors; even the cellar claims its share of the drama. Mrs. A. slaps Mrs. B.'s child for making faces. Mrs. B. immediately retaliates by throwing cold water on Mrs. A.'s child for name-calling. The husbands get involved—the argument escalates—leading to an assault, and then a police officer shows up.

CHAPTER VI-MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH-STREET

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

We’ve always had a special fondness for Monmouth Street, as it’s the one true place for second-hand clothing. Monmouth Street is respected for its history and its practicality. We have no regard for Holywell Street; we can’t stand the red-haired and red-bearded sellers who drag you into their filthy shops and shove clothes on you, whether you want them or not.

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

The people living on Monmouth Street form a unique community; they are a quiet and reserved group who mostly hide away in deep cellars or small back rooms. They rarely venture out into the world except during the evening when it's cool, and you can often see them sitting in chairs on the sidewalk, smoking their pipes or enjoying the playful antics of their delighted children as they play in the gutter, a cheerful bunch of little scavengers. Their faces show a mix of thoughtfulness and grime, clear signs of their love for trade, and their homes reflect a lack of concern for appearance and neglect of personal comfort, which is typical of those who are deeply lost in thought and engaged in sedentary work.

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

We have hinted at how old our favorite spot is. "A Monmouth-street laced coat" was a saying a hundred years ago; and we still find Monmouth-street unchanged. Pilot great-coats with wooden buttons have taken the place of the heavy laced coats with full skirts; embroidered waistcoats with large flaps have been replaced by double-breasted checks with roll collars; and the quirky three-cornered hats have given way to the low crowns and broad brims of the coachman style; but it’s the times that have changed, not Monmouth-street. Through every alteration and every change, Monmouth-street has remained the graveyard of fashions; and as far as we can tell from the current scene, it will continue to be that way until there are no more fashions to bury.

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

We love to walk among these vast groves of the famous dead and to indulge in the thoughts they inspire; sometimes we imagine putting on a deceased coat, then a pair of pants, and then the flashy remains of a waistcoat on some figure of our own creation, trying to picture its former owner from the style and fit of the clothing. We have speculated like this so much that whole rows of coats have jumped off their hooks and buttoned themselves up around the waists of imaginary wearers; lines of trousers have leapt down to join them; waistcoats have nearly burst with eagerness to be worn; and a whole lot of shoes have suddenly found feet that fit and marched down the street loudly enough to jolt us from our pleasant daydream, leaving us to wander away slowly, looking confused, a sight of curiosity for the good folks of Monmouth Street and causing no small amount of suspicion among the policemen at the corner.

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

The other day, we were busy trying to fit a pair of lace-up boots on an ideal person, even though, truthfully, they were at least two sizes too small. That's when we noticed some suits of clothes displayed outside a shop window. It immediately struck us that these must have all belonged to the same person at different times and had come together for sale in the same shop due to one of those strange coincidences that sometimes happen. The idea seemed far-fetched, so we looked at the clothes again, determined not to be easily swayed. No, we were right; the more we looked, the more we were convinced that our initial impression was correct. The man's entire life was clearly written on those clothes, as if we had his autobiography laid out in front of us.

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

The first was a patched and very dirty skeleton suit; one of those straight blue fabric outfits that little boys used to wear before belts and tunics became popular and old ideas faded away. It was a clever design that showed off a boy's figure by fitting him into a tight jacket with a decorative row of buttons on each shoulder, and then buttoning his trousers over it, making his legs look like they were hooked just under his armpits. This was the boy's outfit. It was clearly owned by a town boy; the suit's legs and arms were short, and the knees had that bagging effect typical of boys growing up on the streets of London. He must have attended a small day school. If it had been a proper boys' school, they wouldn't have let him play on the floor so much and get his knees so white. He also had an indulgent mother and plenty of change, as indicated by the various sticky smudges in his pockets and just below his chin, which even the salesperson couldn't hide. They seemed like decent people, but not wealthy, or else he wouldn't have outgrown the suit so much by the time he moved on to those corduroys with the round jacket; however, he did go to a boys' school, where he learned to write—and in ink that was of pretty decent blackness too, if the spot where he wiped his pen was any indication.

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

A black suit and the jacket turned into a small coat. His father had died, and the mother had found the boy a messenger job at some office. That suit had seen better days; it was rusty and worn out before it was put away, but it was clean and free of stains right to the end. Poor woman! We could picture her forced cheerfulness during the simple meal, refusing her own small portion so her hungry boy could have enough. Her constant worry for his well-being, her pride in his growth mingled sometimes with the painful thought that as he became a man, his old affection might fade, old kindnesses might be forgotten, and past promises might slip away—just the sharp pain that even a careless word or a cold look would cause her—all crowded in our minds as clearly as if we were witnessing the scene unfold right before us.

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

These things happen all the time, and we all know it; yet we felt just as much sadness when we saw, or thought we saw—it doesn’t matter which—the change that was starting to happen now, as if we were just realizing the possibility of such a thing for the first time. The next outfit, fancy but messy; meant to be cheerful, yet not nearly as decent as the worn-out clothes; smelling of lazy lounging and low-life friends, made us think that the widow's comfort had quickly faded away. We could picture that coat—imagine! We could see it; we had seen it a hundred times—hanging out with three or four other coats of the same style at some nightlife spot.

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

We dressed, all from the same shop window in an instant, six boys aged fifteen to twenty. With cigars in their mouths and hands in their pockets, we watched them stroll down the street, hanging out at the corner, sharing crude jokes and repeating their oaths. We didn’t take our eyes off them until they tilted their hats a bit to the side and swaggered into the pub. Then we went back to the empty home, where the mother sat alone late into the night. We watched as she paced the room in anxious distress, periodically opening the door to glance hopefully into the dark and empty street, only to return, again and again, disappointed. We saw the patience in her face as she endured the brutal threats, even the drunken hits, and we heard the heart-wrenching tears that flowed from her as she fell to her knees in her lonely, miserable room.

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

A long time had passed, and a bigger change had occurred by the time they took off the suit that hung above. It belonged to a heavyset, broad-shouldered, muscular man; and we immediately recognized, as anyone would, that this man in the wide green coat with the big metal buttons rarely went out without a dog following him and some lazy thug, just like him, by his side. The boy's bad habits had grown into adult flaws, and we imagined his home at that point—if it could even be called that.

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

We saw the bare and miserable room, lacking furniture, crowded with his wife and children, who looked pale, hungry, and thin; the man cursing their cries, staggering to the pub, from where he had just returned, followed by his wife and a sickly baby, shouting for bread; and we heard the arguments and loud accusations that resulted from his hitting her. Then our imagination took us to some city workhouse, located among crowded streets and alleys, filled with toxic fumes, and echoing with loud cries, where an old and frail woman, begging for forgiveness for her son, lay dying in a small dark room, with no child to hold her hand and no fresh air from outside to cool her forehead. A stranger closed her eyes, which settled into a cold, vacant stare, and unfamiliar ears heard the words that came from her pale, half-closed lips.

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

A rough round dress, with a worn cotton scarf, and other pieces of clothing of the simplest kind, completed the story. A prison, and the sentence—exile or the gallows. What would the man have given then, to be once again the happy, humble worker of his youth; to have been brought back to life, even for a week, a day, an hour, a minute, just long enough to say one word of deep regret to, and hear one sound of heartfelt forgiveness from, the cold and ghastly figure that lay decomposing in the pauper's grave! The children were wild in the streets, the mother a struggling widow; both burdened with the heavy shame of the husband and father's name, and driven by sheer necessity, down the slope that had led him to a slow death, possibly lasting many years, thousands of miles away. We had no clue to how the story ended; but it was easy to guess its conclusion.

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

We took a couple of steps forward and, in an effort to lighten our spirits, started fitting imaginary feet and legs into a cellar full of boots and shoes with a speed and precision that would have amazed even the best leather artist around. There was one particular pair of boots—a cheerful, sturdy-looking pair—that caught our eye; we had a jolly, chubby market-gardener into them before we had even known them for half a minute. They were perfect for him. His big, fat legs were spilling over the tops, fitting them so tightly that he couldn't tuck in the loops he used to pull them on; his knee-length pants had a gap of stocking showing; he had a blue apron cinched around his waist; a red bandana and a blue coat adorned him, with a white hat crookedly placed on one side of his head; and there he stood grinning broadly on his rosy face, whistling away as if no thought of anything other than happiness and comfort ever crossed his mind.

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

This was the exact guy we admired; we knew everything about him; we had seen him arrive at Covent Garden in his green carriage, with the chubby little horse, countless times; and just as we fondly glanced at his boots, a flirty maid suddenly appeared in a pair of satin shoes beside them, and we instantly recognized the same girl who took him up on his ride offer, right before the Hammersmith suspension bridge, the very last Tuesday morning we rode into the city from Richmond.

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

A very smart woman, wearing a flashy hat, stepped into a pair of gray cloth boots with black fringe and trim, which pointed out their toes at the top, and seemed eager to catch his attention. However, our friend the market-gardener didn’t seem at all taken in by her advances; he merely gave a knowing wink when she first started as if to suggest he understood her intentions, and then ignored her completely. His indifference, though, was more than compensated for by the excessive gallantry of a very old man with a silver-headed cane, who shuffled into a pair of large canvas shoes that were sitting in one corner of the board. He made a variety of gestures to express his admiration for the lady in the cloth boots, much to the amusement of a young guy we had put in a pair of long pumps, who we thought was about to tear his coat as he laughed.

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

We had been watching this little performance with great enjoyment for a while when, to our absolute shock, we noticed that all the characters, including a large group of boots and shoes in the background, which we had hurriedly crammed as many feet into as we could, were getting ready to dance; and as soon as some music started, they jumped right in. It was truly delightful to see how agile the market-gardener was. The boots flew out, first to one side, then the other, then they were cutting, shuffling, stepping to the Denmark satins, advancing, retreating, going in circles, and then repeating all the moves again, showing no signs of fatigue from the energetic dancing.

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

Nor were the Denmark satins any less lively, as they jumped and bounded in all directions. Even though they weren't as coordinated or on time as the cloth boots, we honestly admit that we preferred their dancing style because they seemed to really enjoy it. But the old gentleman in the list shoes was the most entertaining one in the whole gathering; his comical attempts to seem youthful and charming were amusing enough on their own. The young guy in the pumps cleverly made it so that every time the old gentleman moved in to greet the lady in the cloth boots, he stepped right on the old man's toes, making him yelp in pain and causing everyone else to burst out laughing.

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

We were having a great time at the festivities when we heard a loud, shrill voice shout, "I hope you’ll recognize me again, you rude person!" When we looked closely to see where the voice was coming from, we realized it wasn't the young lady in the cloth boots, as we initially thought, but a heavyset older woman sitting in a chair at the top of the cellar steps, seemingly overseeing the sale of the items displayed there.

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

A barrel organ that had been playing loudly right behind us suddenly stopped; the people we had been fitting for shoes and boots immediately ran off at the disturbance. Realizing that we might have been staring at the old lady for half an hour without even realizing it, we also quickly left and soon found ourselves in the utter darkness of the nearby 'Dials.'

CHAPTER VII-HACKNEY-COACH STANDS

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

We argue that hackney carriages, as they should be called, are exclusive to the city. Some might point out that there are hackney carriage stands in Edinburgh; and to find a closer contradiction to our claim, we could be reminded that Liverpool, Manchester, and other major cities (as Parliament likes to say) have their own hackney carriage stands. We gladly acknowledge that these places have certain vehicles that might look nearly as dirty and even move almost as slowly as London hackney carriages; however, we strongly deny that they have any real right to compete with the city in terms of stands, drivers, or quality.

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

Take a typical, heavy, wobbly old London cab, and let anyone dare to claim they've seen anything else on earth that looks like it, except another cab from the same era. Recently, we've noticed some rather neat green carriages and shiny yellow coaches at certain stands, with four wheels matching the car itself. However, everyone who knows anything about this topic is well aware that each wheel should be a different color and size. These are changes and, like other mistakenly called improvements, they're troubling signs of public restlessness and a lack of respect for our traditional institutions. Why should cabs be clean? Our ancestors accepted their dirtiness and passed them on that way. Why should we, in our frantic desire to 'keep moving,' want to travel at six miles an hour when they were fine rumbling along at four? These are serious considerations. Cabs are an integral part of our legal system; they were established by law and regulated and numbered by the wisdom of Parliament.

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

Then why have they been overwhelmed by taxis and buses? Or why should people be allowed to ride quickly for eight pence a mile, after Parliament decided they should pay a shilling a mile for riding slowly? We wait for an answer; and, with no chance of getting one, we start a new paragraph.

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

Our familiarity with taxi stands goes way back. We’re like a walking guide to fares, feeling a bit obligated to always be right in debates about them. We recognize all the regular riverboat operators within three miles of Covent Garden, and we’d almost think that all the taxi horses in that area knew us too, if half of them weren’t blind. We take a keen interest in taxis, but we rarely ride in them since we have a tendency to tip over when we try. We’re just as friendly towards horses, both taxi and otherwise, as the famous Mr. Martin of market seller fame, and yet we never ride. We don’t own a horse, just a clothes horse; we enjoy no saddle more than a saddle of mutton; and, following our own preferences, we’ve never chased after the hounds. Leaving faster ways to travel, or to land ourselves, to those who enjoy them, we take our place at the taxi stands.

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

There’s a cab stand right under the window where we’re writing. There’s only one cab there now, but it’s a pretty good example of the kind of vehicle we mentioned—a big, clumsy, square thing in a dingy yellow color (like a sickly brunette), with very small windows but really large frames; the sides are decorated with a faded coat of arms that looks somewhat like a dissected bat, the axle is red, and most of the wheels are green. The driver’s seat is partly covered by an old overcoat with a bunch of capes, and some strange-looking clothes; the straw stuffed inside the canvas cushion is sticking out in several spots, trying to compete with the hay that’s poking through the gaps in the trunk. The horses, with their drooping heads and manes and tails as thin and unkempt as those of a worn-out rocking horse, are patiently standing on some damp straw, occasionally twitching and rattling their harness; every now and then, one of them leans over to whisper to the other, as if saying he’d like to do away with the coachman. The coachman himself is in the watering house, and the waterman, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, is doing a little dance in front of the pump to keep his feet warm.

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

The maid with the pink ribbons at No. 5, across the street, suddenly flings the door open, and four little kids rush out, screaming "Coach!" at the top of their lungs. The waterman dashes from the pump, grabs the horses by their bridles, and pulls them, along with the coach, over to the house, shouting loudly for the coachman in a deep voice. You can hear a reply from the pub; the coachman, wearing wooden-soled shoes, makes the street echo as he runs across it. There's a lot of struggling, backing up, and scraping as they try to line up the coach door with the house door, and the kids are absolutely thrilled. What a scene! The old lady, who's been staying there for the past month, is heading back to the countryside. Box after box comes out, and before long, one side of the coach is packed with luggage. The kids are all over the place, and the youngest, who toppled over while trying to carry an umbrella, is taken away, crying. The kids vanish for a moment, and there's a short pause while the old lady is likely saying goodbye to them in the back room. She finally appears, followed by her married daughter, all the kids, and both the servants, who, with help from the coachman and waterman, get her safely into the coach. A cloak is handed in, along with a small basket that we could almost bet contains a tiny black bottle and some sandwiches. The steps go up, the door slams shut, and the waterman says, "Golden-cross, Charing-cross, Tom." "Goodbye, grandma!" shout the kids as the coach jingles away at about three miles an hour, while the mom and kids head back inside, except for one little troublemaker who sprints up the street as fast as he can, with the maid chasing him, clearly enjoying the chance to show off. She eventually brings him back, and after throwing a couple of charming glances across the street—either at us or the potboy (we're not quite sure)—she shuts the door, and the hackney-coach stand is once again at a standstill.

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

We’ve often been entertained by how delighted a ‘servant of all work’ seems when sent to call for a coach, as they confidently settle into it; and it’s equally amusing to see the joy boys get when they’re sent on the same task and hop up onto the box. But we’ve never found a hackney-coach party more entertaining than the one we saw early one morning on Tottenham Court Road. It was a wedding party, coming from one of the less fashionable streets near Fitzroy Square. There was the bride, in a thin white dress and with a very red face; and the bridesmaid, a short, cheerful young woman, also in a matching outfit; along with the groom and his best man, who sported blue coats, yellow waistcoats, white trousers, and matching Berlin gloves. They stopped at the corner of the street and summoned a coach with an air of unmistakable dignity. As soon as they got in, the bridesmaid casually tossed a red shawl, which she’d clearly brought for this purpose, over the number on the door, obviously to trick passersby into thinking the hackney-coach was a private carriage. Off they went, completely pleased that their little deception had worked, unaware that there was a large number displayed on the back, as prominent as a schoolboy's slate. A shilling a mile! The ride was worth at least five to them.

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

What an interesting book a taxi could create if it carried as much in its mind as it does in its trunk! The autobiography of a worn-out taxi would surely be as entertaining as that of a washed-up playwright; it could share just as much about its journeys with the driver as others do about their trips to it. Just think of all the stories it could tell about the different people it’s driven for work, fun, or pain! And how many sad stories about the same people at different times! The country girl—the flashy, overly dressed woman—the drunken prostitute! The inexperienced intern—the reckless spendthrift—the thief!

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

Talk about cabs! Cabs are fine when you're in a hurry, like it's a matter of life or death, your temporary place or your final one. But, aside from the fact that cabs lack the dignified presence that makes a hackney-coach so special, let's not forget that a cab is a relic of the past, and it was never anything more. A hackney-cab has always been just that since it first hit the streets; meanwhile, a hackney-coach is a remnant of bygone elegance, a casualty of changing trends, a leftover from an old English family, displaying their coat of arms and once attended by men in their livery, now stripped of its grandeur and cast into the world, much like a once-smart footman who’s too old for his role, sinking lower and lower in the hierarchy of four-wheeled decline, until it finally comes to a halt!

CHAPTER VIII-DOCTORS' COMMONS

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

Walking aimlessly through St. Paul's Churchyard not long ago, we decided to head down a street called 'Paul's-chain,' and after walking straight for a few hundred yards, we naturally found ourselves in Doctors' Commons. Now, Doctors' Commons is a place that everyone knows by name as the spot where they issue marriage licenses to lovesick couples and grants divorces to unfaithful partners; it also registers the wills of folks with property to leave behind and punishes reckless gentlemen who insult women. As soon as we realized we were actually within its borders, we felt a strong urge to learn more about it; since our first point of interest was the Court that can even dissolve marriages, we got directions to it and made our way there without hesitation.

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

Crossing a quiet, shaded courtyard paved with stone and overlooked by old red brick houses, each with the names of various learned scholars painted on the doors, we stopped in front of a small green door with brass-headed nails. When we gently pushed it open, we entered a charming, old-fashioned room with sunken windows and black carved wood paneling. At the upper end of the room, seated on a semicircular raised platform, were about a dozen serious-looking gentlemen in crimson gowns and wigs.

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

At a higher desk in the center, sat a very overweight and red-faced gentleman, wearing tortoise-shell glasses, whose dignified look identified him as the judge. Around a long green felt table, somewhat like a billiard table without the cushions and pockets, were several very self-important-looking individuals in stiff neckties and black gowns with white fur collars, whom we immediately recognized as proctors. At the lower end of the billiard table was a person in an armchair and a wig, who we later found out was the registrar. Seated behind a small desk near the door was a respectable-looking man in black, weighing about twenty stone or so, and a plump-faced, smirking, polite-looking person in a black gown, black kid gloves, knee shorts, and silks, with a frilly shirt in his chest, curls on his head, and a silver staff in his hand, whom we easily identified as the court officer. The latter quickly reassured us on this point by approaching us and starting a conversation, revealing in less than five minutes that he was the apparitor, and the other was the court-keeper; that this was the Arches Court, which is why the counsel wore red gowns and the proctors fur collars; and that when other courts met there, they didn’t wear red gowns or fur collars either; along with many other equally interesting bits of information. In addition to these two officers, there was a little thin old man with long gray hair, crouched in a corner, whose duty, our talkative friend informed us, was to ring a large handbell when the court opened in the morning, and who, judging by his appearance, might have been doing the same for at least the last two centuries.

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

The red-faced guy in the tortoise-shell glasses had taken over the conversation at that moment, and he was doing it quite well, even though he spoke super fast—that was just his habit—and a bit thick, but that was due to his comfortable life. So we had plenty of time to look around. One person really entertained us. It was one of the wig-wearing guys in the red robes, who was standing in front of the fire in the middle of the Court, posing like a giant statue, completely ignoring everyone else. He had gathered up his robe in the back, kind of like a sloppy woman pulling up her skirt on a muddy day, so he could enjoy the full warmth of the fire. His wig was all askew, with the tails hanging around his neck; his thin grey trousers and short black gaiters were made in the worst possible style, giving him an even more awkward appearance; and his limp, poorly starched shirt collar almost covered his eyes. We’ll never be able to claim any skill in reading faces again, because after carefully studying this guy’s face, we thought it showed nothing but arrogance and foolishness, until our friend with the silver staff leaned in and told us he was actually a doctor of civil law and who knows what else. So, of course, we were wrong, and he must be a very smart guy. He hides it so well—perhaps to avoid shocking regular folks too much—that you’d think he was one of the dumbest people alive.

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

The man in glasses finished his decision, and after a few minutes to let the Court quiet down, the registrar announced the next case, which was 'the Judge’s office promoted by Bumple against Sludberry.' There was a noticeable stir in the Court at this news, and the helpful staff member with the silver staff leaned in to tell us that 'things would get interesting now, because this was a noisy case.'

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

We didn't really understand much from this information until we heard the opening speech from the promoter's lawyer. It turned out that under an old law from one of the Edwards, the court had the authority to impose the penalty of excommunication on anyone found guilty of "brawling" or "hitting" in any church or the nearby vestry. It became clear, based on about twenty-eight affidavits mentioned, that one night, during a specific vestry meeting in a certain parish, Thomas Sludberry, the defendant in the case, had directed the phrase "You be blowed" at Michael Bumple, the promoter. When Michael Bumple and others confronted Thomas Sludberry about his inappropriate behavior, Thomas repeated the phrase "You be blowed." He also wanted to know if Michael Bumple "wanted anything for himself," adding that if Michael did, Thomas was the man who would provide it. He also used other offensive and sinful language, which Bumple argued fell under the purpose of the Act. Thus, for the sake of Sludberry's spiritual health and correction, Bumple requested a sentence of excommunication against him.

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

Based on these facts, a lengthy argument unfolded, with both sides providing great entertainment to the many people interested in the local disputes who filled the courtroom. After some very long and serious speeches were made for and against, the red-faced man in tortoiseshell glasses reviewed the case, taking another half hour, and then handed down to Sludberry the harsh sentence of excommunication for two weeks and required him to pay the court costs. In response, Sludberry, a short, red-faced, sly-looking ginger beer seller, addressed the court, asking if they could waive the costs and just excommunicate him for life instead, as it would be much more convenient for him since he never attended church anyway. The man in the glasses only responded with a look of righteous indignation, and Sludberry and his friends left. As the man with the silver staff informed us that the court was about to adjourn, we left too—reflecting as we walked away on the admirable spirit of these ancient church laws, the kindness and community they are meant to inspire, and the strong loyalty to religious institutions that they inevitably foster.

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

We were so caught up in our thoughts that we had walked into the street and bumped into a doorpost before realizing where we were. When we looked up to see which building we had stumbled upon, we saw the words 'Prerogative-Office' in big letters. Since we were in the mood to explore and it was a public place, we went inside.

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

The room we walked into was long and bustling, divided on both sides into small cubicles where a few clerks were busy copying or reviewing documents. In the middle of the room, there were several desks about chest-high, where three or four people were standing, deeply focused on large books. Since we knew they were looking for wills, they caught our attention immediately.

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

It was interesting to compare the lazy indifference of the lawyers' clerks, who were searching for some legal reason, with the seriousness and curiosity that marked the newcomers, who were looking up the will of a deceased relative; the clerks would occasionally pause for an impatient yawn or lift their heads to watch the people walking through the room, while the newcomers bent over the book, scanning column after column of names in deep concentration.

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

There was a small, dirty-faced man in a blue apron who, after searching for a whole morning, spanning about fifty years, had finally found the will he wanted to reference. An official was reading it to him in a low, rushed voice from a thick, clasped vellum book. It was obvious that the more the clerk read, the less the man in the blue apron understood the situation. When the book was first brought down, he removed his hat, smoothed his hair, smiled with satisfaction, and looked up at the reader, determined to remember every word. The first couple of lines were clear enough, but then the jargon started, and the little man began to look unsure. A series of complicated trusts followed, and he was completely lost. As the reading continued, it became clear that he was in over his head, and the little man, with his mouth hanging open and eyes fixed on the reader, wore a look of confusion that was truly ridiculous.

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

A little further ahead, a hard-faced old man with a deeply-wrinkled face was intently reading a long will through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He occasionally paused from his work to slyly jot down brief notes about the bequests it included. Every wrinkle around his toothless mouth and his sharp, keen eyes spoke of greed and shrewdness. His clothes were nearly worn out, but it was clear that he wore them by choice, not necessity; everything about him, from his expressions to the tiny pinches of snuff he occasionally took from a small tin canister, indicated wealth, poverty, and greed.

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

As he casually closed the register, put away his glasses, and folded his scraps of paper into a large leather wallet, we thought about what a smart deal he was making with some poor heir who, tired of waiting year after year for a life interest to come through, was selling his chance just as it was starting to become really valuable, for only a tiny fraction of its worth. It was a good investment—a very safe one. The old man carefully tucked his wallet into the pocket of his overcoat and hobbled away with a smug grin. That will had made him at least ten years younger.

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

Having started our observations, we definitely would have extended them to at least a dozen more people if we hadn't been suddenly interrupted by the shutting and putting away of the old, worn-out books, which signaled that it was time to close the office. This cut us off from a pleasure and spared our readers from an unpleasant experience.

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

We naturally fell into a deep train of thought as we walked home, reflecting on the odd old records of likes and dislikes; jealousies and revenge; love that challenges death, and hatred that lingers beyond the grave, which these archives contain; some of them silent but powerful signs of a good heart and noble spirit; others, sad examples of humanity's worst passions. How many men, lying speechless and helpless on their deathbeds, would have given anything for the strength to erase the unspoken records of animosity and bitterness that are now officially noted against them in Doctors' Commons!

CHAPTER IX-LONDON RECREATIONS

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

The desire of people in lower social classes to imitate the behaviors and customs of those above them in status is often noticed and frequently criticized. This tendency likely exists significantly among the aspiring middle class—the would-be aristocrats. Shopkeepers and clerks, along with their fashionable, novel-reading families and library-subscribing daughters, host small gatherings in humble imitation of Almack's, strolling around the shabby 'large room' of some second-rate hotel with as much pride as those who are privileged to showcase their elegance in that exclusive spot of fashion and nonsense. Aspiring young women, who read exciting stories about some 'fancy fair in high society,' suddenly become fervently charitable; visions of admiration and marriage dance in their heads; some remarkably deserving organization, which, by the strangest coincidence, has never been heard of before, is found to be struggling: Thomson's grand room, or Johnson's nursery grounds, is promptly booked, and these young ladies, out of pure charity, display themselves for three days, from noon to four, for the small fee of one shilling per person! However, aside from these social classes and a few weak and insignificant individuals, we don’t believe the imitation we mentioned is widespread. The different activities enjoyed by different classes have often amused us, and we have chosen this as the topic of our current piece, hoping it will bring some enjoyment to our readers.

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

If the typical city guy, who leaves Lloyd’s at five o’clock and drives home to Hackney, Clapton, Stamford Hill, or somewhere nearby, has any daily pastime beyond dinner, it’s his garden. He never actually works on it himself, but he takes great pride in it anyway. If you’re looking to impress his youngest daughter, make sure to rave about every flower and shrub in it. If you're low on compliments, we’d definitely suggest you admire his garden more than his wine. Every morning before heading to work, he takes a stroll around it and is especially keen on keeping the fish pond nice and tidy. If you visit him on a summer Sunday about an hour before dinner, you'll find him sitting in an armchair on the lawn behind the house, wearing a straw hat, reading the Sunday paper. A little distance away, you might spot a lovely parakeet in a large brass-wire cage; chances are the two oldest girls are hanging out on one of the pathways with a couple of young gentlemen who are holding parasols over them—to keep the sun off, of course—while the younger kids, along with the under nursery maid, are wandering around aimlessly in the shade. Aside from these moments, his enjoyment of his garden seems to come more from the pride of ownership than from actually appreciating it. When he drives you to dinner on a weekday, he’s usually a bit worn out by his morning activities and somewhat grumpy, but once the meal is finished and he’s had three or four glasses of his favorite port, he orders the French windows of the dining room (which, naturally, overlook the garden) to be opened. Then, throwing a silk handkerchief over his head and leaning back in his armchair, he goes on at length about its beauty and the expense of maintaining it. This is meant to impress you—a young friend of the family—with the garden’s greatness and his wealth; and after he’s finished, he dozes off.

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

There’s another, totally different group of people whose hobby is tending to their garden. Someone from this group lives a short distance from town, maybe on Hampstead Road, Kilburn Road, or any other street with small, tidy houses and little patches of back garden. He and his wife—who is just as neat and tidy as he is—have lived in the same house ever since he retired from work twenty years ago. They have no children. They once had a son who passed away when he was about five years old. The child’s portrait hangs above the mantelpiece in the best sitting room, and a little cart he used to pull around is kept as a treasured keepsake.

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

In nice weather, the old man is almost always in the garden; and when it’s too rainy to go outside, he will look out the window at it for hours on end. He always has something to do there, and you can see him digging, sweeping, cutting, and planting, clearly enjoying it. In spring, he is nonstop with sowing seeds and sticking little pieces of wood over them with labels that look like tombstones in their honor. In the evening, after the sun goes down, it’s amazing to see how determined he is as he drags around a big watering can. His only other pastime is the newspaper, which he reads every day from cover to cover, usually sharing the most interesting stories with his wife during breakfast. The old lady loves flowers, as shown by the hyacinth vases in the living room window and the geranium pots in the small front yard. She takes great pride in the garden too; when one of the four fruit trees produces a slightly larger gooseberry than usual, she carefully keeps it under a wine glass on the sideboard for visitors, proudly explaining that Mr. So-and-so planted the tree with his own hands. On a summer evening, after filling and emptying the large watering can about fourteen times, and after the old couple has worn themselves out from walking around, you’ll find them sitting together happily in the little summerhouse, enjoying the calm of twilight, watching the shadows fall over the garden as they get thicker and darker, hiding the bright colors of their vibrant flowers—no bad symbol of the years that have quietly passed, dulling the brightest hues of their early hopes and feelings that have long since faded. These are their only pastimes, and they don’t need anything more. They have within themselves everything they need for comfort and contentment; and their only concern is to die before the other.

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

This isn't a perfect depiction. There used to be a lot of older folks like this; their numbers may have gone down, and might continue to decline. Whether the current direction of women's education—focused on silly distractions and meaningless pursuits—has made women less suited for the serene home life, where they shine much more brightly than in a packed gathering, is a question we wouldn’t really enjoy discussing: we hope not.

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

Let’s now shift our focus to another part of the London population, whose leisure activities contrast sharply with what we've seen—specifically, the Sunday pleasure-seekers. We invite our readers to picture themselves alongside us in some familiar countryside tea gardens.

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

The heat is intense this afternoon, and the crowds, with more people arriving every moment, look as hot as the tables that have just been painted and seem to be red-hot. What a mess and noise! Men and women—boys and girls—sweethearts and married couples—babies in arms and kids in strollers—pipes and shrimp—cigars and periwinkles—tea and tobacco. Gentlemen in flashy waistcoats and steel watch chains stroll around, three abreast, with surprising dignity (or as a guy in the next box jokingly says, "looking quite plump!"). Ladies with large, white handkerchiefs that look like small tablecloths in their hands chase each other on the grass in a playful and engaging way, trying to grab the attention of those gentlemen. Husbands in the distance are ordering bottles of ginger beer for their loved ones, spending lavishly; meanwhile, their companions are downing huge quantities of shrimp and periwinkles without a care for their health or comfort. Boys, with oversized silk hats precariously perched on their heads, are smoking cigars and trying to pretend they like them. Gentlemen in pink shirts and blue waistcoats occasionally bump into each other or knock someone over with their canes.

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

Some of the fancy clothes these people wear can make you smile, but they all seem clean, happy, and friendly. Those two motherly-looking women in chic coats, chatting so closely and inserting a 'ma'am' every few words, just struck up a conversation about fifteen minutes ago; it started with admiration for the little boy belonging to one of them— that tiny kid in the three-cornered pink satin hat adorned with black feathers. The two men in blue coats and tan trousers, strolling back and forth while smoking their pipes, are their husbands. The group in the opposite box is a pretty standard example of the visitors. There's a father, mother, and the grandmother: a young couple and a guy known as 'Uncle Bill,' who clearly brings the humor to the group. They have about six kids with them, but that's hardly worth mentioning since that's just the norm here. Every woman in 'the gardens' who has been married for a while must have had twins at least a couple of times; there's just no other way to explain the large number of kids running around.

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

Check out the sheer joy of the old grandmother at Uncle Bill's hilarious joke about 'tea for four: bread-and-butter for forty,' and the loud laughter that follows when he sticks a paper 'pigtail' on the waiter's collar. The young man is clearly dating Uncle Bill's niece, and Uncle Bill's comments—like 'Don't forget me at dinner, you know,' 'I'll be looking for the cake, Sally,' and 'I'll be godfather to your first—bet it's a boy'—are equally awkward for the young couple and entertaining for the older crowd. As for the old grandmother, she's over the moon, laughing so hard she starts coughing until they finish the 'gin-and-water warm with,' which Uncle Bill ordered 'glasses round' after tea, 'just to keep the night air out and to make it cozy after such an incredibly hot day!'

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

It’s getting dark, and people are starting to leave. The path to town is pretty crowded; the little carts are being pulled along tiredly, the kids are worn out and either cry or do the much more pleasant thing of falling asleep—the mothers start wishing they were back home—sweethearts are getting more sentimental than ever as the time to say goodbye draws near—the gardens look pretty sad under the light of the two lanterns hanging in the trees for the smokers’ convenience—and the waiters, who have been running around non-stop for the last six hours, think they feel a bit tired as they count their glasses and earnings.

CHAPTER X-THE RIVER

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

"Do you like being on the water?" is a question often asked, especially during hot summer days, by young men who look like they've just come from the beach. "Absolutely," is the usual answer. "How about you?" — "I can't get enough of it," is the response, often accompanied by various enthusiastic comments about how great the water is. However, with all due respect to society's views and sailing clubs in particular, we suggest that some of the most painful memories for anyone who has enjoyed a day out on the Thames are tied to those aquatic adventures. Who's ever heard of a successful day on the water? Or to put it another way, who has actually witnessed one? We've been on countless water outings, but we can honestly say that we can't remember a single occasion that wasn't filled with more problems than one could reasonably fit into an eight or nine-hour trip. Something always seems to go wrong. Either the cork from the salad dressing pops out, or the person everyone was looking forward to seeing doesn't show up, or the most annoying person in the group shows up, or a child or two falls in the water, or the person steering the boat nearly wrecks it for everyone, or the guys who volunteered to row are 'rusty' and pull off some very concerning maneuvers, either dropping their oars in the water and struggling to lift them again or pulling hard without even putting them in the water at all; in either case, they end up tipping over and crashing onto their backs with surprising force, giving the people sitting in the boat an unfortunate view of the soles of their shoes.

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

We agree that the banks of the Thames are very beautiful at Richmond and Twickenham, along with other far-off spots that people often seek but rarely get to; however, from the 'Red-us' back to Blackfriars Bridge, the scenery changes dramatically. The Penitentiary is an impressive building, no doubt, and the playful young people who hang out there on summer evenings might look nice in the distance; but when you have to stay close to shore on the way home, and the young ladies blush and deliberately look the other way while the married women cough lightly and stare intently at the water, it gets pretty awkward—especially if you've been trying to be a bit sentimental for the last hour or two.

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

Although experience and suffering have shaped our views, we’re definitely aware of the enjoyment that an observer can find in the boating enthusiasts. What could be more entertaining than Searle's yard on a beautiful Sunday morning? It's a Richmond tide, and several boats are getting ready for the groups who have booked them. A few guys in rugged pants and Guernsey shirts are slowly preparing them; they come down the yard with a pair of paddles and a cushion, chat with 'Jack,' who, like all of his kind, seems totally unable to do anything but lounge around, and then head back, only to return with a rudder line and a stretcher. They pause for another chat, then wonder, with their hands deep in their roomy pockets, "Where are the gentlemen who ordered the six?" One of them, the leader, with the legs of his trousers carefully rolled up to let in water—which we assume he’s much more comfortable with than dry land—is quite a character, sharing the famous name 'Dando' with the late oyster-eater. Watch him as he takes a break from his work, casually sitting on the edge of a boat, fanning his broad, hairy chest with a cap that’s hardly as furry. Check out his impressive, albeit reddish, whiskers, and notice the humorous way he jokes with the boys and apprentices, or cleverly convinces the gentlemen to buy him a glass of gin, of which we sincerely believe he drinks as much in one day as any six average men without ever feeling the slightest bit worse for it.

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

But the party arrives, and Dando, relieved from his uncertainty, jumps into action. They come dressed in full aquatic gear, wearing round blue jackets, striped shirts, and a variety of caps in different sizes and styles, from the velvet skull-cap made in France to the easy headgear that students of old textbooks recognize as part of the costume of the Reverend Mr. Dilworth, according to his portrait.

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

This is the most entertaining time to watch a typical Sunday water party. Everyone has been bragging about their navigation skills, but the sight of the water quickly cools their confidence, and the way each insists someone else should take an oar is absolutely hilarious. Finally, after much shifting and fidgeting because they can’t agree on a stroke-oar—one guy can’t pull on this side, another can’t pull on that side, and a third can’t pull at all—the crew settles in. "Shove her off!" yells the coxswain, looking as relaxed as if he were steering in the Bay of Biscay. The order is followed, and the boat promptly turns around and heads toward Westminster Bridge, amidst splashing and struggling like nothing ever seen before, except when the Royal George sank. "Back water, sir," shouts Dando, "Back water, you sir, at the back!" Everyone thinks he must mean them, so they all start back paddling, and the boat comes back to where it started, moving backward. "Back water, you sir, at the back; pull around, you sir, at the front, can't you?" Dando screams, practically losing it with excitement. "Pull around, Tom, can't you?" echoes one of the group. "Tom isn’t at the front," replies another. "Yes, he is," yells a third; and the poor guy, nearly risking a stroke, pulls and pulls until the front of the boat is finally facing Vauxhall Bridge. "That’s right—now pull all together!" Dando shouts again, muttering to someone next to him, "I swear I've never seen such a bunch of idiots!" and off the boat goes in a zigzag, with each of the six oars hitting the water at different times, leaving the yard clear once again, until the next group arrives.

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

A well-contested rowing match on the Thames is a lively and exciting scene. The water is filled with all sorts of boats; coal barges at the various wharfs are packed with spectators, and beer and tobacco are flowing freely. Men, women, and children wait anxiously for the race to start. Rowing boats with six and eight oars glide up and down, ready to accompany their competitors during the race. Bands play music, adding to the energy of the scene, if not the harmony. Groups of watermen gather at the different stairs, discussing the strengths of the various competitors, and the prize wherry, slowly rowed by a pair of sculls, is the center of everyone's attention.

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

Two o'clock strikes, and everyone looks nervously toward the bridge where the prize candidates will appear. Half past two comes, and the anticipation that has been building starts to wane. Suddenly, a gunshot is heard, followed by cheers echoing from both sides of the river. Everyone leans forward, the noise gets closer and closer, and the boats that have been waiting at the bridge spring into action, with a well-manned galley speeding through the arch. The spectators cheer on the boats behind them, which are still out of sight.

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

'Here they are!' is the general shout—and the first boat shoots forward, the men inside stripped down and using every muscle to keep their lead—four other boats closely behind; there’s barely two boat lengths between them—the cheering is loud, and the excitement is high. 'Go on, Pink!'—'Give it to her, Red!'—'Sullivan forever!'—'Bravo! George!'—'Now, Tom, now—why isn’t your partner reaching out?'—'Two to one on Yellow,' and so on. Every little pub fires its cannon and raises its flag; and the men who win the heat come in amid splashes and cheers, noise and chaos, which no one can truly imagine unless they’ve seen it, and any description would only convey a very weak idea.

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

One of the most entertaining places we know is the steam-wharf at London Bridge, or St. Katharine's Dock Company, on a Saturday morning in the summer, when the Gravesend and Margate steamers are usually packed to the brim; and since we just took a look at the river above the bridge, we hope our readers won't mind joining us on board a Gravesend packet.

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

Coaches are constantly arriving at the dock, and the bewildered look on the faces of the passengers as they hand over their luggage to the porters—who grab everything in one go and dash off, who knows where—is ridiculously funny. A Margate boat is docked next to the wharf, and the Gravesend boat (which leaves first) is right next to it; and with a plank and hand-rail connecting the two, the chaos of the scene only grows.

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

'Gravesend?' asks a sturdy dad from a robust family, who are trailing behind him, led by their mom and a servant, at a significant risk of losing two or three of them in the chaos. 'Gravesend?'

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

'Please move along, sir,' replies the attendant, 'other boat, sir.'

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

The stout father, feeling a bit confused, and the stout mother, preoccupied with maternal worry, all board the Margate boat. After settling into what he believes are very comfortable seats, the stout father heads to the chimney to look for his luggage, which he vaguely remembers handing over to some guy to take somewhere. However, he can’t find any luggage that looks even remotely like his. So, he calls out loudly for an officer and explains the situation to him in front of another father—a little thin man—who completely agrees with him. They both think it’s about time something is done about these steam companies, and since the Corporation Bill didn’t fix anything, something else needs to be done because people's belongings shouldn't be treated like this. He adds that if his luggage isn't returned quickly, he’ll make sure to get it into the papers, as the public shouldn’t be the victims of these big monopolies. The officer then replies that ever since it became the St. Kat'rine's Dock Company, it has protected lives and property. If it were the London Bridge Wharf Company, he wouldn't be surprised, given that no one can vouch for their morality (since they’re the opposition), but as it stands, he’s sure there’s been a mistake. He’s even willing to make a solemn oath before a magistrate that the gentleman will find his luggage before reaching Margate.

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

Here the heavyset father, thinking he's making a great point, replies that, as luck would have it, he’s not going to Margate at all, and that 'Passenger to Gravesend' was written on the luggage in letters two inches high. The officer quickly clarifies the mistake, and the heavyset mother, the heavyset children, and the servant are rushed onto the Gravesend boat as fast as possible, just in time to find that their luggage is there but their comfortable seats aren’t. Then the bell rings loudly, signaling the Gravesend boat is about to depart, and people keep pace with the bell by running in and out of our boat in a frantic hurry. The bell stops, the boat departs, and those who have been saying goodbye to their friends on board are taken away against their will, while those who have been saying goodbye to their friends onshore realize they didn’t need to say goodbye at all, since they aren’t leaving. The regular passengers with season tickets go below to have breakfast; people who bought morning newspapers settle in to read; and those who haven’t been down the river before think that both the ships and the water look much better from a distance.

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

When we get down to Blackwall and start moving faster, the mood of the passengers seems to lift. Older women with big wicker baskets dive into their sandwiches and pass around a wine glass that gets frequently refilled from a flat bottle, like a pocket-sized thermos, all while laughing. They hand it first to the guy in the forage cap, who plays the harp—partly to show his enjoyment of the previous efforts and partly to prompt him to play 'Dumbledumbdeary' for 'Alick' to dance to. Once that happens, Alick, a damp, earthy kid in red wool socks, hops around on the deck, bringing immense joy to his family. Girls with the first volume of a new novel in their bags become very nostalgic and talk to Mr. Brown, or young Mr. O'Brien, who's been watching them, about how blue the sky is and how bright the water looks. Mr. Brown or Mr. O'Brien replies in a soft voice that he hasn't really noticed nature's beauty lately and that all his thoughts and wishes have been focused on just one thing. The young lady then looks up, trying unsuccessfully to seem indifferent, quickly looks down again, and turns the next page with great effort to create an opportunity for a lingering hand touch.

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

Telescopes, sandwiches, and cold glasses of brandy and water are in high demand; and shy men who have been peering down the hatch at the engine find, to their great relief, a topic they can talk about with each other—and it’s a plentiful one too—steam.

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

"Steam is an amazing thing, sir." "Ah! (a deep sigh) it really is, sir." "Such power, sir." "Massive—massive!" "So much accomplished with steam, sir." "Ah! (another sigh at the vastness of the topic, with a knowing head shake) you can definitely say that, sir." "They say it’s still in its early stages, sir." Comments like these usually kick off a conversation that lasts until the end of the trip and might even lead to a friendly rapport among a few gentlemen who, with their families in Gravesend, get season tickets for the boat and regularly have dinner on board every afternoon.

CHAPTER XI-ASTLEY'S

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

We never see any big, bold black Roman capital letters in a book, shop window, or posted on a wall without immediately recalling a vague and confusing memory of the time when we first learned the alphabet. We almost imagine we see the tip of a pin tracing the letters to make their shapes stick more firmly in our confused minds; and we wince involuntarily as we remember the hard knuckles of the strict old lady who taught us the basics of education for ninepence a week or ten and sixpence a quarter, who would occasionally poke our young heads to help clear up the jumble of ideas we usually had. A similar feeling follows us in many other situations, but no place brings back our childhood memories quite like Astley's. It wasn't called a 'Royal Amphitheatre' back then, nor had Ducrow come along to bring a touch of classic style and portable gas light to the sawdust of the circus; but the overall vibe of the place was the same, the performances were the same, the clown's jokes were the same, the riding instructors were just as impressive, the comic acts equally hilarious, the tragic actors just as hoarse, and the 'highly-trained chargers' just as spirited. Astley's has improved, but we have changed for the worse. Our taste in theater is gone, and we shamefully admit that we are far more entertained and amused by the audience than by the spectacle we once appreciated so much.

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

We enjoy attending a typical Astley's party during the Easter or Midsummer holidays—my parents and nine or ten kids, ranging from five feet six inches to two feet eleven, and from fourteen years old to four. We had just settled into one of the boxes in the middle of the venue the other night when the next box was filled by a group that was exactly like the one we would have tried to describe if we had portrayed our ideal group of Astley's visitors.

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

First of all, three little boys and a little girl came in, following their dad's instructions, and announced themselves loudly from the box door as they took their seats in the front row. Then, two more little girls were brought in by a young lady, clearly the governess. Next, three more little boys arrived, dressed like the first group in blue jackets and trousers with flat shirt collars. Then, a child in a fancy dress, looking very surprised with huge round eyes wide open, was lifted over the seats—this move showed off a lot of little pink legs. After that, Mom and Dad came in, followed by their eldest son, a fourteen-year-old boy who was clearly trying to act like he didn’t belong to the family.

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

The first five minutes were spent taking the shawls off the little girls and adjusting the bows in their hair. Then, it was discovered that one of the little boys was sitting behind a pillar and couldn’t see, so the governess ended up behind the pillar while the boy took her place. Then Dad organized the boys and made sure they stowed away their pocket handkerchiefs. Mom nodded and winked at the governess to pull the girls' dresses a little further off their shoulders, and stood up to inspect the little group—an inspection that clearly pleased her, as she looked at Dad, who was standing at the other end of the row with a satisfied expression. Dad returned her look and blew his nose loudly, while the poor governess peeked out from behind the pillar, trying to catch Mom's eye, expressing her admiration for the whole family with her look. Two of the little boys, who had been debating whether Astley's was more than twice the size of Drury Lane, decided to ask 'George' for his opinion. 'George,' who was the young gentleman mentioned earlier, got upset and protested in a not-so-gentle way about the inappropriateness of having his name shouted in a public place, which made all the children laugh heartily. One of the little boys even concluded that 'George was starting to think he was quite the man now,' which made both Mom and Dad laugh too. George, who was holding a dress cane and growing whiskers, mumbled that 'William was always encouraged in his insolence' and put on a look of deep scorn that lasted the whole evening.

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

The play started, and the little boys were completely engrossed. Dad was definitely interested too, although he tried unsuccessfully to hide it. As for Mom, she was completely taken in by the comedic antics of the main performer and laughed so hard that all the big bows on her wide cap shook. The governess peeked out from behind the pillar again, and every time she caught Mom's eye, she covered her mouth with her handkerchief and pretended to be laughing uncontrollably as well. Then, when the man in the shiny armor promised to save the lady or die trying, the little boys clapped wildly, especially one little guy who seemed to be visiting the family and had been playfully flirting all evening with a small flirtatious girl of twelve who looked like a mini version of her mom. Like the other little girls, who are often flirtier than much older girls, she looked quite shocked when the knight's squire kissed the princess's maid of honor.

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

When the performances in the ring started, the kids were more thrilled than ever; the desire to see what was happening completely took over Dad's dignity, and he stood up in the box, cheering as loudly as any of them. Between each display of horsemanship, the governess leaned over to Mom and shared the clever comments from the kids about what had just happened. Mom, feeling generous, offered the governess a sour candy, and the governess, pleased to be acknowledged, went back behind her pillar with a happier expression. The whole group seemed quite content, except for the snob in the back of the box, who was too important to care about the kids but too forgettable to get any attention from anyone else. He occupied himself every now and then by rubbing the spot where his whiskers should be and was completely alone in his self-importance.

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

We challenge anyone who has been to Astley's a couple of times and can appreciate the way the same jokes are repeated night after night and season after season not to be entertained by at least one part of the show—we're talking about the scenes in the ring. For ourselves, we know that when the hoop made of gas jets comes down, the curtain goes up to let out the half-price folks, the orange peels are cleared away, and the sawdust is carefully shaken into a perfect circle, we feel just as thrilled as the youngest child in the audience; we even join in the laughter that follows the clown's high-pitched shout of 'Here we are!' just for nostalgia. We can't shake off our old respect for the riding master, who follows the clown with a long whip and bows to the audience with elegant dignity. He’s not one of those second-rate riding masters in casual dressing gowns with brown decorations, but the genuine assistant to the main riders, always in military uniform with a napkin tucked inside his coat, making him look like a chicken ready for roasting. He is—but why should we try to describe something that’s hard to capture accurately? Everyone knows this man and remembers his shiny boots, his graceful yet stiff demeanor—some might wrongly see it as snobbishness—and his impressive head of black hair, parted high on his forehead to give him a look of deep thought and poetic sadness. His soft and charming voice matches his noble presence perfectly as he playfully banters with the clown, and the unforgettable way he says, 'Now, sir, if you please, inquire for Miss Woolford, sir,' sticks in your mind. The graceful way he introduces Miss Woolford into the ring, helping her onto her horse and then following her around the circle, leaves a lasting impression on every female staff member present.

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

When Miss Woolford, the horse, and the orchestra all pause to catch their breath, he politely engages in a conversation that goes something like this (started by the clown): 'I say, sir!' - 'Well, sir?' (it's always done in the politest way.) - 'Did you ever hear I was in the army, sir?' - 'No, sir.' - 'Oh, yes, sir – I can do my exercises, sir.' - 'Really, sir!' - 'Shall I do it now, sir?' - 'If you please, sir; come on, sir – hurry up' (a whip crack, and 'Ha, done now – I don’t like it,' from the clown). Here, the clown lies down and performs a series of gymnastic antics, twisting himself up, then untangling again, looking very much like someone in extreme pain, to the loud cheers of the audience, until he’s interrupted by another whip crack and asked to see 'what Miss Woolford’s waiting for?' At which point, to the great amusement of the audience, he shouts, 'Now, Miss Woolford, what can I come for to go, to fetch, to bring, to carry, to do for you, ma'am?' When the lady smiles sweetly and asks for the two flags, they are brought up with various funny faces, and the clown humorously remarks after this task, 'He, he, oh! I say, sir, Miss Woolford knows me; she smiled at me.' Another whip crack, a swell from the orchestra, a jump from the horse, and Miss Woolford continues her lovely performance, delighting everyone in the audience, young and old. The next break allows for more jokes, with the clown making silly faces at the riding-master every time his back is turned, finally exiting the circle by jumping over his head after directing his attention elsewhere.

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

Did any of our readers ever notice the group of people who hang around the stage doors of our smaller theaters during the day? You can hardly walk past one of these entrances without spotting three or four guys chatting on the sidewalk, exuding an unmistakable pub swagger and a sort of self-aware attitude unique to this crowd. They always seem to think they’re putting on a show; the spotlight is always on them. That young guy in the worn brown coat and oversized light green pants pulls down the cuffs of his checkered shirt as if it were made from the finest linen, and tilts his outdated white hat over his right eye like it’s a brand-new find. Check out his dirty white Berlin gloves and the cheap silk handkerchief stuffed into the pocket of his frayed coat. Is it possible to see him for just a moment and not realize he’s the kind of guy who wears a blue overcoat, a clean collar, and white pants for half an hour, then retreats into his tattered, shabby clothes? He has to brag night after night about his amazing luck, all while painfully aware he’s living on a pound a week and has to buy his own shoes; he talks about his family’s estate in the countryside, all the while haunted by memories of his cramped two-room flat in the New Cut; and he’s envied and flattered as the lucky guy dating a wealthy heiress, fully aware that the former dancer at home is pregnant and not currently working?

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

Next to him, you might see a thin, pale guy with a really long face, wearing a shiny black suit, thoughtfully tapping the part of his boot that used to have a heel with an ash stick. He’s the one who handles the serious stuff, like boring fathers, righteous servants, curates, landlords, and so on.

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

By the way, speaking of fathers, we’d really like to see a play where all the characters are orphans. Fathers are usually a big hassle on stage, and they always have to give the hero or heroine a long explanation of what happened before the curtain went up, usually starting with, “It’s now nineteen years, my dear child, since your beloved mother (here the old villain’s voice wavers) entrusted you to my care. You were just a baby,” etc., etc. Or they suddenly realize that someone they’ve been talking to for three long acts, without even a hint of suspicion, is their own child: in which case they shout, “Ah! What do I see? This bracelet! That smile! These documents! Those eyes! Can I trust my senses? It must be! Yes, it is, it is my child!” – “My father!” the child exclaims; and they embrace, looking over each other’s shoulders, and the audience gives three rounds of applause.

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

To get back to what we were saying, these are the kind of people you see chatting and posing outside the stage doors of our smaller theaters. At Astley's, there are always more of them than anywhere else. There’s usually a groom or two sitting on the window sill, and two or three scruffy gentlemen in checked neckerchiefs and worn linen, hanging around, possibly carrying a pair of stage shoes poorly wrapped in an old newspaper under one arm. A few years ago, we would stand there, wide-eyed, staring at these men, feeling a mysterious curiosity that makes us smile as we write this. We couldn't believe that the glamorous and elegant figures, dressed in milk-white tunics, salmon-colored legs, and blue scarves, who glided by on sleek cream-colored horses at night, illuminated by lights, music, and fake flowers, could be the same pale, tired-looking individuals we saw during the day.

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

We can hardly believe it now. We’ve seen a bit of the lower class of actors, and it doesn’t take much imagination to equate the charming guy with the ‘flashy jerk,’ the comic singer with the pub chairman, or the leading tragic actor with drunkenness and despair; but these other guys are mysterious figures, never seen outside of the performance, never seen except in the costumes of gods and spirits. Except for Ducrow, who doesn't really fit in with them, who actually knows a rider at Astley's, or has seen him off a horse? Can our friend in uniform ever show up in worn-out clothes or drop down to the regular attire of everyday life? No way! We cannot—we will not—believe it.

CHAPTER XII-GREENWICH FAIR

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

If the Parks are 'the lungs of London,' we wonder what Greenwich Fair is—a regular burst of excitement, we guess, like a spring rash: a three-day frenzy that takes six months to recover from, after which London goes back to its usual routine of hard work, as suddenly and completely as if nothing had ever interrupted it.

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

Back in the day, we used to go to Greenwich Fair all the time for years. We've made the trip there and back in almost every kind of vehicle. We can't honestly deny that we once made the journey in a spring-van, along with thirteen guys, fourteen ladies, a bunch of kids, and a barrel of beer; and we vaguely remember later finding ourselves sitting on top of a taxi at around four in the morning, with a pretty confused idea of who we were or where we lived. We've grown older since then, more settled, and calmer: we enjoy nothing more than spending our Easter and other holidays in some peaceful spot with people we never get tired of; but we think we still remember a bit about Greenwich Fair and the folks who go there. At the very least, we'll give it a try.

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

The road to Greenwich on Easter Monday is always buzzing with activity and noise. Cabs, taxis, carts, coal wagons, stages, buses, shared rides, gig cars, and donkey carts—all packed with people (because it’s not about how much the horse can pull, but how many people the vehicle can fit)—speed along at full throttle; the dust billows up in clouds, ginger-beer bottles pop like fireworks, the balconies of every pub are filled with people smoking and drinking, and many private homes have become tea shops. Fiddles are in high demand, each little fruit stand shows off its pile of shiny gingerbread and cheap toys; turnpike workers are overwhelmed; horses refuse to move, and wheels come off vehicles; ladies in carriages scream in panic at every bump, and their admirers find it necessary to sit embarrassingly close to them for support; hard-working servants, finally getting a day off, make the most of their time with the loyal admirer waiting for a secret meeting at the corner every night when they go out to get the beer—apprentices get sentimental, and straw hat makers are kind. Everyone is eager to keep moving, driven by the shared desire to get to the fair or the park as quickly as possible.

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

Pedestrians gather in groups at the curb, unable to resist the charms of the hefty owner of the 'Jack-in-the-box, three shies a penny,' or the more tempting offers from the man with three thimbles and a pea on a small round board, who amazes the bewildered crowd with something like, 'Here’s the kind of game that will make you laugh even seven years after you’re gone, and turn every hair on your head gray with delight! Three thimbles and one little pea—with a one, two, three, and a two, three, one: catch him if you can, watch closely, keep your eyes peeled, and never give up! Forget about the change and the expense: it’s all fair and above board: those who don’t play can’t win, and may luck be with the true player! Bet any gentleman any amount of money, from half-a-crown up to a sovereign, as long as he doesn’t name the thimble that covers the pea!' Here, some clueless guy tells his friend that he clearly saw the pea roll under the middle thimble—an idea immediately backed up by a man in tall boots who is nearby and who quietly regrets that he can’t place a bet since he unfortunately left his wallet at home, but strongly encourages the stranger not to miss out on such a golden chance. The ‘setup’ works, the bet is placed, and the stranger naturally loses: and the guy with the thimbles comforts him, as he pockets the cash, with the reassurance that it’s 'all part of the game! This time I win, next time you win: don’t worry about losing two bob and a bender! Wrap it up in a small parcel, and start fresh somewhere else. Here’s the kind of game,' &c.—and the persuasive speech, with variations as the speaker's lively imagination suggests, is repeated to the eager crowd, joined by several newcomers.

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

The main spot to hang out during the day, after the pubs, is the park, where the main pastime is pulling young women up the steep hill to the Observatory, and then racing them back down, messing up their curls and hats, while entertaining those watching from below. Games like 'Kiss in the Ring' and 'Threading my Grandmother's Needle' also get their fair share of attention. Love-struck guys, fueled by gin and their feelings, become overly affectionate, while the ladies they admire add to the thrill of stolen kisses with plenty of struggling, ducking their heads, and yelling things like, 'Oh! Stop it, George—please tickle him for me, Mary—Well, I can’t believe it!' and other similar exclamations. Little old men and women, carrying a small basket under one arm and a wine glass without a stem in the other, offer 'a drop of the right sort' to various groups; and young women who are talked into trying this 'right sort' show a charming reluctance to take a sip and end up coughing afterwards with proper decorum.

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

The older pensioners, who for just a penny, show off the mast-house, the Thames and the ships, the spot where men used to be hung in chains, and other interesting sights through a telescope, are asked questions about things within the view of the lens that would stump even Solomon to answer; they are also asked to locate specific houses on particular streets, which would have been quite the challenge for Mr. Horner (not the young guy who ate mince pies with his thumb, but the celebrity from the Colosseum). Here and there, where a few couples are sitting on the grass together, you’ll spot a sunburned woman in a red cloak 'telling fortunes' and predicting husbands, which isn't hard to describe since the originals are right in front of her. As a result, the woman being read for giggles and blushes, eventually hiding her face in a fake cambric handkerchief, while the gentleman being talked about looks quite foolish, squeezes her hand, and gives the gypsy a generous tip; and the gypsy walks away completely satisfied with herself, leaving the others just as happy: and the prophecy, like many other prophecies of greater significance, eventually comes true.

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

But it’s getting dark: the crowd has slowly thinned out, and only a few stragglers remain. The light in the direction of the church shows that the fair is lit up, and the distant sounds indicate it's getting crowded. The place, which just half an hour ago was filled with loud laughter, is now calm and peaceful as if nothing could ever disturb its serenity. The beautiful old trees, the impressive building at their base, and the noble river shining in the moonlight all appear stunning and in their best light; the voices of the boys singing their evening hymn float gently through the air. Even the simplest worker who has been lounging on the grass, so pleasant underfoot compared to the usual hard pavements of London, feels a sense of pride as he takes in the scene before him, knowing he belongs to a country that has chosen such a spot as a haven for its oldest and most respected defenders in the later years of their lives.

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

Five minutes of walking gets you to the fair, a scene that stirs up very different feelings. The entrance is lined with vendors selling gingerbread and toys: the stalls are brightly lit, the most appealing goods on display, and enthusiastic young women, eager to help their employers, grab your coat and use all sorts of sweet talk like "Come on, please"—"You're the best"—"Don't be grumpy now," etc., to convince you to buy half a pound of the real spice nuts, which most regular fair-goers carry a pound or two as a gift supply, neatly wrapped in a cotton handkerchief. Occasionally, you might pass a wooden table with small servings of pickled salmon (with fennel) in little white saucers: oysters with shells as big as dinner plates, and various types of a certain snail (we think they're called wilks), floating in a rather unappetizing green liquid. Cigars are also very popular; men have to smoke, of course, and here they are, two for a penny, in a genuine cigar box, with a lit tallow candle in the middle.

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

Imagine yourself in an incredibly crowded place, being pushed back and forth, moving in every direction but the right one; add to this the screams of women, the shouts of boys, the noise of gongs, gunshots, ringing bells, loudspeakers blasting, the squeaking of cheap toys, the sound of a dozen bands with three drums each, all playing different tunes at the same time, the shouts of performers, and the occasional roar from the animal acts; and you are right in the middle of the fair.

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

This huge booth, with a big stage in front, brightly lit with colorful lights and pots of burning oil, is 'Richardson's,' where you can catch a melodrama (with three murders and a ghost), a pantomime, a comic song, an overture, and some background music, all done in just twenty-five minutes.

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

The company is now strolling outside with all the flair of wigs, sparkles, red-ochre, and face powder. Look at the fierce demeanor of the guy playing the Mexican chief as he paces back and forth, and how the main tragic actor gazes at the crowd below with calm dignity or chats confidentially with the harlequin! The four clowns engaged in a mock sword fight might entertain the less refined holiday-makers, but these performers appeal to the more thoughtful audience. They look so noble in their Roman costumes, with their yellow legs and arms, long curly black hair, bushy eyebrows, and expressions that suggest assassination, vengeance, and all things grand and serious. And the ladies—have you ever seen such innocent yet intimidating figures? They walk along the platform in pairs or threes, with their arms wrapped around each other's waists or leaning for support on one of those imposing men! Their sparkling muslin dresses and somewhat worn blue satin shoes and sandals are the envy of everyone watching, and the charming way they playfully fend off the clown's advances is simply delightful.

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

'Just about to start! Please come forward, come forward,' shouts the man in the country outfit for the seventieth time, as people push their way up the steps in crowds. The band suddenly begins to play, the harlequin and columbine lead the way, reels are formed in no time, the Roman heroes strike poses with their hands on their hips and dance with impressive energy; the lead tragic actress and the guy playing the 'swell' in the pantomime dance flawlessly. 'Everyone in to start,' yells the manager when no more people can be convinced to 'come forward,' and off rush the leading members of the company to perform the dramatic first act.

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

A performance change happens every day during the fair, but the story of the tragedy is mostly the same. There's a rightful heir who loves a young woman, and she loves him back; then there's a wrongful heir who also loves her but isn't loved in return. The wrongful heir captures the rightful heir and tosses him into a dungeon, planning to kill him when it suits him. To do this, he hires a couple of assassins—a good one and a bad one—who, as soon as they’re alone, end up getting into a little murder on their own: the good one kills the bad one, and the bad one wounds the good one. Then the rightful heir is found in prison, holding a long chain and sitting sadly in a large armchair. The young lady comes in to a couple of bars of soft music and embraces him; then the wrongful heir enters to a couple of bars of fast music, and he behaves very shockingly, roughly throwing the young lady around as if she were nothing, and shouts at the rightful heir, calling him "Ar-recreant-ar-wretch!" in a loud voice. This not only shows his anger but makes sure the sound carries over the sawdust. The tension builds as the wrongful heir draws his sword and charges at the rightful heir. A blue smoke appears, a gong rings, and a tall white figure (who has been hidden behind the armchair under a tablecloth) slowly rises to the tune of "Oft in the stilly night." This figure is none other than the ghost of the rightful heir’s father, who was killed by the wrongful heir’s father. Seeing this, the wrongful heir becomes stunned and is literally "struck all of a heap," as the stage isn't big enough for him to fall down completely. Then the good assassin stumbles in, saying he was hired along with the bad assassin by the wrongful heir to kill the rightful heir. He admits to having killed many people but feels really sorry about it and promises not to do it again—a promise he quickly fulfills by dying immediately without any fuss. Then the rightful heir drops his chain, and two other characters—a sailor and a young woman (the rightful heir's tenants)—enter, and the ghost makes silent gestures to them, which they understand through supernatural means—no one else can. The ghost (who can only act with blue fire) blesses the rightful heir and the young lady by nearly suffocating them with smoke. Finally, a muffin-bell rings, and the curtain falls.

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

The next most popular attractions after these traveling theaters are the traveling menageries, or more clearly, the 'Wild-beast shows,' where a military band in beef-eater costumes with leopard-skin hats plays constantly. Outside, they display large, colorful posters of tigers tearing apart humans and a lion being burned with red-hot irons to make him release his prey, all to draw in visitors.

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

The main guy at these places is usually a really tall, hoarse man in a red coat, holding a cane, with which he occasionally taps on the pictures we just looked at, to illustrate his description—something like this: 'Here, here, here; the lion, the lion (tap), just like he's shown on the canvas outside (three taps): no waiting, remember; no tricks. The fierce lion (tap, tap) who bit off the guy's head last year, and has killed an average of three keepers a year ever since he reached maturity. No extra charge for that, just so you know; the entry fee is only sixpence.' This speech always creates a big stir, and sixpences pour into the treasury at an amazing speed.

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

The dwarfs attract a lot of curiosity, and alongside a dwarf, a giantess, a living skeleton, a wild Indian, "a young lady of unique beauty with perfectly white hair and pink eyes," and a couple of other natural oddities, they’re typically showcased together for just a penny, drawing large crowds. The best part about a dwarf is that he has a little box around two and a half feet high, where, through practice, he can manage to fit by curling up like a boot jack; this box is painted to look like a six-room house. As the audience watches him ring a bell or fire a pistol from the first-floor window, they genuinely believe it’s his regular home, divided like other houses into living rooms, dining rooms, and bedrooms. While he’s inside, the unfortunate little guy is brought out to entertain the crowd with a funny chat with the owner: during which the dwarf (who is always pretty drunk) promises to sing a funny song inside and showers compliments on the ladies, encouraging them to come forward eagerly. Since a giant isn't so easily moved, a pair of ridiculously large pants and a huge shoe are typically brought out, into which a few stout men can fit all at once, thrilling the crowd, who are completely satisfied with the serious assurance that these clothes are part of the giant's everyday outfit.

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

The biggest and most popular booth at the whole fair is 'The Crown and Anchor'—a temporary ballroom that stretches for who knows how many feet, with an admission fee of one shilling. As soon as you step in and pay, you'll find a refreshment area to your right, showcasing cold beef, roast and boiled options, French rolls, stout, wine, tongue, ham, and even chicken, if I remember correctly, all laid out to tempt you. There's a raised stage for music, and the floor is covered in boards, with patches just wide enough for a country dance.

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

There’s no master of ceremonies in this artificial paradise—all is raw, unrestrained, and spontaneous. The dust is blinding, the heat unbearable, the crowd is pretty loud, and everyone is in the best spirits possible: the women, in their joyful excitement, dancing in the guys' hats, and the guys strolling through 'the lively and festive scene' in the women's bonnets, or with the more extravagant accessories of fake noses and low, tinder-box-like hats: playing kids' drums, with women joining in on the penny trumpet.

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

The noise from all the different instruments, the orchestra, the shouting, the "scratchers," and the dancing is completely overwhelming. The dancing itself is hard to describe—each dance lasts about an hour, and the ladies bounce up and down the middle with an energy that's hard to put into words. As for the men, they stomp their feet on the ground every time "hands four round" starts, go down the middle and back up again, with cigars in their mouths and silk handkerchiefs in their hands, spinning their partners around without hesitation, tumbling and falling, hugging and bumping into the other couples, until they’re completely worn out and can’t move anymore. The same scene repeats over and over again (with the occasional "row" to mix things up) until late at night, and many clerks and apprentices find themselves the next morning with pounding headaches, empty pockets, damaged hats, and a very foggy memory of how they didn’t make it home.

CHAPTER XIII-PRIVATE THEATRES

'Richard the Third.-Duke of Glo'ster 2l.; Earl of Richmond, 1l; Duke of Buckingham, 15s.; Catesby, 12s.; Tressel, 10s. 6d.; Lord Stanley, 5s.; Lord Mayor of London, 2s. 6d.'

'Richard the Third.-Duke of Gloucester £21; Earl of Richmond £1; Duke of Buckingham 15s.; Catesby 12s.; Tressel 10s. 6d.; Lord Stanley 5s.; Lord Mayor of London 2s. 6d.'

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

These are the notices stuck up in the men's dressing room or the green room (if there is one) at a private theater; and these are the amounts taken from the cash register, or that are marked up in the office expenses, by the fools who are convinced to pay for the chance to showcase their embarrassing ignorance and foolishness on the stage of a private theater. They do this, depending on how much opportunity is provided by the role to show off their stupidity. For example, the Duke of Gloucester is worth two pounds, as he has the spotlight to himself; he has to wear a real sword, and even better, he must draw it several times during the play. The soliloquies alone are worth fifteen shillings; then, the stabbing of King Henry is definitely a bargain at three-and-sixpence, which adds up to eighteen-and-sixpence; bossing around the coffin-bearers—let’s say eighteen pence, though it’s worth much more—that’s another pound. Then the love scene with Lady Anne and the excitement of the fourth act can’t cost more than ten shillings—that’s just one pound ten, including the ‘off with his head!’—which is guaranteed to get applause, and it’s super easy to pull off—‘Off with his head!’ (very quick and loud; then slow and sneering)—‘So much for Bu-u-u-ckingham!’ Emphasize the 'uck;' gradually back yourself into a corner and use your right hand while saying it, as if you're feeling your way, and it’s sure to get a reaction. The tent scene is definitely worth half a sovereign, and then you get the fight in for free, and everyone knows how much impact a good fight can have. One-two-three-four-over; then, one-two-three-four-under; then thrust; then dodge and slide around; then drop to one knee; then keep fighting from there, and then get up and stagger. You can continue doing this for as long as it takes—say about ten minutes—and then fall down (backwards, if you can do it safely), and die dramatically: nothing beats that for making an impression. They always do it at Astley's and Sadler's Wells, and if they don’t know how to do this kind of thing, then who does? A small child, or a woman in white, definitely boosts the excitement of a fight—indeed, we’re not sure a proper dramatic sword fight could happen without it; but it would be pretty tricky and a bit odd to introduce this effect in the last scene of Richard the Third, so the best course of action is just to make the most of a tough situation and drag out the fight as long as possible.

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

The main supporters of private theaters are unruly kids, low-paid clerks in law offices, potential actors from city businesses, Jews who rent out fancy costumes and easily get onto the amateur stage, shop assistants who sometimes confuse their bosses' cash with their own, and a mixed bag of idle wanderers. The owner of a private theater could be an ex-set designer, a rundown café owner, a frustrated low-tier actor, a retired smuggler, or an unlicensed bankrupt. The theater itself might be located on Catherine Street, in the Strand, in a shabby part of the city, near Gray's Inn Lane, around Sadler's Wells, or it could be the main disturbance on some run-down street in Surrey, close to Waterloo Bridge.

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

The female performers don't pay anything for their roles, and it goes without saying that they are usually chosen from one social class; the audiences tend to be quite similar to the performers, who receive tickets equivalent to the amount of money they contribute to the management.

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

All the small theaters in London, especially the lesser-known ones, are at the heart of a little neighborhood filled with aspiring actors. Each venue has its own unique audience, and you’ll often see young guys aged fifteen to twenty-one sneaking into the cheap seats or confidently entering a box if the tickets are discounted. They throw back their coats and roll up their sleeves, reminiscent of Count D’Orsay, hum tunes, and whistle when the curtain falls, trying to appear like they aren't eager for it to rise again. They casually refer to the lesser-known performers as Bill Such-and-Such and Ned So-and-So, or share gossip about a new play titled The Unknown Bandit of the Invisible Cavern that’s in the works. They talk about how Mr. Palmer will play The Unknown Bandit, how Charley Scarton will portray an English sailor and fight six bandits at once (since one theatrical sailor is basically worth at least six real men), how Mr. Palmer and Charley Scarton will perform a double hornpipe in chains during the second act, how the interior of the invisible cavern will take up the entire stage, and other surprising theatrical news. These young men are the amateurs—the Richards, Shylocks, Beverleys, and Othellos—the Young Dorntons, Rovers, Captain Absolutes, and Charles Surfaces—putting on their own private show.

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

Check them out at the nearby pub or the theater coffee shop! They’re the kings of the scene, assuming there are no real performers around, swaggering around with their hats tilted and arms on their hips, as if they've really hit the jackpot with eighteen shillings a week and a share of the ticket sales. If one of them happens to know an extra from Astley's, he feels like a lucky guy. The mix of envy and admiration from his friends is clear as they watch him chat casually with some old guy in a fancy neckerchief, whose partially corked eyebrows and half-made-up face show he just came off stage or out of the spotlight, perfectly illustrating how highly these public figures are regarded.

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

With the dual purpose of hiding from friends or employers and making a character more interesting by giving it a fancy name, these creative individuals use fake names that are often the most entertaining part of a private theater's program. Names like Belville, Melville, Treville, Berkeley, Randolph, Byron, St. Clair, and others are among the more modest options; the simpler names of Jenkins, Walker, Thomson, Barker, Solomons, etc., are completely overlooked. There’s something impressive about this, and it serves as a great excuse for looking a bit shabby. A worn-out coat, a faded hat, patched and stained trousers—even a very dirty shirt (and none of these looks are uncommon among the actors)—can be worn to disguise themselves and avoid any chance of being recognized. This also sidesteps any awkward questions or explanations about jobs and activities; everyone becomes a gentleman for the event, with none of those uncomfortable and unnecessary distinctions that even talented people must sometimes deal with elsewhere. As for the ladies (God bless them), they are well above any formal nonsense; simply being behind the scenes is enough for them to accept you into their society—after all, they know that only truly respectable individuals would be allowed into that close circle, which acting creates. They trust the manager completely, no doubt; and as for the manager, he is very friendly once he knows you well—or, in other words, once he has taken your money and hopes to do so again.

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

A quarter to eight—there's going to be a full house tonight—six parties in the boxes already; four little boys and a woman in the pit; and two violins and a flute in the orchestra, who have already played five overtures since seven o'clock (the time set for the start of the performances), and have just begun the sixth. There will be plenty of it, though, when it finally starts, because there’s enough on the program to last at least six hours.

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

That guy in the white hat and checked shirt, brown coat, and brass buttons, lounging behind the stage box on the O.P. side, is Mr. Horatio St. Julien, also known as Jem Larkins. His specialty is classy comedy—definitely different from his dad's coal and potato business. He plays Alfred Highflier in the last show, and he does it very well—for the right price. The group of gentlemen in the opposite box, to whom he just nodded, are friends and supporters of Mr. Beverley (also known as Loggins), the Macbeth of the night. You can see their attempts to look relaxed and gentlemanly, each guy with his feet up on the cushion in front of the box! They let them get away with this here, based on the same humane principle that allows poor kids to knock twice on the door of an empty house—because they can't do it anywhere else. The two heavyset men in the center box, with an opera glass shamelessly set in front of them, are friends of the owner—wealthy country managers, as he tells everyone backstage. Wealthy country managers looking to scout for talent; a claim that Mr. Nathan, the dresser who’s in the manager's favor and has just arrived with the costumes, is ready to swear by if needed—though additional proof isn’t necessary, since the gulls believe it right away.

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

The stout Jewish woman who just walked in is the mother of the pale, skinny little girl with the blue glass bead necklace sitting next to her; she’s being raised for 'the profession.' Pantomime is going to be her thing, and she’s performing tonight in a hornpipe after the tragedy. The short, thin man next to Mr. St. Julien, whose white face is heavily marked by smallpox, and whose dirty shirt front has open-work patterns and coral studs like ladybirds, is the establishment's low comedian and comic singer. The rest of the audience—a pretty decent size by now—consists of a mixed crowd of fools and scoundrels.

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

The footlights have just come on: the wicks of the six small oil lamps around the one tier of boxes are being turned up, and the extra light reveals the dirt and lack of paint, which is a noticeable aspect of the audience area. However, as these preparations signal the quick start of the play, let's take a look 'behind' before the curtain rises.

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

The small, narrow passages under the stage are neither especially clean nor very well-lit; the lack of flooring and the damp, musty smell that fills the area don’t help its comfortable vibe. Be careful not to trip over this plate basket—it’s one of the props—the cauldron for the witches' cave. The three odd-looking figures in ragged clothes, holding broken props, are the weird sisters, sipping gin and water from a pint pot. This dingy room, lit by candles in sconces spaced far apart around the walls, serves as the dressing room for the male performers, and the square hole in the ceiling is the trapdoor to the stage above. You’ll notice that the ceiling is decorated with the beams that support the floorboards, and tastefully adorned with cobwebs.

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

The characters in the tragedy are all dressed, and their clothes are scattered in a messy heap over the wooden dresser that fills the room. That guy who looks like he just walked out of a sketchy shop in front of the mirror is Banquo; and the young lady who’s showing off her legs while painting his face with a hare's foot is getting ready for Fleance. The large woman who's checking the stage directions in Cumberland's edition of Macbeth is the Lady Macbeth for the night; she's always chosen for the role because she's tall and hefty, and resembles Mrs. Siddons from a distance. That clueless-looking guy with light hair and bow legs—a type of man you can easily tell is from the city—is new; he’s playing Malcolm tonight just to get used to being in front of an audience. He’ll improve over time; he’ll be playing Othello in a month, and in another month, he’ll probably get caught for embezzlement. The dark-haired woman he’s talking to so seriously is dressed as the 'gentlewoman.' This is her first time in that role, too. The fourteen-year-old boy getting his eyebrows coated with soap and whitening is Duncan, King of Scotland; and the two scruffy men with corked faces, wearing very old green tunics and dirty brown boots, make up the 'army.'

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

'Look alive down there, guys,' shouts the dresser, a red-headed and red-bearded Jew, calling through the trap, 'they're about to ring up. The flute player says he’ll be damned if he plays any more, and it’s getting really noisy out front.' A frantic rush happens immediately to the half-dozen steep little steps leading to the stage, and the mixed group quickly gathers at the side scenes, filled with anxious excitement and a chaotic mix.

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

'Now,' shouts the manager, looking at the written list hanging behind the first P. S. wing, 'Scene 1, open country—lamps down—thunder and lightning—all set, White?' [This is directed at one of the crew.] 'All set.'—'Great. Scene 2, front chamber. Is the front chamber ready?'—'Yes.'—'Awesome.'—'Jones' [to the other crew member up in the flies]. 'Hey!'—'Wind up the open country when we call for it.'—'I’ll handle it.'—'Scene 3, back perspective with a practical bridge. Bridge ready, White? Got the trestles there?'—'All set.'

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

'All right. Clear the stage,' shouts the manager, quickly squeezing everyone into the small space between the wings and the wall. 'Get to your positions, everyone. Now then, Witches-Duncan-Malcolm-bleeding officer-where’s the bleeding officer?' - 'Here!' the officer responds, who has been getting ready for the role. 'Get set, then; White, ring the second music bell.' The actors who will be seen are quickly arranged, and the ones who shouldn’t be seen place themselves, eager to peek at the audience, right where the crowd can spot them. The bell rings, and the orchestra, responding to the cue, plays three distinct chords. The bell rings again—the tragedy (!) begins—and our description ends.

CHAPTER XIV-VAUXHALL-GARDENS BY DAY

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

There was a time when if a guy dared to ask how Vauxhall Gardens would look during the day, he’d be met with laughter at the ridiculousness of the thought. Vauxhall in daylight? It was like a porter’s pot without porter, the House of Commons without the Speaker, a gas lamp without gas—utter nonsense, it shouldn’t even be considered. It was rumored back then that Vauxhall Gardens by day were the site of secret and hidden experiments; that there, carvers practiced the mysterious skill of slicing a medium-sized ham thin enough to cover the entire grounds; that under the tall trees, studious people were always working on chemical experiments to figure out how much water a bowl of negus could really hold; and that in some quiet corners, dedicated to studying birds, other wise and learned individuals were, through a process known only to them, constantly trying to reduce chickens to just skin and bones.

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

Vague rumors like these, along with many others, created a deep sense of mystery around Vauxhall Gardens. There’s a lot to be said about the mysterious, and it’s clear that for many people, the enjoyment they experienced was definitely boosted by this very fact.

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

Of this group of people, we admit to being one of them. We loved to wander among these lit-up groves, thinking about the patient and hard work that had taken place there during the day, and seeing the results in the dinners served under the light of lamps and to the sound of music at night. The temples, halls, exhibits, and fountains sparkled in front of us; the beauty of the female singers and the graceful manner of the gentlemen captivated our hearts; a few hundred thousand extra lamps dazzled our senses; a couple of bowls of punch clouded our minds; and we felt happy.

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

In a regrettable turn of events, the owners of Vauxhall gardens decided to open them during the day. We were disappointed by this, as it harshly disrupted the air of mystery that had surrounded the place for many years, a mystery that only the midday sun and the late Mr. Simpson had ever truly uncovered. We hesitated to go; at that moment, we weren't even sure why. Maybe it was a dark sense of impending disappointment—maybe a bad feeling about what was to come—maybe it was the weather; whatever the reason, we only went after the second or third announcement of a race between two balloons tempted us.

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

We paid our shilling at the entrance, and then we realized for the first time that if there had been any magic about it at all, it was now definitely gone, being nothing more than a bunch of poorly painted boards and sawdust. We glanced at the orchestra and supper room as we hurried past—we barely recognized them, and that was it. We headed straight to the fireworks area; at least we wouldn't be let down there. We arrived and stood frozen in place, filled with disappointment and shock. That the Moorish tower—that wooden shack with a door in the middle, and splashes of red and yellow all around, like a giant watch case! That was the place where night after night we had watched the fearless Mr. Blackmore make his terrifying ascent, surrounded by roaring flames and the sound of cannons, and where the white garments of Madame Somebody (we can’t even remember her name now), who dedicated her life to making fireworks, had so often fluttered in the wind as she summoned a red, blue, or multicolored light to illuminate her stage! But at that moment the bell rang; the crowd rushed away frantically towards the source of the sound, and we, out of instinct, found ourselves among the first to run as if our lives depended on it.

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

It was for the concert in the orchestra. A small group of gloomy men in fancy hats were playing the overture to Tancredi, and a large crowd of ladies and gentlemen, along with their families, had hurried from their half-finished pints in the supper boxes to gather around. There was a low buzz of admiration when a particularly short man in a dress coat accompanied a notably tall woman in a blue silk coat and matching bonnet adorned with large white feathers, and they immediately started a sad duet.

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

We knew the little man well; we had seen a printed image of him on many pieces of music, with his mouth wide open as if singing, a wine glass in his hand, and a table with two decanters and four pineapples in the background. We had also admired the tall lady many times—people really do look so different in daylight and without drinks, that's for sure! It was a beautiful duet: first, the little man asked a question, and then the tall lady answered; then they sang together harmoniously. After that, the little man performed a passionate solo, really showing off his tenor voice in the excitement of the moment, and the tall lady responded in kind. He had a couple of vocal runs, followed by her doing the same, and then they both seamlessly blended back into the original melody. The band built up to a thrilling climax, the little man escorted the tall lady offstage, and the applause was overwhelming.

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

The comic singer was definitely the favorite; we honestly thought that a guy with his dinner in a handkerchief, standing close to us, might have fainted from sheer joy. That comic singer is a remarkably funny guy; his standout features are a wig that’s sort of light-colored and an older face, and he goes by the name of one of the English counties, if we remember correctly. He performed a really good song about the seven ages, and the first half-hour gave the crowd pure delight; we can’t comment on the rest because we didn’t stay to hear more.

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

We wandered around and faced disappointment at every turn; our favorite views were just patches of paint. The fountain, which had sparkled so brightly in the lamplight, looked more like a broken water pipe. Everything was dull, and the paths were gloomy. There was a ghostly attempt at rope-dancing in the small open theater. The sun shone on the performers' glittery outfits, and their movements felt as uplifting and fitting as a country dance in a family crypt. So, we retraced our steps to the fireworks area and joined the small crowd watching Mr. Green.

Some half-dozen men were restraining the impetuosity of one of the balloons, which was completely filled, and had the car already attached; and as rumours had gone abroad that a Lord was 'going up,' the crowd were more than usually anxious and talkative. There was one little man in faded black, with a dirty face and a rusty black neckerchief with a red border, tied in a narrow wisp round his neck, who entered into conversation with everybody, and had something to say upon every remark that was made within his hearing. He was standing with his arms folded, staring up at the balloon, and every now and then vented his feelings of reverence for the aA

Some six guys were holding back the excitement of one of the balloons, which was fully inflated and had its basket attached. Since there were rumors going around that a lord was "taking off," the crowd was especially eager and chatty. There was a short man in faded black clothes, with a dirty face and a worn-out black scarf with a red edge tied in a small knot around his neck. He was chatting with everyone and had something to say about every comment made nearby. He stood with his arms crossed, gazing up at the balloon, and every now and then expressed his admiration for the aA

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

'Oh, you’re absolutely right, sir,' said another man, along with his wife, kids, mother, sister-in-law, and a bunch of female friends, all dressed up with white handkerchiefs, frills, and stylish jackets, 'Mr. Green is reliable, sir, and there’s no worry with him.'

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

'Fear!' said the little man: 'isn't it amazing to see him and his wife going up in one balloon, while his son and his wife bumping against them in another, all of them traveling twenty or thirty miles in about three hours, and then coming back in carriages? I don't know where this science is going to end, you know; that's what worries me.'

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

Here, the women in the spencers were having quite a conversation.

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

"What's the ladies laughing at, sir?" the little man asked, looking down on them.

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

'It's just my sister Mary,' one of the girls said, 'who hopes his lordship won't get scared while he's in the car and want to get out again.'

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

'Don't worry about that, my dear,' replied the little man. 'If he so much as moves an inch without permission, Green would just whack him over the head with the telescope, and that would knock him to the bottom of the basket in no time, leaving him dazed until they come back down.'

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

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

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

'Yeah, he would,' replied the little one, 'and wouldn’t even think twice about it, even if he were the king himself. Green's ability to stay calm is impressive.'

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

Just then, everyone focused on the preparations to start. The car was attached to the second balloon, the two were brought pretty close together, and a military band began playing with such enthusiasm that even the most timid person would be thrilled to leave that exact spot on earth. Then Mr. Green, senior, and his noble companion got into one car, while Mr. Green, junior, and his companion got into the other. The balloons took off, the aerial travelers stood up, and the crowd outside cheered with delight. The two gentlemen, who had never ascended before, tried to wave their flags nonchalantly but clung on tightly the whole time. The balloons floated gently away, and our little friend, insisting long after they turned into mere specks in the sky, claimed he could still see Mr. Green's white hat. The gardens released their crowds, boys ran around shouting 'balloon,' and in all the busy streets, people rushed out of their shops into the middle of the road. After staring up at the two little black shapes until they almost strained their necks, they slowly walked back in, completely satisfied.

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

The next day, the morning papers featured a big story about the ascent, informing the public that it was the best day in Mr. Green's memory for such an event. They described how they could see the ground until it disappeared behind the clouds and how the balloon's reflection on the rolling clouds was stunningly beautiful. The article also included some science about how sunlight bends, along with some intriguing suggestions about heat in the atmosphere and swirling air currents.

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

There was also a fascinating story about a guy in a boat who was clearly heard by Mr. Green Jr. shouting, "My eye!" Mr. Green Jr. thought this happened because the sound traveled up to the balloon and bounced back into the car. The whole thing wrapped up with a brief mention of another flight planned for next Wednesday, which was both very informative and quite entertaining, as our readers will see if they check the papers. If we forgot to mention the date, they just have to wait until next summer, and read about the first ascent—it’ll work just as well.

CHAPTER XV-EARLY COACHES

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

We’ve often wondered how many months of endless travel in a carriage it would take to kill someone; and by analogy, we’d really like to know how many months of nonstop travel on early coaches an unfortunate person could handle. Breaking a man on the wheel would be nothing compared to breaking his rest, his peace, his heart—everything except for his food—over four. The punishment of Ixion (the only practical guy, by the way, who figured out the secret of perpetual motion) would seem utterly trivial compared to what we’re suggesting. If we had been a powerful churchman in those days when blood was spilled as easily as water, and people were cut down like grass for the sacred cause of religion, we would have quietly bided our time until we found some especially stubborn sinner who outright refused to convert to our faith. Then we would have booked him a seat inside a small coach that traveled day and night: securing the other spots for hefty men with a slight cough and a tendency to spit, we would have sent him off on his last journey, leaving him mercilessly at the mercy of all the tortures that the waitstaff, innkeepers, coach drivers, guards, porters, maids, and other familiar faces on his route might decide to inflict.

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

Who hasn't dealt with the stress that comes with a last-minute trip? You get a message from your job—wherever that might be, or whatever you're doing—that you need to leave town immediately. You and your family get thrown into a frenzy; a message is quickly sent to the laundry service; everyone’s running around, and you, trying to maintain some dignity, head over to the ticket office to get your spot. Here, a painful awareness of your own unimportance hits you—the people around are calm as if no one is leaving town or as if a hundred-mile journey is no big deal. You step into a musty room decorated with large posters; most of the area is blocked off by a huge, clunky counter with little nooks that look like small animal cages in a traveling circus, just without the bars. A few people are registering their brown-paper packages, which a clerk carelessly tosses into those nooks, making you a bit annoyed as you remember the new carpet bag you bought that morning; porters, looking like strongmen, keep darting in and out, carrying large packages on their shoulders. While you wait to ask your questions, you wonder what the booking-office clerks could have done before this. One of them, with a pen behind his ear and his hands behind his back, stands in front of the fire like a portrait of Napoleon; the other, with his hat askew, writes down passenger names with an annoyingly casual demeanor, and the guy is whistling—actually whistling—while someone asks him the fare to Holyhead!—in this freezing weather, too! They clearly live in their own world, showing no empathy or connection to the rest of humanity. Finally, it's your turn, and after paying the fare, you nervously ask, "What time do I need to be here in the morning?" "Six o'clock," replies the whistler, tossing your just-paid sovereign into a wooden bowl on the desk without a care. "Better come a little early," adds the other guy, just as casually, as if everyone else wakes up at five. As you step outside, you ponder while heading home how people can become so hardened to cruelty through routine.

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

If there's one thing in life that's more miserable than anything else, it's definitely being forced to get up by candlelight. If you've ever questioned this fact, you'll painfully realize you were wrong as soon as you wake up for your departure. You left strict instructions the night before to be woken up at half-past four, and all night long, you've done nothing but doze for five minutes at a time, only to jolt awake from a terrifying dream involving a large church clock, with the small hand racing around the dial at an astonishing speed. Eventually, completely worn out, you drift into a deep, refreshing sleep—your thoughts become a blur—the stagecoaches you've been seeing all night become less recognizable, until they disappear altogether; one moment you’re driving with all the skill of a seasoned pro, and the next, you’re dramatically performing on the off-leader. Soon, you’re all wrapped up inside and you suddenly recognize an old schoolmate in the guard, whose funeral you remember attending even in your dream, eighteen years ago. Finally, you sink into total oblivion, and you wake up as if you're in a new reality due to a bizarre illusion. You're now an apprentice at a trunk-making shop; you don't bother to question how, why, when, or where this happened; you just find yourself pasting the lining inside a suitcase. Damn that other apprentice in the back room, hammering away!—tap, tap, tap—what a diligent guy he must be! You’ve been hearing him working for the past half hour, and he hasn’t stopped hammering the entire time. Tap, tap, tap, again—he’s talking now—what did he say? Five o'clock! You make a huge effort and bolt up in bed. The vision instantly shatters; the trunk-maker's shop is actually your bedroom, and the other apprentice is your shaking servant, who has been trying unsuccessfully to wake you for the last fifteen minutes, risking either his own knuckles or the door panels in the process.

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

You quickly get dressed. The flickering candle with its long wick provides just enough light to reveal that the things you need aren’t where they should be, and you lose a little time because you packed one of your boots too carefully the night before. However, you soon finish getting ready since you’re not too picky in situations like this, and you shaved last night. So, throwing on your Petersham great coat and green travel shawl, and grabbing your carpet bag in your right hand, you walk lightly down the stairs to avoid waking anyone up. After pausing in the common sitting room for a moment to have a cup of coffee (the sitting room looks quite cozy, with everything in disarray and scattered with crumbs from last night’s supper), you unlock the street door and step out onto the street.

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

A thaw, how miserable! The frost is completely gone. You look down the long stretch of Oxford Street, the gas lights sadly reflecting on the wet pavement, and you can't see any sign of a cab or a coach—the drivers have all gone home in frustration. Cold sleet is falling steadily, suggesting it will last at least twenty-four hours; the dampness hangs on rooftops and lamp posts, clinging to you like an invisible cloak. Water is pooling in every area, pipes have burst, water barrels are overflowing; drainage ditches seem to be racing against time, pump handles move on their own, horses in market carts fall down, and there’s no one to help them up again, while policemen look like they’ve been dusted with powdered glass; occasionally, a milk woman trudges by slowly, with a bit of cloth around each foot to keep from slipping; boys who "don’t sleep in the house," and aren’t allowed much sleep outside of it, can’t wake their bosses by banging on the shop door, and cry out in the cold—the mix of ice, snow, and water on the pavement is a couple of inches thick—no one dares to walk fast to stay warm, and no one could stay warm even if they tried.

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

It’s a quarter past five as you walk down Waterloo Place on your way to the Golden Cross, and you realize, for the first time, that you arrived about an hour too early. You don’t have time to go back; there’s nowhere open to enter, so you have no choice but to move forward, which you do, feeling pretty satisfied with yourself and everything around you. You get to the office and glance up the yard for the Birmingham High-flier, which, for all you can see, might have left altogether, as it looks like any vehicle that resembles a coach is getting ready to depart. You head into the booking office, which, with the gas lights and blazing fire, looks quite cozy by comparison—that is to say, if any place can look cozy at half-past five on a winter morning. The same bookkeeper stands there in the same position as if he hasn’t moved since you last saw him yesterday. He tells you that the coach is up the yard and will be brought around in about fifteen minutes. You leave your bag and head to 'The Tap'—not with any silly notion of warming yourself, because you know that’s completely hopeless, but to grab some hot brandy-and-water, which you do—when the kettle finally boils! This happens exactly two and a half minutes before the coach is scheduled to leave.

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

The first chime of six rings out from St. Martin's church steeple, just as you take your first sip of the hot drink. You're at the booking office in two seconds, and the bartender is feeling much better with your brandy and water in about the same time. The coach is ready; the horses are in, and the guard along with a couple of porters are stowing away the luggage, running up and down the steps of the booking office with breathless speed. The place, which a few minutes ago was so calm and quiet, is now full of activity; the early morning paper sellers have arrived, and you're bombarded from all sides with shouts of 'Times, sir, Times,' 'Here’s the Chron-Chron-Chron,' 'Herald, ma'am,' 'Highly interesting murder, sir,' 'Curious breach of promise case, ladies.' The inside passengers are already settled in their compartments, and those outside, except for you, are pacing back and forth on the pavement to stay warm; they include two young men with very long hair that looks like crystallized rat tails from the sleet; one thin young woman, cold and cranky; one old gentleman, also cold and cranky; and someone in a cloak and cap meant to look like a military officer; each member of the group has a large stiff shawl over their chin, looking just like they're playing a set of Pan's pipes.

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

'Take off the covers, Bob,' says the coachman, who now appears for the first time, in a rough blue coat, with buttons so far apart in the back that you can't see them both at once. 'Now, gentlemen,' shouts the guard, with the waybill in his hand. 'We're already five minutes behind schedule!' The passengers jump up—the two young men smoking like chimneys, and the old gentleman grumbling loudly. The thin young woman has managed to get on the roof, after a lot of pulling, pushing, and helping, and she responds by expressing her firm belief that she'll never be able to get down again.

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

'All right,' the guard finally calls out, jumping up as the coach takes off, and blowing his horn right afterward to prove he's in good shape. 'Let them go, Harry, let them have their freedom,' the coachman shouts—and off we go, as lively as if the morning was perfect, just like the coach: looking forward with just as much eagerness to the end of our journey as we hope our readers have been looking forward to the end of our story.

CHAPTER XVI-OMNIBUSES

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

It’s widely recognized that public transportation offers plenty of opportunities for fun and observation. Of all the public transport options created since the days of the Ark—which we think is the earliest recorded—we’d choose an omnibus. A long stagecoach has its merits, but you’re limited to just six passengers inside, and the odds are that the same folks will travel with you the whole way—there’s no change, no variety. Besides, after about twelve hours, people start getting grumpy and sleepy, and once you’ve seen a guy in his nightcap, it’s hard to take him seriously; at least, that’s how we feel. On smooth roads, folks often get dull, telling long-winded stories, and even those who stay quiet might have some not-so-pleasant habits. We once rode four hundred miles in a stagecoach with a heavyset man who kept having warm rum-and-water handed to him at every stop where we switched horses. That was definitely uncomfortable. We’ve also traveled occasionally with a small, pale boy with light hair and no visible neck, coming to the city from school under the guard’s supervision and instructed to wait at the Cross Keys until someone came for him. That might be even worse than warm rum-and-water in a cramped space. Then there’s the whole series of issues that come with switching coachmen, and the misery of discovering—which the guard will definitely realize the moment you start to doze—that he needs a brown-paper package he clearly remembers placing under the seat you’re resting on. There’s a lot of fussing and rummaging, and just when you’re fully awake and painfully cramped after holding your legs up with almost superhuman effort while he looks behind, it suddenly hits him that he actually put it in the front boot. The door bangs shut, the package is quickly retrieved, the coach takes off again, and the guard blows the key-bugle as loudly as he can, as if to mock your misery.

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

Now, you won't encounter any of these troubles in an bus; there can never be any monotony. The passengers change as often during a single trip as the shapes in a kaleidoscope, and although they aren't as sparkly, they're much more entertaining. We believe there's no record of anyone ever falling asleep in one of these vehicles. As for long stories, would anyone dare to tell a long story on a bus? And even if someone did, what would it matter? Nobody could possibly hear what he was saying. Also, kids, while sometimes present, aren’t often found on a bus; and even when they are, if the bus is full, someone usually ends up sitting on them, so we hardly notice they’re there. Yes, after careful thought and plenty of experience, we firmly believe that of all known vehicles, from the glass coach we took to be baptized, to that dark carriage we'll eventually use for our final journey, nothing compares to a bus.

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

We support the vehicle we use for our daily journey from the top of Oxford Street to the city, over any bus on the road, whether it's for the flashy look of its outside, the straightforward simplicity of its inside, or the natural coolness of its driver. This young man is a unique example of commitment; his somewhat reckless enthusiasm for his employers often lands him in trouble and sometimes in a correctional facility. However, as soon as he's released, he gets right back to his job with the same passion. His main standout quality is his energy. His biggest claim to fame is, 'that he can toss an old gentleman onto the bus, shut the door, and take off before he even knows where it’s headed'—a trick he often pulls off, much to the amusement of everyone except the old gentleman involved, who, for some reason, never finds it funny.

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

We don't really know how many passengers our bus can hold. It seems the guy in charge thinks there's more than enough room for anyone willing to hop on. "Is there any room?" shouts an impatient pedestrian. "Plenty of room, sir," the conductor responds, slowly opening the door and keeping the truth hidden until the poor guy is already on the steps. "Where?" the trapped man asks, trying to back away. "Either side, sir," the conductor replies, pushing him inside and slamming the door. "All set, Bill." There's no way to escape; the newcomer tumbles around until he ends up on the floor, and that's where he stays.

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

As we arrive in the city just before ten, four or five members of our group are regular passengers. We always pick them up at the same spots, and they usually sit in the same seats; they’re always dressed similarly and constantly debate the faster pace of cabs and the lack of moral responsibility shown by bus drivers. There’s a grumpy old man with a powdered head who always sits on the right side of the door when you enter, with his hands resting on his umbrella. He’s very impatient and sits there to keep a close watch on the driver, with whom he usually has an ongoing conversation. He’s quite eager to help people in and out, and he always offers to poke the driver with his umbrella when someone needs to get off. He usually advises women to have a sixpence ready to avoid delays, and if anyone rolls down a window he can reach, he promptly rolls it back up.

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

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

'What are you stopping for?'

'Why are you stopping?'

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

Here the soldier whistles and pretends not to hear the question.

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

'I say, what are you stopping for?'

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

'For passengers, sir. Bank.'

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

'I know you're picking up passengers, but you shouldn't be doing that. Why are you stopping?'

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

'Well, sir, that's a tough question. I think it's because we prefer stopping here instead of continuing on.'

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

'Now listen,' shouts the little old man, with intense energy, 'I'll get you up tomorrow; I've threatened to do it before; now I really will.'

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

'Thanks, sir,' replies the guy, tipping his hat with a sarcastic look of gratitude; 'really appreciate it, sir.' At this, the young men in the bus laugh loudly, and the older gentleman turns very red in the face and appears quite annoyed.

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

The hefty guy in the white necktie at the other end of the carriage looks quite serious and says that something needs to be done about these people soon, or who knows how this will turn out; and the scruffy-looking man with the green bag completely agrees with him, just like he has every morning for the past six months.

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

A second bus pulls up right behind us. An older gentleman raises his cane and rushes toward our bus as fast as he can. We watch him with great interest; the door opens to let him in, and then he suddenly disappears—he's been taken by the other bus. The driver of the other bus mocks our group, claiming he’s “totally stolen that old guy,” and we can hear the “old guy” protesting against this unfair treatment. We take off, and the other bus follows us. Every time we stop to pick up a passenger, they stop to pick up the same one too; sometimes we get the passenger, and sometimes they do. But whoever misses out always claims they should have gotten him, and the crews of the two buses end up trash-talking each other.

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

As we arrive near Lincoln's Inn Fields, Bedford Row, and other legal spots, we let go of a lot of our original passengers and pick up new ones, who get a pretty grumpy welcome. It’s interesting how the people already on the bus always look at newcomers as if they feel like they shouldn’t be getting on at all. We’re pretty sure the little old man thinks this way too, and he sees their arrival as a kind of rude intrusion.

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

Conversation has completely stopped; everyone stares blankly out the window in front of them, and each person thinks their neighbor is looking at them. If one man gets off at Shoe Lane and another at the corner of Farringdon Street, the little old man complains and suggests to the latter that if he had also gotten off at Shoe Lane, they would have avoided another delay. At this, the young men laugh again, and the old gentleman looks very serious, saying nothing more until he reaches the Bank, where he hurries off as quickly as he can, leaving us to do the same, wishing as we walk away that we could share any bit of the amusement we've found with others.

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

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

Of all the cab drivers I've ever had the pleasure of knowing by sight— and I've seen quite a few—there's one who left an impression on me that will never fade. He inspired a deep sense of admiration and respect that I fear I won’t ever feel for anyone else again. He had a simple yet appealing look. He was a brown-whiskered cab driver wearing a white hat, without a coat. His nose was usually red, and his bright blue eye often stood out sharply against a black border of fake eyelashes. His boots were the Wellington style, pulled up to his corduroy knee pants, or at least as close as they could get. He typically wore a bright yellow handkerchief around his neck. In the summer, he had a flower in his mouth, and in the winter, a bit of straw—small details that hinted at his love for nature and interest in botany.

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

His convertible was beautifully painted a bright red, and wherever we went—City or West End, Paddington or Holloway, North, East, West, or South—there was the red cab, bumping against the posts at the street corners, weaving in and out among cabs, delivery trucks, carts, and buses, somehow managing to get into places that no other vehicle but the red cab could ever possibly access. Our love for that red cab was limitless. How we would have loved to see it perform in the ring at Astley's! The way it handled would have put the entire company to shame—Indian chiefs, knights, Swiss peasants, and all.

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

Some people complain about the effort it takes to get into cabs, while others have issues with the difficulty of getting out of them; we believe both of these complaints come from ungrateful and difficult minds. Getting into a cab is actually a pretty and graceful process, which, when done right, feels quite dramatic. First, there's the expressive pantomime of all eighteen cab drivers at the stand as soon as you look up from the ground. Then there’s your own response—almost like a little dance. Four cabs immediately leave the stand just for you, and the movement of the horses that pull them is incredibly beautiful as they scrape the wheels against the curb and play around in the street. You pick a specific cab and rush towards it. With one leap, you’re on the first step; turn your body lightly to the right, and you’re on the second; bend gracefully under the reins while turning to the left, and you’re in the cab. There’s no trouble finding a seat: the apron gently guides you into it right away, and off you go.

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

Getting out of a cab is maybe a bit more complicated in theory and a little harder to pull off. We've thought about it a lot, and we believe the best approach is to just jump out and hope you land on your feet. If you get the driver out first and then throw yourself at him, you'll find he helps break your fall. If you're thinking about offering eight pence, don’t make the offer or show the money until you’re safely on the sidewalk. Trying to save four pence is really not a smart move. You’re pretty much at the mercy of the cab driver, and he sees it as a kind of tip not to intentionally harm you. However, any advice on how to get out of a cab is pointless if you're traveling any distance, because chances are, you'll be tossed out before you've even gone three miles.

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

We don't have any records of a cab horse completing three consecutive miles without collapsing at least once. So what? It's all just excitement. These days, with everyone feeling stressed and drained, people are willing to pay well for excitement; where else can you get it for a better price?

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

But back to the red cab; it was everywhere. You just had to walk down Holborn, Fleet Street, or any of the main streets bustling with traffic, and see for yourself. You’d hardly turn into the street when you’d spot a couple of trunks lying on the ground: a knocked-over post, a hat box, a suitcase, and a carpet bag scattered around in a pretty chaotic way. There was a horse in a cab standing by, looking around with complete indifference, and a crowd cheering and shouting with excitement, cooling their flushed faces against the glass windows of a pharmacy. -‘What’s going on here, can you tell me?’ -‘Just a cab, sir.’ -‘Is anyone hurt, do you know?’ -‘Just the fare, sir. I saw him turning the corner, and I said to another gentleman, "that’s a real nice horse that, and he’s coming along pretty well, isn’t he?" -‘He sure is,’ says the other guy, then bang, they hit the post, and out flies the fare like a shot.’ Do we need to mention it was the red cab; or that the guy with the straw in his mouth, who casually came out of the pharmacy and nonchalantly climbed into the little seat, took off at full speed, was the licensed driver of the red cab?

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

The presence of this red cab and the way it influenced even the ridiculous aspects of justice was truly astonishing. You entered the justice room at the Mansion House, and the entire court was filled with laughter. The Lord Mayor leaned back in his chair, almost giddy with delight over his own joke; every vein in Mr. Hobler's face was swollen with laughter, partly at the Lord Mayor's humor but mostly at his own; the constables and police officers were (as expected) ecstatic about Mr. Hobler and the Lord Mayor together; and even the paupers, casting respectful glances at the beadle's expression, attempted to smile as he relaxed. A tall, thin-faced man with a speech impediment would be trying to present a case against the red cab's driver, while the driver, the Lord Mayor, and Mr. Hobler were joking among themselves, much to the delight of everyone except the complainant. In the end, justice would be so amused by the red cab driver’s natural humor that the fine would be reduced, and he would leave at full speed in the red cab, ready to find his next victim without missing a beat.

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

The driver of the red cab, sure of his own moral beliefs, like many other philosophers, often ignored the feelings and opinions of society. Generally speaking, he would just as soon get a passenger safely to their destination as he would upset them—probably more so, since in that case he not only earned the fare but also enjoyed the added thrill of competing against a clever rival. But society fought back with punishments, and he had to fight back in his own way. This was the mindset of the red cab-driver. So, he gave the passenger a keen look as he reached into his waistcoat pocket halfway through the ride to get the money ready; and if he pulled out eightpence, out the passenger went.

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

The last time we saw our friend was on a rainy evening on Tottenham Court Road, when he was caught up in a heated and somewhat personal argument with a chatty little guy in a green coat. Poor guy! There were plenty of valid reasons for him: he had only received about eighteen pence more than his fare and was understandably pretty upset. The argument had escalated quite a bit when the chatty little guy finally figured out the distance and realized he had already overpaid. He declared his firm intention to confront the cab driver in the morning.

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

'Now, listen closely, young man,' said the little gentleman, 'I'll come by to help you up tomorrow morning.'

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

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

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

"I will," replied the little man, "mark my words, that’s all. If I make it to tomorrow morning, you’ll regret this."

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

There was a determined purpose and an angry tone in the little guy’s voice as he took an annoyed pinch of snuff after that last comment, which made a noticeable impact on the red cab driver. He seemed to hesitate for a moment. It was just for a moment; he quickly made up his mind.

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

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

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

'I will,' replied the little man, with even more intensity than before.

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

'Okay,' said our friend, calmly rolling up his shirt sleeves. 'There will be three weeks for that. Very good; that'll take me to the middle of next month. Three more weeks would get me to my birthday, and then I have ten pounds to collect. I might as well get food, a place to stay, and laundry until then, instead of paying for it myself; so here it goes!'

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

So, without further delay, the red cab driver knocked the little gentleman down and then called the police to turn himself in, doing so with complete politeness.

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

A story is incomplete without a sequel; so we can say, to the best of our knowledge, that the food, accommodation, and laundry were all provided as expected. We know this for a fact because we visited the House of Correction for Middlesex shortly after to observe the silent system in action. We watched all the 'wheels' with great concern, hoping to find our long-lost friend. However, he was nowhere in sight, and we started to think that the little guy in the green coat must have changed his mind when, while walking through the kitchen garden—which is tucked away in a quiet part of the prison—we were startled by a voice seemingly coming from the wall, passionately singing 'All round my hat,' which was just starting to be recognized as part of our national music.

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

We started. - "Whose voice is that?" we said. The Governor shook his head.

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

'Sad guy,' he replied, 'really sad. He outright refused to work on the wheel; so, after many attempts, I had no choice but to put him in solitary confinement. He claims he enjoys it a lot, though, and I’m worried he actually does, because he just lies on his back on the floor and sings funny songs all day!'

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

Shall we add that our hearts hadn't deceived us and that the comic singer was none other than our longed-for friend, the red cab driver?

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

We haven't seen him since, but we have good reason to think that this distinguished person was a distant relative of a waterman we know. One time, as we were walking by the coach stand where he works, he stood quietly watching a tall man struggle to get into a cab. Once it was all done (just like his colleagues always do), he quickly ran over, tipped his hat, and casually asked for 'a tip for the waterman.' Now, the fare was definitely not an attractive guy, and getting really upset about the request, he replied, 'Money? What for? You just came over to look at me, I guess!' 'Well, sir,' the waterman said with an unshakeable smile, 'that's worth two pence.'

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

The same waterman later achieved a very prominent position in society; and since we know a bit about his life and have often considered sharing what we know, maybe we won't have a better chance than right now.

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

Mr. William Barker, for that was the gentleman's name, was born—but why do we need to mention where Mr. William Barker was born or when? Why dissect the records in parish ledgers or try to uncover the mysteries of hospitals? Mr. William Barker was born, or he wouldn’t exist. There is a son—there was a father. There is an effect—there was a cause. Surely this is enough information for the most curious; and if it isn’t, we’re sorry we can’t provide any more details. Is there a more satisfactory or more formal approach? No way.

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

We openly admit that we can’t pinpoint exactly when or how this gentleman's name, William Barker, got twisted into 'Bill Boorker.' Mr. Barker earned a solid reputation and a notable status among those in the profession to which he mainly dedicated his efforts. He was commonly known by the friendly nickname 'Bill Boorker' or the more complimentary title 'Aggerawatin Bill,' the latter being a fun and fitting nickname that highlighted Mr. Barker's impressive skill in 'aggerawatin' and bringing to life various topics related to the Queen, especially those transported around by omnibuses. There isn’t much information about Mr. Barker's early life, and what little exists is mostly shrouded in significant doubt and uncertainty. A lack of focus, a restless spirit, a craving for beer, and a passion for everything adventurous and roguish, traits shared by many other great talents, seemed to be his main characteristics. The lively buzz of a local free school and the calm environment of a county jail had no effect on changing Mr. Barker's personality. His intense desire for change and variety couldn’t be held back; his natural boldness wouldn’t be tamed by any punishment.

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

If Mr. Barker had any weaknesses in his younger years, it was a likable one—love; love in its broadest sense—a love for women, drinks, and handkerchiefs. It wasn’t a selfish feeling; it didn’t just apply to his own things, which too many men view with self-satisfied exclusivity. No, it was a higher kind of love—a universal principle. It equally extended to the belongings of others.

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

There’s something really moving about this. It’s even more moving to realize that such kindness is only rewarded imperfectly. Bow Street, Newgate, and Millbank are a poor exchange for the general goodwill that shows itself through an unquenchable love for all living things. Mr. Barker understood this. After a lengthy meeting with the top legal authorities, he left his ungrateful country, with the approval and financial backing of its Government; he went to a faraway place and there dedicated himself, like another Cincinnatus, to clearing and cultivating the land—a peaceful activity during which seven years slipped by almost unnoticed.

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

Whether, at the end of the period we just mentioned, the British Government needed Mr. Barker to be here or didn’t require him to stay abroad, we have no clear way of knowing. However, we tend to support the latter idea since we don’t see that he was promoted to any other public position upon his return, other than the job at the corner of the Haymarket, where he worked as an assistant to the hackney-coach stand. Sitting in this role on a couple of tubs near the curb, wearing a brass plate and number hanging from a heavy chain around his neck, and his ankles oddly wrapped in haybands, he is believed to have made those observations on human nature that greatly influenced his actions in later life.

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

Mr. Barker hadn’t worked in this job for many months when the arrival of the first omnibus shifted public interest and left many hackney carriages going nowhere. Mr. Barker quickly recognized the extent of the damage this new system would eventually cause to cab and coach stands, and consequently, to watermen as well. He also understood the need to find a more profitable occupation; his sharp mind immediately saw the potential in luring the young and unsuspecting, and pushing the old and vulnerable into the wrong bus, taking them away until they were desperate enough to pay sixpence each to get back, or in his own colorful language, ‘until they were regular done over, and forked out the stumpy.’

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

An opportunity to realize his biggest dreams soon came up. There were widespread rumors at the hackney coach stands that a bus was being built to run from Lisson Grove to the Bank, passing down Oxford Street and Holborn. The rapid increase of buses on Paddington Road made the idea even more appealing. Mr. Barker quietly and cautiously asked around in the right circles. The report was true; the 'Royal William' was set to make its first trip the following Monday. It was a big deal overall. An ambitious young cab driver, well-known for his bold driving skills—having settled with the parents of three injured children and just finished his sentence for hitting an elderly woman—was the driver. The enterprising owner, aware of Mr. Barker's qualifications, appointed him as the first cad without hesitation. The bus started running, and Mr. Barker got a new suit and stepped into a new line of work.

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

To summarize all the improvements brought about by this remarkable person in the omnibus system—gradually but surely—would take up much more space than we can dedicate to this incomplete memoir. He is universally credited with the original idea that later became so widespread: the practice of the driver of a second bus staying right behind the first one and driving the pole of his vehicle either into the door of the other every time it opened or into any lady or gentleman trying to get on it. This humorous and clever invention showcases the originality and vibrant spirit that were evident in everything this great man did.

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

Mr. Barker had his opponents, of course; what public figure doesn’t? But even his fiercest critics can’t argue with the fact that he has taken more elderly people to Paddington who wanted to go to the Bank, and more elderly people to the Bank who wanted to go to Paddington, than any six men on the road combined. And no matter how much spiteful people might claim to question the truth of this, they know very well that it’s a well-established fact that he has forcibly transported a variety of senior citizens of both genders to both places, even when they had absolutely no intention of going anywhere at all.

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

Mr. Barker was the same jerk who dramatically set himself apart, a while back, by holding a tradesman on the doorstep—while the bus was speeding away the whole time—until he had completely beaten him to his satisfaction, then tossing him aside when he was done. It should have been Mr. Barker who, honestly outraged at being rudely thrown out of a bar, kicked the landlord in the knee, ultimately leading to his death. We say it should have been Mr. Barker because such an act wasn't ordinary and could only come from an extraordinary mind.

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

It has now become a matter of history; it's noted in the Newgate Calendar; and we wish we could credit this act of bravery to Mr. Barker. Unfortunately, we have to say that it was not done by him. We wish, for the family's sake, that we could add that it was accomplished by his brother!

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

In the finer details of his job, Mr. Barker's understanding of human nature really shone through. He could instantly tell where a passenger wanted to go and would shout out the name of the place without considering the actual destination of the vehicle. He accurately recognized the type of older woman who would be too flustered by the process of getting in and out of the caravan to notice where she had been dropped off until it was too late. He had an intuitive sense of what was going through a passenger's mind when they quietly decided to 'confront that jerk tomorrow morning,' and he always made an effort to be friendly with female staff, placing them next to the door and chatting with them the entire way.

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

Human judgment is never perfect, and there were times when Mr. Barker took advantage of the hesitance or patience of the wrong person. This sometimes led to a trip to the police station, which, on more than one occasion, resulted in a stint in jail. However, such minor issues couldn’t dampen his spirit. Once they were behind him, he returned to his work with the same enthusiasm as before.

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

We’ve talked about Mr. Barker and the red cab driver in the past. Sadly, Mr. Barker has gone missing again, and the type of men they both represented is quickly fading away. Progress has looked beneath the surfaces of our cabs and reached the deepest corners of our omnibuses. Grime and shabby clothing will disappear in favor of cleanliness and uniforms. Slang will be a thing of the past when politeness becomes common: and that insightful, articulate, wise, and profound group, the Magistracy of London, will lose half their entertainment and half their work.

CHAPTER XVIII-A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH

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

We hope our readers won't be alarmed by this somewhat ominous title. We assure you that we aren't about to get into politics, nor do we intend to be more boring than usual—if we can avoid it. We thought a brief overview of 'the House' and the crowds that gather there on the night of a significant debate might be entertaining. Since we've visited that house enough times for our purpose—and way too many for our own peace and comfort—we've decided to give it a shot. So, putting aside any feelings of awe that vague notions of privilege violations, the Serjeant-at-Arms, serious warnings, and even more serious fees might stir up, we will dive right into the building and our topic.

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

It's four-thirty, and at five o'clock, the speaker for the Address will be 'on his feet,' as the newspapers sometimes say, as if speakers regularly stood on their heads. Members are coming in, one after the other, in droves. The few spectators who manage to find standing room in the aisles are watching them closely as they walk by, and anyone who can recognize a member instantly becomes a person of great interest. Every now and then, you hear hushed whispers like 'That’s Sir John Thomson.' 'Which one? The one with the gold order around his neck?' 'No, no; that’s one of the messengers— the other one with the yellow gloves is Sir John Thomson.' 'Look, it’s Mr. Smith.' 'Wow!' 'Yes, how do you do, sir?—(He’s our new member)—How do you do, sir?' Mr. Smith stops, turns around with an air of charming friendliness (since the rumor of an impending dissolution has been widely circulated this morning), grabs both hands of his pleased constituent, and after greeting him with great enthusiasm, rushes into the lobby with a remarkable display of passion for the public good, leaving a strong, positive impression on his 'fellow townsman.'

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

The number of arrivals keeps growing, and so do the heat and noise, which is really unpleasant. The livery attendants create a complete lane on either side of the passage, leaving you to squeeze into the smallest space possible to avoid being pushed out. You notice that bulky guy with the rough voice in the blue coat, the strange hat with a broad brim, white corduroy pants, and big boots, who has been talking nonstop for the last half hour and whose importance has made quite a few strangers chuckle. That’s the chief peacekeeper of Westminster. You can’t help but notice how gracefully he greeted the noble Lord who just passed by, or the over-the-top dignity he carries while trying to reason with the crowd. He’s getting a bit annoyed now because of the very disrespectful behavior of those two young guys behind him, who haven’t stopped laughing ever since they got here.

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

"Do you think they will divide tonight, Mr. —-" a timid little thin man in the crowd asks, hoping to win favor with the official.

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

'How can you ask such questions, sir?' replies the official, in an incredibly loud voice, gripping the thick stick he carries in his right hand with annoyance. 'Please don't, sir. I’m asking you; please don’t, sir.' The little man looks completely out of place, and the part of the crowd that doesn't understand is laughing uncontrollably.

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

Just then, some unfortunate person shows up, looking very pleased with himself, at the end of the long hallway. He has managed to slip past the watchful eye of the special constable downstairs and is clearly patting himself on the back for getting this far.

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

'Go back, sir—you must not come here,' shouts the hoarse man, emphasizing his words and gestures dramatically as soon as the offender meets his gaze.

The stranger pauses.

The stranger stops.

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

'Do you hear, sir—are you going to go back?' the official says, gently pushing the intruder about six yards away.

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

'Come on, don’t shove me,' replies the stranger, turning around angrily.

'I will, sir.'

"I will, sir."

'You won't, sir.'

'Go out, sir.'

'Go out, dude.'

'Take your hands off me, sir.'

'Take your hands off me, man.'

'Go out of the passage, sir.'

'Please exit the passage, sir.'

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

'You're just a desk jockey, sir.'

'A what?' ejaculates he of the boots.

'A what?' he exclaims, who's wearing the boots.

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

'A Jack-in-office, sir, and a very rude guy,' the stranger repeats, now totally worked up.

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

'Please don’t make me ask you to leave, sir,' the other replies, 'please don’t—I'm instructed to keep this passage clear—it’s the Speaker’s orders, sir.'

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

'Damn the Speaker, sir!' shouts the intruder.

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

'Here, Wilson! Collins!' the officer gasps, completely shocked by this disrespectful remark, which he considers as close to treason; 'get this man out—take him out, I said! How dare you, sir?' and the unfortunate man goes down five stairs at a time, turning around at every stop to try to come back, cursing the commander-in-chief and all his extra staff.

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

'Make way, gentlemen—please make way for the Members, I ask you!' shouts the eager officer, turning back and leading a whole line of the liberal and independent.

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

You see this fierce-looking guy, with a complexion nearly as pale as his shirt, and a big black mustache that makes him look like a mannequin in a hair salon, if his face had the kind of expression usually found on those wax figures. He’s a militia officer and the funniest person in the House. Is there anything more ridiculously absurd than his over-the-top seriousness as he strides into the lobby, his eyes rolling like a cheap Turkish head in a Dutch clock? He never shows up without that pile of dirty papers he carries under his left arm, which are usually thought to be various estimates for 1804 or some equally important documents. He’s very punctual in his attendance at the House, and his self-satisfied “He-ar-He-ar” often sparks a general laugh.

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

This is the guy who once actually sent a messenger up to the Strangers' gallery in the old House of Commons to ask for the name of someone using an eye-glass, so he could complain to the Speaker that this person was mocking him! On another occasion, he reportedly went to Bellamy's kitchen—a refreshment room where non-Members are allowed in, so to speak—and saw two or three guys having dinner who he knew weren't Members and, since they couldn't really confront him there, he decided to have some fun by putting his booted leg on the table where they were eating! He's generally harmless, though, and always entertaining.

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

By being patient and having a bit of influence with our friend the constable, we've managed to get into the Lobby, and you can catch occasional glimpses of the House when the door opens for Members to come in. It's already fairly full, and small groups of Members are gathered together, chatting about the interesting topics of the day.

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

That sharp-looking guy in the black coat with the velvet accents and cuffs, who wears his D'Orsay hat so stylishly, is 'Honest Tom,' a city representative; and the big guy in the cloak with the white lining—not the man by the pillar; the other one with light hair hanging over his coat collar behind—is his colleague. The refined-looking gentleman in the blue overcoat, gray trousers, white neckerchief, and gloves, whose tightly-buttoned coat shows off his masculine figure and broad chest really well, is quite a notable character. He has fought many battles in his time and conquered like the heroes of old, with no other weapons than those the gods gave him. The old, weathered man standing near him is a good example of a class of men that is almost gone now. He’s been a county Member for as long as anyone can remember. Look at his loose brown coat with big pockets on each side, the knee-breeches and boots, the long waistcoat with a silver watch chain dangling below it, the wide-brimmed brown hat, and the white handkerchief tied in a big bow with loose ends sticking out past his shirt frill. It’s a style you rarely see anymore, and once the few who wear it are gone, it’ll be completely extinct. He can tell you long stories about Fox, Pitt, Sheridan, and Canning, and how much better the House was run back then, when they used to start their day at eight or nine o'clock, except on regular field days, which everyone knew about in advance. He has a strong disdain for all young Members of Parliament and believes it’s impossible for anyone to say anything worth hearing unless they’ve been in the House for at least fifteen years, without saying anything at all. He thinks 'that young Macaulay' was a complete fraud; he concedes that Lord Stanley might do something one of these days, but 'he’s too young, sir—too young.' He’s a great source on matters of precedent, and when he gets chatty after a few drinks, he’ll tell you how Sir Somebody Something, when he was whipper-in for the Government, got four men out of their beds to vote in favor, three of whom died on the way home; how the House once divided over whether to bring in fresh candles; how the Speaker was once accidentally left in the chair after business wrapped up and had to sit there alone for three hours, waiting for someone to be roused and brought back to move the adjournment; and a lot of other similar stories.

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

There he stands, leaning on his cane; looking at the crowd of stylish people around him with deep disdain; and recalling, in his mind, the experiences he had in the old House, back when his own emotions were fresher and more vibrant, and when, he thinks, wit, talent, and patriotism shone more brightly as well.

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

You’re wondering who that young guy in the shabby overcoat is, who has approached every Member who has walked into the House since we’ve been standing here. He isn’t a Member; he’s just an “hereditary bondsman,” or in other words, an Irish correspondent for an Irish newspaper, who just got his forty-second free pass from a Member he’s never met before. There he goes again—another one! Goodness, he’s already got his hat and pockets full.

We will try our fortune at the Strangers' gallery, though the nature of the debate encourages very little hope of success. What on earth are you about? Holding up your order as if it were a talisman at whose command the wicket would fly open? Nonsense. Just preserve the order for an autograph, if it be worth keeping at all, and make your appearance at the door with your thumb and forefinger expressively inserted in your waistcoat-pocket. This tall stout man in black is the door-keeper. 'Any room?' 'Not an inch-two or three dozen gentlemen waiting down-stairs on the chance of somebody's going out.' Pull out your purse-'Are you quite sure there's no room?'-'I'll go and look,' replies the door-keeper, with a wistful glance at your purse, 'but I'm afraid there's not.' He returns, and with real feeling assures you that it is morally impossible to get near the gallery. It is of no use waiting. When you are refused admission into the Strangers' gallery at the House of Commons, under such circumstances, you may return home thoroughly satisfied that the place must be remarkably full indeed. 122

We'll try our luck at the Strangers' gallery, even though the debate doesn't give us much hope of getting in. What are you doing? Holding up your ticket as if it’s some magic charm that will make the door swing open? Ridiculous. Just keep the ticket as a souvenir, if it’s worth keeping at all, and stand at the door with your thumb and forefinger dramatically tucked in your waistcoat pocket. This tall, stout man in black is the doorman. 'Any room?' 'Not a chance—there are two or three dozen gentlemen waiting downstairs hoping someone will leave.' Pull out your wallet—'Are you absolutely sure there’s no room?'—'I’ll check,' says the doorman, eyeing your wallet hopefully, 'but I doubt there is.' He comes back and sincerely tells you that it’s practically impossible to get close to the gallery. There’s no point in waiting. When you’re denied entry to the Strangers' gallery at the House of Commons in a situation like this, you can go home knowing that it must be packed to the brim. 122

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

Retracing our steps through the long hallway, going down the stairs, and crossing the Palace yard, we stop at a small temporary doorway next to the King's entrance to the House of Lords. The sergeant-at-arms will let you into the Reporters' gallery, from where you can get a pretty good view of the House. Watch your step on the stairs; they’re not in great shape. Just go through this little gate there. Once your eyes adjust to the dim light of the place and the brightness of the chandeliers below you, you’ll see that some minor figure on the Ministerial side of the House (to your right) is speaking, amidst a buzz of voices and confusion that would rival Babel, except it’s all in one language.

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

The "hear, hear," that caused the laugh came from our tough-looking friend with the mustache; he's sitting in the back seat against the wall, behind the speaker, looking as fierce and smart as always. Just take a look around and then leave! The main part of the House and the side galleries are packed with Members; some have their legs draped over the opposite seat, others stretching out their legs as far as they can on the floor; some are heading out, while others are coming in; all talking, laughing, lounging, coughing, gasping, questioning, or groaning; creating a chaotic mix of noise and confusion that you won't find anywhere else, not even at Smithfield on market day or at the height of a cockfight.

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

But let's not forget to mention Bellamy's kitchen, or, in other words, the refreshment room shared by both Houses of Parliament, where members from the government and the opposition, Whigs and Tories, Radicals, Peers, and Destructives, as well as visitors from the gallery, and the more privileged guests from below the bar, are all free to gather; where various honorable members demonstrate their complete independence by sticking around during lengthy debates, enjoying their snacks, and where they're called back by whippers-in when the House is about to vote; either to give their 'conscientious votes' on matters they have no real knowledge of, or to vent their playful energy inspired by wine through loud shouts of 'Divide,' occasionally mixed with a bit of howling, barking, crowing, or other expressions of legislative humor.

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

When you climb the narrow staircase that leads to the area we're describing in the current temporary House of Commons, you’ll likely notice a couple of rooms on your right with tables set for dining. Neither of these is the kitchen, although they serve the same purpose; the kitchen is further on to our left, up a few more stairs. Before we head up the staircase, though, we ask you to stop in front of this little bar area with the sash-windows and pay special attention to the steady, honest-looking old guy in black, who is its only occupant. Nicholas (we don’t mind sharing his name, because if Nicholas isn’t a public figure, then who is? And public figures’ names are public knowledge)—Nicholas is the butler at Bellamy's and has been in the same role, dressed exactly the same way, and saying the same things for as long as the oldest of its current visitors can remember. Nicholas is an excellent servant—an unrivaled maker of salad dressing—an exceptional preparer of soda water and lemon—an expert mixer of cold grog and punch—and, above all, an unmatched judge of cheese. If the old man has any vanity, this is certainly his pride; and if we could imagine anything in this world disturbing his unshakeable calmness, it would be doubt about his judgment on this important topic.

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

We don’t need to explain all of this to you, though, because if you have any sense of observation, just one look at his smooth, intelligent-looking head and face—his neat white neckerchief, with the wooden tie that’s been regularly folded for the past twenty years, blending subtly into a small plaited shirt frill—and his well-built body dressed in a neatly brushed black suit would tell you more about his true character than a whole column of our lame description ever could.

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

Nicholas feels pretty out of place now; he can't see the kitchen the way he used to in the old House. Back then, one window of his glass-case opened into the room, and he would stand for an hour, happily answering polite questions from younger kids about Sheridan, Percival, Castlereagh, and who knows who else, always adding a 'Mister' before every commoner's name.

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

Nicholas, like all men of his age and position, has a strong view about the decline of the times. He rarely shares his political opinions, but we managed to find out, just before the Reform Bill passed, that Nicholas was a true Reformer. Imagine our surprise when we discovered shortly after the first reformed Parliament met that he was actually a staunch and committed Tory! It was quite strange: some people change their opinions out of necessity, others for convenience, and some due to inspiration; but the idea that Nicholas would change his views at all was something we never considered and would have thought impossible. His firm stance against the clause allowing the metropolitan districts to send Members to Parliament was completely baffling.

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

We finally figured out the secret; the city Members always ate at home. Those rascals! As for adding more Members from Ireland, that was even worse—definitely unconstitutional. I mean, an Irish Member would go up there and eat more dinner than three English Members combined. He wouldn’t drink wine; he gulped down table-beer by the half-gallon and then headed home to Manchester-buildings or Millbank-street for his whiskey-and-water. And what happened? The concern actually lost money—yes, lost, sir—because of his influence. Nicholas is a strange old guy, completely part of the building like the house itself. We were surprised he ever left the old place, and we fully expected to read in the papers the morning after the fire about an old gentleman in black, looking respectable, seen at one of the upper windows when the flames were at their peak, insisting he would rather fall with the floor. He must have been dragged out against his will. But he was taken out—here he is again, looking just as he always does, as if he’s been in a bandbox since the last session. There he is, at his usual spot every night, just as we’ve described: and since characters are rare, and loyal servants even rarer, we hope he stays there for a long time!

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

Now that you've settled into the kitchen and noticed the big fire and roasting spit at one end of the room—the small table for washing glasses and draining jugs at the other—the clock above the window facing St. Margaret's Church—the wooden tables and wax candles—the damask tablecloths and bare floor—the dishes and china on the tables, and the gridiron over the fire; along with a few other quirks specific to this place—we will draw your attention to a couple of the people present, whose position or quirks make them the most noteworthy.

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

It's half past twelve, and since the division isn't expected for another hour or two, a few Members are hanging out here instead of standing at the bar of the House or dozing in one of the side galleries. That awkward-looking guy in the brownish-white hat, with the baggy black trousers that only reach halfway down his boots, leaning against the meat-screen and seemingly fooling himself into thinking he's deep in thought, is a perfect example of a Member of the House of Commons embodying the wisdom of his constituency. Check out the wig—it's dark but an indescribable color; if it's naturally brown, it's turned black from years of wear, and if it's naturally black, it's gained a rusty brown hue for the same reason. Notice how those huge, blinkered glasses enhance the expression on that oh-so-intelligent face. Seriously, have you ever seen a face that looks so profoundly dull, or a figure that’s so oddly assembled? He's not a great speaker, but when he does address the House, the impact is completely undeniable.

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

The small man with the sharp nose, who just greeted him, is a Member of Parliament, a former Alderman, and a bit of an amateur firefighter. He and the famous firefighter's dog were seen to be extremely active during the fire at the two Houses of Parliament—they both ran around, getting under people's feet and getting in everyone's way, fully convinced they were making a big difference and barking loudly. The dog returned to his kennel with the engine, but the man continued to make such a loud noise for several weeks after the incident that he became a real nuisance. Since there haven’t been any more fires in Parliament, and he hasn't had any chances to write to the newspapers about how he "preserved" paintings by cutting them out of their frames, or done any other great national services, he has gradually calmed down again.

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

That woman in black—not the one the Lord's-Day-Bill Baronet just playfully touched under the chin; the shorter one—is 'Jane,' the beauty of Bellamy's. Jane is as much of a character as Nicholas, in her own way. Her main traits are a complete disdain for most of her visitors; her most notable quality is her desire for admiration, which is obvious when you see how eagerly she listens to something the young Member next to her mumbles somewhat incomprehensibly in her ear (his speech is a bit slurred for some reason), and how teasingly she pokes the handle of a fork into the arm he has around her, as a response.

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

Jane is pretty good at quick comebacks and shares them freely, without holding back, which often surprises strangers. She jokes around with Nicholas as well but holds him in high regard. The way Nicholas takes her jokes with a blank expression, while observing the playful antics that Jane enjoys in the hallway—her only innocent pastimes—adds to the humor of his character.

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

The two people sitting at the table in the corner, at the far end of the room, have been regulars here for many years; and one of them has enjoyed many meals within these walls, alongside some of the most notable figures of a remarkable time. He has since moved on to the upper chamber; most of his close friends have met their end, and his visits to Bellamy's are now quite rare.

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

If he’s really eating his dinner now, what time did he even have lunch? Another big piece of steak has disappeared, and he finished the first one in four minutes and fifteen seconds, according to the clock by the window. Has there ever been such a living example of Falstaff! Look at the way he revels in that Stilton, as he takes off the napkin under his chin to catch the extra gravy from the steak, and how much he enjoys the porter that was specially brought for him in the pewter pot. Listen to the hoarse sound of his voice, muffled as it is by layers of food and big swigs of rich wine, and tell us if you’ve ever seen such a perfect picture of a true foodie; and whether he’s not exactly the kind of guy you can imagine being part of Sheridan’s rowdy political gatherings, the one who volunteered to drive the cab that took him home, and the one who accidentally threw the whole party into chaos?

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

What an amusing contrast between his voice and appearance, and that of the thin, squeaky old man sitting at the same table, who raises his slightly cracked, high-pitched voice to the max and calls down damnation on his own eyes or someone else's at the start of every sentence he says. 'The Captain,' as they call him, is a very old regular at Bellamy's; he loves to stick around 'after the House is up' (a totally unforgivable offense in Jane's eyes), and he’s a complete walking stockpile of spirits and water.

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

The old Peer—or rather, the old man—since his title is relatively new—has a big glass of hot punch brought to him; meanwhile, the others curse and drink, and drink and curse, while smoking. Members arrive constantly in a flurry to announce that 'The Chancellor of the Exchequer’s in,' and to grab glasses of brandy-and-water to prepare for the vote; those who ordered supper cancel it and get ready to head downstairs, when suddenly a loud bell rings, followed by a shout of 'Di-vi-sion!' in the hallway. That’s all it takes; the members rush out in a chaotic hurry. The room empties in an instant; the noise quickly fades away; you hear the last boot creaking on the last stair, and you’re left alone with the giant piles of rump steaks.

CHAPTER XIX-PUBLIC DINNERS

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

All public dinners in London, from the Lord Mayor's annual banquet at Guildhall to the Chimney-sweepers' anniversary at White Conduit House; from the Goldsmiths' to the Butchers', from the Sheriffs' to the Licensed Victuallers', are entertaining events. Out of all these gatherings, though, we find the annual dinner for some public charity to be the most enjoyable. At a company's dinner, most people are pretty much the same—longtime regulars who treat it like a job and not something to joke about. At a political dinner, everyone tends to be unpleasant and eager to give speeches—which is basically the same thing; but at a charity dinner, you encounter all kinds of people. The wine might not be anything special, sure, and we've heard some cold-hearted folks complain about the donation collection; but we genuinely believe that the fun you get from the event more than makes up for these downsides.

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

Let’s say you’re convinced to go to a dinner for the ‘Friends of Indigent Orphans’ Benevolent Institution’—that’s what we think it’s called. The charity’s name is a bit longer, but never mind the rest. You clearly remember buying a ticket because a charitable friend urged you to, and you hop into a cab, the driver of which—probably to make a grand entrance—ignores your desperate pleas to drop you off at the corner of Great Queen Street and instead takes you right to the door of the Freemasons’. A crowd has gathered there to watch the friends of the indigent orphans arrive. As you pay the fare, you overhear people speculating about whether you’re the noble Lord announced to preside over the event, and you feel a boost when they ultimately decide you’re just a 'vocalist.'

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

The first thing that stands out when you walk in is how incredibly important the committee is. You notice a door on the first landing, which is carefully watched by two waiters, while hefty gentlemen with very red faces keep rushing in and out, moving with a speed that's quite inappropriate for their age and size. You hesitate, feeling quite anxious about the commotion, thinking, in your naivete, that a couple of people must have been carried out of the dining room in fits, at the very least. You're quickly corrected by the waiter: "Upstairs, if you please, sir; this is the committee room." So you head upstairs, wondering as you go what the committee's responsibilities can possibly be, and if they do anything other than confuse each other and bump into the waiters.

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

Having checked your hat and coat, you receive a ridiculously small piece of cardboard in return (which, of course, you lose before you need it again). You enter the hall, where three long tables are set up for the less distinguished guests, along with a cross table on a raised platform at the far end for the special friends of the needy orphans. Luckily, you find a plate without anyone's card on it, so you wisely take a seat right away and have a little time to look around. Waiters, carrying wine baskets, are placing decanters of sherry at respectable distances along the tables; sad-looking salt shakers and worn-out vinegar bottles, which could have belonged to the parents of the needy orphans in their day, are scattered at intervals on the tablecloth; and the knives and forks look like they've been used at every public dinner in London since George the First took the throne. The musicians are scraping and tuning their instruments, playing nothing but preparatory notes; meanwhile, several men are gliding along the sides of the tables, frantically peering into plate after plate, their expressions becoming increasingly despondent as they find everyone else's card but their own.

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

You turn around to glance at the table behind you, and since you're not used to public dinners, you're somewhat surprised by the scene in front of you. One of the main members looks like a small man with a long, slightly reddened face and gray hair brushed straight up in the front. He wears a bit of black silk around his neck as a casual neckerchief, and his friends call him 'Fitz' or something similar. Next to him is a stout man in a white neckerchief and a buff waistcoat, with shiny dark hair cut very short in the front and a big, round, healthy face that he maintains with a half-sentimental smirk. Beside him is a large-headed man with black hair and bushy sideburns, while opposite them are two or three others, one of whom is a small, round-faced guy wearing a dress-stocking and a blue under-waistcoat. There’s something unique about their demeanor, though you can’t quite put your finger on it; you can't shake the feeling that they're here for more than just eating and drinking. But you don't have time to ponder this, as the waiters, who have lined up down the room placing dishes on tables, retreat to the lower end. The dark man in the blue coat with bright buttons, who directs the music, looks up to the gallery and shouts 'band' loudly; the orchestra bursts into action, and fourteen stewards march in, each holding a long wand like the villain in a pantomime. Then comes the chairman, followed by the distinguished guests; they all make their way up the room as quickly as they can, bowing, smiling, smirking, and looking incredibly friendly. The applause fades, a blessing is said, the clatter of plates and dishes begins, and everyone seems really pleased, either with the presence of the esteemed guests or the start of the eagerly awaited dinner.

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

As for the dinner itself—it goes pretty much the same everywhere. Tureens of soup are emptied at an alarming speed—waiters take plates of turbot away to add lobster sauce, and return with plates of lobster sauce without the turbot; people who can carve poultry are foolish if they boast about it, while those who can't have no interest in learning. The knives and forks make a nice background to Auber's music, and Auber's music would be a great backdrop to the dinner, if you could hear anything over the clanging cymbals. The main dishes disappear in an instant—jelly molds vanish in a flash—hungry diners wipe their brows and look a bit exhausted from their hearty efforts—people who seemed grumpy before suddenly become very friendly and ask to share a drink in the most agreeable way—they eager old gentlemen point out the ladies' gallery and make a big deal about how charity always gets special attention there—everyone seems ready to chat—and the buzz of conversation is loud and widespread.

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

"Please, silence, gentlemen, if you would, for Non nobis!" shouts the toast-master with a booming voice—by the way, a toast-master's shirt, vest, and necktie usually show three different shades of cloudy white. "Please, silence, gentlemen, for Non nobis!" The singers, who turn out to be the same group that piqued your interest earlier, start to raise their voices in a rather dismal tune. This prompts the regular old diners to occasionally cry out, "Sh-Sh-waiters! Silence, waiters—stand still, waiters—step back, waiters," and other similar protests, expressed in an indignant tone. The grace is quickly finished, and everyone returns to their seats. The less familiar guests applaud Non nobis as enthusiastically as if it were a fantastic comic song, much to the shock and dismay of the regular diners, who immediately try to silence this blasphemous approval with shouts of "Hush, hush!" This leads the others to mistake these sounds for boos, and they cheer even louder than before, adding to their support with shouts of "Encore!" at the top of their lungs.

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

The moment the noise stops, the toastmaster stands up: “Gentlemen, please fill your glasses!” After the decanters are passed around and the glasses are filled, the toastmaster continues, in a clear ascending tone: “Gentlemen—are you all ready? Please, silence for the chair!” The chairman stands up and, stating that he doesn’t think it’s necessary to say anything before the toast he’s about to propose, ends up getting lost in a jumble of words, creating a confusing sight until he finally reaches the phrase, “constitutional sovereign of these realms,” at which point older gentlemen cheer “Bravo!” and bang the table with their knife handles. “Under any circumstances, it would give him immense pride, it would give him great pleasure—he might even say it would bring him satisfaction [cheers] to propose that toast. What must he be feeling, then, when he gets the honor of announcing that he has received Her Majesty’s instructions to request from the Treasurer of Her Majesty’s Household her annual donation of £25 to support this charity!” This announcement (which has been made by every chairman since the charity was first established forty-two years ago) prompts loud applause; the toast is raised with lots of cheers and clanking, and ‘God Save the Queen’ is sung by the ‘professional gentlemen,’ with the non-professional gentlemen joining in the chorus, giving the national anthem an effect that the newspapers justly describe as “perfectly electrifying.”

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

The other 'loyal and patriotic' toasts were enthusiastically drunk, a funny song was performed well by the guy with the small neckerchief, and a sentimental one by the second member of the group. Now we get to the most important toast of the evening—'Prosperity to the charity.' Once again, we have to use newspaper language and express our regret at being 'unable to share even the gist of the noble lord's comments.' It’s enough to say that the speech, which is quite lengthy, is met with great applause. After the toast is drunk, the stewards (looking more important than ever) exit the room, then return, leading a parade of needy orphans—boys and girls—who walk around the room, curtsying and bowing, stepping on each other's heels, and looking like they could really use a glass of wine, much to the delight of the guests, especially the lady patronesses in the gallery. The children exit, and the stewards come back, each holding a blue plate. The band plays a lively tune; most of the guests dig into their pockets and look rather serious, and the sound of coins clinking against plates can be heard from all around the room.

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

After a brief break filled with singing and toasting, the secretary puts on his glasses and starts reading the report and the list of donations, which everyone listens to intently. "Mr. Smith, one guinea; Mr. Tompkins, one guinea; Mr. Wilson, one guinea; Mr. Hickson, one guinea; Mr. Nixon, one guinea; Mr. Charles Nixon, one guinea—[hear, hear!]—Mr. James Nixon, one guinea; Mr. Thomas Nixon, one pound—[tremendous applause]." Lord Fitz Binkle, the chairman for the day, adds his annual donation of fifteen pounds, making it thirty guineas—[prolonged knocking, as several gentlemen knock the stems off their wine glasses in enthusiastic approval]. Lady Fitz Binkle gives an annual donation of ten pounds—[twenty pounds—protracted knocking and shouts of 'Bravo!']. Once the list finally finishes, the chairman stands up and proposes a toast to the secretary, whom he believes is the most dedicated and admirable person he knows. The secretary, in turn, thanks him and says he knows no one better than the chairman—except for the senior officer of the charity, whose health he’d like to propose. The senior officer then thanks him and remarks that he knows no one more deserving than the secretary—except for Mr. Walker, the auditor, whose health he’d like to propose. Mr. Walker, while expressing his gratitude, points out another admirable person, to whom the senior officer is second best— and they continue this cycle of toasting and praising one another. The only other major toast is to "The Lady Patronesses now present!" At this, all the gentlemen turn to face the ladies' gallery, cheering loudly; and some little pretentious men, having had a bit too much wine, kiss their hands and make awkward facial expressions.

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

We’ve dragged out our dinner for so long that we barely have time to say even a few words of thanks. We can only ask our readers not to think that, because we’ve tried to find some humor in a charity dinner, we in any way underestimate the quality of the charitable organizations in London or the admirable intentions of those who support them.

CHAPTER XX-THE FIRST OF MAY

'Now ladies, up in the sky-parlour: only once a year, if you please!'

Young Lady with Brass Ladle.

Young Woman with Brass Ladle.

'Sweep-sweep-sw-e-ep!'

'Sweep-sweep-sweeeep!'

Illegal Watchword.

Illegal Password.

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

The first of May! There's a cheerful freshness in the sound, bringing to mind countless thoughts of all that's pleasant in nature and beautiful in her most delightful form. What person isn’t influenced by a bright spring morning, which transports them back to the days of their childhood games, conjuring up the old green field with its gently swaying trees, where the birds sang like they never have since—where the butterfly flitted more joyfully than he ever sees now in all his wanderings—where the sky seemed bluer, and the sun shone brighter—where the air felt fresher over greener grass, and sweeter-smelling flowers—where everything had a richer and more vibrant hue than it ever wears now! Such are the deep feelings of childhood, and such are the impressions that every lovely object leaves on our hearts! A brave traveler trudges through the maze of thick, pathless woods, where the sun’s rays never reach, and the pure air of heaven never sweeps through; he stands at the edge of the roaring waterfall, dizzy and bewildered, watching the foaming mass leap from stone to stone, and from cliff to cliff; he lingers in the fertile plains of a land bathed in perpetual sunshine, enjoying the luxury of their fragrant breeze. But what do the deep forests, the thundering waters, or the richest landscapes that abundant nature has ever spread out, to enchant the eyes and captivate the senses of man, compare to the memories of the old scenes of his early youth? Magical scenes indeed; for the dreams of childhood dressed them in colors brighter than the rainbow, and almost as fleeting!

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

In the past, spring not only brought associations related to history but also sports and games for the present—joyful dances around rustic pillars, decorated with symbols of the season, celebrating its arrival. Where have they gone? We have pillars, but they aren't rustic anymore; and as for dancers, they are accustomed to indoor spaces and lights and wouldn't perform well outdoors. Just think about the immorality! What would your Sabbath enthusiasts say about an upper-class gathering around the Duke of York's column in Carlton Terrace—a fancy waltz of the middle class around Alderman Waithman's monument in Fleet Street—or a group dance of ten-pound householders at the foot of the Obelisk in St. George's Fields? Sadly, romance can’t compete with the riot act; and the police don’t understand pastoral simplicity.

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

Well, many years ago, we became a practical and straightforward kind of people. Since dancing in spring was seen as beneath us, we stopped, and eventually, it ended up with the chimney-sweeps—a definite downgrade. While sweeps are generally decent folks and quite useful in a civilized society, they're not exactly the ones to set the tone for the finer aspects of social life. However, the sweeps kept the dancing alive and passed it down. This was a big blow to the romance of spring, but it didn’t completely vanish either; some of that romance went to the sweeps along with the dancing, making them intriguing figures. There was a certain mystery surrounding the sweeps back then. There were legends about wealthy men who had lost children and, after years of grief, were reunited with them as sweeps. Tales circulated about a young boy who had been taken from his parents as an infant and raised as a chimney sweep. During his career, he was sent to clean the chimney in his mother’s bedroom. After emerging from the chimney, he was hot and tired, so he climbed into the bed where he had slept as a baby. His mother, who had invited every chimney sweep in London to dinner every year on that day, recognized him there, and from that point on, she insisted on hosting them all at half-past one for roast beef, plum pudding, porter, and sixpence.

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

Such stories, and there were plenty of them, created an air of mystery around the chimney sweeps and resulted in some of the positive effects that animals experience from the idea of reincarnation. No one (except the masters) thought about mistreating a sweep, because no one knew who he might be or what nobleman's or gentleman's son he might eventually become. Many believers in the extraordinary saw chimney sweeping as a kind of trial period, during which various young nobles would eventually inherit their ranks and titles; as a result, the profession was greatly respected by them.

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

We remember, back in our childhood, a little chimney sweep around our age, with curly hair and white teeth, whom we truly believed to be the lost son and heir of some famous person. This belief turned into a firm conviction in our young minds when he told us, just before he climbed to the top of the kitchen chimney, that he thought he had been born in the workhouse, but he never knew his father. From that moment on, we were sure that he would one day be claimed by a lord. We never heard the church bells ring or saw a flag raised in the neighborhood without thinking that the happy moment had finally come, and that his long-lost parent had arrived in a fancy coach to take him home to Grosvenor Square. He never came, though; and right now, that young man is settled down as a master sweep in the Battle Bridge area, known for his strong dislike of washing and for having legs that struggle to support his large and heavy body.

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

The charm of spring had faded before our time, so we tried to comfort ourselves as best we could with the uncertainty surrounding the origins of its accompanying dancers, the chimney sweeps; and we managed to console ourselves for many years. However, this unholy source of comfort received a shock from which it has never fully recovered—a shock that was essentially its death blow. We could not ignore the reality that entire families of sweeps consistently came from sweeps in the rural areas of Somers Town and Camden Town—that the eldest son took over his father's business, that the other family members helped him, and started their own ventures; that their children were also groomed for the profession, and there was no mistaking their identity. We couldn't be oblivious to this sad truth, but we couldn't bring ourselves to acknowledge it, and for several years, we lived in a state of willful ignorance. Our comfortable slumber was disrupted by some dark hints thrown our way by a friend, indicating that children from lower-class backgrounds were starting to choose chimney-sweeping as their career path; that various boys had applied to the relevant authorities to get permission to pursue their ambitions with full legal approval; in short, that the situation was becoming a matter of legal contract. We initially paid no attention to these rumors, but gradually, they crept in on us. Month after month, week after week, even day after day, we kept encountering reports of similar applications. The mystery was dispelled, and the secret was gone, as chimney-sweeping turned into a preferred career choice. There's no need to abduct boys anymore; now they come in groups to join the profession willingly. The romance of the trade has disappeared, and the chimney-sweeper of today is nothing like the one from thirty years ago, just as a Fleet Street pickpocket bears no resemblance to a Spanish brigand, or Paul Pry does to Caleb Williams.

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

This slow decline in the practice of forcing young noble boys into captivity and making them climb chimneys marked a significant blow, if we can put it that way, to the charm of chimney-sweeping and to the essence of spring at the same time. But that wasn't all; a few years ago, the May Day dancing started to fade away. Young sweeps were seen gathering in small groups of two or three, without a 'green' or a 'My Lord' to run the show, and with no 'My Lady' to manage the funds. Even in gatherings where there was a 'green,' it was basically nothing—a mere sprout—and the musical support usually only included shovels and a set of panpipes, more commonly known to most as a 'harmonica.'

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

These were signs of the times, significant indicators of an impending change; and what was the result they hinted at? Well, the leaders, driven by a constant urge to innovate, actually stepped in against the dancing and replaced it with a dinner—an anniversary dinner at White Conduit House—where clean faces took the place of black ones smeared with rose pink; and knee-length pants and tops replaced nankeen shorts and rosetted shoes.

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

Men who were used to riding nervous horses and steady people without any restlessness in their souls praised this change to the heavens, and the conduct of the master sweeps was described in glowing terms. But what's the real truth? Let anyone deny, if they can, that when the table was cleared, new pots and pipes were set up, and the usual loyal and patriotic toasts were made, the well-known Mr. Sluffen from Adam-and-Eve-court, whose authority even our most bitter opponents can't dispute, spoke in the following way: 'Now that I've caught the chairman's eye, I wish I might be jolly well blessed if I'm not going to have my say. I would say these observations—that some mischievous blokes who knew nothing about the matter tried to turn people against the master sweeps and take away their business and the bread from the mouths of their precious kids by making the remark that chimneys could be as well swept by machines as by boys; and that using boys for this purpose was barbaric. Whereas, I've been a mate— I ask the chairman's pardon for using such a vulgar term—for over thirty years. I might say I've been raised in a chimney—and I know very well that machines were of no use: and as for the work for the boys, everyone in the chimney business knows as well as I do that they prefer climbing more than anything else.' From this day, we mark the complete end of the last remains of May-day dancing among the elite of the profession: and from this point, we begin a new era in that part of our spring traditions related to the first of May.

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

We know that some people will challenge us here, claiming that dancing on May Day is still happening—that "greens" are still rolled through the streets every year—that young people dressed as clowns lead the way, expressing their playful ideas; and that lords and ladies follow behind them.

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

Granted. We acknowledge that, at first glance, these processions have improved a lot: we won’t deny the addition of drum solos; we might even admit to the occasional triangle solo, but that’s where our agreement ends. We absolutely deny that the chimney sweeps are involved in these events. We clearly accuse the waste collectors of throwing what they should be picking up into the public's eyes. We hold the scavengers, brickmakers, and those who focus their efforts on selling goods on the street responsible for making money once a year under false pretenses. We have a strong attachment to the customs of the past and have resisted accepting the truth for as long as possible, but it has become undeniable, and we now declare to a misled public that the May-day dancers are not sweeps. The mere size of them is enough to refute that idea. It’s widely known that the increasing popularity of register stoves has raised the demand for small boys, while the men who, under a false identity, dance in the streets on the first of May these days would barely fit in a kitchen flue, let alone a living room. This is strong circumstantial evidence, but we have concrete proof—the evidence of our own senses. And here is our testimony.

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

On the morning of May 2nd, 1836, we went out for a walk, holding onto a faint hope of seeing something that might convince us it was really spring and not Christmas. After wandering all the way to Copenhagen House without finding anything to shake our feeling that there was an error in the calendars, we turned back down Maiden Lane, planning to pass through the large area between it and Battle Bridge, which is home to owners of donkey carts, horse meat sellers, tile makers, and ash sifters. We would have passed through this area without stopping or interruption if we hadn’t noticed a little crowd gathered around a shed, which caught our attention and made us pause.

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

When we mention a 'shed,' we're not talking about a fancy building like the one Love lived in when he was young, according to the old song. Instead, we mean a wooden box with windows stuffed with rags and paper, and a small yard beside it, containing one dust cart, two baskets, a few shovels, and little piles of ashes, along with bits of china and tiles scattered around. We paused in front of this intriguing spot; the longer we looked, the more we wondered what exciting event drew the first members of the crowd to press their noses against the parlor window, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was happening inside. After staring aimlessly for a few minutes, we asked a guy in a tarpaulin suit, who was smoking his pipe on our right, about the reason for the gathering. However, the only response we got was a playful question about whether our mother had sold her mangle, so we decided to wait in silence for what happened next.

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

Judge our righteous anger when the shed's street door opened, and a group came out dressed like and trying to look like May Day sweeps!

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

The first person who showed up was 'my lord,' dressed in a blue coat with shiny buttons, gilt paper glued over the seams, yellow knee-breeches, pink cotton stockings, and shoes; a cocked hat decorated with bits of colorful paper on his head, a bouquet the size of a prize cauliflower in his button-hole, a long Belcher handkerchief in his right hand, and a thin cane in his left. A murmur of applause swept through the crowd (which was mainly made up of his lordship's personal friends) when this graceful figure made his entrance, growing into a burst of applause as his lovely dance partner stepped forward to join him. Her ladyship was wearing pink crape over bed-furniture, with a low-cut bodice and short sleeves. The shape of her ankles was partly hidden by a noticeable pair of frilled trousers, and the problem of her white satin shoes being a few sizes too big was solved by them being securely fastened to her legs with strong tape sandals.

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

Her head was covered with a bunch of fake flowers, and in her hand, she held a large brass ladle to collect what she jokingly called 'the tin.' The other characters included a young man dressed in women's clothes and a widow's cap; two clowns who entertained the crowd by walking on their hands in the mud, much to the delight of the spectators; a man with a drum; another man with a flute; a dirty woman in a big shawl with a money box under her arm—and last but not least, the 'green' brought to life by none other than our friend in the tarpaulin suit.

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

The guy kept banging on the drum, the flute squeaked, the shovels clanked, the 'green' rolled around, tipping over to one side and then the other; my lady crossed her right foot over her left ankle, and then her left foot over her right ankle, switching back and forth; my lord dashed a few steps forward and bumped into the 'green,' then took a few steps back, stepping on the toes of the crowd, then moved to the right, then to the left, and then dodged my lady around the 'green;' finally, he linked her arm through his and called for the boys to cheer, which they did enthusiastically—this was the dancing.

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

We ran into the same group again by chance in the evening. We had never seen a "green" so drunk, a lord so argumentative (no: not even in the House of Lords after dinner), a pair of clowns so sad, a lady so filthy, or a party so wretched.

How has May-day decayed!

How has May Day changed!

CHAPTER XXI-BROKERS' AND MARINE-STORE SHOPS

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

When we say that broker shops are odd places, and that if we could get a real story about their contents, it would provide plenty of entertainment and some sad tales, we need to clarify what kind of shops we're talking about. When we use the term 'Broker Shop,' our readers might immediately picture large, attractive warehouses filled with a long line of polished dining tables, rosewood cabinets, and mahogany washstands, with glimpses of four-poster beds and matching linens, along with a display of dining chairs in the foreground. They might think we mean a more modest type of second-hand furniture store. Their imagination would then likely take them to that street behind Longacre, which is nearly all broker shops; where you stroll through aisles of flashy, deceptive-looking furniture, and where the view is sometimes brightened by a vivid red, blue, and yellow hearth rug featuring a charming image of a mail coach speeding along, or a peculiar creature that’s thought to have once been designed as a dog, with a pile of yarn in its mouth, resembling a basket of flowers.

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

This, by the way, is an appealing article for young wives in lower-income brackets who are looking to furnish their first-floor apartments—they're completely captivated and barely know what to admire first. The dog is stunning, but they already have one on the best tea tray and two more on the mantelpiece. Then, there's something so classy about that mail-coach; and the passengers on the outside (who are all wearing hats) give it such a sense of authenticity!

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

The items here cater to the preferences, or rather the budgets, of bargain shoppers. There are some of the prettiest Pembroke tables you’ll ever see: the wood is as green as the trees in the park, and the leaves are likely to come off within a year. There’s also a huge selection of camp and foldable beds, made of stained wood, along with countless examples of that terrible scam—a sofa bed.

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

A pull-out bed is a straightforward, no-nonsense piece of furniture; it might be somewhat hidden with a fake drawer; and occasionally, there's a misguided effort to pretend it’s a bookcase. No matter how you decorate it, though, the pull-out bed makes it clear that it’s a pull-out bed and nothing more—that it’s absolutely essential, and because it's so practical, it doesn’t care to be decorative.

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

How different is the vibe of a sofa bed! Ashamed of its true purpose, it tries to look like a piece of luxury and elegance—an effort it completely fails at. It lacks the dignity of a sofa and the comfort of a bed; anyone who has a sofa bed in their home is complicit in a deliberate and deceptive trick—we wonder if you could offend him more than by hinting that you suspect its real purpose.

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

To get back to the point, we want to say that neither of these types of broker shops is the focus of this discussion. The shops we’re talking about are far inferior to the ones we've briefly mentioned. You’ve probably noticed a small, dirty shop in a rundown neighborhood, displaying a bizarre and jumbled collection of old, worn-out, pathetic items that you'd have a hard time imagining anyone ever buying. Our surprise at how these things were ever purchased is only matched by our disbelief that they could be sold again. Next to the door, there’s a sign with about twenty books—all odd volumes; and as many wine glasses—each one a different style; several locks, an old earthen pan filled with rusty keys; two or three colorful, cracked chimney ornaments; the remains of a chandelier missing its drops; a round frame resembling a capital O, which once held a mirror; a flute that's missing the middle joint; a pair of curling irons; and a tinder box. In front of the shop window, there are a few high-backed chairs that are falling apart and have weak legs; a corner cupboard; two or three very dark mahogany tables with flaps that remind one of complicated math problems; some pickle jars, some surgeon’s jars with gold labels but no stoppers; an unframed portrait of a lady who was popular around the early thirteenth century, painted by an artist who was never well-known; an endless assortment of miscellaneous items, including bottles and cabinets, rags and bones, fenders and door knockers, fire irons, clothes, bedding, a hall lamp, and a room door. Imagine, on top of this chaotic pile, a black doll in a white dress, with two faces—one looking up the street and the other looking down—swinging over the door; a sign that awkwardly reads 'Dealer in marine stores' in tall, skinny white letters that are oddly disproportionate; and that’s exactly the kind of shop we want to draw your attention to.

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

Although the same mix of items can be found at all these places, it’s interesting to see how some of the smaller items that are for sale—like clothing—really reflect the character of the neighborhood. Just look at Drury Lane and Covent Garden, for example.

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

This is basically a theater neighborhood. There's not a single person around here who isn't, to some degree, a dramatic character. The errand boys and sons of shopkeepers all dream of the stage: they put on plays in back kitchens rented for that purpose and will stand in front of a shop window for hours, staring at a large portrait of Mr. Somebody from the Royal Coburg Theatre, "as he appeared in the role of Tongo the Denounced." As a result, there's not a second-hand store in the area that doesn't sell some faded pieces of theatrical costume, like a few pairs of worn buff boots with red tops that used to be worn by a "fourth robber" or "fifth mob"; a pair of rusty broadswords, some gauntlets, and certain flashy ornaments that, if they were yellow instead of white, could pass for fire insurance plates. There are several of these shops in the narrow streets and dirty alleys near the national theaters, all filled with tempting goods of this sort, perhaps including a sparkly pink dress, white wreaths, stage shoes, and a tiara that looks like a tin lamp reflector. These items were bought from some unfortunate extras or low-tier actors and are now offered for the benefit of the younger generation, who can secure such great deals by making weekly payments that total about ten times their actual value.

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

Let's take a very different place and put it to the same test. Check out a marine store in that mix of dirt, drunkenness, and shady characters: thieves, oysters, baked potatoes, and pickled salmon on Ratcliff Highway. Here, the clothing is all nautical. Rough blue jackets with mother-of-pearl buttons, oilskin hats, coarse checked shirts, and big canvas pants that look like they were made for two bodies instead of two legs are the main items. Then, there are big bunches of cotton pocket handkerchiefs in colors and patterns unlike anything anyone has seen before, except for those on the backs of the three young ladies without bonnets who just passed by. The furniture is pretty much the same as anywhere else, with a couple of ship models and some old prints of naval battles in even older frames added in. In the window, there are a few compasses, a small tray of silver watches in chunky cases, and tobacco boxes, each lid decorated with a ship, an anchor, or some other trophy. A sailor usually pawns or sells everything he has before he's been ashore long, and if he doesn’t, some kind friend will do it for him. In either case, there's a good chance he will later unintentionally buy back the same items at a higher price than what he originally paid.

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

Again: take a visit to a part of London that is as different from both of these as they are from each other. Cross over to the Surrey side and check out the kinds of shops you can find near the King's Bench prison and in 'the Rules.' How different they are, and how clearly they show the decline of some of the unfortunate residents in this part of the city! Imprisonment and neglect have taken their toll. There's a sense of decay among the wayward people of a debtor's prison; old friends have faded away; the memory of past prosperity has disappeared, taking with it all thoughts of the past and any care for the future. First, watches and rings, then cloaks, coats, and all the more expensive clothing have made their way to the pawnbroker. That desperate option has finally run out, and selling some trivial item at one of these shops has become the only way left to gather a shilling or two to meet immediate needs. Dressing cases and writing desks, too worn to pawn but too valuable to throw away; guns, fishing rods, musical instruments, all in the same state, have been sold off, and the loss hasn’t been deeply felt. But hunger needs to be sated, and what has turned into a habit is easily used when a crisis hits. Light clothing, first from the ruined man, then from his wife, and ultimately from their children, even the youngest, has been sold off piece by piece. There they are, carelessly piled together waiting for a buyer, old and patched and repaired, but the style and materials reveal a time of better circumstances; and the older they are, the deeper the misery and poverty of those who once wore them.

CHAPTER XXII-GIN-SHOPS

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

It's quite unusual that different professions seem to experience a kind of madness similar to what elephants and dogs often have, going completely wild every so often. The main difference between the animals and the professions is that the animals go mad with a certain style—they are very consistent in their craziness. We know when the situation will arise, and we prepare for it. When an elephant goes mad, we’re all set for him—whether it’s to kill or cure him, with pills or bullets, calomel mixed with rose preserves, or lead from a gun. If a dog starts to look too hot in the summer and wanders around the shaded streets with its tongue hanging out, a thick leather muzzle, prepared in accordance with the wise rules set by lawmakers, is quickly put on it to help keep it cooler. The dog then either looks extremely miserable for the next six weeks or becomes legally insane, going mad as if sanctioned by law. However, these professions are as unpredictable as comets; in fact, they're even worse because no one can anticipate when the odd behaviors indicating the 'madness' will occur. Additionally, the madness spreads broadly, and the speed at which it spreads is almost unbelievable.

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

We’ll point out two or three examples to clarify what we mean. Six or eight years ago, the epidemic started to show up among linen shops and small goods stores. The initial signs were an excessive fascination with plate glass, along with a strong desire for gas lights and gold decorations. The trend gradually escalated and eventually reached alarming levels. Quiet, dusty old stores in various parts of town were demolished; spacious buildings with stucco facades and gold lettering were built in their place; floors were covered with Turkish carpets; roofs were supported by huge pillars; doors were replaced with windows; a dozen glass panes were combined into one; one shopkeeper was turned into a dozen; and it’s hard to say what else might have happened if it hadn’t been fortunately discovered, just in time, that the Bankruptcy Commissioners were just as capable of handling these cases as the Lunacy Commissioners, and that a little confinement and gentle examination worked wonders. The outbreak subsided. It faded away. A year or two of relative calm followed. Suddenly, it flared up again among the pharmacists; the symptoms were the same, but now included a strong urge to display the royal coat of arms above the shop door, along with a great obsession for mahogany, varnish, and expensive flooring. Then, the hosiery shops caught the fever, and they began tearing down their shopfronts with wild abandon. The mania receded once more, and the public began to pat themselves on the back for its complete disappearance, when it erupted again with even greater intensity among the pub owners and operators of wine bars. From that point on, it spread among them at an unprecedented speed, showcasing a mix of all the previous symptoms; it surged through every part of town, demolishing all the old pubs and replacing them with grand buildings, stone railings, rosewood fixtures, huge lamps, and illuminated clocks at every street corner.

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

The large scale at which these places are set up, along with the flashy way even the smallest among them divides its operations into sections, is amusing. A fancy sign made of glass at one door points you 'To the Counting-house;' another to the 'Bottle Department;' a third to the 'Wholesale Department;' a fourth to 'The Wine Promenade;' and so on, until we expect to find a 'Brandy Bell' or a 'Whiskey Entrance' next. Then, creativity runs wild in coming up with catchy names for the different types of gin; and the drinkers, as they look at the huge black and white signs—which are only matched in size by the numbers underneath—are left in a fun dilemma between options like 'The Cream of the Valley,' 'The Out and Out,' 'The No Mistake,' 'The Good for Mixing,' 'The Real Knock-me-down,' 'The Celebrated Butter Gin,' 'The Regular Flare-up,' and a dozen other equally tempting and appealing liqueurs. Although you can find places like this on every other street, they are always numerous and extravagant, directly reflecting the grime and poverty of the surrounding area. The gin shops in and around Drury Lane, Holborn, St. Giles, Covent Garden, and Clare Market are the finest in London. There is more filth and squalor around those major roads than in any other part of this vast city.

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

We will try to outline the counter of a large gin bar and its regular customers, for the benefit of any readers who may not have had the chance to see such scenes. With the hope of finding a place that fits our needs, we will head to Drury Lane, navigating through the narrow streets and dirty alleyways that separate it from Oxford Street, and the well-known area next to the brewery at the bottom of Tottenham Court Road, commonly referred to by locals as the 'Rookery.'

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

The filthy and sad look of this part of London is hard to imagine for those (and there are many) who haven’t seen it. Run-down houses with broken windows patched up with rags and paper: every room rented out to a different family, and often to two or three—fruit and candy makers in the cellars, barbers and smoked fish sellers in the front parlors, cobblers in the back; a bird lover on the first floor, three families on the second, starvation in the attics, Irish people in the hallway, a “musician” in the front kitchen, and a cleaning lady with five hungry kids in the back kitchen—filth everywhere—a gutter in front of the houses and a drain in the back—clothes drying and waste emptying from the windows; girls of fourteen or fifteen, with tangled hair, walking around barefoot and in white coats, almost their only clothing; boys of all ages, in coats of all sizes and no coats at all; men and women, wearing all sorts of shabby and dirty clothes, lounging, arguing, drinking, smoking, fighting, and swearing.

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

You turn the corner. What a change! Everything is bright and vibrant. The buzz of many voices comes from that amazing bar at the start of the two streets across the way; and the cheerful building with its fancifully decorated roofline, the glowing clock, the plate-glass windows surrounded by decorative plaster flowers, and its abundance of gas lights in beautifully designed holders is absolutely stunning compared to the darkness and grime we've just left behind. The interior is even more lively than the outside. A bar made of polished mahogany, elegantly carved, stretches across the entire width of the place; and there are two side aisles of large barrels, painted green and gold, enclosed by a light brass rail, with labels like 'Old Tom, 549;' 'Young Tom, 360;' 'Samson, 1421'—the numbers likely referring to 'gallons', we assume. Behind the bar is a tall and spacious lounge filled with the same appealing containers, featuring a balcony around it, equally well-furnished. On the counter, along with the typical drink-making equipment, are two or three little baskets of cakes and biscuits, carefully covered with wicker to keep people from snatching them. Behind the counter are two stylishly dressed women wearing large necklaces, serving the drinks and mixed beverages. They are helped by the main owner of the place, a burly, rough-looking guy in a fur hat tilted to one side to give him a savvy look and to show off his sandy whiskers.

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

The two elderly washerwomen, sitting on the small bench to the left of the bar, are quite taken aback by the elaborate hairstyles and proud demeanor of the young ladies behind the counter. They accept their half-quartern of gin and peppermint with great respect, starting their request for “one of those soft biscuits” with, “Just be good enough, ma’am.” They are honestly shocked by the cheeky attitude of a young man in a brown coat with shiny buttons, who strolls in with two friends and approaches the bar as casually as if he were used to opulent surroundings. He winks at one of the young ladies with unusual confidence and orders a “quartern and a three-out-glass,” as if this place belongs to him. “Gin for you, sir?” asks the young lady after pouring it, deliberately looking everywhere except at him to show that the wink didn't faze her. “For me, Mary, my dear,” the gentleman in brown replies. “My name isn’t Mary, as it happens,” the young girl responds, loosening up slightly as she hands over the change. “Well, if it isn’t, it should be,” says the charming young man; “all the Marys I’ve ever seen were beautiful girls.” At this, the young lady, unsure how to manage blushes in this situation, quickly ends the flirtation by turning to the woman in the faded feathers who just walked in. After making it clear, to avoid any confusion, that “this gentleman pays,” she orders, “a glass of port wine and a bit of sugar.”

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

Those two old men who came in "just to have a drink" finished their third shot a few seconds ago; they are completely drunk. The plump, comfortable-looking older women, who each had a glass of rum and syrup, joined in with their complaints about how tough things are. One of the women agreed to buy a round, jokingly saying that "grief doesn’t heal broken bones, and since good people are pretty rare, what I say is, enjoy them while you can, and that’s all there is to it!" This sentiment seems to bring a lot of joy to those who have nothing to spend.

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

It’s getting late, and the crowd of men, women, and children who have been coming and going steadily dwindles down to just a couple of stragglers—cold, pitiful figures in the last stages of starvation and illness. The group of Irish workers at the lower end of the place, who’ve been taking turns shaking hands and threatening each other’s lives for the past hour, become furious in their arguments. Unable to calm one man, who is especially eager to resolve the issue, they decide to knock him down and then jump on him. The man in the fur hat and the barmaid rush out; chaos breaks out. Half the Irishmen get shoved out, while the other half stay in; the barmaid gets knocked into the tubs in no time; the landlord hits everyone, and everyone hits the landlord back; the barmaids scream; the police arrive; and what follows is a chaotic mix of flailing arms, legs, clubs, ripped clothes, shouting, and struggling. Some of the group are dragged off to the station, while the rest sneak home to take out their frustrations on their wives for complaining and to kick the kids for daring to be hungry.

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

We have only briefly touched on this topic, not just because our limits force us to, but also because discussing it further would be uncomfortable and unappealing. Kind-hearted men and generous women would react with coldness and disgust to a description of the drunk individuals and the miserable, broken-down women who make up a significant part of the regulars at these places; they forget, in their self-satisfaction, about the poverty of one and the temptations faced by the other. Drinking gin is a major issue in England, but misery and squalor are even bigger problems; unless we improve the living conditions of the poor or convince a starving person not to seek temporary escape from their suffering with the little money they have, which could provide a bite of bread for each family member, gin establishments will continue to grow in number and appeal. If Temperance Societies could provide solutions to hunger, filth, and bad air or set up free clinics to distribute bottles of a forgetfulness concoction, gin palaces would become a thing of the past.

CHAPTER XXIII-THE PAWNBROKER'S SHOP

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

Of the many places of misery and distress that sadly fill the streets of London, there are probably none that showcase such striking scenes as the pawnbroker shops. The very nature of these places means they are known to very few people, except for those unfortunate souls whose reckless choices or bad luck force them to seek the temporary help these shops provide. This topic might not seem appealing at first glance, but we’ll discuss it anyway, hoping that within the limits of this paper, it won't offend even the most discerning reader.

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

There are some really high-quality pawnshops out there. Just like everything else, there are different levels of pawning, and we need to recognize these differences, even in tough times. The elegant Spanish cloak and the simple cotton shirt, the silver fork and the flat iron, the muslin cravat and the Belcher neckerchief don’t really go together; similarly, the more upscale pawnbroker likes to call himself a silversmith and fills his shop with beautiful trinkets and expensive jewelry, while the more basic moneylender openly advertises what he does and invites attention. It’s the pawnshops of this second kind that we’ll focus on. We’ve picked one for our purposes and will try to describe it.

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

The pawnbroker's shop is located near Drury Lane, at the corner of a lane that provides a side entrance for customers who want to avoid being seen by passersby or recognized on the street. It's a low, dirty, dusty shop, with a door that always stands a bit ajar: half inviting, half pushing away any hesitant visitor. If someone is new to this scene, they might examine one of the old garnet brooches in the window for a minute or two, pretending to be interested in buying it; then they’ll cautiously check that no one is watching them before quickly slipping inside, the door closing by itself to its previous width. The shop front and window frames clearly show signs of once being painted, but it’s impossible to know what the original color was or when it was last painted. It’s said that the transparent part of the front door, which displays three red balls on a blue background at night, originally had the words “Money advanced on plate, jewels, wearing apparel, and every type of property” inscribed in elegant script, but now only some indecipherable markings remain to prove that. It seems the plates and jewels have vanished along with the sign, as the items shown in the window are not particularly valuable. There are a few old china cups, some modern vases decorated with cheap paintings of three Spanish men playing guitars, or a group of peasants drinking, with each drinker awkwardly lifting one leg in the air to show how carefree they are. There are also several sets of chess pieces, a couple of flutes, some violins, a round-eyed portrait looking surprised against a dark background, brightly-bound prayer books and testaments, two rows of silver watches that are as clunky and almost as large as the first ones made by Ferguson; many old-fashioned table and tea spoons arranged like a fan in half-dozens; strings of coral with oversized gilt clasps; cards with rings and brooches, each labeled and pinned like specimens in a museum; cheap silver penholders and snuff boxes adorned with a masonic star complete the jewelry section. Meanwhile, five or six beds in stained, worn covers, blankets and sheets, silk and cotton handkerchiefs, and all kinds of clothing make up the less decorative but more practical items for sale. A large assortment of planes, chisels, saws, and other carpentry tools that have been pawned and never reclaimed forms the foreground of the scene, while large frames filled with tagged bundles can barely be seen through the dirty window upstairs. The shabby neighborhood has neighboring houses that are scraggly, decrepit, with a few filthy heads poking out of every window, and old red pots and stunted plants cluttering the rickety ledges, posing a risk to the heads of those walking by. Noisy men hang around under the archway at the corner of the lane or at the bar next door, while their wives wait patiently on the curb, surrounded by large baskets of cheap vegetables for sale.

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

If the outside of the pawnbroker's shop grabs the attention or sparks the curiosity of a passerby, the interior is even more effective at doing the same. The front door, which we mentioned earlier, leads into the main shop, where all the customers who are used to this kind of place are indifferent to the gaze of their fellow less fortunate visitors. The side door opens into a small hallway, from which about six doors (that can be locked from the inside with bolts) lead into several small rooms or cubicles facing the counter. Here, the more shy or respectable members of the crowd hide from the rest and patiently wait for the gentleman behind the counter with curly black hair, a diamond ring, and a double silver watch chain to pay them some attention—a result that largely depends on his mood at the moment.

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

Right now, this well-dressed person is busy writing down the duplicate he just created in a thick book. He occasionally gets distracted by a conversation he's having with another young man nearby, who also seems to be doing the same thing. The young man is mentioning 'that last bottle of soda water from last night' and 'how proud he felt when the young lady handed them over,' which hints at some fun they had the night before. However, most of the other customers don’t seem to share in the humor, as an elderly, sickly-looking woman who has been leaning on the counter with a small bundle for the past half hour suddenly cuts into the conversation, addressing the jeweled shopkeeper. 'Now, Mr. Henry, please hurry, there’s a good soul, because my two grandchildren are locked up at home, and I’m worried about the fire.' The shopkeeper slightly lifts his head, appearing deep in thought, and continues his writing as if he were engraving. 'You’re in a hurry, Mrs. Tatham, this evening, aren’t you?' is the only reply he gives after about five minutes. 'Yes, I really am, Mr. Henry; please serve me next, there's a good creature. I wouldn’t bother you, but it’s all because of those pesky children.' 'What do you have here?' asks the shopkeeper, unwrapping the bundle. 'Old stuff, I suppose—a pair of stays and a petticoat. You’ll have to find something else, old woman; I can’t lend you anything more on these; they’re totally worn out by now, just from putting them in and taking them out three times a week.' 'Oh! you’re quite the character,' the old woman replies, laughing politely, as expected; 'I wish I could talk like you; you wouldn’t see me in such a bind! No, no; it’s not the petticoat; it’s a child’s dress and a lovely silk handkerchief that belongs to my husband. He paid four shillings for it on the very same day he broke his arm.' 'What do you want for these?' asks Mr. Henry, briefly glancing at the items, which he probably recognizes. 'What do you want for these?' 'Eighteen pence.' 'I can lend you nine pence.' 'Oh, make it a shilling; please do?' 'Not another farthing.' 'Well, I guess I’ll have to take it.' The duplicate is written up, one ticket pinned to the parcel, the other given to the old woman; the parcel is tossed carelessly into a corner, and yet another customer insists on being served without any more delay.

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

The choice lands on a scruffy, dirty guy who looks like he's had a rough day. His messed-up paper cap, carelessly tilted over one eye, adds to his unpleasant appearance. Just fifteen minutes ago, he was kicking his wife outside. He's here to pick up some tools—probably to finish a job for which he’s already been paid, judging by his flushed face and the way he's stumbling around. After waiting a bit, he takes out his bad mood on a ragged little kid, who tries to get closer to the counter by climbing and then awkwardly hanging on with his elbows—a tricky spot that makes him fall now and then, usually landing on the toes of whoever is nearby. In this instance, the poor kid gets a smack that sends him stumbling toward the door, and the guy who hit him quickly becomes the target of everyone's anger.

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

"What are you hitting the kid for, you brute?" shouts a disheveled woman with two flat irons in a small basket. "Do you think he's your wife, you jerk?" "Go hang yourself!" replies the man, looking drunk and stupid, as he swings a punch at the woman that fortunately misses. "Go hang yourself, and wait for me to come cut you down." "Cut you down," the woman snaps back, "I wish I could cut you up, you good-for-nothing! (loud.) Oh! you precious good-for-nothing! (a bit louder.) Where's your wife, you jerk? (even louder; women like her always get dramatic quickly.) Your poor dear wife, who you treat worse than a dog—hitting a woman—you're a man! (very shrill;) I wish I had you—I’d kill you, I would, even if it meant my own life!" "Now be civil," the man snaps back fiercely. "Be civil, you scumbag!" the woman scoffs. "Isn't it shocking?" she goes on, turning to an old woman peeking out from one of the little closets we've mentioned, who is more than happy to join in the confrontation, feeling safe behind her door. "Isn't it shocking, ma'am?" (Dreadful! the old woman replies, uncertain about what the question is referring to.) "He has a wife, ma'am, who does laundry and is as hardworking as they come, (very fast) living in the back room of our house, while my husband and I are in the front (speaking quickly)—and we sometimes hear him beating her when he comes home drunk, all night long, and not just her, but his own child too, to make her even more miserable—ugh, you beast! And she, poor thing, won’t go to the cops or do anything, because deep down she still cares for the idiot—what bad luck!" At this point, out of breath, the woman is interrupted by the pawnbroker, who has just appeared in a gray bathrobe. "Now I won’t have this nonsense in my shop!" he interjects with authority. "Mrs. Mackin, mind your own business, or you won’t get a penny for that flat iron here; and Jinkins, leave your ticket here until you’re sober, and have your wife come get those two planes, because I won’t serve you at any price; so get out of here before I make you really go."

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

This eloquent speech has the opposite effect that was intended; the women shout in unison; the man lashes out in all directions, and is in the process of making an undeniable claim for a free place to stay for the night, when his wife enters. She's a miserable, exhausted woman, clearly in the last stages of illness, with a face that shows obvious signs of recent mistreatment, and her strength barely seems enough to carry the light, sickly child in her arms. This moment shifts his cowardly anger in a safer direction. "Come home, dear," the miserable woman pleads, "please come home, there's a good fellow, and go to bed." "You go home," the enraged man responds. "Please just come home quietly," the wife pleads, bursting into tears. "You go home yourself," the husband retorts again, punctuating his argument with a blow that sends the poor woman flying out of the shop. Her "natural protector" follows her into the alley, alternately expressing his rage by speeding her along and by knocking the little, worn blue bonnet of the unfortunate child down over its already faded and unhealthy face.

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

In the last corner of the shop, far away from the gas lights, there's a young, delicate girl around twenty and an older woman who is clearly her mother, evident from their resemblance. They stand back a bit, almost like they want to avoid the shopkeeper's gaze. This isn’t their first trip to a pawn shop; they respond without hesitation to the usual questions, asked in a respectful but lower tone, like "What name should I say? Your own property, right? Where do you live? Housekeeper or lodger?" They also negotiate for a higher loan than what the shopkeeper initially offers, something a stranger wouldn’t typically do. The older woman quietly encourages her daughter to use all her persuasive skills to get a better amount, emphasizing the value of the items they brought to raise some cash. They have a small gold chain and a 'Forget Me Not' ring, which belong to the girl since they’re too small for the mother. These items were given to her in better times and were likely valued once for the giver's sake, but now they’re sold without hesitation. The harsh reality of their situation has toughened the mother, and that toughness has worn off on the girl. The thought of getting money, combined with memories of the suffering they've experienced due to its absence—the coldness from former friends, the harsh rejections from some, and the even more painful pity from others—seems to have erased any feelings of humiliation they might have had about their current state.

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

In the next box, there's a young woman whose clothing is painfully shabby yet strikingly flashy, chillingly cold but also extraordinarily fine. Her outfit clearly shows her situation. The rich satin dress with its faded embellishments, the worn-out thin shoes, and pink silk stockings, the summer hat worn in winter, and her sunken face, where just a dab of rouge highlights the damage done by lost health that can never be reclaimed, and lost happiness that can never be revived. The practiced smile she wears is a heartbreaking mockery of her inner sorrow. It’s clear that something about the brief glimpse she caught of her young neighbor, and the small items she has pawned, has triggered a distant memory in her mind, shifting her whole demeanor for a moment. Her first instinct was to lean forward to get a better look at her partially hidden companions; her next reaction, upon seeing them recoil from her, was to retreat to the back of the box, cover her face with her hands, and break down in tears.

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

There are unusual chords in the human heart that may remain silent through years of immorality and wrongdoing, but will eventually resonate due to some seemingly minor event that, while trivial on its own, is linked in some unclear and vague way to the past that can never be retrieved, and to painful memories that even the most wretched person cannot avoid.

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

There was another onlooker, a woman from the neighborhood store; she was rough around the edges, messy, without a headscarf, and careless in her appearance. At first, her curiosity was piqued by the little she could glimpse of the group; then it turned into focus. The tipsy smirk on her face shifted to something that resembled genuine interest, and for just a brief moment, a feeling similar to what we've described seemed to reach even her heart.

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

Who can predict how soon these women might swap places? The last one has only two more stops—the hospital and the grave. How many women in her situation, like her two companions and like she may have been once, have met the same miserable end in such a miserable way! One is already following her path at a terrifying speed. How soon might the other do the same! How many have already done it!

CHAPTER XXIV-CRIMINAL COURTS

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

We will never forget the mix of awe and respect with which we used to look at the outside of Newgate during our school days. The rough, heavy walls and low, sturdy doors seemed so terrifying to us—the doors looked like they were designed just to let people in and never let them out again. Then there were the chains over the debtors' door, which we thought were a genuine set of shackles, just hanging there for convenience, ready to be grabbed and fastened onto some defiant criminal at any moment! We were always curious about how the cab drivers at the stand across the street could crack jokes in front of such horrors and sip on their half-and-half so close to the very last drop.

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

We often wandered here, over time, to catch a glimpse of the whipping post and that dark building on one side of the yard, which housed the gallows with all its horrifying equipment. We half expected to see a brass plaque on the door that read 'Mr. Ketch' because we could never imagine that such a prominent figure could possibly live anywhere else! Those days of childish fantasies have faded, taking with them many other youthful ideas of a more cheerful nature. But we still hold onto enough of our original feelings that even now, we can't pass the building without experiencing a bit of a shudder.

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

What London pedestrian hasn’t, at some point, quickly glanced through the gate where prisoners enter this gloomy building, looking at the few things they can see with an indescribable curiosity? The heavy iron door, covered in spikes, is just low enough for you to lean over and see a shady-looking guy in a broad-brimmed hat, a Belcher handkerchief, and top-boots, wearing a brown coat that’s a mix between a great-coat and a sporty jacket, holding a huge key in his left hand. Maybe you’re lucky enough to pass just as the gate swings open; then you’ll see another gate, just like the first one, and two or three more turnkeys who look like copies of the first one, sitting around a fire that barely lights up the whitewashed room enough for you to catch a quick glimpse of these different things. We have a lot of respect for Mrs. Fry, but she definitely should have written more novels than Mrs. Radcliffe.

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

We were strolling casually down the Old Bailey a while back when, as we passed this very gate, it was opened by the on-duty jailer. We instinctively turned around and saw two people coming down the steps. We couldn't help but stop and watch them.

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

There was an elderly woman, looking respectable but clearly poor, and a boy around fourteen or fifteen. The woman was crying hard; she held a small bundle in her hand while the boy trailed a short distance behind her. Their story was clear. The boy was her son, for whom she had likely sacrificed her own comfort—she had endured hardship without complaint and poverty without a word, always looking forward to the day when he, who had witnessed her struggles, could make some efforts to support them both. He had gotten involved with the wrong crowd; idleness had led him to crime, and he had been jailed for some petty theft. He had been in prison for a long time, and after receiving a minor additional punishment, he was set to be released that morning. It was his first offense, and his poor old mother, still hoping to bring him back on the right path, had been waiting at the gate to urge him to come home.

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

We can’t forget the boy; he came down the steps with a determined look, shaking his head with an air of bravado and stubborn resolve. They walked a few steps and stopped. The woman placed her hand on his shoulder in a desperate plea, and the boy reluctantly lifted his head as if to say no. It was a bright morning, and everything looked fresh and cheerful in the warm sunlight; he looked around for a moment, overwhelmed by the brightness of everything, since he hadn't seen anything but the dreary walls of a prison for a long time. Maybe his mother's suffering touched something in the boy's heart; maybe some vague memory of when he was a happy child and she was his only friend and companion flooded back to him—he broke down in tears; covering his face with one hand and quickly taking his mother’s hand with the other, he walked away with her.

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

Curiosity has sometimes taken us into both Courts at the Old Bailey. Nothing is more striking to someone entering for the first time than the calm indifference with which everything happens; every trial feels like just a business transaction. There’s a lot of formality, but no compassion; there's a fair amount of interest, but no sympathy. Take the Old Court, for instance. There sit the judges, whose impressive presence everyone knows, so we won’t elaborate on that. In the center is the Lord Mayor, looking as collected as a Lord Mayor can, with a huge bouquet in front of him, dressed in all the glory of his position. Then there are the Sheriffs, who are nearly as dignified as the Lord Mayor; and the Barristers, who think they’re quite impressive enough themselves; and the audience, who have paid for their tickets and view the entire scene as if it’s tailored just for their entertainment. Look at the entire group in the courtroom—some completely absorbed in their morning papers, others casually chatting in hushed tones, and still others quietly dozing away an hour—and you can hardly believe that the outcome of the trial means life or death for one unfortunate soul present. But shift your gaze to the dock; observe the defendant closely for a few moments; and the reality hits you hard. Notice how he’s been nervously fidgeting for the last ten minutes, shaping all kinds of odd figures with the herbs scattered on the ledge in front of him; see the pale ashiness of his face when a specific witness steps up, and how he shifts uncomfortably and wipes his sweaty forehead and clammy hands when the prosecution concludes its case, as if he’s relieved that the jury now knows the worst.

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

The defense is over; the judge starts summarizing the evidence; and the prisoner watches the jury's faces, like a dying man desperately seeking a glimmer of hope from his doctor. They turn to confer; you can almost hear the man’s heart pounding as he bites the rosemary stem, making a brave attempt to stay calm. They return to their seats—an intense silence fills the room as the foreman announces the verdict—'Guilty!' A scream erupts from a woman in the gallery; the prisoner glances towards the source of the noise and is quickly whisked away from the dock by the guard. The clerk instructs one of the court officers to 'remove the woman,' and they continue with new business as if nothing happened.

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

No imaginary contrast to a situation like this could be as complete as what we see in the New Court, where the seriousness is often disrupted to a great extent by the cleverness and stubbornness of young offenders. A thirteen-year-old boy is tried, let’s say, for pickpocketing some subject of Her Majesty, and the evidence against him is as clear as it can get. When it’s time for him to defend himself, he offers a bit of a speech about the jurors and his country—claims that all the witnesses have lied under oath, and suggests that the police force as a whole has conspired against him. Regardless of how plausible this claim might seem, it fails to persuade the Court, and a scene like the following unfolds:

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

Court: Do you have any witnesses to vouch for your character, kid?

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

Boy: Yes, my Lord; fifteen gentlemen are waiting outside, and it was a wait all day yesterday, which they told me the night before my trial was coming up.

Court. Inquire for these witnesses.

Court. Ask for these witnesses.

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

A stout beadle rushes out and loudly calls for the witnesses; you can hear his voice fade as he goes down the steps into the courtyard below. After about five minutes, he comes back, quite warm and hoarse, and tells the Court what it already knew—there are no witnesses present. At this, the boy starts howling terribly; he presses the lower part of his palms into the corners of his eyes and tries to look completely innocent. The jury immediately finds him 'guilty,' and he intensifies his efforts to squeeze out a tear or two. The prison warden then responds to a question from the bench, saying that the prisoner has been in his custody twice before. The boy firmly denies this, saying something like, "I swear, gentlemen, I've never been in trouble before—honestly, my Lord, I haven’t. It's all a mix-up because I have a twin brother who has wrongly gotten into trouble, and he looks so much like me that no one can tell us apart."

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

This portrayal, similar to the defense, does not achieve the intended outcome, and the boy is sentenced, likely, to seven years of exile. Unable to stir any sympathy, he expresses his emotions with a curse regarding the eyes of 'old big vig!' and as he refuses to make the effort to walk from the dock, he is promptly carried out, satisfied with having managed to create as much hassle for everyone as possible.

CHAPTER XXV-A VISIT TO NEWGATE

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

'The force of habit' is a common saying that everyone uses, and it's quite remarkable that those who say it most about others often show a striking example of how habit and custom influence people's minds. They rarely reflect on things they encounter every day. If a mental institution could suddenly be moved, like a magic castle, and placed where Newgate is now, hardly one in a hundred people passing through Newgate Street or the Old Bailey would walk by without a quick glance at its small, barred windows and a fleeting thought about the unfortunate souls trapped in its dark cells. Yet, these same people hurry past this grim place of guilt and suffering in London, completely unaware of the unfortunate individuals confined within it—not even realizing, or if they do, not caring, that as they pass a certain corner of the thick wall with a light laugh or a cheerful whistle, they are just a yard away from a fellow human being, bound and powerless, whose time is running out, who has lost all hope, and whose miserable life is about to end in a violent and shameful death. Facing death, even in its least frightening form, is serious and unsettling. How much more terrifying it is to think about being so close to the dying—people who are full of health and vitality, in the bloom of youth or the peak of life, with all their senses and perceptions as sharp and clear as your own; yet, they are dying—dying for sure—with the mark of death marked upon them as clearly as if a deadly disease had turned their bodies into mere shadows, and decay had already begun!

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

It was with thoughts like these that we decided, not too long ago, to explore the inside of Newgate—just as amateurs, of course. After following through with our plan, we’re now sharing the results with our readers, hoping—more because of the topic itself than out of any overconfidence in our writing skills—that this article will be somewhat interesting. We just want to say upfront that we won’t bore you with any statistical details about the prison; those can be found in various reports from several committees and equally credible sources. We didn’t take any notes, make any records, or measure any of the yards, and we couldn’t even tell you how many rooms the jail has.

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

We saw the prison and the prisoners; and what we saw and thought, we'll share right away in our own way.

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

After delivering our credentials to the servant who answered the door at the governor's house, we were led into the 'office;' a small room on the right side as you enter, with two windows overlooking the Old Bailey. It was set up like a typical lawyer's office or merchant's counting house, with standard furnishings—a wood-paneled partition, a couple of shelves, a desk, two stools, a couple of clerks, a calendar, a clock, and a few maps. After a brief wait while someone went inside the prison to find the officer who was supposed to guide us, he arrived. He was a respectable-looking man in his fifties, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a full black suit, who, if not for his keys, could easily have been mistaken for a clergyman rather than a prison guard. We were disappointed; he wasn’t even wearing top-boots. Following our guide through a door opposite our entrance, we arrived at a small room that had little more than a small desk with a visitors' autograph book and a shelf with a few boxes for papers and casts of the heads and faces of two infamous murderers, Bishop and Williams. The former had a head shape and features that seemed to provide ample moral grounds for his immediate execution at any time, even without any other evidence against him. Exiting this room through another door, we found ourselves in the lodge that opens onto the Old Bailey; one side of it was filled with a striking collection of heavy sets of irons, including those used by the notorious Jack Sheppard—genuine; and those supposedly used by the equally famous Dick Turpin—uncertain. From this lodge, a heavy oak gate bound with iron and studded with iron nails, watched over by another guard, opened onto a few steps, if I remember correctly, leading to a narrow, gloomy stone passage alongside the Old Bailey. This passage led to various yards through a series of complex and winding paths, each guarded by heavy gates and grates, whose imposing appearance instantly crushed any glimmer of escape that a newcomer might have entertained; and the very thought of it, when we eventually passed through the place again, threw one into a complete state of confusion.

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

It’s important to clarify that the buildings in the prison, or the various wards, form a square, with each side facing the Old Bailey, the old College of Physicians (which is now part of Newgate Market), the Sessions House, and Newgate Street. The space in between is divided into several paved yards where the inmates can get some fresh air and exercise, limited as it is in such an environment. These yards, except for the one where prisoners sentenced to death are held (which we will describe in more detail shortly), run parallel to Newgate Street, essentially stretching from the Old Bailey to Newgate Market. The women’s area is located in the right wing of the prison closest to the Sessions House. Since we were shown this part of the building first, we’ll follow that order and take our readers there as well.

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

Turning to the right down the passage we just mentioned, skipping over any gates—because if we noted every gate that was unlocked for us to go through and then locked again right after, we’d have to mention a gate at every comma—we arrived at a door made of thick wooden bars. Through them, we could see about twenty women moving back and forth in a narrow yard. Most of them, however, as soon as they noticed strangers, retreated to their wards. One side of the yard was fenced off at a good distance, forming a kind of iron cage about five feet ten inches tall, with a roof on top, and secured in front by iron bars that allowed the friends of the female prisoners to communicate with them. In one corner of this strange-looking area was a yellow, haggard, elderly woman in a tattered gown that had once been black and the remnants of an old straw bonnet with faded ribbons of the same color, deeply engrossed in conversation with a young girl—a prisoner, of course—about twenty-two years old. It's hard to imagine a more destitute sight or a being so weighed down in spirit and body by extreme misery and poverty than the old woman. The girl was a good-looking, strong woman, with hair streaming in the wind—since she wasn’t wearing a bonnet—and an old silk handkerchief loosely draped over her broad shoulders. The old woman spoke in a low, stifled voice that deeply conveyed her mental anguish, and every so often she let out an uncontrollable, sharp cry of sorrow, the most distressing sound one could hear. The girl appeared completely unfazed. Hardened beyond any hope of redemption, she listened stubbornly to her mother’s pleas, whatever they were. Other than asking about 'Jem' and eagerly grabbing the few coins her distressed parent had brought her, she showed no more interest in the conversation than the most indifferent onlookers. God knows there were plenty of them among the other prisoners in the yard, who seemed no more affected by what was happening in front of them and within earshot than if they were blind and deaf. Why should they care? Inside and outside the prison, such scenes were too familiar to evoke even a fleeting thought, unless it was ridicule or contempt for feelings they had long since forgotten.

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

A little further on, a grim-looking woman in a messy, thick-bordered cap, with her arms wrapped in a large red shawl, the fringed ends of which dangled almost to the bottom of a dirty white apron, was giving some instructions to her visitor—clearly her daughter. The girl was dressed too lightly and was shaking from the cold. They exchanged a simple acknowledgment when she appeared at the grating, but neither hope, sympathy, regret, nor affection was shown on either side. The mother whispered her instructions, and the girl took them in with her pinched, half-starved face contorting into a look of careful cunning. She was likely revealing some plan for the woman’s defense; a sullen smile flickered on the girl's face for a moment, as if she felt pleased—not so much about her mother’s potential release, but at the chance to ‘get away’ despite her accusers. The exchange quickly wrapped up, and with the same casual indifference with which they had approached each other, the mother turned toward the back of the yard, and the girl headed for the gate she had entered.

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

The girl belonged to a sadly common class, the very existence of which should break men’s hearts. Barely past childhood, it only took a glance to see that she was one of those kids, raised in neglect and hardship, who have never truly experienced what childhood is: who have never learned to love and seek a parent's smile, or to fear a parent's frown. The thousand unnamed affection gestures of childhood, its joy and innocence, are completely foreign to them. They have been thrust directly into the harsh realities and struggles of life, and it is almost futile to appeal to their better nature later on, using any references that might spark, even briefly, some good feelings in ordinary people, no matter how corrupted they may have become. Talk to them about parental care, happy childhood days, and the playful games of infancy! Share stories of hunger and the streets, begging and beatings, the bar, the police station, and the pawn shop, and they will understand you.

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

Two or three women stood at different spots by the grating, chatting with their friends, but a large number of the prisoners seemed to have no friends at all, except for a few old companions who were also inside the walls. So, we quickly moved through the yard, stopping briefly to notice the small events we just mentioned, then we were led up a clean and well-lit set of stone stairs to one of the wards. There are several in this part of the building, but describing one is like describing them all.

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

It was a spacious, empty, whitewashed apartment, lit by windows that faced the inside of the prison, but it was much brighter and airier than one might expect in such a setting. A large fire was burning, with a sturdy table in front of it, where ten or twelve women were seated on wooden benches, having dinner. A shelf ran along both sides of the room; below it, at regular intervals, were large hooks fixed to the wall, each holding a prisoner’s sleeping mat. Her rug and blanket were folded up and placed on the shelf above. At night, these mats are placed on the floor, each under the hook it hangs from during the day, making the ward serve as both a day room and a sleeping area. Over the fireplace was a large piece of cardboard displaying various Scripture texts, which were also scattered around the room in scraps about the size and shape of school copy slips. On the table was enough stewed beef and brown bread in pewter dishes, which were kept perfectly polished and neatly organized on shelves when not in use.

The women rose hastily, on our entrance, and retired in a hurried manner to either side of the fireplace. They were all cleanly-many of them decently-attired, and there was nothing peculiar, either in their appearance or demeanour. One or two resumed the needlework which they had probably laid aside at the commencement of their meal; others gazed at the visitors with listless curiosity; and a few retired behind their companions to the very end of the room, as if desirous to avoid even the casual observation of the strangers. Some old Irish women, both in this and other wards, to whom the thing was no novelty, appeared perfectly indifferent to our presence, and remained standing close to the seats from which they had just risen; but the general feeling among the females seemed to be one of uneasiness during the period of our stay among them: which was very brief. Not a word was uttered during the time of our remaining, unless, indeed, by the wardswoman in reply to some question which we put to the turnkey who accompanied us. In every ward on the female side, a wardswoman is appointed to preserve order, and a similar regulation is adopted among the males. The wardsmen and wardswomen are all prisoners, selected for good conduct. They alone are allowed the privilege of sleeping on bedsteads; a small stump bedstead being placed in every ward for that purpose. On both sides of the gaol, is a small receiving-room, to which prisoners are conducted on their first reception, and whence they cannot be removed until they have been examined by the surgeon of the prison. 161

The women quickly got up when we entered and hurried to either side of the fireplace. They were all clean and many were decently dressed, with nothing unusual about their appearance or behavior. A couple of them picked up the needlework they had likely set aside when their meal started; others looked at us with a casual curiosity; and a few stepped back behind their friends to the far end of the room, seemingly trying to avoid even the brief gaze of the strangers. Some older Irish women, both here and in other wards, seemed completely indifferent to our presence, staying close to the seats they had just left. However, the overall vibe among the women during our short visit was one of unease. Not a single word was spoken while we were there, except for the wardswoman answering a question we asked the guard who was with us. In every female ward, a wardswoman is assigned to maintain order, and the same goes for the male wards. The wardsmen and wardswomen are all prisoners chosen for their good behavior. They are the only ones allowed to sleep on proper beds, with a small bed frame provided in each ward for that purpose. On both sides of the jail, there is a small receiving room where prisoners are taken upon their arrival and cannot be moved from until they have been examined by the prison surgeon. 161

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

Retracing our steps to the gloomy passage we first found ourselves in (which, by the way, has three or four dark cells for holding troublesome prisoners), we were led through a narrow yard to the 'school'—a section of the prison designated for boys under fourteen years old. In a reasonably sized room, equipped with writing materials and some copybooks, was the schoolmaster with a couple of his students; the rest had been brought in from an adjoining room, and they were all lined up for us to look at. There were fourteen of them in total, some wearing shoes, some without; some in pinafores without jackets, others in jackets without pinafores, and one wearing hardly anything at all. Every single one of them had been brought in for trial on charges of pickpocketing, and we had never seen such terrible little faces before. There wasn't a single redeeming quality among them—not a hint of honesty—not a glance that suggested anything other than the gallows and prison ships, in the whole group. As for any sense of shame or regret, that was completely out of the question. They clearly seemed pleased to be thought worthy of being looked at; their impression appeared to be that we had come to see Newgate as a grand spectacle, and that they were an essential part of the show; every boy, as he joined the line, seemed just as happy and important as if he had accomplished something truly commendable by being there at all. We had never witnessed a more off-putting sight, because we had never encountered fourteen such hopeless victims of neglect before.

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

On either side of the school yard, there’s a yard for men. In one of them, the one near Newgate Street, prisoners of a more respectable background are held. We don't have much to say about the other yard since all the different sections are pretty similar. They have mats and rugs, just like the women's side, arranged in the same way during the day. The main noticeable difference between their appearance and the wards for women is the complete lack of any activity. Huddled together on two opposite benches by the fire, maybe twenty men sit; there’s a boy in a uniform here, a man in a rough overcoat and tall boots there, a rough-looking guy in his shirtsleeves with an old Scottish cap on his messy hair nearby, and a tall brute in a work smock next to a miserable-looking guy resting his head on his hand—all of them have one thing in common: they’re all idle and aimless. When they get up from the

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

The only way these men communicate with their friends is through two close iron grates, with a gap of about a yard in between, so nothing can be passed through, and the prisoner can't have any physical contact with the person visiting him. The married men have a separate grate for seeing their wives, but it’s built the same way.

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

The prison chapel is located at the back of the governor's house, which has no windows facing the inside of the prison. Whether the memories connected to this place—the understanding that here a part of the burial service is sometimes held over the living rather than the dead—adds an even gloomier feel than what art has given it, we can't say, but its appearance is very striking. A silent, empty place of worship is always solemn and impressive; and the fact that this one is so different from any we’re used to only heightens that impression. The simplicity of its furnishings—the bare and minimal pulpit, with the shabby painted pillars on either side—the women's gallery with its heavy curtain—the men's section with its unpainted benches and shabby front—the shaky little table at the altar, with the barely readable commandments on the wall above, covered in dust and damp—so unlike the velvet and gold, marble and wood of a modern church—are unusual and striking. There’s one object that draws the attention and captures the gaze, and from which we can't look away in horror, for the memory of it will linger, waking and sleeping, for a long time after. Directly below the reading desk, on the floor of the chapel, and standing out the most in its small space, is the condemned pew; a large black box where the unfortunate people marked for death are placed on the Sunday before their execution, in view of all their fellow prisoners, some of whom they may have been separated from only a week prior, to hear prayers for their souls, to join in the responses of their own burial service, and to listen to a sermon that warns their former companions to learn from their fate, urging them, while there’s still time—almost twenty-four hours—to 'turn, and escape from the wrath to come!' Imagine the feelings of the men confined in that dreadful pew, from whom, between the gallows and the blade, no trace may remain! Think of the desperate clinging to life until the end and the wild despair, which far surpasses the anguish of a felon’s death, with which they hear the grim certainty of their impending transition to another world, with all their crimes bearing down on them, echoed in their ears by the officiating clergyman!

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

At one time—not that long ago—the coffins of the men about to be executed were put in that pew, right next to their seats, during the entire service. It might seem hard to believe, but it really happened. Let's hope that the growing spirit of civilization and humanity that got rid of this horrifying and degrading practice will also extend to other equally barbaric customs; customs that don't even have the excuse of being useful, as we've seen more and more each year that they are increasingly ineffective.

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

Leaving the chapel and heading down the corridor that’s often mentioned, and crossing the yard noted earlier, which is assigned to prisoners of a more respectable sort than the usual crowd here, the visitor reaches a large, heavy iron gate that looks very sturdy. After being let in by the guard on duty, he quickly turns left and stops in front of another gate; once he goes through this final barrier, he finds himself in the most grim part of this dreary building—the condemned ward.

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

The press-yard, well-known to newspaper readers for its frequent mentions in execution reports, is located at the corner of the building, next to the ordinary's house on Newgate Street. It stretches from Newgate Street toward the center of the prison, parallel to Newgate Market. This long, narrow court has one end formed by a section of the wall on Newgate Street and the other by a gate. At the upper end, on the left, adjacent to the Newgate Street wall, is a water cistern, and at the bottom, there's a double grating (of which the gate itself is a part) similar to the one described earlier. Through these grates, prisoners can see their friends while a turnkey remains in the empty space between them during the entire visit. Immediately to the right as you enter is a building that includes the press room, day room, and cells. The yard is completely surrounded by tall walls topped with chevaux de frise, and the entire area is under the constant watch of vigilant and experienced turnkeys.

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

In the first apartment we were shown, located at the top of a staircase and right above the press room, there were about twenty-five or thirty prisoners, all sentenced to death, waiting for the recorder's report. They varied in age and appearance, from a hardened criminal with a dark complexion and three days’ worth of gray beard to a handsome boy who wasn’t even fourteen yet, and looked particularly young for his age, condemned for burglary. There was nothing striking about the appearance of these prisoners. A couple of men dressed decently were staring sadly into the fire; several small groups of two or three were talking at the far end of the room or by the windows; and the rest were gathered around a young man seated at a table, who seemed to be teaching the younger ones how to write. The room was large, airy, and clean. There was very little anxiety or mental suffering visible on any of the men’s faces—they had all been sentenced to death, it’s true, and the recorder’s report hadn’t been given yet; but we wonder if there was anyone among them who didn’t realize that, despite going through the process, it was never intended for him to lose his life. On the table lay a Testament, but there were no signs that it had been used recently.

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

In the press room below were three men, whose crime made it necessary to keep them separate even from their fellow offenders. It’s a long, gloomy room with two windows set into the stone wall, and here the miserable men are shackled on the morning of their execution, before heading to the scaffold. One of the prisoners had an uncertain fate; some mitigating circumstances had come to light since his trial, which had been compassionately communicated to the right people. The other two had no hope for mercy from the crown; their fate was sealed; no argument could lessen their crime, and they knew well that there was no hope for them in this life. 'The two short ones,' the jailer whispered, 'were dead men.'

The man to whom we have alluded as entertaining some hopes of escape, was lounging, at the greatest distance he could place between himself and his companions, in the window nearest to the door. He was probably aware of our approach, and had assumed an air of courageous indifference; his face was purposely averted towards the window, and he stirred not an inch while we were present. The other two men were at the upper end of the room. One of them, who was imperfectly seen in the dim light, had his back towards us, and was stooping over the fire, with his right arm on the mantel-piece, and his head sunk upon it. The other was leaning on the sill of the farthest window. The light fell full upon him, and communicated to his pale, haggard face, and disordered hair, an appearance which, at that distance, was ghastly. His cheek rested upon his hand; and, with his face a little raised, and his eyes wildly staring before him, he seemed to be unconsciously intent on counting the chinks in the opposite wall. We passed this room again afterwards. The first man was pacing up and down the court with a firm military step-he had been a soldier in the foot-guards-and a cloth cap jauntily thrown on one side of his head. He bowed respectfully to our conductor, and the salute was returned. The other two still remained in the positions we have described, and were as motionless as statues. 165

The man we mentioned earlier, who seemed to have some hopes of escaping, was lounging as far away as possible from his companions, by the window closest to the door. He probably noticed us coming and acted like he was bravely indifferent; his face was deliberately turned toward the window, and he didn’t move while we were there. The other two men were at the far end of the room. One of them, who was barely visible in the dim light, had his back to us and was hunched over the fire with his right arm on the mantelpiece, resting his head on it. The other was leaning on the sill of the farthest window. The light illuminated him completely, revealing his pale, worn-out face and messy hair, giving him a ghastly look from that distance. His cheek was resting on his hand, and with his face slightly raised and his eyes wide open, he seemed to be absent-mindedly counting the cracks in the opposite wall. We walked past this room again later. The first man was pacing up and down the courtyard with a firm military stride—he used to serve in the foot-guards—wearing a cloth cap tilted stylishly on one side of his head. He nodded respectfully to our guide, who returned the gesture. The other two remained in their earlier positions, as still as statues. 165

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

A short distance up the yard, continuing from the building with the two rooms we just left, are the condemned cells. You enter through a narrow, dim staircase that leads to a dark hallway, where a charcoal stove gives off a grim glow over the nearby objects and provides a little warmth. On the left side of this hallway, the heavy door to each cell on this floor opens, and they can only be accessed from here. There are three of these hallways, each with three rows of cells, one above the other; however, in size, furnishings, and appearance, they are all exactly the same. Before the recorder's report is made, all prisoners sentenced to death are taken from the day-room at five o’clock in the afternoon and locked in these cells, where they are given a candle until ten o’clock; they stay here until seven the next morning. When the execution warrant for a prisoner arrives, he is taken to the cells and kept in one until he goes to the scaffold. He can walk in the yard, but whether he’s walking or in his cell, he is always watched by a turnkey who never leaves him for any reason.

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

We entered the first cell. It was a stone dungeon, eight feet long and six feet wide, with a bench at one end, underneath which were a common rug, a Bible, and a prayer book. An iron candlestick was mounted on the wall to the side, and a small high window in the back let in as much air and light as could squeeze through the double row of heavy, crossed iron bars. It had no other furniture of any kind.

Conceive the situation of a man, spending his last night on earth in this cell. Buoyed up with some vague and undefined hope of reprieve, he knew not why-indulging in some wild and visionary idea of escaping, he knew not how-hour after hour of the three preceding days allowed him for preparation, has fled with a speed which no man living would deem possible, for none but this dying man can know. He has wearied his friends with entreaties, exhausted the attendants with importunities, neglected in his feverish restlessness the timely warnings of his spiritual consoler; and, now that the illusion is at last dispelled, now that eternity is before him and guilt behind, now that his fears of death amount almost to madness, and an overwhelming sense of his helpless, hopeless state rushes upon him, he is lost and stupefied, and has neither thoughts to turn to, nor power to call upon, the Almighty Being, from whom alone he can seek mercy and forgiveness, and before whom his repentance can alone avail.

Imagine a man spending his last night on earth in this cell. Filled with some vague and uncertain hope for a stay of execution, he doesn't really know why—caught up in a wild and fanciful idea of escaping, though he has no idea how. Hour after hour of the past three days, which he had to prepare, has flown by with a speed that no one could believe possible, except for this dying man who knows. He's worn out his friends with pleas, exhausted the attendants with requests, and ignored the timely warnings of his spiritual advisor in his restless fever. Now that the illusion is finally gone, now that eternity is in front of him and his guilt behind, now that his fear of death is nearly driving him insane, and a crushing sense of his helpless and hopeless situation overwhelms him, he feels lost and dazed. He has neither thoughts to grasp nor strength to call upon the Almighty Being, from whom alone he can seek mercy and forgiveness, and before whom his repentance can only be effective.

Hours have glided by, and still he sits upon the same stone bench with folded arms, heedless alike of the fast decreasing time before him, and the urgent entreaties of the good man at his side. The feeble light is wasting gradually, and the deathlike stillness of the street without, broken only by the rumbling of some passing vehicle which echoes mournfully through the empty yards, warns him that the night is waning fast away. The deep bell of St. Paul's strikes-one! He heard it; it has roused him. Seven hours left! He paces the narrow limits of his cell with rapid strides, cold drops of terror starting on his forehead, and every muscle of his frame quivering with agony. Seven hours! He suffers himself to be led to his seat, mechanically takes the bible which is placed in his hand, and tries to read and listen. No: his thoughts will wander. The book is torn and soiled by use-and like the book he read his lessons in, at school, just forty years ago! He has never bestowed a thought upon it, perhaps, since he left it as a child: and yet the place, the time, the room-nay, the very boys he played with, crowd as vividly before him as if they were scenes of yesterday; and some forgotten phrase, some childish word, rings in his ears like the echo of one uttered but a minute since. The voice of the clergyman recalls him to himself. He is reading from the sacred book its solemn promises of pardon for repentance, and its awful denunciation of obdurate men. He falls upon his knees and clasps his hands to pray. Hush! what sound was that? He starts upon his feet. It cannot be two yet. Hark! Two quarters have struck;-the third-the fourth. It is! Six hours left. Tell him not of repentance! Six hours' repentance for eight times six years of guilt and sin! He buries his face in his hands, and throws himself on the bench.

Hours have passed, and he still sits on the same stone bench with his arms crossed, oblivious to the diminishing time ahead of him and the urgent pleas of the good man beside him. The weak light is slowly fading, and the deathly quiet of the street outside—broken only by the muffled sound of a passing vehicle echoing sadly through the empty yards—warns him that night is slipping away quickly. The deep bell of St. Paul's strikes one! He hears it; it jolts him awake. Seven hours left! He paces back and forth in the narrow confines of his cell, striding quickly, cold beads of fear forming on his forehead, every muscle in his body shaking with agony. Seven hours! He allows himself to be guided to his seat, mechanically takes the Bible placed in his hand, and tries to read and listen. No, his thoughts keep drifting. The book is worn and dirty from use—just like the one he studied from in school, forty years ago! He hasn't thought about it at all, probably, since he left it as a child; yet the place, the time, the room—indeed, the very boys he played with, flash vividly before him as if they were moments from yesterday; and some forgotten phrase, some childish word, rings in his ears like an echo of something spoken just a moment ago. The clergyman’s voice brings him back to the present. He reads from the sacred book its solemn promises of forgiveness for those who repent and its terrible warnings for unyielding souls. He drops to his knees and clasps his hands to pray. Wait! What was that sound? He jumps to his feet. It can’t be two yet. Listen! Two quarters have struck—the third—the fourth. It is! Six hours left. Don’t talk to him about repentance! Six hours of repentance for eight times six years of guilt and sin! He buries his face in his hands and throws himself onto the bench.

Worn with watching and excitement, he sleeps, and the same unsettled state of mind pursues him in his dreams. An insupportable load is taken from his breast; he is walking with his wife in a pleasant field, with the bright sky above them, and a fresh and boundless prospect on every side-how different from the stone walls of Newgate! She is looking-not as she did when he saw her for the last time in that dreadful place, but as she used when he loved her-long, long ago, before misery and ill- treatment had altered her looks, and vice had changed his nature, and she is leaning upon his arm, and looking up into his face with tenderness and affection-and he does not strike her now, nor rudely shake her from him. And oh! how glad he is to tell her all he had forgotten in that last hurried interview, and to fall on his knees before her and fervently beseech her pardon for all the unkindness and cruelty that wasted her form and broke her heart! The scene suddenly changes. He is on his trial again: there are the judge and jury, and prosecutors, and witnesses, just as they were before. How full the court is-what a sea of heads-with a gallows, too, and a scaffold-and how all those people stare at him! Verdict, 'Guilty.' No matter; he will escape.

Worn out from watching and excitement, he sleeps, and the same restless state of mind follows him into his dreams. An unbearable weight is lifted from his chest; he is walking with his wife in a beautiful field, with a bright sky above them and an endless view all around—so different from the stone walls of Newgate! She looks not like she did the last time he saw her in that terrible place, but like she did when he loved her—long ago, before misery and mistreatment changed her appearance and vice altered him. She leans on his arm, gazing up at him with tenderness and affection—and he doesn’t strike her or roughly push her away now. And oh! how happy he is to tell her everything he had forgotten in that last hurried meeting, to kneel before her and sincerely ask for her forgiveness for all the unkindness and cruelty that wore down her spirit and broke her heart! The scene suddenly shifts. He is on trial again: there are the judge, jury, prosecutors, and witnesses, just like before. The courtroom is packed—what a sea of heads—along with a gallows and a scaffold—and all those people are staring at him! Verdict, 'Guilty.' It doesn’t matter; he will escape.

The night is dark and cold, the gates have been left open, and in an instant he is in the street, flying from the scene of his imprisonment like the wind. The streets are cleared, the open fields are gained and the broad, wide country lies before him. Onward he dashes in the midst of darkness, over hedge and ditch, through mud and pool, bounding from spot to spot with a speed and lightness, astonishing even to himself. At length he pauses; he must be safe from pursuit now; he will stretch himself on that bank and sleep till sunrise.

The night is dark and chilly, the gates are wide open, and in an instant he’s in the street, racing away from the place he was trapped like the wind. The streets are empty, he reaches the open fields, and the vast countryside stretches out before him. He charges forward through the darkness, leaping over hedges and ditches, splashing through mud and puddles, moving from one spot to the next with a speed and lightness that surprises even him. Finally, he stops; he must be safe from being chased now; he’ll lie down on that bank and sleep until sunrise.

A period of unconsciousness succeeds. He wakes, cold and wretched. The dull, gray light of morning is stealing into the cell, and falls upon the form of the attendant turnkey. Confused by his dreams, he starts from his uneasy bed in momentary uncertainty. It is but momentary. Every object in the narrow cell is too frightfully real to admit of doubt or mistake. He is the condemned felon again, guilty and despairing; and in two hours more will be dead.

A period of unconsciousness passes. He wakes up, cold and miserable. The dull, gray light of morning is creeping into the cell, illuminating the figure of the guard. Confused by his dreams, he bolts up from his uncomfortable bed in brief uncertainty. It's only brief. Everything in the cramped cell feels too horrifyingly real to allow for doubt or mistake. He is a condemned criminal once more, guilty and hopeless; in just two more hours, he will be dead.

CHARACTERS

CHAPTER I-THOUGHTS ABOUT PEOPLE

It is strange with how little notice, good, bad, or indifferent, a man may live and die in London. He awakens no sympathy in the breast of any single person; his existence is a matter of interest to no one save himself; he cannot be said to be forgotten when he dies, for no one remembered him when he was alive. There is a numerous class of people in this great metropolis who seem not to possess a single friend, and whom nobody appears to care for. Urged by imperative necessity in the first instance, they have resorted to London in search of employment, and the means of subsistence. It is hard, we know, to break the ties which bind us to our homes and friends, and harder still to efface the thousand recollections of happy days and old times, which have been slumbering in our bosoms for years, and only rush upon the mind, to bring before it associations connected with the friends we have left, the scenes we have beheld too probably for the last time, and the hopes we once cherished, but may entertain no more. These men, however, happily for themselves, have long forgotten such thoughts. Old country friends have died or emigrated; former correspondents have become lost, like themselves, in the crowd and turmoil of some busy city; and they have gradually settled down into mere passive creatures of habit and endurance.

It’s odd how little attention, good or bad, a person can get while living and dying in London. No one feels sorry for him; his life only matters to him; he can’t be said to be forgotten when he dies because no one remembered him when he was alive. There’s a large group of people in this huge city who seem to have no friends at all, and nobody seems to care about them. Driven by necessity, they’ve come to London looking for work and a way to make a living. It’s tough, we know, to cut the ties that connect us to our homes and friends, and even harder to shake off the countless memories of happy days and old times that have been in our hearts for years. Those memories come flooding back, bringing to mind associations with the friends we’ve left behind, the places we’ve probably seen for the last time, and the dreams we once had but can no longer hold onto. However, these men, fortunately for themselves, have long since pushed those thoughts aside. Old friends from home have died or moved away; former pen pals have gotten lost in the hustle and bustle of a busy city, just like them; and they have slowly become just passive beings, going through the motions of life.

We were seated in the enclosure of St. James's Park the other day, when our attention was attracted by a man whom we immediately put down in our own mind as one of this class. He was a tall, thin, pale person, in a black coat, scanty gray trousers, little pinched-up gaiters, and brown beaver gloves. He had an umbrella in his hand-not for use, for the day was fine-but, evidently, because he always carried one to the office in the morning. He walked up and down before the little patch of grass on which the chairs are placed for hire, not as if he were doing it for pleasure or recreation, but as if it were a matter of compulsion, just as he would walk to the office every morning from the back settlements of Islington. It was Monday; he had escaped for four-and-twenty hours from the thraldom of the desk; and was walking here for exercise and amusement-perhaps for the first time in his life. We were inclined to think he had never had a holiday before, and that he did not know what to do with himself. Children were playing on the grass; groups of people were loitering about, chatting and laughing; but the man walked steadily up and down, unheeding and unheeded his spare, pale face looking as if it were incapable of bearing the expression of curiosity or interest.

We were sitting in St. James's Park the other day when we noticed a man who we immediately categorized in our minds. He was tall, thin, and pale, wearing a black coat, worn gray trousers, tight little gaiters, and brown beaver gloves. He had an umbrella in his hand—not for use, since the day was nice—but clearly because he always brought one to the office in the morning. He walked back and forth in front of the small patch of grass where chairs are available for hire, not as if he were doing it for fun or relaxation, but more like it was something he had to do, just like his usual walk to the office every morning from the outskirts of Islington. It was Monday; he had managed to escape the confines of his desk for a full twenty-four hours, and was here walking for exercise and enjoyment—maybe for the first time in his life. We suspected he had never taken a holiday before and didn't know how to spend his time. Children were playing on the grass, groups of people were hanging out, chatting and laughing, but the man kept walking steadily back and forth, oblivious and unnoticed, his thin, pale face appearing incapable of showing curiosity or interest.

There was something in the man's manner and appearance which told us, we fancied, his whole life, or rather his whole day, for a man of this sort has no variety of days. We thought we almost saw the dingy little back office into which he walks every morning, hanging his hat on the same peg, and placing his legs beneath the same desk: first, taking off that black coat which lasts the year through, and putting on the one which did duty last year, and which he keeps in his desk to save the other. There he sits till five o'clock, working on, all day, as regularly as the dial over the mantel-piece, whose loud ticking is as monotonous as his whole existence: only raising his head when some one enters the counting-house, or when, in the midst of some difficult calculation, he looks up to the ceiling as if there were inspiration in the dusty skylight with a green knot in the centre of every pane of glass. About five, or half-past, he slowly dismounts from his accustomed stool, and again changing his coat, proceeds to his usual dining-place, somewhere near Bucklersbury. The waiter recites the bill of fare in a rather confidential manner-for he is a regular customer-and after inquiring 'What's in the best cut?' and 'What was up last?' he orders a small plate of roast beef, with greens, and half-a-pint of porter. He has a small plate to-day, because greens are a penny more than potatoes, and he had 'two breads' yesterday, with the additional enormity of 'a cheese' the day before. This important point settled, he hangs up his hat-he took it off the moment he sat down-and bespeaks the paper after the next gentleman. If he can get it while he is at dinner, he eats with much greater zest; balancing it against the water-bottle, and eating a bit of beef, and reading a line or two, alternately. Exactly at five minutes before the hour is up, he produces a shilling, pays the reckoning, carefully deposits the change in his waistcoat-pocket (first deducting a penny for the waiter), and returns to the office, from which, if it is not foreign post night, he again sallies forth, in about half an hour. He then walks home, at his usual pace, to his little back room at Islington, where he has his tea; perhaps solacing himself during the meal with the conversation of his landlady's little boy, whom he occasionally rewards with a penny, for solving problems in simple addition. Sometimes, there is a letter or two to take up to his employer's, in Russell-square; and then, the wealthy man of business, hearing his voice, calls out from the dining-parlour,-'Come in, Mr. Smith:' and Mr. Smith, putting his hat at the feet of one of the hall chairs, walks timidly in, and being condescendingly desired to sit down, carefully tucks his legs under his chair, and sits at a considerable distance from the table while he drinks the glass of sherry which is poured out for him by the eldest boy, and after drinking which, he backs and slides out of the room, in a state of nervous agitation from which he does not perfectly recover, until he finds himself once more in the Islington-road. Poor, harmless creatures such men are; contented but not happy; broken-spirited and humbled, they may feel no pain, but they never know pleasure.

There was something about the man's manner and appearance that made us think we could picture his entire life, or at least his whole day, since a guy like this doesn't really have different days. We imagined we could almost see the dingy little back office he walks into every morning, hanging his hat on the same peg and settling his legs beneath the same desk: first, he takes off that black coat he wears all year round and puts on the one from last year, which he keeps in his desk to save the other. He sits there until five o'clock, working all day, as steadily as the clock on the mantelpiece, its loud ticking as monotonous as his entire existence: he only raises his head when someone enters the counting-house, or when, in the middle of some tricky calculation, he looks up at the ceiling as if he’s seeking inspiration in the dusty skylight with a green knot in the center of every pane of glass. Around five or half-past, he slowly gets off his usual stool, changes his coat again, and heads to his regular dining spot somewhere near Bucklersbury. The waiter, who knows him well, describes the menu in a semi-confidential way—after asking 'What's the best cut?' and 'What was good last night?' he orders a small plate of roast beef with greens and half a pint of porter. He opts for a small plate today because greens cost a penny more than potatoes, and he had 'two breads' yesterday, along with the added extravagance of 'a cheese' the day before. With that important decision made, he hangs up his hat—taking it off as soon as he sits down—and requests the newspaper after the next customer. If he can get it while he’s eating, he enjoys his meal much more, balancing it against the water bottle and alternating between taking bites of beef and reading a line or two. Exactly five minutes before the hour is up, he pulls out a shilling, pays the bill, carefully puts the change in his waistcoat pocket (after deducting a penny for the waiter), and returns to the office, from which, if it’s not a foreign post night, he heads out again in about half an hour. Then he walks home at his usual pace to his little back room in Islington, where he has his tea; maybe enjoying the company of his landlady’s little boy during the meal, sometimes giving him a penny for solving simple addition problems. Occasionally, he has a letter or two to deliver to his employer in Russell Square; when he arrives, the wealthy businessman calls out from the dining room, ‘Come in, Mr. Smith,’ and Mr. Smith, removing his hat and placing it by the hall chairs, enters timidly, and when he’s kindly told to sit down, he carefully tucks his legs under the chair, sitting a bit away from the table while he drinks the glass of sherry poured for him by the eldest boy. After he drinks it, he backs away and slips out of the room, feeling nervous and agitated, not fully recovering until he’s back on the Islington road. Poor, harmless souls those men are; content but not happy; broken-spirited and humiliated, they may feel no pain, but they never experience pleasure.

Compare these men with another class of beings who, like them, have neither friend nor companion, but whose position in society is the result of their own choice. These are generally old fellows with white heads and red faces, addicted to port wine and Hessian boots, who from some cause, real or imaginary-generally the former, the excellent reason being that they are rich, and their relations poor-grow suspicious of everybody, and do the misanthropical in chambers, taking great delight in thinking themselves unhappy, and making everybody they come near, miserable. You may see such men as these, anywhere; you will know them at coffee-houses by their discontented exclamations and the luxury of their dinners; at theatres, by their always sitting in the same place and looking with a jaundiced eye on all the young people near them; at church, by the pomposity with which they enter, and the loud tone in which they repeat the responses; at parties, by their getting cross at whist and hating music. An old fellow of this kind will have his chambers splendidly furnished, and collect books, plate, and pictures about him in profusion; not so much for his own gratification, as to be superior to those who have the desire, but not the means, to compete with him. He belongs to two or three clubs, and is envied, and flattered, and hated by the members of them all. Sometimes he will be appealed to by a poor relation-a married nephew perhaps-for some little assistance: and then he will declaim with honest indignation on the improvidence of young married people, the worthlessness of a wife, the insolence of having a family, the atrocity of getting into debt with a hundred and twenty-five pounds a year, and other unpardonable crimes; winding up his exhortations with a complacent review of his own conduct, and a delicate allusion to parochial relief. He dies, some day after dinner, of apoplexy, having bequeathed his property to a Public Society, and the Institution erects a tablet to his memory, expressive of their admiration of his Christian conduct in this world, and their comfortable conviction of his happiness in the next.

Compare these men with another group of individuals who, like them, have no friends or companions, but whose situation in society is a result of their own choices. These are usually older men with white hair and red faces, who are fond of port wine and wearing Hessian boots. For some reason—often a real one, though sometimes just in their heads—usually because they are wealthy while their relatives are not, they become suspicious of everyone. They embrace a misanthropic lifestyle, finding great pleasure in believing they are unhappy and making anyone close to them miserable. You can spot such men anywhere; you’ll recognize them at coffee shops by their disgruntled remarks and fancy meals; at theaters, by their tendency to sit in the same spot and glare at the young people around them; at church, by their overblown entrance and the loud way they respond; and at parties, by their annoyance at card games and their dislike for music. An older man of this sort will have his place beautifully furnished, collecting books, silver, and artwork in abundance—not so much for his own enjoyment, but to show off to those who want the same but can't afford it. He belongs to a few clubs and is both envied and resented by their members. Sometimes a poor relative, maybe a married nephew, will ask him for a little help. He’ll then passionately rant about the irresponsibility of young married people, the uselessness of a wife, the audacity of having a family, and the outrage of going into debt while making only one hundred and twenty-five pounds a year, along with other unforgivable offenses; he’ll conclude his lecture with a proud look at his own behavior and a subtle nod to government assistance. He dies one day after dinner from a stroke, leaving his fortune to a public organization, which then puts up a plaque in his honor, praising his Christian behavior in this life and their hopeful belief in his happiness in the afterlife.

But, next to our very particular friends, hackney-coachmen, cabmen and cads, whom we admire in proportion to the extent of their cool impudence and perfect self-possession, there is no class of people who amuse us more than London apprentices. They are no longer an organised body, bound down by solemn compact to terrify his Majesty's subjects whenever it pleases them to take offence in their heads and staves in their hands. They are only bound, now, by indentures, and, as to their valour, it is easily restrained by the wholesome dread of the New Police, and a perspective view of a damp station-house, terminating in a police-office and a reprimand. They are still, however, a peculiar class, and not the less pleasant for being inoffensive. Can any one fail to have noticed them in the streets on Sunday? And were there ever such harmless efforts at the grand and magnificent as the young fellows display! We walked down the Strand, a Sunday or two ago, behind a little group; and they furnished food for our amusement the whole way. They had come out of some part of the city; it was between three and four o'clock in the afternoon; and they were on their way to the Park. There were four of them, all arm-in-arm, with white kid gloves like so many bridegrooms, light trousers of unprecedented patterns, and coats for which the English language has yet no name-a kind of cross between a great-coat and a surtout, with the collar of the one, the skirts of the other, and pockets peculiar to themselves.

But next to our very specific friends, taxi drivers, cabbies, and hustlers, who we admire based on how cool and confident they are, there’s no group that entertains us more than London apprentices. They’re no longer an organized group, bound by a serious promise to scare the citizens whenever they feel like it and wielding staffs in their hands. Now, they’re only bound by contracts, and when it comes to their bravery, it’s easily kept in check by the healthy fear of the New Police, and the looming image of a damp police station, ending with being taken to the police office and getting scolded. However, they still remain a unique group and are just as enjoyable for being harmless. Can anyone fail to notice them out in the streets on Sundays? And have there ever been such innocent attempts to be grand and magnificent as the young guys display? A Sunday or two ago, we walked down the Strand behind a small group; they provided us with entertainment the entire way. They had come from some part of the city; it was between three and four in the afternoon; and they were heading to the park. There were four of them, all linked arms, wearing white kid gloves like they were grooms, light trousers with eye-catching patterns, and coats that the English language hasn’t even named yet—a sort of blend between a greatcoat and a long overcoat, with the collar of one, the skirts of the other, and pockets that were uniquely their own.

Each of the gentlemen carried a thick stick, with a large tassel at the top, which he occasionally twirled gracefully round; and the whole four, by way of looking easy and unconcerned, were walking with a paralytic swagger irresistibly ludicrous. One of the party had a watch about the size and shape of a reasonable Ribstone pippin, jammed into his waistcoat-pocket, which he carefully compared with the clocks at St. Clement's and the New Church, the illuminated clock at Exeter 'Change, the clock of St. Martin's Church, and the clock of the Horse Guards. When they at last arrived in St. James's Park, the member of the party who had the best-made boots on, hired a second chair expressly for his feet, and flung himself on this two-pennyworth of sylvan luxury with an air which levelled all distinctions between Brookes's and Snooks's, Crockford's and Bagnigge Wells.

Each of the guys carried a thick stick with a big tassel on top, which he occasionally twirled around gracefully. The four of them, trying to look relaxed and unconcerned, walked with a hilariously awkward swagger. One of them had a watch about the size and shape of a decent Ribstone pippin, crammed into his waistcoat pocket, which he carefully compared with the clocks at St. Clement's, the New Church, the illuminated clock at Exeter 'Change, the clock of St. Martin's Church, and the clock of the Horse Guards. When they finally arrived in St. James's Park, the guy with the best-made boots hired a second chair just for his feet and threw himself onto this little bit of outdoor luxury with an attitude that erased any distinctions between Brookes's and Snooks's, Crockford's and Bagnigge Wells.

We may smile at such people, but they can never excite our anger. They are usually on the best terms with themselves, and it follows almost as a matter of course, in good humour with every one about them. Besides, they are always the faint reflection of higher lights; and, if they do display a little occasional foolery in their own proper persons, it is surely more tolerable than precocious puppyism in the Quadrant, whiskered dandyism in Regent-street and Pall-mall, or gallantry in its dotage anywhere.

We might smile at these people, but they can never really make us angry. They usually get along well with themselves, and, naturally, they're also in good spirits with everyone around them. Plus, they often reflect qualities from those who are more pleasant; and if they occasionally act a little foolishly themselves, it's definitely more bearable than immature behavior in busy areas, flashy style on Regent Street and Pall Mall, or being overly charming while past one's prime anywhere.

CHAPTER II-A CHRISTMAS DINNER

Christmas time! That man must be a misanthrope indeed, in whose breast something like a jovial feeling is not roused-in whose mind some pleasant associations are not awakened-by the recurrence of Christmas. There are people who will tell you that Christmas is not to them what it used to be; that each succeeding Christmas has found some cherished hope, or happy prospect, of the year before, dimmed or passed away; that the present only serves to remind them of reduced circumstances and straitened incomes-of the feasts they once bestowed on hollow friends, and of the cold looks that meet them now, in adversity and misfortune. Never heed such dismal reminiscences. There are few men who have lived long enough in the world, who cannot call up such thoughts any day in the year. Then do not select the merriest of the three hundred and sixty-five for your doleful recollections, but draw your chair nearer the blazing fire-fill the glass and send round the song-and if your room be smaller than it was a dozen years ago, or if your glass be filled with reeking punch, instead of sparkling wine, put a good face on the matter, and empty it off-hand, and fill another, and troll off the old ditty you used to sing, and thank God it's no worse. Look on the merry faces of your children (if you have any) as they sit round the fire. One little seat may be empty; one slight form that gladdened the father's heart, and roused the mother's pride to look upon, may not be there. Dwell not upon the past; think not that one short year ago, the fair child now resolving into dust, sat before you, with the bloom of health upon its cheek, and the gaiety of infancy in its joyous eye. Reflect upon your present blessings-of which every man has many-not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some. Fill your glass again, with a merry face and contented heart. Our life on it, but your Christmas shall be merry, and your new year a happy one!

Christmas time! That person must really be a misanthrope if they don’t feel a bit joyful or don’t recall any happy memories when Christmas comes around. Some people will tell you that Christmas isn’t what it used to be for them; every year seems to remind them of lost hopes and dreams, of the good times that have faded, and of how they’re now facing tougher circumstances with smaller incomes—of the extravagant dinners they once shared with insincere friends and of the cold stares they get now in times of struggle. Don't listen to such gloomy thoughts. Few people have lived long enough to not have those memories haunt them at any time of the year. So, don’t use the most cheerful day of the year to dwell on sad recollections; instead, pull your chair closer to the warm fire, fill your glass, and let the singing begin. And if your space feels smaller than it did years ago, or if you’re drinking warm punch instead of sparkling wine, just put on a brave face, drink up, pour another, sing that old song you used to love, and be thankful that it’s not any worse. Look at the happy faces of your children (if you have any) as they gather around the fire. One little spot might be empty; one small presence that used to fill your heart with joy and pride might be missing. Don’t dwell on the past; don’t remind yourself that just a year ago that delightful child who is now gone sat in front of you, glowing with health and the joy of childhood in their eyes. Focus on your current blessings—everyone has many—rather than on past misfortunes, which everyone has to some extent. Fill your glass again, with a cheerful face and a happy heart. I promise you, your Christmas will be joyful, and your new year will be happy!

Who can be insensible to the outpourings of good feeling, and the honest interchange of affectionate attachment, which abound at this season of the year? A Christmas family-party! We know nothing in nature more delightful! There seems a magic in the very name of Christmas. Petty jealousies and discords are forgotten; social feelings are awakened, in bosoms to which they have long been strangers; father and son, or brother and sister, who have met and passed with averted gaze, or a look of cold recognition, for months before, proffer and return the cordial embrace, and bury their past animosities in their present happiness. Kindly hearts that have yearned towards each other, but have been withheld by false notions of pride and self-dignity, are again reunited, and all is kindness and benevolence! Would that Christmas lasted the whole year through (as it ought), and that the prejudices and passions which deform our better nature, were never called into action among those to whom they should ever be strangers!

Who can be indifferent to the outpouring of goodwill and the genuine exchange of affection that fills this time of year? A Christmas family gathering! There's nothing in nature more delightful! There seems to be a magic in the very name of Christmas. Small jealousies and disagreements are forgotten; warm feelings are awakened in hearts that have long been closed off; fathers and sons, or brothers and sisters, who have met and looked away or exchanged a cold nod for months, now offer and share warm embraces, putting aside past conflicts for the joy of the moment. Kind hearts that have longed for each other but have been held back by false ideas of pride and self-respect come together again, and everything is filled with kindness and goodwill! If only Christmas could last all year (as it should), and that the biases and passions that tarnish our better nature were never stirred among those who should always be strangers to them!

The Christmas family-party that we mean, is not a mere assemblage of relations, got up at a week or two's notice, originating this year, having no family precedent in the last, and not likely to be repeated in the next. No. It is an annual gathering of all the accessible members of the family, young or old, rich or poor; and all the children look forward to it, for two months beforehand, in a fever of anticipation. Formerly, it was held at grandpapa's; but grandpapa getting old, and grandmamma getting old too, and rather infirm, they have given up house- keeping, and domesticated themselves with uncle George; so, the party always takes place at uncle George's house, but grandmamma sends in most of the good things, and grandpapa always will toddle down, all the way to Newgate-market, to buy the turkey, which he engages a porter to bring home behind him in triumph, always insisting on the man's being rewarded with a glass of spirits, over and above his hire, to drink 'a merry Christmas and a happy new year' to aunt George. As to grandmamma, she is very secret and mysterious for two or three days beforehand, but not sufficiently so, to prevent rumours getting afloat that she has purchased a beautiful new cap with pink ribbons for each of the servants, together with sundry books, and pen-knives, and pencil-cases, for the younger branches; to say nothing of divers secret additions to the order originally given by aunt George at the pastry-cook's, such as another dozen of mince-pies for the dinner, and a large plum-cake for the children.

The Christmas family party we’re talking about isn’t just a quick get-together of relatives thrown together on short notice. It’s an annual gathering of all the family members who can make it, young or old, rich or poor; and all the kids look forward to it with excitement for two months in advance. It used to be at grandpa's house, but since he and grandma are getting older and a bit frail, they’ve stopped hosting and moved in with Uncle George. So now, the party always happens at Uncle George's place, but grandma still sends most of the good food, and grandpa insists on walking all the way to Newgate Market to buy the turkey. He hires a porter to carry it home like a champion, always making sure to give the guy a drink on top of his fee, so they can toast "a merry Christmas and a happy new year" to Aunt George. As for grandma, she’s pretty secretive in the days leading up to the party, but not secretive enough to keep the rumors from spreading that she’s bought beautiful new caps with pink ribbons for each of the servants, along with various books, penknives, and pencil cases for the younger kids; not to mention some extra surprises added to the original order Aunt George placed at the bakery, like another dozen mince pies for dinner and a big plum cake for the kids.

On Christmas-eve, grandmamma is always in excellent spirits, and after employing all the children, during the day, in stoning the plums, and all that, insists, regularly every year, on uncle George coming down into the kitchen, taking off his coat, and stirring the pudding for half an hour or so, which uncle George good-humouredly does, to the vociferous delight of the children and servants. The evening concludes with a glorious game of blind-man's-buff, in an early stage of which grandpapa takes great care to be caught, in order that he may have an opportunity of displaying his dexterity.

On Christmas Eve, grandma is always in great spirits, and after having all the kids spend the day pitting the plums and doing other tasks, she insists—year after year—that Uncle George comes down to the kitchen, takes off his coat, and stirs the pudding for about half an hour, which Uncle George happily does, much to the loud delight of the kids and the staff. The evening wraps up with an awesome game of blind man's buff, during which grandpa makes sure to get caught early on so he can show off his skills.

On the following morning, the old couple, with as many of the children as the pew will hold, go to church in great state: leaving aunt George at home dusting decanters and filling casters, and uncle George carrying bottles into the dining-parlour, and calling for corkscrews, and getting into everybody's way.

On the next morning, the elderly couple, along with as many of the kids as the pew can fit, goes to church in style, leaving Aunt George at home cleaning decanters and filling the spice containers, while Uncle George moves bottles into the dining room, asking for corkscrews and getting in everyone’s way.

When the church-party return to lunch, grandpapa produces a small sprig of mistletoe from his pocket, and tempts the boys to kiss their little cousins under it-a proceeding which affords both the boys and the old gentleman unlimited satisfaction, but which rather outrages grandmamma's ideas of decorum, until grandpapa says, that when he was just thirteen years and three months old, he kissed grandmamma under a mistletoe too, on which the children clap their hands, and laugh very heartily, as do aunt George and uncle George; and grandmamma looks pleased, and says, with a benevolent smile, that grandpapa was an impudent young dog, on which the children laugh very heartily again, and grandpapa more heartily than any of them.

When the church group returns for lunch, grandpa takes out a small sprig of mistletoe from his pocket and encourages the boys to kiss their little cousins underneath it—a situation that brings both the boys and the old man a lot of joy, but which somewhat offends grandma's sense of propriety, until grandpa shares that when he was just thirteen years and three months old, he kissed grandma under mistletoe too. The children clap their hands and laugh loudly, as do Aunt George and Uncle George; grandma looks pleased and says with a warm smile that grandpa was quite the cheeky young man, which makes the kids laugh heartily again, and grandpa laughs even more than any of them.

But all these diversions are nothing to the subsequent excitement when grandmamma in a high cap, and slate-coloured silk gown; and grandpapa with a beautifully plaited shirt-frill, and white neckerchief; seat themselves on one side of the drawing-room fire, with uncle George's children and little cousins innumerable, seated in the front, waiting the arrival of the expected visitors. Suddenly a hackney-coach is heard to stop, and uncle George, who has been looking out of the window, exclaims 'Here's Jane!' on which the children rush to the door, and helter-skelter down-stairs; and uncle Robert and aunt Jane, and the dear little baby, and the nurse, and the whole party, are ushered up-stairs amidst tumultuous shouts of 'Oh, my!' from the children, and frequently repeated warnings not to hurt baby from the nurse. And grandpapa takes the child, and grandmamma kisses her daughter, and the confusion of this first entry has scarcely subsided, when some other aunts and uncles with more cousins arrive, and the grown-up cousins flirt with each other, and so do the little cousins too, for that matter, and nothing is to be heard but a confused din of talking, laughing, and merriment.

But all these distractions are nothing compared to the excitement that follows when Grandma, wearing a big cap and a slate-colored silk dress, and Grandpa, in a nicely pleated shirt and white neckerchief, sit down by the drawing-room fire. Uncle George's kids and a ton of little cousins gather at the front, eagerly waiting for the expected guests. Suddenly, they hear a hired carriage stop outside, and Uncle George, peering out the window, shouts, "Here’s Jane!" The kids dash to the door and tumble down the stairs. Uncle Robert, Aunt Jane, the sweet little baby, the nurse, and the whole gang come upstairs to the uproarious cheers of "Oh, my!" from the kids, along with the nurse's repeated reminders to be careful with the baby. Grandpa takes the child, Grandma hugs her daughter, and just as the chaos from this first arrival starts to settle, more aunts and uncles with even more cousins show up. The older cousins flirt with each other, while the younger ones do the same, and all around them, there's nothing but a jumble of talking, laughing, and celebration.

A hesitating double knock at the street-door, heard during a momentary pause in the conversation, excites a general inquiry of 'Who's that?' and two or three children, who have been standing at the window, announce in a low voice, that it's 'poor aunt Margaret.' Upon which, aunt George leaves the room to welcome the new-comer; and grandmamma draws herself up, rather stiff and stately; for Margaret married a poor man without her consent, and poverty not being a sufficiently weighty punishment for her offence, has been discarded by her friends, and debarred the society of her dearest relatives. But Christmas has come round, and the unkind feelings that have struggled against better dispositions during the year, have melted away before its genial influence, like half-formed ice beneath the morning sun. It is not difficult in a moment of angry feeling for a parent to denounce a disobedient child; but, to banish her at a period of general good-will and hilarity, from the hearth, round which she has sat on so many anniversaries of the same day, expanding by slow degrees from infancy to girlhood, and then bursting, almost imperceptibly, into a woman, is widely different. The air of conscious rectitude, and cold forgiveness, which the old lady has assumed, sits ill upon her; and when the poor girl is led in by her sister, pale in looks and broken in hope-not from poverty, for that she could bear, but from the consciousness of undeserved neglect, and unmerited unkindness-it is easy to see how much of it is assumed. A momentary pause succeeds; the girl breaks suddenly from her sister and throws herself, sobbing, on her mother's neck. The father steps hastily forward, and takes her husband's hand. Friends crowd round to offer their hearty congratulations, and happiness and harmony again prevail.

A hesitant double knock on the front door, heard during a brief pause in the conversation, triggers a collective curiosity of "Who's that?" and two or three kids, standing by the window, quietly announce that it's "poor Aunt Margaret." In response, Aunt George leaves the room to greet the newcomer, while Grandmamma straightens up, looking rather stiff and formal; Margaret married a poor man without her approval, and since poverty wasn’t punishment enough for her offense, she has been cut off from her friends and banned from the company of her closest relatives. But Christmas has arrived, and the unkind feelings that have clashed with kinder sentiments throughout the year have melted away under its warm influence, like partially frozen ice under the morning sun. It’s easy in a moment of anger for a parent to scold a disobedient child, but to send her away during a time of general goodwill and joy—from the hearth where she has sat for countless anniversaries of the same day, gradually growing from a child into a girl, and then almost imperceptibly into a woman—is something else entirely. The air of self-righteousness and cold forgiveness that the old lady has adopted does not suit her; and when the poor girl is brought in by her sister, looking pale and hopeless—not due to poverty, which she could handle, but from the pain of unearned neglect and unprovoked unkindness—it’s clear how much of it is put on. After a brief pause, the girl suddenly breaks away from her sister and throws herself sobbing into her mother’s arms. The father quickly steps forward and shakes her husband’s hand. Friends gather around to offer their heartfelt congratulations, and happiness and harmony reign once more.

As to the dinner, it's perfectly delightful-nothing goes wrong, and everybody is in the very best of spirits, and disposed to please and be pleased. Grandpapa relates a circumstantial account of the purchase of the turkey, with a slight digression relative to the purchase of previous turkeys, on former Christmas-days, which grandmamma corroborates in the minutest particular. Uncle George tells stories, and carves poultry, and takes wine, and jokes with the children at the side-table, and winks at the cousins that are making love, or being made love to, and exhilarates everybody with his good humour and hospitality; and when, at last, a stout servant staggers in with a gigantic pudding, with a sprig of holly in the top, there is such a laughing, and shouting, and clapping of little chubby hands, and kicking up of fat dumpy legs, as can only be equalled by the applause with which the astonishing feat of pouring lighted brandy into mince-pies, is received by the younger visitors. Then the dessert!-and the wine!-and the fun! Such beautiful speeches, and such songs, from aunt Margaret's husband, who turns out to be such a nice man, and so attentive to grandmamma! Even grandpapa not only sings his annual song with unprecedented vigour, but on being honoured with an unanimous encore, according to annual custom, actually comes out with a new one which nobody but grandmamma ever heard before; and a young scapegrace of a cousin, who has been in some disgrace with the old people, for certain heinous sins of omission and commission-neglecting to call, and persisting in drinking Burton Ale-astonishes everybody into convulsions of laughter by volunteering the most extraordinary comic songs that ever were heard. And thus the evening passes, in a strain of rational good-will and cheerfulness, doing more to awaken the sympathies of every member of the party in behalf of his neighbour, and to perpetuate their good feeling during the ensuing year, than half the homilies that have ever been written, by half the Divines that have ever lived.

As for the dinner, it’s absolutely delightful—nothing goes wrong, and everyone is in great spirits, eager to please and be pleased. Granddad shares a detailed story about buying the turkey, with a brief detour about buying previous turkeys on past Christmas days, which Grandma backs up with every little detail. Uncle George tells stories, carves the turkey, drinks wine, jokes with the kids at the side table, and winks at the cousins who are flirting, spreading good cheer and hospitality to everyone. When, at last, a hefty server comes in with a massive pudding topped with a sprig of holly, there's a burst of laughter, shouting, clapping of chubby little hands, and kicking of stubby legs that can only be matched by the applause for the amazing act of pouring flaming brandy into mince pies, as received by the younger guests. Then comes dessert! And the wine! And the fun! Such beautiful speeches and songs from Aunt Margaret's husband, who turns out to be such a nice guy and so attentive to Grandma! Even Granddad not only sings his annual song with more energy than usual, but after receiving a unanimous encore, which is a yearly tradition, he actually surprises everyone with a new song that only Grandma has heard before. And a young troublemaker of a cousin, who has been in hot water with the older folks for some serious slip-ups—like not visiting and constantly drinking Burton Ale—makes everyone burst into laughter by volunteering the wackiest comic songs ever heard. And so the evening goes on, filled with genuine goodwill and cheer, doing more to foster the sympathies of each party member for their neighbors and to keep their good feelings alive for the coming year than half the sermons that have ever been written by half the preachers who have ever lived.

CHAPTER III-THE NEW YEAR

Next to Christmas-day, the most pleasant annual epoch in existence is the advent of the New Year. There are a lachrymose set of people who usher in the New Year with watching and fasting, as if they were bound to attend as chief mourners at the obsequies of the old one. Now, we cannot but think it a great deal more complimentary, both to the old year that has rolled away, and to the New Year that is just beginning to dawn upon us, to see the old fellow out, and the new one in, with gaiety and glee.

Next to Christmas, the most enjoyable time of year is the arrival of the New Year. There are some gloomy people who welcome the New Year with watching and fasting, as if they are obligated to act like the main mourners at the funeral of the old year. However, we believe it’s much more respectful to both the old year that has passed and the New Year that is just starting to come in to celebrate the old one as it leaves and greet the new one with joy and happiness.

There must have been some few occurrences in the past year to which we can look back, with a smile of cheerful recollection, if not with a feeling of heartfelt thankfulness. And we are bound by every rule of justice and equity to give the New Year credit for being a good one, until he proves himself unworthy the confidence we repose in him.

There must have been a few moments in the past year that we can look back on with a smile, if not with a sense of genuine gratitude. And we are obligated by every standard of fairness to give the New Year the chance to be a good one, until it shows itself to be unworthy of the trust we place in it.

This is our view of the matter; and entertaining it, notwithstanding our respect for the old year, one of the few remaining moments of whose existence passes away with every word we write, here we are, seated by our fireside on this last night of the old year, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-six, penning this article with as jovial a face as if nothing extraordinary had happened, or was about to happen, to disturb our good humour.

This is how we see things; and while we hold some respect for the old year, one of the few remaining moments of its existence slips away with every word we write. Here we are, sitting by our fireplace on this last night of the old year, eighteen thirty-six, writing this article with a cheerful expression as if nothing unusual has happened, or is about to happen, to disrupt our good mood.

Hackney-coaches and carriages keep rattling up the street and down the street in rapid succession, conveying, doubtless, smartly-dressed coachfuls to crowded parties; loud and repeated double knocks at the house with green blinds, opposite, announce to the whole neighbourhood that there's one large party in the street at all events; and we saw through the window, and through the fog too, till it grew so thick that we rung for candles, and drew our curtains, pastry-cooks' men with green boxes on their heads, and rout-furniture-warehouse-carts, with cane seats and French lamps, hurrying to the numerous houses where an annual festival is held in honour of the occasion.

Hackney cabs and carriages keep rattling up and down the street in quick succession, undoubtedly transporting well-dressed groups to busy parties; loud, repeated knocks at the house with green blinds across the way announce to the whole neighborhood that there’s definitely a big party in the street; and we could see through the window, and through the fog too, until it got so thick that we rang for candles and drew our curtains, delivery guys with green boxes on their heads, and furniture-carts with cane seats and French lamps, rushing to the many houses hosting an annual celebration in honor of the event.

We can fancy one of these parties, we think, as well as if we were duly dress-coated and pumped, and had just been announced at the drawing-room door.

We can imagine one of these parties just as clearly as if we were all dressed up in a suit and tie, just announced at the door to the living room.

Take the house with the green blinds for instance. We know it is a quadrille party, because we saw some men taking up the front drawing- room carpet while we sat at breakfast this morning, and if further evidence be required, and we must tell the truth, we just now saw one of the young ladies 'doing' another of the young ladies' hair, near one of the bedroom windows, in an unusual style of splendour, which nothing else but a quadrille party could possibly justify.

Take the house with the green blinds, for example. We know it's a quadrille party because we saw some guys rolling up the front drawing-room carpet while we had breakfast this morning. And if more proof is needed, we just saw one of the young ladies styling another young lady's hair near one of the bedroom windows in a fancy way that nothing but a quadrille party could possibly explain.

The master of the house with the green blinds is in a public office; we know the fact by the cut of his coat, the tie of his neckcloth, and the self-satisfaction of his gait-the very green blinds themselves have a Somerset House air about them.

The owner of the house with the green blinds works in a public office; we can tell by the style of his coat, the way his tie is knotted, and the confident way he walks—the green blinds themselves give off a vibe like Somerset House.

Hark!-a cab! That's a junior clerk in the same office; a tidy sort of young man, with a tendency to cold and corns, who comes in a pair of boots with black cloth fronts, and brings his shoes in his coat-pocket, which shoes he is at this very moment putting on in the hall. Now he is announced by the man in the passage to another man in a blue coat, who is a disguised messenger from the office.

Hark! A cab! That’s a junior clerk from the same office; a neat young guy with a tendency to get colds and corns. He’s wearing a pair of boots with black cloth fronts and is currently pulling his shoes out of his coat pocket and putting them on in the hall. Now he’s being announced by the guy in the hallway to another guy in a blue coat, who is a disguised messenger from the office.

The man on the first landing precedes him to the drawing-room door. 'Mr. Tupple!' shouts the messenger. 'How are you, Tupple?' says the master of the house, advancing from the fire, before which he has been talking politics and airing himself. 'My dear, this is Mr. Tupple (a courteous salute from the lady of the house); Tupple, my eldest daughter; Julia, my dear, Mr. Tupple; Tupple, my other daughters; my son, sir;' Tupple rubs his hands very hard, and smiles as if it were all capital fun, and keeps constantly bowing and turning himself round, till the whole family have been introduced, when he glides into a chair at the corner of the sofa, and opens a miscellaneous conversation with the young ladies upon the weather, and the theatres, and the old year, and the last new murder, and the balloon, and the ladies' sleeves, and the festivities of the season, and a great many other topics of small talk.

The man on the first landing leads the way to the drawing-room door. "Mr. Tupple!" shouts the messenger. "How are you, Tupple?" asks the head of the household, stepping away from the fire, where he has been discussing politics and warming up. "My dear, this is Mr. Tupple," (a polite nod from the lady of the house); "Tupple, this is my oldest daughter; Julia, dear, meet Mr. Tupple; Tupple, my other daughters; my son, sir." Tupple rubs his hands together enthusiastically and smiles as if it's all great fun, continuously bowing and turning around until the entire family has been introduced. Then he smoothly takes a seat in the corner of the sofa and starts a casual conversation with the young ladies about the weather, the theaters, the past year, the latest murder news, hot air balloons, ladies' fashion, the season's festivities, and many other light topics.

More double knocks! what an extensive party! what an incessant hum of conversation and general sipping of coffee! We see Tupple now, in our mind's eye, in the height of his glory. He has just handed that stout old lady's cup to the servant; and now, he dives among the crowd of young men by the door, to intercept the other servant, and secure the muffin-plate for the old lady's daughter, before he leaves the room; and now, as he passes the sofa on his way back, he bestows a glance of recognition and patronage upon the young ladies as condescending and familiar as if he had known them from infancy.

More double knocks! What a huge party! What a constant buzz of conversation and people casually sipping coffee! We can picture Tupple now, at the peak of his glory. He has just handed that plump old lady's cup to the server; and now, he weaves through the crowd of young men by the door to catch the other server and grab the muffin plate for the old lady's daughter before he leaves the room. As he passes the sofa on his way back, he throws a look of recognition and friendliness at the young ladies that’s as condescending and familiar as if he’s known them since childhood.

Charming person Mr. Tupple-perfect ladies' man-such a delightful companion, too! Laugh!-nobody ever understood papa's jokes half so well as Mr. Tupple, who laughs himself into convulsions at every fresh burst of facetiousness. Most delightful partner! talks through the whole set! and although he does seem at first rather gay and frivolous, so romantic and with so much feeling! Quite a love. No great favourite with the young men, certainly, who sneer at, and affect to despise him; but everybody knows that's only envy, and they needn't give themselves the trouble to depreciate his merits at any rate, for Ma says he shall be asked to every future dinner-party, if it's only to talk to people between the courses, and distract their attention when there's any unexpected delay in the kitchen.

Charming Mr. Tupple—such a perfect ladies' man and a delightful companion! Honestly, no one gets Dad's jokes quite like Mr. Tupple, who laughs so hard at every new punchline. He's the most entertaining partner! He chats through the entire round! And while he might come off as a bit lighthearted and silly at first, he's actually quite romantic and has a lot of depth! Totally lovable. The younger guys don't care for him much, that’s for sure; they mock him and pretend to look down on him. But everyone knows that’s just jealousy, and they shouldn't bother trying to belittle his talents, because Mom says he’ll be invited to every future dinner party, just to keep the conversation going between courses and to distract guests during any unexpected delays in the kitchen.

At supper, Mr. Tupple shows to still greater advantage than he has done throughout the evening, and when Pa requests every one to fill their glasses for the purpose of drinking happiness throughout the year, Mr. Tupple is so droll: insisting on all the young ladies having their glasses filled, notwithstanding their repeated assurances that they never can, by any possibility, think of emptying them and subsequently begging permission to say a few words on the sentiment which has just been uttered by Pa-when he makes one of the most brilliant and poetical speeches that can possibly be imagined, about the old year and the new one. After the toast has been drunk, and when the ladies have retired, Mr. Tupple requests that every gentleman will do him the favour of filling his glass, for he has a toast to propose: on which all the gentlemen cry 'Hear! hear!' and pass the decanters accordingly: and Mr. Tupple being informed by the master of the house that they are all charged, and waiting for his toast, rises, and begs to remind the gentlemen present, how much they have been delighted by the dazzling array of elegance and beauty which the drawing-room has exhibited that night, and how their senses have been charmed, and their hearts captivated, by the bewitching concentration of female loveliness which that very room has so recently displayed. (Loud cries of 'Hear!') Much as he (Tupple) would be disposed to deplore the absence of the ladies, on other grounds, he cannot but derive some consolation from the reflection that the very circumstance of their not being present, enables him to propose a toast, which he would have otherwise been prevented from giving-that toast he begs to say is-'The Ladies!' (Great applause.) The Ladies! among whom the fascinating daughters of their excellent host, are alike conspicuous for their beauty, their accomplishments, and their elegance. He begs them to drain a bumper to 'The Ladies, and a happy new year to them!' (Prolonged approbation; above which the noise of the ladies dancing the Spanish dance among themselves, overhead, is distinctly audible.)

At dinner, Mr. Tupple shines even more than he has all evening, and when Dad asks everyone to raise their glasses to drink to happiness for the coming year, Mr. Tupple is incredibly funny. He insists that all the young ladies fill their glasses, despite their repeated claims that they absolutely cannot possibly drink from them, and then he asks for permission to say a few words on the toast that Dad just made. He delivers one of the most brilliant and poetic speeches imaginable about the old year and the new one. After the toast is made and the ladies have stepped away, Mr. Tupple asks every gentleman to do him the favor of filling his glass because he has a toast to propose, prompting all the gentlemen to cheer "Hear! Hear!" and pass the decanters around. After the host confirms that everyone’s glasses are full and ready for his toast, he stands up and reminds the gentlemen how much they have enjoyed the stunning display of elegance and beauty that the drawing-room has shown that night, and how they have been charmed and their hearts stolen by the enchanting array of female loveliness that room has showcased. (Loud cries of "Hear!") While he (Tupple) would normally lament the absence of the ladies for other reasons, he can't help but find some comfort in the fact that their absence allows him to propose a toast that he wouldn't have been able to make otherwise. That toast, he says, is "The Ladies!" (Great applause.) The Ladies! among whom the lovely daughters of their gracious host stand out for their beauty, talents, and grace. He invites them to raise a glass to "The Ladies, and a happy new year to them!" (Long applause; over which the sound of the ladies dancing the Spanish dance above is clearly heard.)

The applause consequent on this toast, has scarcely subsided, when a young gentleman in a pink under-waistcoat, sitting towards the bottom of the table, is observed to grow very restless and fidgety, and to evince strong indications of some latent desire to give vent to his feelings in a speech, which the wary Tupple at once perceiving, determines to forestall by speaking himself. He, therefore, rises again, with an air of solemn importance, and trusts he may be permitted to propose another toast (unqualified approbation, and Mr. Tupple proceeds). He is sure they must all be deeply impressed with the hospitality-he may say the splendour-with which they have been that night received by their worthy host and hostess. (Unbounded applause.) Although this is the first occasion on which he has had the pleasure and delight of sitting at that board, he has known his friend Dobble long and intimately; he has been connected with him in business-he wishes everybody present knew Dobble as well as he does. (A cough from the host.) He (Tupple) can lay his hand upon his (Tupple's) heart, and declare his confident belief that a better man, a better husband, a better father, a better brother, a better son, a better relation in any relation of life, than Dobble, never existed. (Loud cries of 'Hear!') They have seen him to-night in the peaceful bosom of his family; they should see him in the morning, in the trying duties of his office. Calm in the perusal of the morning papers, uncompromising in the signature of his name, dignified in his replies to the inquiries of stranger applicants, deferential in his behaviour to his superiors, majestic in his deportment to the messengers. (Cheers.) When he bears this merited testimony to the excellent qualities of his friend Dobble, what can he say in approaching such a subject as Mrs. Dobble? Is it requisite for him to expatiate on the qualities of that amiable woman? No; he will spare his friend Dobble's feelings; he will spare the feelings of his friend-if he will allow him to have the honour of calling him so-Mr. Dobble, junior. (Here Mr. Dobble, junior, who has been previously distending his mouth to a considerable width, by thrusting a particularly fine orange into that feature, suspends operations, and assumes a proper appearance of intense melancholy). He will simply say-and he is quite certain it is a sentiment in which all who hear him will readily concur-that his friend Dobble is as superior to any man he ever knew, as Mrs. Dobble is far beyond any woman he ever saw (except her daughters); and he will conclude by proposing their worthy 'Host and Hostess, and may they live to enjoy many more new years!'

The applause from this toast has barely died down when a young guy in a pink waistcoat, sitting near the bottom of the table, starts to get really restless and fidgety, showing strong signs that he wants to speak. The cautious Tupple, noticing this, decides to jump in and speak himself. So, he stands up again, looking very serious, and hopes he can propose another toast. He’s sure everyone must be really impressed with the hospitality—and he could even say the splendor—of how they’ve been welcomed by their gracious host and hostess. (Cheers.) Although this is the first time he’s had the pleasure of sitting at this table, he has known his friend Dobble for a long time; they’ve worked together in business—and he wishes everyone present knew Dobble as well as he does. (A cough from the host.) He can put his hand on his heart and honestly say he believes no one is a better man, husband, father, brother, son, or relative in any role than Dobble. (Loud cries of ‘Hear!’) They’ve seen him tonight among his family; they will see him tomorrow dealing with his work responsibilities. Calm while reading the morning papers, firm when signing his name, dignified in his replies to inquiries from strangers, respectful to his superiors, and commanding in his demeanor with the messengers. (Cheers.) When he sings the praises of his good friend Dobble, what can he possibly say when it comes to Mrs. Dobble? Does he really need to go on about the qualities of that wonderful woman? No; he will spare his friend Dobble’s feelings and also the feelings of Mr. Dobble, junior, if he’ll allow him the honor of calling him that. (At this point, Mr. Dobble, junior, who has been trying to fit a particularly large orange into his mouth, stops and looks properly sad.) He’ll just say—and he’s sure everyone listening will agree—that his friend Dobble is as much better than any man he’s ever known as Mrs. Dobble is far superior to any woman he’s ever seen (except for her daughters); and he will finish by proposing a toast to their wonderful ‘Host and Hostess, may they enjoy many more New Years!’

The toast is drunk with acclamation; Dobble returns thanks, and the whole party rejoin the ladies in the drawing-room. Young men who were too bashful to dance before supper, find tongues and partners; the musicians exhibit unequivocal symptoms of having drunk the new year in, while the company were out; and dancing is kept up, until far in the first morning of the new year.

The toast is raised with cheers; Dobble thanks everyone, and the whole group goes back to join the ladies in the living room. Young men who were too shy to dance before dinner now find their voices and partners; the musicians clearly show signs of having celebrated the new year while everyone was gone; and dancing continues well into the early hours of the new year.

We have scarcely written the last word of the previous sentence, when the first stroke of twelve, peals from the neighbouring churches. There certainly-we must confess it now-is something awful in the sound. Strictly speaking, it may not be more impressive now, than at any other time; for the hours steal as swiftly on, at other periods, and their flight is little heeded. But, we measure man's life by years, and it is a solemn knell that warns us we have passed another of the landmarks which stands between us and the grave. Disguise it as we may, the reflection will force itself on our minds, that when the next bell announces the arrival of a new year, we may be insensible alike of the timely warning we have so often neglected, and of all the warm feelings that glow within us now.

We have barely finished the last word of the previous sentence when the first chime of twelve rings out from the nearby churches. There’s definitely— we have to admit it—something eerie about the sound. To be fair, it might not be any more striking now than at other times; hours pass just as quickly at other points in our lives, and we hardly notice their passing. However, we measure human life in years, and it's a solemn bell that reminds us we've reached another milestone between us and the grave. No matter how we try to hide it, the thought will inevitably hit us that when the next bell signals the start of a new year, we might be oblivious to both the timely warning we've often ignored and the warm feelings we have inside us right now.

CHAPTER IV-MISS EVANS AND THE EAGLE

Mr. Samuel Wilkins was a carpenter, a journeyman carpenter of small dimensions, decidedly below the middle size-bordering, perhaps, upon the dwarfish. His face was round and shining, and his hair carefully twisted into the outer corner of each eye, till it formed a variety of that description of semi-curls, usually known as 'aggerawators.' His earnings were all-sufficient for his wants, varying from eighteen shillings to one pound five, weekly-his manner undeniable-his sabbath waistcoats dazzling. No wonder that, with these qualifications, Samuel Wilkins found favour in the eyes of the other sex: many women have been captivated by far less substantial qualifications. But, Samuel was proof against their blandishments, until at length his eyes rested on those of a Being for whom, from that time forth, he felt fate had destined him. He came, and conquered-proposed, and was accepted-loved, and was beloved. Mr. Wilkins 'kept company' with Jemima Evans.

Mr. Samuel Wilkins was a carpenter, a journeyman carpenter of small stature, decidedly below average height—bordering, perhaps, on dwarfism. His face was round and shiny, and his hair was neatly styled to twist around the outer corners of his eyes, creating a type of semi-curls commonly known as 'aggerawators.' His earnings were more than enough for his needs, ranging from eighteen shillings to one pound five each week—his demeanor was undeniable—his Sunday waistcoats dazzling. It’s no surprise that with these qualities, Samuel Wilkins caught the attention of women: many have been won over by far less impressive traits. However, Samuel was immune to their charms until one day he locked eyes with someone he felt destined to be with from that moment on. He came, he conquered—he proposed, and she accepted—he loved, and was loved in return. Mr. Wilkins was 'keeping company' with Jemima Evans.

Miss Evans (or Ivins, to adopt the pronunciation most in vogue with her circle of acquaintance) had adopted in early life the useful pursuit of shoe-binding, to which she had afterwards superadded the occupation of a straw-bonnet maker. Herself, her maternal parent, and two sisters, formed an harmonious quartett in the most secluded portion of Camden- town; and here it was that Mr. Wilkins presented himself, one Monday afternoon, in his best attire, with his face more shining and his waistcoat more bright than either had ever appeared before. The family were just going to tea, and were so glad to see him. It was quite a little feast; two ounces of seven-and-sixpenny green, and a quarter of a pound of the best fresh; and Mr. Wilkins had brought a pint of shrimps, neatly folded up in a clean belcher, to give a zest to the meal, and propitiate Mrs. Ivins. Jemima was 'cleaning herself' up-stairs; so Mr. Samuel Wilkins sat down and talked domestic economy with Mrs. Ivins, whilst the two youngest Miss Ivinses poked bits of lighted brown paper between the bars under the kettle, to make the water boil for tea.

Miss Evans (or Ivins, as most people in her circle pronounced it) had taken up the practical skill of shoe-binding early in her life, which she later combined with making straw bonnets. She, her mother, and her two sisters formed a close-knit group in the quiet part of Camden Town. It was there that Mr. Wilkins showed up one Monday afternoon, dressed in his finest clothes, with a shinier face and a brighter waistcoat than ever before. The family was just about to have tea and was thrilled to see him. It was quite a little feast: two ounces of seven-and-sixpenny green tea and a quarter of a pound of the best fresh tea. Mr. Wilkins had brought a pint of shrimps, neatly wrapped in a clean cloth, to add some flavor to the meal and win over Mrs. Ivins. Jemima was “cleaning herself” upstairs, so Mr. Samuel Wilkins sat down and chatted about home economics with Mrs. Ivins, while the two youngest Miss Ivinses shoved bits of lit brown paper between the bars under the kettle to get the water boiling for tea.

'I wos a thinking,' said Mr. Samuel Wilkins, during a pause in the conversation-'I wos a thinking of taking J'mima to the Eagle to- night.'-'O my!' exclaimed Mrs. Ivins. 'Lor! how nice!' said the youngest Miss Ivins. 'Well, I declare!' added the youngest Miss Ivins but one. 'Tell J'mima to put on her white muslin, Tilly,' screamed Mrs. Ivins, with motherly anxiety; and down came J'mima herself soon afterwards in a white muslin gown carefully hooked and eyed, a little red shawl, plentifully pinned, a white straw bonnet trimmed with red ribbons, a small necklace, a large pair of bracelets, Denmark satin shoes, and open-worked stockings; white cotton gloves on her fingers, and a cambric pocket-handkerchief, carefully folded up, in her hand-all quite genteel and ladylike. And away went Miss J'mima Ivins and Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and a dress-cane, with a gilt knob at the top, to the admiration and envy of the street in general, and to the high gratification of Mrs. Ivins, and the two youngest Miss Ivinses in particular. They had no sooner turned into the Pancras-road, than who should Miss J'mima Ivins stumble upon, by the most fortunate accident in the world, but a young lady as she knew, with her young man!-And it is so strange how things do turn out sometimes-they were actually going to the Eagle too. So Mr. Samuel Wilkins was introduced to Miss J'mima Ivins's friend's young man, and they all walked on together, talking, and laughing, and joking away like anything; and when they got as far as Pentonville, Miss Ivins's friend's young man would have the ladies go into the Crown, to taste some shrub, which, after a great blushing and giggling, and hiding of faces in elaborate pocket-handkerchiefs, they consented to do. Having tasted it once, they were easily prevailed upon to taste it again; and they sat out in the garden tasting shrub, and looking at the Busses alternately, till it was just the proper time to go to the Eagle; and then they resumed their journey, and walked very fast, for fear they should lose the beginning of the concert in the Rotunda.

"I was thinking," said Mr. Samuel Wilkins, during a pause in the conversation, "I was thinking of taking J'mima to the Eagle tonight." "Oh my!" exclaimed Mrs. Ivins. "That sounds lovely!" said the youngest Miss Ivins. "Well, I declare!" added the second youngest Miss Ivins. "Tell J'mima to put on her white muslin, Tilly," shouted Mrs. Ivins, filled with motherly concern; and down came J'mima a little later in a carefully hooked and eyed white muslin dress, a little red shawl pinned just right, a white straw bonnet with red ribbons, a small necklace, a large pair of bracelets, Denmark satin shoes, and open-worked stockings; white cotton gloves on her hands, and a neatly folded cambric pocket-handkerchief in her hand—all looking quite elegant and ladylike. And off went Miss J'mima Ivins and Mr. Samuel Wilkins, along with a dress cane topped with a gilt knob, to the admiration and envy of everyone on the street, and to the great delight of Mrs. Ivins and her two youngest daughters in particular. No sooner had they turned onto Pancras Road than, by the luckiest chance, Miss J'mima Ivins bumped into a young lady she knew, accompanied by her young man! It was so surprising how things worked out—because they were actually headed to the Eagle too. So Mr. Samuel Wilkins was introduced to Miss J'mima Ivins's friend’s young man, and they all walked together, chatting, laughing, and joking away happily; when they reached Pentonville, the young man suggested the ladies go into the Crown to try some shrub, which, after a lot of blushing, giggling, and hiding their faces behind fancy pocket-handkerchiefs, they agreed to do. After sampling it once, they were easily persuaded to try it again; and they sat in the garden tasting shrub and alternately watching the Busses until it was just the right time to head to the Eagle; then they continued on their way, walking quickly, worried they might miss the start of the concert in the Rotunda.

'How ev'nly!' said Miss J'mima Ivins, and Miss J'mima Ivins's friend, both at once, when they had passed the gate and were fairly inside the gardens. There were the walks, beautifully gravelled and planted-and the refreshment-boxes, painted and ornamented like so many snuff- boxes-and the variegated lamps shedding their rich light upon the company's heads-and the place for dancing ready chalked for the company's feet-and a Moorish band playing at one end of the gardens-and an opposition military band playing away at the other. Then, the waiters were rushing to and fro with glasses of negus, and glasses of brandy-and-water, and bottles of ale, and bottles of stout; and ginger- beer was going off in one place, and practical jokes were going on in another; and people were crowding to the door of the Rotunda; and in short the whole scene was, as Miss J'mima Ivins, inspired by the novelty, or the shrub, or both, observed-'one of dazzling excitement.' As to the concert-room, never was anything half so splendid. There was an orchestra for the singers, all paint, gilding, and plate-glass; and such an organ! Miss J'mima Ivins's friend's young man whispered it had cost 'four hundred pound,' which Mr. Samuel Wilkins said was 'not dear neither;' an opinion in which the ladies perfectly coincided. The audience were seated on elevated benches round the room, and crowded into every part of it; and everybody was eating and drinking as comfortably as possible. Just before the concert commenced, Mr. Samuel Wilkins ordered two glasses of rum-and-water 'warm with-' and two slices of lemon, for himself and the other young man, together with 'a pint o' sherry wine for the ladies, and some sweet carraway-seed biscuits;' and they would have been quite comfortable and happy, only a strange gentleman with large whiskers would stare at Miss J'mima Ivins, and another gentleman in a plaid waistcoat would wink at Miss J'mima Ivins's friend; on which Miss Jemima Ivins's friend's young man exhibited symptoms of boiling over, and began to mutter about 'people's imperence,' and 'swells out o' luck;' and to intimate, in oblique terms, a vague intention of knocking somebody's head off; which he was only prevented from announcing more emphatically, by both Miss J'mima Ivins and her friend threatening to faint away on the spot if he said another word.

'How even!' exclaimed Miss Jemima Ivins and her friend, both at the same time, as they passed through the gate and entered the gardens. There were the beautifully gravelled and planted paths—the refreshment stands, painted and decorated like snuff boxes—and the colorful lamps casting their warm light over the guests—and the dancing area marked out for the guests' feet—and a Moorish band playing at one end of the gardens—and a military band performing at the other. The waiters were rushing around with glasses of negus, glasses of brandy and water, bottles of ale, and bottles of stout; ginger beer was being served in one spot, while practical jokes were happening in another; people were crowding at the entrance of the Rotunda; and in short, the whole scene was, as Miss Jemima Ivins noted, inspired by the novelty, or the shrub, or both—'one of dazzling excitement.' As for the concert room, nothing had ever been half as splendid. There was an orchestra for the singers, all paint, gold, and plate glass; and what an organ! Miss Jemima Ivins's friend's boyfriend whispered that it had cost 'four hundred pounds,' which Mr. Samuel Wilkins said was 'not expensive either;' a view the ladies fully agreed with. The audience was seated on raised benches around the room, crowding into every area; and everyone was eating and drinking as comfortably as possible. Just before the concert started, Mr. Samuel Wilkins ordered two glasses of warm rum and water and two slices of lemon for himself and the other young man, along with 'a pint of sherry for the ladies, and some sweet caraway seed biscuits;' and they would have been quite comfortable and happy if it weren't for a strange gentleman with large whiskers staring at Miss Jemima Ivins, and another gentleman in a plaid waistcoat winking at Miss Jemima Ivins's friend; which made her friend's boyfriend show signs of anger, muttering about 'people's rudeness' and 'wealthy folks down on their luck;' hinting, in vague terms, at a desire to knock someone's head off, which he only held back from expressing more forcefully because both Miss Jemima Ivins and her friend threatened to faint right there if he said another word.

The concert commenced-overture on the organ. 'How solemn!' exclaimed Miss J'mima Ivins, glancing, perhaps unconsciously, at the gentleman with the whiskers. Mr. Samuel Wilkins, who had been muttering apart for some time past, as if he were holding a confidential conversation with the gilt knob of the dress-cane, breathed hard-breathing vengeance, perhaps,-but said nothing. 'The soldier tired,' Miss Somebody in white satin. 'Ancore!' cried Miss J'mima Ivins's friend. 'Ancore!' shouted the gentleman in the plaid waistcoat immediately, hammering the table with a stout-bottle. Miss J'mima Ivins's friend's young man eyed the man behind the waistcoat from head to foot, and cast a look of interrogative contempt towards Mr. Samuel Wilkins. Comic song, accompanied on the organ. Miss J'mima Ivins was convulsed with laughter-so was the man with the whiskers. Everything the ladies did, the plaid waistcoat and whiskers did, by way of expressing unity of sentiment and congeniality of soul; and Miss J'mima Ivins, and Miss J'mima Ivins's friend, grew lively and talkative, as Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and Miss J'mima Ivins's friend's young man, grew morose and surly in inverse proportion.

The concert started with an organ overture. “How solemn!” exclaimed Miss J'mima Ivins, glancing, perhaps without realizing it, at the man with the whiskers. Mr. Samuel Wilkins, who had been mumbling to himself for a while, as if having a private chat with the fancy knob of his cane, breathed heavily—maybe plotting revenge—but said nothing. “The soldier is tired,” said a woman in white satin. “Encore!” shouted Miss J'mima Ivins’s friend. “Encore!” yelled the man in the plaid waistcoat right away, banging the table with a stout bottle. Miss J'mima Ivins’s friend’s boyfriend sized up the guy in the waistcoat from head to toe and threw a look of disdain towards Mr. Samuel Wilkins. A comic song played with organ accompaniment. Miss J'mima Ivins was in stitches with laughter—so was the man with the whiskers. Everything the ladies did, the plaid waistcoat and whiskers mirrored, trying to show their shared feelings and camaraderie; meanwhile, Miss J'mima Ivins and her friend became more animated and chatty, while Mr. Samuel Wilkins and her friend’s boyfriend grew increasingly gloomy and grumpy in contrast.

Now, if the matter had ended here, the little party might soon have recovered their former equanimity; but Mr. Samuel Wilkins and his friend began to throw looks of defiance upon the waistcoat and whiskers. And the waistcoat and whiskers, by way of intimating the slight degree in which they were affected by the looks aforesaid, bestowed glances of increased admiration upon Miss J'mima Ivins and friend. The concert and vaudeville concluded, they promenaded the gardens. The waistcoat and whiskers did the same; and made divers remarks complimentary to the ankles of Miss J'mima Ivins and friend, in an audible tone. At length, not satisfied with these numerous atrocities, they actually came up and asked Miss J'mima Ivins, and Miss J'mima Ivins's friend, to dance, without taking no more notice of Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and Miss J'mima Ivins's friend's young man, than if they was nobody!

Now, if things had ended here, the little group might have quickly regained their previous calm; but Mr. Samuel Wilkins and his friend started throwing defiant looks at the waistcoat and whiskers. The waistcoat and whiskers, in response to the aforementioned looks, directed even more admiring glances at Miss J'mima Ivins and her friend. After the concert and vaudeville finished, they strolled through the gardens. The waistcoat and whiskers did the same and made various comments about the ankles of Miss J'mima Ivins and her friend within earshot. Eventually, not content with these numerous offenses, they actually approached Miss J'mima Ivins and her friend to ask them to dance, disregarding Mr. Samuel Wilkins and Miss J'mima Ivins's friend's young man as if they were invisible!

'What do you mean by that, scoundrel!' exclaimed Mr. Samuel Wilkins, grasping the gilt-knobbed dress-cane firmly in his right hand. 'What's the matter with you, you little humbug?' replied the whiskers. 'How dare you insult me and my friend?' inquired the friend's young man. 'You and your friend be hanged!' responded the waistcoat. 'Take that,' exclaimed Mr. Samuel Wilkins. The ferrule of the gilt-knobbed dress- cane was visible for an instant, and then the light of the variegated lamps shone brightly upon it as it whirled into the air, cane and all. 'Give it him,' said the waistcoat. 'Horficer!' screamed the ladies. Miss J'mima Ivins's beau, and the friend's young man, lay gasping on the gravel, and the waistcoat and whiskers were seen no more.

"What do you mean by that, you scoundrel!" shouted Mr. Samuel Wilkins, gripping the fancy cane tightly in his right hand. "What's wrong with you, you little fraud?" retorted the man with the whiskers. "How dare you insult me and my friend?" asked the friend's young man. "You and your friend can go to hell!" the waistcoat shot back. "Take that," shouted Mr. Samuel Wilkins. The tip of the fancy cane was visible for a moment, then the colorful lights reflected off it as it soared into the air, cane and all. "Get him," said the waistcoat. "Oh my!" screamed the ladies. Miss J'mima Ivins's boyfriend and the friend's young man lay gasping on the gravel, and the waistcoat and whiskers were never seen again.

Miss J'mima Ivins and friend being conscious that the affray was in no slight degree attributable to themselves, of course went into hysterics forthwith; declared themselves the most injured of women; exclaimed, in incoherent ravings, that they had been suspected-wrongfully suspected-oh! that they should ever have lived to see the day-and so forth; suffered a relapse every time they opened their eyes and saw their unfortunate little admirers; and were carried to their respective abodes in a hackney-coach, and a state of insensibility, compounded of shrub, sherry, and excitement.

Miss J'mima Ivins and her friend, aware that the fight was largely their fault, immediately started freaking out; claimed to be the most harmed women; shouted in a jumbled way that they had been wrongly suspected—oh! that they would ever live to see this day—and so on; had a breakdown every time they opened their eyes and saw their poor little admirers; and were taken to their homes in a cab, in a state of unconsciousness caused by a mix of alcohol, sherry, and excitement.

CHAPTER V-THE PARLOUR ORATOR

We had been lounging one evening, down Oxford-street, Holborn, Cheapside, Coleman-street, Finsbury-square, and so on, with the intention of returning westward, by Pentonville and the New-road, when we began to feel rather thirsty, and disposed to rest for five or ten minutes. So, we turned back towards an old, quiet, decent public-house, which we remembered to have passed but a moment before (it was not far from the City-road), for the purpose of solacing ourself with a glass of ale. The house was none of your stuccoed, French-polished, illuminated palaces, but a modest public-house of the old school, with a little old bar, and a little old landlord, who, with a wife and daughter of the same pattern, was comfortably seated in the bar aforesaid-a snug little room with a cheerful fire, protected by a large screen: from behind which the young lady emerged on our representing our inclination for a glass of ale.

We had been hanging out one evening, strolling down Oxford Street, Holborn, Cheapside, Coleman Street, Finsbury Square, and so on, planning to head back west via Pentonville and the New Road, when we started to feel a bit thirsty and wanted to take a break for five or ten minutes. So, we turned back toward an old, quiet, decent pub that we had just passed a moment before (it wasn’t far from the City Road), with the idea of treating ourselves to a glass of ale. The pub wasn’t one of those fancy, polished, brightly lit places, but a modest old-school pub, with a small old bar and an equally old landlord, who, along with his wife and daughter, fit the same vibe, was comfortably settled in the bar. It was a cozy little room with a cheerful fire, shielded by a large screen, and from behind it, the young lady came out when we mentioned our desire for a glass of ale.

'Won't you walk into the parlour, sir?' said the young lady, in seductive tones.

'Won't you come into the living room, sir?' said the young lady, in a tempting voice.

'You had better walk into the parlour, sir,' said the little old landlord, throwing his chair back, and looking round one side of the screen, to survey our appearance.

'You'd better come into the parlor, sir,' said the little old landlord, pushing his chair back and peering around one side of the screen to check us out.

'You had much better step into the parlour, sir,' said the little old lady, popping out her head, on the other side of the screen.

'You should really come into the living room, sir,' said the little old lady, popping her head out from behind the screen.

We cast a slight glance around, as if to express our ignorance of the locality so much recommended. The little old landlord observed it; bustled out of the small door of the small bar; and forthwith ushered us into the parlour itself.

We took a quick look around, almost to show that we didn’t know much about this highly praised place. The elderly landlord noticed us, hurried out from the small door of the tiny bar, and immediately led us into the parlor.

It was an ancient, dark-looking room, with oaken wainscoting, a sanded floor, and a high mantel-piece. The walls were ornamented with three or four old coloured prints in black frames, each print representing a naval engagement, with a couple of men-of-war banging away at each other most vigorously, while another vessel or two were blowing up in the distance, and the foreground presented a miscellaneous collection of broken masts and blue legs sticking up out of the water. Depending from the ceiling in the centre of the room, were a gas-light and bell-pull; on each side were three or four long narrow tables, behind which was a thickly-planted row of those slippery, shiny-looking wooden chairs, peculiar to hostelries of this description. The monotonous appearance of the sanded boards was relieved by an occasional spittoon; and a triangular pile of those useful articles adorned the two upper corners of the apartment.

It was an old, dark room, with oak paneling, a sanded floor, and a tall mantelpiece. The walls were decorated with three or four old colored prints in black frames, each showing a naval battle, with a couple of warships firing at each other fiercely, while a few other ships were exploding in the distance. The foreground featured a random collection of broken masts and blue legs sticking out of the water. Hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room were a gas light and a bell pull; on each side were three or four long narrow tables, behind which was a dense row of those slippery, shiny wooden chairs typical of inns like this one. The dull look of the sanded boards was broken up by an occasional spittoon, and a triangular stack of those handy items decorated the two upper corners of the room.

At the furthest table, nearest the fire, with his face towards the door at the bottom of the room, sat a stoutish man of about forty, whose short, stiff, black hair curled closely round a broad high forehead, and a face to which something besides water and exercise had communicated a rather inflamed appearance. He was smoking a cigar, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and had that confident oracular air which marked him as the leading politician, general authority, and universal anecdote- relater, of the place. He had evidently just delivered himself of something very weighty; for the remainder of the company were puffing at their respective pipes and cigars in a kind of solemn abstraction, as if quite overwhelmed with the magnitude of the subject recently under discussion.

At the furthest table, closest to the fire, sat a stout man in his forties, facing the door at the end of the room. His short, stiff black hair curled closely around a broad, high forehead, and his face had a somewhat flushed look that suggested more than just water and exercise were at play. He was smoking a cigar, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and he had that confident, authoritative vibe that marked him as the leading politician, local expert, and storyteller of the place. It was clear he had just shared something significant because the rest of the company sat puffing on their pipes and cigars in a sort of solemn silence, clearly impressed by the seriousness of the topic they had just been discussing.

On his right hand sat an elderly gentleman with a white head, and broad- brimmed brown hat; on his left, a sharp-nosed, light-haired man in a brown surtout reaching nearly to his heels, who took a whiff at his pipe, and an admiring glance at the red-faced man, alternately.

On his right sat an older man with white hair and a wide-brimmed brown hat; on his left was a sharp-nosed, light-haired guy in a brown coat that reached almost to his heels, who took a puff from his pipe and looked admiringly at the red-faced man, switching between them.

'Very extraordinary!' said the light-haired man after a pause of five minutes. A murmur of assent ran through the company.

'Really something!' said the light-haired guy after a five-minute pause. A murmur of agreement spread through the group.

'Not at all extraordinary-not at all,' said the red-faced man, awakening suddenly from his reverie, and turning upon the light-haired man, the moment he had spoken.

'Not at all extraordinary—not at all,' said the red-faced man, suddenly snapping out of his daydream and turning to the light-haired man the moment he finished speaking.

'Why should it be extraordinary?-why is it extraordinary?-prove it to be extraordinary!'

'Why should it be exceptional? - why is it exceptional? - prove that it's exceptional!'

'Oh, if you come to that-' said the light-haired man, meekly.

'Oh, if you want to go there-' said the light-haired man, quietly.

'Come to that!' ejaculated the man with the red face; 'but we must come to that. We stand, in these times, upon a calm elevation of intellectual attainment, and not in the dark recess of mental deprivation. Proof, is what I require-proof, and not assertions, in these stirring times. Every gen'lem'n that knows me, knows what was the nature and effect of my observations, when it was in the contemplation of the Old-street Suburban Representative Discovery Society, to recommend a candidate for that place in Cornwall there-I forget the name of it. "Mr. Snobee," said Mr. Wilson, "is a fit and proper person to represent the borough in Parliament." "Prove it," says I. "He is a friend to Reform," says Mr. Wilson. "Prove it," says I. "The abolitionist of the national debt, the unflinching opponent of pensions, the uncompromising advocate of the negro, the reducer of sinecures and the duration of Parliaments; the extender of nothing but the suffrages of the people," says Mr. Wilson. "Prove it," says I. "His acts prove it," says he. "Prove them," says I.

'Come on!' exclaimed the man with the red face; 'but we have to get to that. We stand today on a calm height of intellectual achievement, not in the dark corners of ignorance. I need proof, not just claims, in these turbulent times. Every gentleman who knows me understands the nature and impact of my comments when the Old-street Suburban Representative Discovery Society was considering a candidate for that position in Cornwall—I can’t remember the name. "Mr. Snobee," said Mr. Wilson, "is a suitable person to represent the borough in Parliament." "Prove it," I said. "He advocates for Reform," said Mr. Wilson. "Prove it," I replied. "He is against the national debt, a strong opponent of pensions, a dedicated supporter of civil rights for Black people, someone who wants to cut down on unnecessary jobs and the length of Parliament sessions; the only thing he wants to expand is the voting rights of the people," said Mr. Wilson. "Prove it," I said. "His actions prove it," he insisted. "Prove them," I said.

'And he could not prove them,' said the red-faced man, looking round triumphantly; 'and the borough didn't have him; and if you carried this principle to the full extent, you'd have no debt, no pensions, no sinecures, no negroes, no nothing. And then, standing upon an elevation of intellectual attainment, and having reached the summit of popular prosperity, you might bid defiance to the nations of the earth, and erect yourselves in the proud confidence of wisdom and superiority. This is my argument-this always has been my argument-and if I was a Member of the House of Commons to-morrow, I'd make 'em shake in their shoes with it. And the red-faced man, having struck the table very hard with his clenched fist, to add weight to the declaration, smoked away like a brewery.

"And he couldn't prove them," said the red-faced man, looking around proudly; "and the borough didn’t back him; and if you took this principle to its logical conclusion, you'd have no debt, no pensions, no sinecures, no black people, nothing at all. Then, standing on a high point of intellectual achievement and having reached the peak of public success, you could challenge the nations of the world and stand tall in the confidence of wisdom and superiority. This is my argument—it's always been my argument—and if I were a Member of Parliament tomorrow, I’d make them tremble with it. The red-faced man, having hit the table hard with his clenched fist to emphasize his point, smoked away like a factory."

'Well!' said the sharp-nosed man, in a very slow and soft voice, addressing the company in general, 'I always do say, that of all the gentlemen I have the pleasure of meeting in this room, there is not one whose conversation I like to hear so much as Mr. Rogers's, or who is such improving company.'

'Well!' said the sharp-nosed man in a slow, soft voice, addressing everyone in the room, 'I always say that of all the gentlemen I have the pleasure of meeting here, there isn't anyone whose conversation I enjoy as much as Mr. Rogers's, or who is such a great company.'

'Improving company!' said Mr. Rogers, for that, it seemed, was the name of the red-faced man. 'You may say I am improving company, for I've improved you all to some purpose; though as to my conversation being as my friend Mr. Ellis here describes it, that is not for me to say anything about. You, gentlemen, are the best judges on that point; but this I will say, when I came into this parish, and first used this room, ten years ago, I don't believe there was one man in it, who knew he was a slave-and now you all know it, and writhe under it. Inscribe that upon my tomb, and I am satisfied.'

'Improving company!' said Mr. Rogers, which was apparently the name of the red-faced man. 'You could say I’m improving company, since I’ve helped you all for a purpose; though whether my conversation is as my friend Mr. Ellis describes, I can’t really comment on. You, gentlemen, are the best judges of that. But I will say this: when I first came into this parish and used this room ten years ago, I don't think there was a single man here who knew he was a slave—and now you all know it and suffer because of it. Carve that on my tomb, and I will be content.'

'Why, as to inscribing it on your tomb,' said a little greengrocer with a chubby face, 'of course you can have anything chalked up, as you likes to pay for, so far as it relates to yourself and your affairs; but, when you come to talk about slaves, and that there abuse, you'd better keep it in the family, 'cos I for one don't like to be called them names, night after night.'

'Well, when it comes to writing something on your tomb,' said a chubby-faced greengrocer, 'you can have anything you want as long as you're willing to pay for it, as far as it concerns you and your business; but when you start talking about slaves and that kind of abuse, it's better to keep it private, because I, for one, don’t like being called those names night after night.'

'You are a slave,' said the red-faced man, 'and the most pitiable of all slaves.'

'You are a slave,' said the red-faced man, 'and the most miserable of all slaves.'

'Werry hard if I am,' interrupted the greengrocer, 'for I got no good out of the twenty million that was paid for 'mancipation, anyhow.'

'Very hard if I am,' interrupted the greengrocer, 'because I didn’t get anything good out of the twenty million that was paid for emancipation, anyway.'

'A willing slave,' ejaculated the red-faced man, getting more red with eloquence, and contradiction-'resigning the dearest birthright of your children-neglecting the sacred call of Liberty-who, standing imploringly before you, appeals to the warmest feelings of your heart, and points to your helpless infants, but in vain.'

'A willing slave,' shouted the increasingly flushed man, growing redder with passion and contradiction—'giving up the most precious birthright of your children—ignoring the sacred call of Liberty—who stands before you, pleading, appealing to the deepest feelings of your heart, and points to your defenseless babies, but to no avail.'

'Prove it,' said the greengrocer.

"Prove it," said the grocer.

'Prove it!' sneered the man with the red face. 'What! bending beneath the yoke of an insolent and factious oligarchy; bowed down by the domination of cruel laws; groaning beneath tyranny and oppression on every hand, at every side, and in every corner. Prove it!-' The red- faced man abruptly broke off, sneered melo-dramatically, and buried his countenance and his indignation together, in a quart pot.

'Prove it!' sneered the man with the red face. 'What! is it really true that you're being crushed under the weight of a disrespectful and divisive ruling class; weighed down by harsh laws; suffering from tyranny and oppression all around you, from every direction, and in every corner? Prove it!' The red-faced man abruptly stopped speaking, sneered dramatically, and buried his face along with his anger in a quart pot.

'Ah, to be sure, Mr. Rogers,' said a stout broker in a large waistcoat, who had kept his eyes fixed on this luminary all the time he was speaking. 'Ah, to be sure,' said the broker with a sigh, 'that's the point.'

'Oh, for sure, Mr. Rogers,' said a heavyset broker in a big waistcoat, who had been watching this notable figure the whole time he was talking. 'Oh, for sure,' said the broker with a sigh, 'that's the issue.'

'Of course, of course,' said divers members of the company, who understood almost as much about the matter as the broker himself.

'Of course, of course,' said various members of the group, who knew just about as much about the situation as the broker did himself.

'You had better let him alone, Tommy,' said the broker, by way of advice to the little greengrocer; 'he can tell what's o'clock by an eight-day, without looking at the minute hand, he can. Try it on, on some other suit; it won't do with him, Tommy.'

'You should just leave him alone, Tommy,' said the broker, giving advice to the little grocer; 'he can tell the time by an eight-day clock without needing to check the minute hand. Seriously, try it with someone else; it won’t work with him, Tommy.'

'What is a man?' continued the red-faced specimen of the species, jerking his hat indignantly from its peg on the wall. 'What is an Englishman? Is he to be trampled upon by every oppressor? Is he to be knocked down at everybody's bidding? What's freedom? Not a standing army. What's a standing army? Not freedom. What's general happiness? Not universal misery. Liberty ain't the window-tax, is it? The Lords ain't the Commons, are they?' And the red-faced man, gradually bursting into a radiating sentence, in which such adjectives as 'dastardly,' 'oppressive,' 'violent,' and 'sanguinary,' formed the most conspicuous words, knocked his hat indignantly over his eyes, left the room, and slammed the door after him.

'What is a man?' continued the red-faced example of the species, angrily yanking his hat from its hook on the wall. 'What is an Englishman? Is he supposed to be stomped on by every oppressor? Is he meant to be taken down at everyone else's command? What’s freedom? Not a standing army. What’s a standing army? Not freedom. What’s general happiness? Not universal misery. Liberty isn’t a window tax, right? The Lords aren’t the Commons, are they?' And the red-faced man, gradually bursting into a heated rant, where words like 'cowardly,' 'oppressive,' 'violent,' and 'bloody' stood out the most, shoved his hat down over his eyes, left the room, and slammed the door behind him.

'Wonderful man!' said he of the sharp nose.

'Wonderful man!' said the man with the sharp nose.

'Splendid speaker!' added the broker.

"Great speaker!" added the broker.

'Great power!' said everybody but the greengrocer. And as they said it, the whole party shook their heads mysteriously, and one by one retired, leaving us alone in the old parlour.

'Great power!' everyone said except for the greengrocer. As they said it, the whole group shook their heads in a mysterious way and one by one left, leaving us alone in the old parlor.

If we had followed the established precedent in all such instances, we should have fallen into a fit of musing, without delay. The ancient appearance of the room-the old panelling of the wall-the chimney blackened with smoke and age-would have carried us back a hundred years at least, and we should have gone dreaming on, until the pewter-pot on the table, or the little beer-chiller on the fire, had started into life, and addressed to us a long story of days gone by. But, by some means or other, we were not in a romantic humour; and although we tried very hard to invest the furniture with vitality, it remained perfectly unmoved, obstinate, and sullen. Being thus reduced to the unpleasant necessity of musing about ordinary matters, our thoughts reverted to the red-faced man, and his oratorical display.

If we had stuck to the usual routine in situations like this, we would have quickly drifted into deep thought. The old-fashioned look of the room—the wooden paneling on the walls—the chimney stained with smoke and age—would have taken us back at least a hundred years, and we would have kept dreaming until the pewter pot on the table or the little beer-chiller on the fire sprang to life and told us stories from the past. But for some reason, we weren’t feeling very romantic; and even though we really tried to make the furniture feel alive, it just sat there, stubborn and gloomy. Left with no choice but to think about mundane things, our minds turned back to the red-faced man and his dramatic speech.

A numerous race are these red-faced men; there is not a parlour, or club-room, or benefit society, or humble party of any kind, without its red-faced man. Weak-pated dolts they are, and a great deal of mischief they do to their cause, however good. So, just to hold a pattern one up, to know the others by, we took his likeness at once, and put him in here. And that is the reason why we have written this paper.

A large group of these red-faced men exists; there’s not a parlor, club room, benefit society, or any small gathering without one of them. They are foolish individuals, and they cause a lot of harm to their cause, no matter how good it is. So, to set an example and to recognize the others, we took a picture of one right away and included it here. That’s why we wrote this paper.

CHAPTER VI-THE HOSPITAL PATIENT

In our rambles through the streets of London after evening has set in, we often pause beneath the windows of some public hospital, and picture to ourself the gloomy and mournful scenes that are passing within. The sudden moving of a taper as its feeble ray shoots from window to window, until its light gradually disappears, as if it were carried farther back into the room to the bedside of some suffering patient, is enough to awaken a whole crowd of reflections; the mere glimmering of the low- burning lamps, which, when all other habitations are wrapped in darkness and slumber, denote the chamber where so many forms are writhing with pain, or wasting with disease, is sufficient to check the most boisterous merriment.

As we stroll through the streets of London after nightfall, we often stop beneath the windows of a public hospital and imagine the dark and sorrowful scenes happening inside. The sudden movement of a candle as its weak light flickers from window to window, until it gradually fades away, as if it's being carried deeper into the room to the bedside of a suffering patient, is enough to spark a flood of thoughts. The faint glow of the dim lamps, which shine when all other places are cloaked in darkness and sleep, signals the room where so many people are writhing in pain or fading away from illness, enough to dampen even the liveliest joy.

Who can tell the anguish of those weary hours, when the only sound the sick man hears, is the disjointed wanderings of some feverish slumberer near him, the low moan of pain, or perhaps the muttered, long-forgotten prayer of a dying man? Who, but they who have felt it, can imagine the sense of loneliness and desolation which must be the portion of those who in the hour of dangerous illness are left to be tended by strangers; for what hands, be they ever so gentle, can wipe the clammy brow, or smooth the restless bed, like those of mother, wife, or child?

Who can describe the pain of those exhausting hours when the only sounds a sick person hears are the disjointed mumblings of someone nearby in a feverish sleep, the soft groans of suffering, or maybe the long-forgotten prayer of someone close to death? Who, except for those who have experienced it, can imagine the feeling of loneliness and despair that comes with being cared for by strangers during a serious illness? What hands, no matter how gentle, can wipe the sweaty brow or adjust the restless sheets like those of a mother, wife, or child?

Impressed with these thoughts, we have turned away, through the nearly- deserted streets; and the sight of the few miserable creatures still hovering about them, has not tended to lessen the pain which such meditations awaken. The hospital is a refuge and resting-place for hundreds, who but for such institutions must die in the streets and doorways; but what can be the feelings of some outcasts when they are stretched on the bed of sickness with scarcely a hope of recovery? The wretched woman who lingers about the pavement, hours after midnight, and the miserable shadow of a man-the ghastly remnant that want and drunkenness have left-which crouches beneath a window-ledge, to sleep where there is some shelter from the rain, have little to bind them to life, but what have they to look back upon, in death? What are the unwonted comforts of a roof and a bed, to them, when the recollections of a whole life of debasement stalk before them; when repentance seems a mockery, and sorrow comes too late?

Moved by these thoughts, we’ve walked away through the nearly empty streets, and seeing the few pitiful souls still lingering there hasn’t eased the pain that these reflections bring. The hospital is a refuge and a resting place for hundreds who, without such institutions, would die on the streets and in doorways; but what must some outcasts feel when they lie on a sickbed with barely any hope of recovery? The wretched woman who hangs around the pavement long after midnight and the miserable shadow of a man—the haunting remnant left by hunger and drunkenness—that crouches under a window ledge to sleep where there’s some shelter from the rain, have little keeping them tied to life, but what do they have to look back on in death? What do the rare comforts of a roof and a bed mean to them when the memories of a lifetime of degradation haunt them; when repentance feels like a joke, and sorrow comes too late?

About a twelvemonth ago, as we were strolling through Covent-garden (we had been thinking about these things over-night), we were attracted by the very prepossessing appearance of a pickpocket, who having declined to take the trouble of walking to the Police-office, on the ground that he hadn't the slightest wish to go there at all, was being conveyed thither in a wheelbarrow, to the huge delight of a crowd.

About a year ago, while we were walking through Covent Garden (we had been thinking about these things overnight), we were drawn to the very charming sight of a pickpocket, who, having refused to bother walking to the police station because he had no desire to go there at all, was being carried there in a wheelbarrow, much to the amusement of a crowd.

Somehow, we never can resist joining a crowd, so we turned back with the mob, and entered the office, in company with our friend the pickpocket, a couple of policemen, and as many dirty-faced spectators as could squeeze their way in.

Somehow, we can never resist joining a crowd, so we turned back with the mob and entered the office, along with our friend the pickpocket, a couple of police officers, and as many dirty-faced onlookers as could squeeze their way in.

There was a powerful, ill-looking young fellow at the bar, who was undergoing an examination, on the very common charge of having, on the previous night, ill-treated a woman, with whom he lived in some court hard by. Several witnesses bore testimony to acts of the grossest brutality; and a certificate was read from the house-surgeon of a neighbouring hospital, describing the nature of the injuries the woman had received, and intimating that her recovery was extremely doubtful.

There was a strong, shady-looking young guy at the bar, who was being questioned for the typical charge of having mistreated a woman he was living with in a nearby courtyard the night before. Several witnesses testified to acts of extreme cruelty, and a report was read from the house surgeon of a nearby hospital, detailing the injuries the woman had sustained and suggesting that her recovery was very uncertain.

Some question appeared to have been raised about the identity of the prisoner; for when it was agreed that the two magistrates should visit the hospital at eight o'clock that evening, to take her deposition, it was settled that the man should be taken there also. He turned pale at this, and we saw him clench the bar very hard when the order was given. He was removed directly afterwards, and he spoke not a word.

Some questions seemed to come up about the identity of the prisoner; when it was decided that the two magistrates would visit the hospital at eight o'clock that evening to take her statement, it was arranged that the man would be taken there too. He went pale at this, and we noticed him grip the bar tightly when the order was given. He was moved right after that, and he didn’t say a word.

We felt an irrepressible curiosity to witness this interview, although it is hard to tell why, at this instant, for we knew it must be a painful one. It was no very difficult matter for us to gain permission, and we obtained it.

We felt an overwhelming curiosity to see this interview, although it's hard to say why at this moment, since we knew it would be difficult for the person involved. It wasn't too hard for us to get permission, and we managed to do so.

The prisoner, and the officer who had him in custody, were already at the hospital when we reached it, and waiting the arrival of the magistrates in a small room below stairs. The man was handcuffed, and his hat was pulled forward over his eyes. It was easy to see, though, by the whiteness of his countenance, and the constant twitching of the muscles of his face, that he dreaded what was to come. After a short interval, the magistrates and clerk were bowed in by the house-surgeon and a couple of young men who smelt very strong of tobacco-smoke-they were introduced as 'dressers'-and after one magistrate had complained bitterly of the cold, and the other of the absence of any news in the evening paper, it was announced that the patient was prepared; and we were conducted to the 'casualty ward' in which she was lying.

The prisoner and the officer who had him in custody were already at the hospital when we arrived, waiting for the magistrates in a small room downstairs. The man was handcuffed, and his hat was pulled down over his eyes. It was easy to see, though, from the paleness of his face and the constant twitching of his muscles, that he was terrified of what was about to happen. After a brief wait, the magistrates and clerk were shown in by the house-surgeon and a couple of young men who smelled strongly of tobacco—they were introduced as 'dressers'—and after one magistrate complained loudly about the cold and the other about the lack of news in the evening paper, it was announced that the patient was ready; and we were taken to the 'casualty ward' where she was lying.

The dim light which burnt in the spacious room, increased rather than diminished the ghastly appearance of the hapless creatures in the beds, which were ranged in two long rows on either side. In one bed, lay a child enveloped in bandages, with its body half-consumed by fire; in another, a female, rendered hideous by some dreadful accident, was wildly beating her clenched fists on the coverlet, in pain; on a third, there lay stretched a young girl, apparently in the heavy stupor often the immediate precursor of death: her face was stained with blood, and her breast and arms were bound up in folds of linen. Two or three of the beds were empty, and their recent occupants were sitting beside them, but with faces so wan, and eyes so bright and glassy, that it was fearful to meet their gaze. On every face was stamped the expression of anguish and suffering.

The dim light in the spacious room only heightened the awful sight of the unfortunate patients in the beds, arranged in two long rows on either side. In one bed lay a child wrapped in bandages, with its body badly burned; in another, a woman, disfigured by a terrible accident, was banging her clenched fists on the coverlet in agony; on a third, a young girl lay unconscious, showing the heavy stupor that often comes right before death: her face was smeared with blood, and her chest and arms were wrapped in linen. Two or three of the beds were empty, and their recent occupants sat beside them, but their faces were so pale and their eyes so bright and glassy that it was frightening to meet their gaze. Every face reflected deep anguish and suffering.

The object of the visit was lying at the upper end of the room. She was a fine young woman of about two or three and twenty. Her long black hair, which had been hastily cut from near the wounds on her head, streamed over the pillow in jagged and matted locks. Her face bore deep marks of the ill-usage she had received: her hand was pressed upon her side, as if her chief pain were there; her breathing was short and heavy; and it was plain to see that she was dying fast. She murmured a few words in reply to the magistrate's inquiry whether she was in great pain; and, having been raised on the pillow by the nurse, looked vacantly upon the strange countenances that surrounded her bed. The magistrate nodded to the officer, to bring the man forward. He did so, and stationed him at the bedside. The girl looked on with a wild and troubled expression of face; but her sight was dim, and she did not know him.

The object of the visit was lying at the far end of the room. She was a beautiful young woman around twenty or twenty-three years old. Her long black hair, which had been hastily cut away from the injuries on her head, hung over the pillow in tangled and messy strands. Her face showed clear signs of the abuse she had endured: her hand was pressed against her side, as if that was where her main pain was; her breathing was short and heavy; and it was obvious that she was quickly fading. She whispered a few words in response to the magistrate's question about whether she was in a lot of pain; and, after being propped up on the pillow by the nurse, she stared blankly at the unfamiliar faces surrounding her bed. The magistrate nodded to the officer to bring the man forward. He did so and positioned him by the bedside. The girl looked at him with a wild and distressed expression; but her vision was blurry, and she didn’t recognize him.

'Take off his hat,' said the magistrate. The officer did as he was desired, and the man's features were disclosed.

'Take off his hat,' said the magistrate. The officer did what he was told, and the man's features were revealed.

The girl started up, with an energy quite preternatural; the fire gleamed in her heavy eyes, and the blood rushed to her pale and sunken cheeks. It was a convulsive effort. She fell back upon her pillow, and covering her scarred and bruised face with her hands, burst into tears. The man cast an anxious look towards her, but otherwise appeared wholly unmoved. After a brief pause the nature of the errand was explained, and the oath tendered.

The girl suddenly sat up with an energy that seemed almost unnatural; the fire shone in her dark eyes, and the blood rushed to her pale, sunken cheeks. It was a struggle. She fell back onto her pillow, covering her scarred and bruised face with her hands, and broke down in tears. The man glanced at her anxiously but otherwise seemed completely unfazed. After a short pause, the purpose of the visit was explained, and the oath was offered.

'Oh, no, gentlemen,' said the girl, raising herself once more, and folding her hands together; 'no, gentlemen, for God's sake! I did it myself-it was nobody's fault-it was an accident. He didn't hurt me; he wouldn't for all the world. Jack, dear Jack, you know you wouldn't!'

'Oh, no, guys,' said the girl, sitting up again and folding her hands together; 'no, guys, for God's sake! I did it myself—it was nobody's fault—it was an accident. He didn't hurt me; he wouldn't for anything. Jack, dear Jack, you know you wouldn't!'

Her sight was fast failing her, and her hand groped over the bedclothes in search of his. Brute as the man was, he was not prepared for this. He turned his face from the bed, and sobbed. The girl's colour changed, and her breathing grew more difficult. She was evidently dying.

Her vision was quickly fading, and her hand fumbled over the blankets looking for his. As tough as the man was, he wasn’t ready for this. He turned his face away from the bed and cried. The girl's complexion changed, and her breathing became more labored. It was clear she was dying.

'We respect the feelings which prompt you to this,' said the gentleman who had spoken first, 'but let me warn you, not to persist in what you know to be untrue, until it is too late. It cannot save him.'

'We understand the feelings that lead you to this,' said the man who had spoken first, 'but let me caution you not to continue holding onto what you know is false until it’s too late. It won’t save him.'

'Jack,' murmured the girl, laying her hand upon his arm, 'they shall not persuade me to swear your life away. He didn't do it, gentlemen. He never hurt me.' She grasped his arm tightly, and added, in a broken whisper, 'I hope God Almighty will forgive me all the wrong I have done, and the life I have led. God bless you, Jack. Some kind gentleman take my love to my poor old father. Five years ago, he said he wished I had died a child. Oh, I wish I had! I wish I had!'

'Jack,' the girl said softly, placing her hand on his arm, 'they won’t make me swear your life away. He didn't do it, everyone. He never hurt me.' She held onto his arm tightly and added in a shaky whisper, 'I hope God forgives me for all the wrong I've done and the life I've lived. God bless you, Jack. Please, someone kind, tell my love to my poor old dad. Five years ago, he said he wished I had died as a child. Oh, I wish I had! I wish I had!'

The nurse bent over the girl for a few seconds, and then drew the sheet over her face. It covered a corpse.

The nurse leaned over the girl for a moment, then pulled the sheet over her face. It covered a dead body.

CHAPTER VII-THE MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. JOHN DOUNCE

If we had to make a classification of society, there is a particular kind of men whom we should immediately set down under the head of 'Old Boys;' and a column of most extensive dimensions the old boys would require. To what precise causes the rapid advance of old-boy population is to be traced, we are unable to determine. It would be an interesting and curious speculation, but, as we have not sufficient space to devote to it here, we simply state the fact that the numbers of the old boys have been gradually augmenting within the last few years, and that they are at this moment alarmingly on the increase.

If we had to classify society, there’s a specific group of men we should immediately categorize as 'Old Boys,' and they would need a really large section. We can’t pinpoint exactly what’s driving the rapid growth of the old-boy population. It would be an intriguing topic to explore, but since we don’t have enough space to discuss it here, we’ll just mention that the number of old boys has been steadily increasing over the past few years, and they are currently growing at an alarming rate.

Upon a general review of the subject, and without considering it minutely in detail, we should be disposed to subdivide the old boys into two distinct classes-the gay old boys, and the steady old boys. The gay old boys, are paunchy old men in the disguise of young ones, who frequent the Quadrant and Regent-street in the day-time: the theatres (especially theatres under lady management) at night; and who assume all the foppishness and levity of boys, without the excuse of youth or inexperience. The steady old boys are certain stout old gentlemen of clean appearance, who are always to be seen in the same taverns, at the same hours every evening, smoking and drinking in the same company.

Upon a general review of the topic, and without examining it in detail, we might categorize the older gentlemen into two distinct groups: the lively old men and the steady old men. The lively old men are portly older guys pretending to be young, who hang out in the Quadrant and Regent Street during the day, and go to theaters (especially those run by women) at night. They adopt all the foppery and frivolity of youth, despite lacking the excuse of being young or inexperienced. The steady old men are certain stout older gentlemen with a neat appearance, always found in the same bars at the same time every evening, smoking and drinking with the same crowd.

There was once a fine collection of old boys to be seen round the circular table at Offley's every night, between the hours of half-past eight and half-past eleven. We have lost sight of them for some time. There were, and may be still, for aught we know, two splendid specimens in full blossom at the Rainbow Tavern in Fleet-street, who always used to sit in the box nearest the fireplace, and smoked long cherry-stick pipes which went under the table, with the bowls resting on the floor. Grand old boys they were-fat, red-faced, white-headed old fellows-always there-one on one side the table, and the other opposite-puffing and drinking away in great state. Everybody knew them, and it was supposed by some people that they were both immortal.

There used to be a great group of old friends hanging out at the round table at Offley's every night from 8:30 to 11:30. We haven't seen them in a while. There were, and maybe still are, two impressive characters at the Rainbow Tavern on Fleet Street, who always sat in the box closest to the fireplace, smoking long cherry-stick pipes that hung under the table, with the bowls resting on the floor. They were grand old gentlemen—plump, red-faced, and white-haired—always present, one on one side of the table and the other across from him—enjoying their smokes and drinks with flair. Everyone knew them, and some believed they were both immortal.

Mr. John Dounce was an old boy of the latter class (we don't mean immortal, but steady), a retired glove and braces maker, a widower, resident with three daughters-all grown up, and all unmarried-in Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane. He was a short, round, large-faced, tubbish sort of man, with a broad-brimmed hat, and a square coat; and had that grave, but confident, kind of roll, peculiar to old boys in general. Regular as clockwork-breakfast at nine-dress and tittivate a little-down to the Sir Somebody's Head-a glass of ale and the paper-come back again, and take daughters out for a walk-dinner at three-glass of grog and pipe-nap-tea-little walk-Sir Somebody's Head again-capital house-delightful evenings. There were Mr. Harris, the law-stationer, and Mr. Jennings, the robe-maker (two jolly young fellows like himself), and Jones, the barrister's clerk-rum fellow that Jones-capital company-full of anecdote!-and there they sat every night till just ten minutes before twelve, drinking their brandy-and-water, and smoking their pipes, and telling stories, and enjoying themselves with a kind of solemn joviality particularly edifying.

Mr. John Dounce was an older gentleman from the latter group (we don’t mean immortal, just steady), a retired glove and braces maker, a widower living with his three grown daughters, all unmarried, on Cursitor Street in Chancery Lane. He was a short, round, large-faced, tubby sort of man, with a broad-brimmed hat and a square coat; and he had that serious but self-assured demeanor peculiar to older gentlemen in general. Like clockwork—breakfast at nine, a little dressing up—then off to Sir Somebody's Head for a glass of ale and the paper—back home again, taking his daughters out for a walk—dinner at three—a glass of grog and a pipe—nap—tea—a little walk—then back to Sir Somebody's Head, a great place—wonderful evenings. There were Mr. Harris, the law-stationer, and Mr. Jennings, the robe-maker (two cheerful young guys like him), and Jones, the barrister's clerk—a funny fellow, that Jones—great company, full of stories! They would sit there every night until just ten minutes before midnight, drinking their brandy and water, smoking their pipes, telling stories, and having a great time with a kind of solemn joviality that was particularly uplifting.

Sometimes Jones would propose a half-price visit to Drury Lane or Covent Garden, to see two acts of a five-act play, and a new farce, perhaps, or a ballet, on which occasions the whole four of them went together: none of your hurrying and nonsense, but having their brandy-and-water first, comfortably, and ordering a steak and some oysters for their supper against they came back, and then walking coolly into the pit, when the 'rush' had gone in, as all sensible people do, and did when Mr. Dounce was a young man, except when the celebrated Master Betty was at the height of his popularity, and then, sir,-then-Mr. Dounce perfectly well remembered getting a holiday from business; and going to the pit doors at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, and waiting there, till six in the afternoon, with some sandwiches in a pocket-handkerchief and some wine in a phial; and fainting after all, with the heat and fatigue, before the play began; in which situation he was lifted out of the pit, into one of the dress boxes, sir, by five of the finest women of that day, sir, who compassionated his situation and administered restoratives, and sent a black servant, six foot high, in blue and silver livery, next morning with their compliments, and to know how he found himself, sir-by G-! Between the acts Mr. Dounce and Mr. Harris, and Mr. Jennings, used to stand up, and look round the house, and Jones-knowing fellow that Jones-knew everybody-pointed out the fashionable and celebrated Lady So- and-So in the boxes, at the mention of whose name Mr. Dounce, after brushing up his hair, and adjusting his neckerchief, would inspect the aforesaid Lady So-and-So through an immense glass, and remark, either, that she was a 'fine woman-very fine woman, indeed,' or that 'there might be a little more of her, eh, Jones?' Just as the case might happen to be. When the dancing began, John Dounce and the other old boys were particularly anxious to see what was going forward on the stage, and Jones-wicked dog that Jones-whispered little critical remarks into the ears of John Dounce, which John Dounce retailed to Mr. Harris and Mr. Harris to Mr. Jennings; and then they all four laughed, until the tears ran down out of their eyes.

Sometimes Jones would suggest a half-price trip to Drury Lane or Covent Garden to catch two acts of a five-act play and maybe a new farce or a ballet. On those occasions, all four of them would go together: no rushing or fuss, just enjoying their brandy and water first, comfortably, and ordering a steak and some oysters for supper to have when they got back. Then they would stroll into the pit after the initial rush, just like sensible people do—and like they did when Mr. Dounce was younger—except when the famous Master Betty was at the height of his fame. Then, Mr. Dounce distinctly remembers taking a day off work and heading to the pit doors at eleven in the morning, where he would wait until six in the evening, armed with sandwiches in a handkerchief and a bottle of wine. He even fainted from the heat and exhaustion before the play started; at which point, five of the finest ladies of the day took pity on him and lifted him from the pit into one of the dress boxes, offering him refreshments and sending a tall servant dressed in blue and silver livery the next morning to check on how he was doing. By G-! During the breaks, Mr. Dounce, Mr. Harris, and Mr. Jennings would stand up, look around the theater, and Jones—such a sly guy—would point out fashionable and renowned Lady So-and-So in the boxes. At the mention of her name, Mr. Dounce would fluff his hair and adjust his neckerchief before observing her through a large glass, commenting either that she was a "fine woman—very fine woman indeed," or saying, "she could use a little more of herself, right, Jones?" depending on the situation. When the dancing started, John Dounce and the other old friends were particularly eager to see what was happening on stage, and Jones—such a mischievous fellow—would whisper little critical comments into John Dounce's ear, which John would then share with Mr. Harris, and Mr. Harris would pass on to Mr. Jennings. They would all laugh together until tears streamed down their faces.

When the curtain fell, they walked back together, two and two, to the steaks and oysters; and when they came to the second glass of brandy- and-water, Jones-hoaxing scamp, that Jones-used to recount how he had observed a lady in white feathers, in one of the pit boxes, gazing intently on Mr. Dounce all the evening, and how he had caught Mr. Dounce, whenever he thought no one was looking at him, bestowing ardent looks of intense devotion on the lady in return; on which Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings used to laugh very heartily, and John Dounce more heartily than either of them, acknowledging, however, that the time had been when he might have done such things; upon which Mr. Jones used to poke him in the ribs, and tell him he had been a sad dog in his time, which John Dounce with chuckles confessed. And after Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings had preferred their claims to the character of having been sad dogs too, they separated harmoniously, and trotted home.

When the show ended, they walked back together in pairs to the steaks and oysters. As they poured their second glass of brandy and water, that trickster Jones started to share a story about how he had spotted a lady in white feathers in one of the boxes, staring intently at Mr. Dounce all night. He noted how Mr. Dounce, thinking no one was watching, would exchange passionate looks full of devotion with her. This had Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings laughing heartily, with John Dounce laughing even more, though he admitted there was a time when he might have acted like that. Jones would poke him playfully in the ribs and joke that Dounce had been quite the rogue in his day, to which John Dounce chuckled and agreed. After Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings also claimed to have been rascals, they parted on good terms and headed home.

The decrees of Fate, and the means by which they are brought about, are mysterious and inscrutable. John Dounce had led this life for twenty years and upwards, without wish for change, or care for variety, when his whole social system was suddenly upset and turned completely topsy- turvy-not by an earthquake, or some other dreadful convulsion of nature, as the reader would be inclined to suppose, but by the simple agency of an oyster; and thus it happened.

The decrees of Fate and the ways they come about are mysterious and hard to understand. John Dounce had lived this life for over twenty years, with no desire for change or concern for variety, when his entire social world was suddenly thrown into chaos—not by an earthquake or some other terrible natural disaster, as you might think, but by the simple presence of an oyster; and that's how it happened.

Mr. John Dounce was returning one night from the Sir Somebody's Head, to his residence in Cursitor-street-not tipsy, but rather excited, for it was Mr. Jennings's birthday, and they had had a brace of partridges for supper, and a brace of extra glasses afterwards, and Jones had been more than ordinarily amusing-when his eyes rested on a newly-opened oyster- shop, on a magnificent scale, with natives laid, one deep, in circular marble basins in the windows, together with little round barrels of oysters directed to Lords and Baronets, and Colonels and Captains, in every part of the habitable globe.

Mr. John Dounce was coming home one night from Sir Somebody's Head to his place on Cursitor Street—not drunk, but pretty lively, since it was Mr. Jennings's birthday. They had a couple of partridges for dinner and a couple more drinks afterwards, and Jones had been especially entertaining—when his gaze fell on a newly-opened oyster shop, impressively designed, with oysters arranged in a single layer in round marble basins in the windows, along with little barrels of oysters labeled for Lords, Baronets, Colonels, and Captains from all over the world.

Behind the natives were the barrels, and behind the barrels was a young lady of about five-and-twenty, all in blue, and all alone-splendid creature, charming face and lovely figure! It is difficult to say whether Mr. John Dounce's red countenance, illuminated as it was by the flickering gas-light in the window before which he paused, excited the lady's risibility, or whether a natural exuberance of animal spirits proved too much for that staidness of demeanour which the forms of society rather dictatorially prescribe. But certain it is, that the lady smiled; then put her finger upon her lip, with a striking recollection of what was due to herself; and finally retired, in oyster- like bashfulness, to the very back of the counter. The sad-dog sort of feeling came strongly upon John Dounce: he lingered-the lady in blue made no sign. He coughed-still she came not. He entered the shop.

Behind the locals were the barrels, and behind the barrels was a young woman of about twenty-five, dressed all in blue and all alone—a stunning creature with a charming face and a lovely figure! It's hard to say if Mr. John Dounce's red face, lit up by the flickering gaslight in the window where he paused, made the lady laugh, or if her natural vivacity was just too much for the seriousness that society typically imposes. But it's clear that the lady smiled; then she put her finger to her lips, recalling her dignity; and finally, shyly like an oyster, she retreated to the back of the counter. John Dounce was filled with a heavy, sad feeling; he lingered, but the lady in blue gave no indication. He coughed, yet she still didn’t respond. He stepped into the shop.

'Can you open me an oyster, my dear?' said Mr. John Dounce.

'Can you open an oyster for me, my dear?' said Mr. John Dounce.

'Dare say I can, sir,' replied the lady in blue, with playfulness. And Mr. John Dounce eat one oyster, and then looked at the young lady, and then eat another, and then squeezed the young lady's hand as she was opening the third, and so forth, until he had devoured a dozen of those at eightpence in less than no time.

"Dare I say I can, sir," replied the lady in blue playfully. Mr. John Dounce ate one oyster, then looked at the young lady, then ate another, and squeezed the young lady's hand as she was opening the third, and so on, until he had devoured a dozen of those at eightpence in no time at all.

'Can you open me half-a-dozen more, my dear?' inquired Mr. John Dounce.

'Can you open me six more, my dear?' asked Mr. John Dounce.

'I'll see what I can do for you, sir,' replied the young lady in blue, even more bewitchingly than before; and Mr. John Dounce eat half-a-dozen more of those at eightpence.

"I'll see what I can do for you, sir," replied the young lady in blue, even more charmingly than before; and Mr. John Dounce ate half a dozen more of those at eight pence.

'You couldn't manage to get me a glass of brandy-and-water, my dear, I suppose?' said Mr. John Dounce, when he had finished the oysters: in a tone which clearly implied his supposition that she could.

'You couldn’t manage to get me a glass of brandy and water, could you, my dear?' said Mr. John Dounce when he had finished the oysters, in a tone that clearly suggested he thought she could.

'I'll see, sir,' said the young lady: and away she ran out of the shop, and down the street, her long auburn ringlets shaking in the wind in the most enchanting manner; and back she came again, tripping over the coal- cellar lids like a whipping-top, with a tumbler of brandy-and-water, which Mr. John Dounce insisted on her taking a share of, as it was regular ladies' grog-hot, strong, sweet, and plenty of it.

"I'll check, sir," said the young lady, and she dashed out of the shop and down the street, her long auburn curls swinging in the wind in the most captivating way. Then she returned, stumbling over the coal-cellar lids like a spinning top, holding a glass of brandy and water, which Mr. John Dounce insisted she share, saying it was the typical ladies' hot drink—strong, sweet, and very generous.

So, the young lady sat down with Mr. John Dounce, in a little red box with a green curtain, and took a small sip of the brandy-and-water, and a small look at Mr. John Dounce, and then turned her head away, and went through various other serio-pantomimic fascinations, which forcibly reminded Mr. John Dounce of the first time he courted his first wife, and which made him feel more affectionate than ever; in pursuance of which affection, and actuated by which feeling, Mr. John Dounce sounded the young lady on her matrimonial engagements, when the young lady denied having formed any such engagements at all-she couldn't abear the men, they were such deceivers; thereupon Mr. John Dounce inquired whether this sweeping condemnation was meant to include other than very young men; on which the young lady blushed deeply-at least she turned away her head, and said Mr. John Dounce had made her blush, so of course she did blush-and Mr. John Dounce was a long time drinking the brandy- and-water; and, at last, John Dounce went home to bed, and dreamed of his first wife, and his second wife, and the young lady, and partridges, and oysters, and brandy-and-water, and disinterested attachments.

So, the young woman sat down with Mr. John Dounce in a small red booth with a green curtain. She took a sip of her brandy and water and glanced at Mr. John Dounce before turning her head away, engaging in various charming behaviors that reminded Mr. John Dounce of when he first courted his first wife, filling him with even more affection. Actuated by this feeling, Mr. John Dounce asked the young woman about her relationship status, to which she replied that she hadn’t formed any engagements at all—she couldn't stand men because they were such liars. Mr. John Dounce then asked if this broad statement applied to anyone other than very young men. The young woman blushed deeply—at least, she turned her head away and said Mr. John Dounce had made her blush, so she definitely did blush. Mr. John Dounce spent a long time finishing his drink, and eventually, he went home to bed and dreamed about his first wife, his second wife, the young woman, partridges, oysters, brandy and water, and selfless attachments.

The next morning, John Dounce was rather feverish with the extra brandy- and-water of the previous night; and, partly in the hope of cooling himself with an oyster, and partly with the view of ascertaining whether he owed the young lady anything, or not, went back to the oyster-shop. If the young lady had appeared beautiful by night, she was perfectly irresistible by day; and, from this time forward, a change came over the spirit of John Dounce's dream. He bought shirt-pins; wore a ring on his third finger; read poetry; bribed a cheap miniature-painter to perpetrate a faint resemblance to a youthful face, with a curtain over his head, six large books in the background, and an open country in the distance (this he called his portrait); 'went on' altogether in such an uproarious manner, that the three Miss Dounces went off on small pensions, he having made the tenement in Cursitor-street too warm to contain them; and in short, comported and demeaned himself in every respect like an unmitigated old Saracen, as he was.

The next morning, John Dounce felt a bit feverish from the extra brandy and water he had the night before. He went back to the oyster shop, partly hoping that eating an oyster would cool him down, and partly to figure out if he owed the young lady anything. If she had seemed beautiful at night, she was absolutely irresistible during the day. From that point on, John Dounce's dreams changed dramatically. He started buying shirt pins, wore a ring on his third finger, read poetry, and even paid a cheap miniature painter to create a loose likeness of himself as a young man, with a curtain over his head, six large books in the background, and an open landscape in the distance (which he referred to as his portrait). He acted so wildly that the three Miss Dounces had to leave with small pensions, as he made their shared home in Cursitor Street too chaotic to stay in. In short, he conducted himself like a complete maniac, which he truly was.

As to his ancient friends, the other old boys, at the Sir Somebody's Head, he dropped off from them by gradual degrees; for, even when he did go there, Jones-vulgar fellow that Jones-persisted in asking 'when it was to be?' and 'whether he was to have any gloves?' together with other inquiries of an equally offensive nature: at which not only Harris laughed, but Jennings also; so, he cut the two, altogether, and attached himself solely to the blue young lady at the smart oyster-shop.

As for his old friends, the other guys at Sir Somebody's Head, he slowly distanced himself from them. Even when he did go there, Jones—such a common guy—kept asking, "When is it going to happen?" and "Am I getting gloves?" along with other equally annoying questions. This made not just Harris laugh, but also Jennings. So, he completely dropped those two and focused only on the blue young lady at the fancy oyster shop.

Now comes the moral of the story-for it has a moral after all. The last-mentioned young lady, having derived sufficient profit and emolument from John Dounce's attachment, not only refused, when matters came to a crisis, to take him for better for worse, but expressly declared, to use her own forcible words, that she 'wouldn't have him at no price;' and John Dounce, having lost his old friends, alienated his relations, and rendered himself ridiculous to everybody, made offers successively to a schoolmistress, a landlady, a feminine tobacconist, and a housekeeper; and, being directly rejected by each and every of them, was accepted by his cook, with whom he now lives, a henpecked husband, a melancholy monument of antiquated misery, and a living warning to all uxorious old boys.

Now comes the moral of the story—because it does have one. The last young woman mentioned, after benefiting sufficiently from John Dounce's affection, not only refused, when it came down to it, to take him for better or worse, but also clearly stated, in her own blunt way, that she 'wouldn't have him at any price.' John Dounce, having lost his old friends, distanced himself from his family, and made a fool of himself to everyone, made proposals in succession to a schoolteacher, a landlord, a female tobacconist, and a housekeeper; and after being turned down by each of them, he was finally accepted by his cook, with whom he now lives as a henpecked husband, a sad reminder of outdated misery, and a living cautionary tale for all overly devoted old guys.

CHAPTER VIII-THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. A TALE OF AMBITION

Miss Amelia Martin was pale, tallish, thin, and two-and-thirty-what ill- natured people would call plain, and police reports interesting. She was a milliner and dressmaker, living on her business and not above it. If you had been a young lady in service, and had wanted Miss Martin, as a great many young ladies in service did, you would just have stepped up, in the evening, to number forty-seven, Drummond-street, George- street, Euston-square, and after casting your eye on a brass door-plate, one foot ten by one and a half, ornamented with a great brass knob at each of the four corners, and bearing the inscription 'Miss Martin; millinery and dressmaking, in all its branches;' you'd just have knocked two loud knocks at the street-door; and down would have come Miss Martin herself, in a merino gown of the newest fashion, black velvet bracelets on the genteelest principle, and other little elegancies of the most approved description.

Miss Amelia Martin was pale, tallish, thin, and thirty-two—what rude people would call plain and what police reports would find interesting. She was a milliner and dressmaker, making her living through her business. If you were a young lady in service and wanted to see Miss Martin, as many young ladies did, you would just head over in the evening to number forty-seven, Drummond-street, George-street, Euston-square. After glancing at a brass door plate, measuring one foot ten by one and a half, adorned with a large brass knob at each corner and saying 'Miss Martin; millinery and dressmaking, in all its branches,' you'd knock twice on the street door, and down would come Miss Martin herself, wearing a merino gown of the latest fashion, black velvet bracelets fitting the genteelest style, and other little elegant touches of the most approved kind.

If Miss Martin knew the young lady who called, or if the young lady who called had been recommended by any other young lady whom Miss Martin knew, Miss Martin would forthwith show her up-stairs into the two-pair front, and chat she would-so kind, and so comfortable-it really wasn't like a matter of business, she was so friendly; and, then Miss Martin, after contemplating the figure and general appearance of the young lady in service with great apparent admiration, would say how well she would look, to be sure, in a low dress with short sleeves; made very full in the skirts, with four tucks in the bottom; to which the young lady in service would reply in terms expressive of her entire concurrence in the notion, and of the virtuous indignation with which she reflected on the tyranny of 'Missis,' who wouldn't allow a young girl to wear a short sleeve of an arternoon-no, nor nothing smart, not even a pair of ear- rings; let alone hiding people's heads of hair under them frightful caps. At the termination of this complaint, Miss Amelia Martin would distantly suggest certain dark suspicions that some people were jealous on account of their own daughters, and were obliged to keep their servants' charms under, for fear they should get married first, which was no uncommon circumstance-leastways she had known two or three young ladies in service, who had married a great deal better than their missises, and they were not very good-looking either; and then the young lady would inform Miss Martin, in confidence, that how one of their young ladies was engaged to a young man and was a-going to be married, and Missis was so proud about it there was no bearing of her; but how she needn't hold her head quite so high neither, for, after all, he was only a clerk. And, after expressing due contempt for clerks in general, and the engaged clerk in particular, and the highest opinion possible of themselves and each other, Miss Martin and the young lady in service would bid each other good night, in a friendly but perfectly genteel manner: and the one went back to her 'place,' and the other, to her room on the second-floor front.

If Miss Martin knew the young woman who visited, or if the young woman had been recommended by any acquaintance of Miss Martin, she would quickly show her upstairs to the front room on the second floor and chat with her—so kind and so comfortable—that it really felt more like a friendly conversation than a business matter. After admiring the figure and overall appearance of the young woman in service, Miss Martin would comment on how good she would look in a low-cut dress with short sleeves, with a full skirt that had four tucks at the bottom. The young woman in service would eagerly agree and express her outrage at the 'Missis,' who wouldn’t let her wear short sleeves in the afternoon—nor anything nice, not even a pair of earrings; let alone covering their lovely hair with those awful caps. After venting her frustrations, Miss Amelia Martin would hint at certain suspicions that some people might be jealous of their own daughters and felt the need to suppress their servants' beauty for fear they might marry first, which wasn’t uncommon—at least she knew a couple of young women in service who had married much better than their mistresses, and they weren’t even very good-looking. The young woman would then confide in Miss Martin that one of their ladies was engaged to a young man and was about to be married, and the Missis was so proud about it that it was hard to bear; but, she added, she shouldn’t hold her head quite so high, because, after all, he was just a clerk. After sharing their disdain for clerks in general and the engaged clerk in particular, and having a high opinion of themselves and each other, Miss Martin and the young woman would say goodnight to each other in a friendly yet very proper way, and one would return to her 'place' while the other went to her room on the second floor front.

There is no saying how long Miss Amelia Martin might have continued this course of life; how extensive a connection she might have established among young ladies in service; or what amount her demands upon their quarterly receipts might have ultimately attained, had not an unforeseen train of circumstances directed her thoughts to a sphere of action very different from dressmaking or millinery.

There’s no telling how long Miss Amelia Martin might have kept living this way; how many connections she might have formed with young women in service; or how much her requests from their quarterly earnings might have eventually reached, if an unexpected series of events hadn’t shifted her focus to a completely different field from dressmaking or hat-making.

A friend of Miss Martin's who had long been keeping company with an ornamental painter and decorator's journeyman, at last consented (on being at last asked to do so) to name the day which would make the aforesaid journeyman a happy husband. It was a Monday that was appointed for the celebration of the nuptials, and Miss Amelia Martin was invited, among others, to honour the wedding-dinner with her presence. It was a charming party; Somers-town the locality, and a front parlour the apartment. The ornamental painter and decorator's journeyman had taken a house-no lodgings nor vulgarity of that kind, but a house-four beautiful rooms, and a delightful little washhouse at the end of the passage-which was the most convenient thing in the world, for the bridesmaids could sit in the front parlour and receive the company, and then run into the little washhouse and see how the pudding and boiled pork were getting on in the copper, and then pop back into the parlour again, as snug and comfortable as possible. And such a parlour as it was! Beautiful Kidderminster carpet-six bran-new cane-bottomed stained chairs-three wine-glasses and a tumbler on each sideboard-farmer's girl and farmer's boy on the mantelpiece: girl tumbling over a stile, and boy spitting himself, on the handle of a pitchfork-long white dimity curtains in the window-and, in short, everything on the most genteel scale imaginable.

A friend of Miss Martin's, who had been dating an ornamental painter and decorator's apprentice for quite some time, finally agreed (after being asked one last time) to set a date that would make said apprentice a happy husband. They chose a Monday for the wedding celebration, and Miss Amelia Martin was invited, along with others, to honor the wedding dinner with her presence. It was a lovely gathering; the location was Somers Town, and the setting was a front parlor. The ornamental painter and decorator's apprentice had rented a house—not just some lodgings or anything ordinary, but a house—consisting of four beautiful rooms and a charming little washhouse at the end of the hallway, which was incredibly convenient. The bridesmaids could sit in the front parlor to welcome guests, then dash into the little washhouse to check on the pudding and boiled pork simmering in the copper, before happily returning to the parlor. And what a parlor it was! A beautiful Kidderminster carpet, six brand-new cane-bottomed stained chairs, three wine glasses and a tumbler on each sideboard, a farmer's girl and boy on the mantelpiece: the girl leaping over a stile, and the boy impaled on the handle of a pitchfork, long white dimity curtains at the window, and everything arranged in the most genteel manner imaginable.

Then, the dinner. There was baked leg of mutton at the top, boiled leg of mutton at the bottom, pair of fowls and leg of pork in the middle; porter-pots at the corners; pepper, mustard, and vinegar in the centre; vegetables on the floor; and plum-pudding and apple-pie and tartlets without number: to say nothing of cheese, and celery, and water-cresses, and all that sort of thing. As to the Company! Miss Amelia Martin herself declared, on a subsequent occasion, that, much as she had heard of the ornamental painter's journeyman's connexion, she never could have supposed it was half so genteel. There was his father, such a funny old gentleman-and his mother, such a dear old lady-and his sister, such a charming girl-and his brother, such a manly-looking young man-with such a eye! But even all these were as nothing when compared with his musical friends, Mr. and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, from White Conduit, with whom the ornamental painter's journeyman had been fortunate enough to contract an intimacy while engaged in decorating the concert-room of that noble institution. To hear them sing separately, was divine, but when they went through the tragic duet of 'Red Ruffian, retire!' it was, as Miss Martin afterwards remarked, 'thrilling.' And why (as Mr. Jennings Rodolph observed) why were they not engaged at one of the patent theatres? If he was to be told that their voices were not powerful enough to fill the House, his only reply was, that he would back himself for any amount to fill Russell-square-a statement in which the company, after hearing the duet, expressed their full belief; so they all said it was shameful treatment; and both Mr. and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph said it was shameful too; and Mr. Jennings Rodolph looked very serious, and said he knew who his malignant opponents were, but they had better take care how far they went, for if they irritated him too much he had not quite made up his mind whether he wouldn't bring the subject before Parliament; and they all agreed that it ''ud serve 'em quite right, and it was very proper that such people should be made an example of.' So Mr. Jennings Rodolph said he'd think of it.

Then came dinner. There was baked leg of mutton at the top, boiled leg of mutton at the bottom, a pair of fowls and a leg of pork in the middle; porter pots at the corners; pepper, mustard, and vinegar in the center; vegetables

When the conversation resumed its former tone, Mr. Jennings Rodolph claimed his right to call upon a lady, and the right being conceded, trusted Miss Martin would favour the company-a proposal which met with unanimous approbation, whereupon Miss Martin, after sundry hesitatings and coughings, with a preparatory choke or two, and an introductory declaration that she was frightened to death to attempt it before such great judges of the art, commenced a species of treble chirruping containing frequent allusions to some young gentleman of the name of Hen-e-ry, with an occasional reference to madness and broken hearts. Mr. Jennings Rodolph frequently interrupted the progress of the song, by ejaculating 'Beautiful!'-'Charming!'-'Brilliant!'-'Oh! splendid,' &c.; and at its close the admiration of himself, and his lady, knew no bounds.

When the conversation went back to its previous tone, Mr. Jennings Rodolph insisted that he had the right to call on a lady, and once that right was agreed upon, he hoped Miss Martin would join the company—a suggestion that received enthusiastic approval. After a few moments of hesitation and some coughs, along with a couple of nervous chuckles and a statement that she was terrified to perform in front of such skilled judges, Miss Martin began to sing a kind of high-pitched chirping that often mentioned a young man named Hen-e-ry and occasionally included references to madness and broken hearts. Mr. Jennings Rodolph frequently interrupted her song, exclaiming, “Beautiful!”—“Charming!”—“Brilliant!”—“Oh! splendid,” etc.; and at the end, both his admiration and that of his lady were limitless.

'Did you ever hear so sweet a voice, my dear?' inquired Mr. Jennings Rodolph of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

'Have you ever heard such a sweet voice, my dear?' asked Mr. Jennings Rodolph of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

'Never; indeed I never did, love,' replied Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

'Never; in fact, I never did, love,' replied Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

'Don't you think Miss Martin, with a little cultivation, would be very like Signora Marra Boni, my dear?' asked Mr. Jennings Rodolph.

"Don't you think Miss Martin, with a bit of nurture, would be quite similar to Signora Marra Boni, my dear?" asked Mr. Jennings Rodolph.

'Just exactly the very thing that struck me, my love,' answered Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

'Exactly the thing that caught my attention, my love,' replied Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

And thus the time passed away; Mr. Jennings Rodolph played tunes on a walking-stick, and then went behind the parlour-door and gave his celebrated imitations of actors, edge-tools, and animals; Miss Martin sang several other songs with increased admiration every time; and even the funny old gentleman began singing. His song had properly seven verses, but as he couldn't recollect more than the first one, he sang that over seven times, apparently very much to his own personal gratification. And then all the company sang the national anthem with national independence-each for himself, without reference to the other-and finally separated: all declaring that they never had spent so pleasant an evening: and Miss Martin inwardly resolving to adopt the advice of Mr. Jennings Rodolph, and to 'come out' without delay.

And so time went by; Mr. Jennings Rodolph played tunes on a walking stick and then went behind the living room door to do his famous impressions of actors, tools, and animals. Miss Martin sang several more songs, getting more admiration each time, and even the funny old man joined in. His song was supposed to have seven verses, but since he could only remember the first one, he sang that the whole seven times, clearly enjoying it. Then everyone sang the national anthem, each person doing their own thing without paying attention to the others. Finally, they all left, saying they had never had such a fun evening, and Miss Martin secretly decided to take Mr. Jennings Rodolph's advice and "make her move" without delay.

Now, 'coming out,' either in acting, or singing, or society, or facetiousness, or anything else, is all very well, and remarkably pleasant to the individual principally concerned, if he or she can but manage to come out with a burst, and being out, to keep out, and not go in again; but, it does unfortunately happen that both consummations are extremely difficult to accomplish, and that the difficulties, of getting out at all in the first instance, and if you surmount them, of keeping out in the second, are pretty much on a par, and no slight ones either-and so Miss Amelia Martin shortly discovered. It is a singular fact (there being ladies in the case) that Miss Amelia Martin's principal foible was vanity, and the leading characteristic of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph an attachment to dress. Dismal wailings were heard to issue from the second-floor front of number forty-seven, Drummond- street, George-street, Euston-square; it was Miss Martin practising. Half-suppressed murmurs disturbed the calm dignity of the White Conduit orchestra at the commencement of the season. It was the appearance of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph in full dress, that occasioned them. Miss Martin studied incessantly-the practising was the consequence. Mrs. Jennings Rodolph taught gratuitously now and then-the dresses were the result.

Now, "coming out," whether in acting, singing, social settings, joking around, or anything else, is great and can be really enjoyable for the person involved if they can manage to make a grand entrance and, once they're out, stay out without going back in. Unfortunately, both achieving that initial escape and then maintaining it are incredibly challenging, and the struggles of getting out in the first place and, if you manage that, staying out afterward are quite similar and not insignificant at all—and Miss Amelia Martin quickly found this out. It's interesting that, with ladies involved, Miss Amelia Martin's main flaw was vanity, while Mrs. Jennings Rodolph's main trait was her love for fashion. Sad cries could be heard from the second-floor front of number forty-seven, Drummond Street, George Street, Euston Square; it was Miss Martin practicing. Half-hidden murmurs disrupted the composed atmosphere of the White Conduit orchestra when the season started. It was Mrs. Jennings Rodolph showing up in full attire that caused it. Miss Martin practiced tirelessly—the practicing was a result of that. Mrs. Jennings Rodolph occasionally offered free lessons—the dresses were the outcome.

Weeks passed away; the White Conduit season had begun, and progressed, and was more than half over. The dressmaking business had fallen off, from neglect; and its profits had dwindled away almost imperceptibly. A benefit-night approached; Mr. Jennings Rodolph yielded to the earnest solicitations of Miss Amelia Martin, and introduced her personally to the 'comic gentleman' whose benefit it was. The comic gentleman was all smiles and blandness-he had composed a duet, expressly for the occasion, and Miss Martin should sing it with him. The night arrived; there was an immense room-ninety-seven sixpenn'orths of gin-and-water, thirty-two small glasses of brandy-and-water, five-and-twenty bottled ales, and forty-one neguses; and the ornamental painter's journeyman, with his wife and a select circle of acquaintance, were seated at one of the side-tables near the orchestra. The concert began. Song-sentimental-by a light-haired young gentleman in a blue coat, and bright basket buttons-[applause]. Another song, doubtful, by another gentleman in another blue coat and more bright basket buttons-[increased applause]. Duet, Mr. Jennings Rodolph, and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, 'Red Ruffian, retire!'-[great applause]. Solo, Miss Julia Montague (positively on this occasion only)-'I am a Friar'-[enthusiasm]. Original duet, comic-Mr. H. Taplin (the comic gentleman) and Miss Martin-'The Time of Day.' 'Brayvo!-Brayvo!' cried the ornamental painter's journeyman's party, as Miss Martin was gracefully led in by the comic gentleman. 'Go to work, Harry,' cried the comic gentleman's personal friends. 'Tap- tap-tap,' went the leader's bow on the music-desk. The symphony began, and was soon afterwards followed by a faint kind of ventriloquial chirping, proceeding apparently from the deepest recesses of the interior of Miss Amelia Martin. 'Sing out'-shouted one gentleman in a white great-coat. 'Don't be afraid to put the steam on, old gal,' exclaimed another, 'S-s-s-s-s-s-s'-went the five-and-twenty bottled ales. 'Shame, shame!' remonstrated the ornamental painter's journeyman's party-'S-s-s-s' went the bottled ales again, accompanied by all the gins, and a majority of the brandies.

Weeks went by; the White Conduit season had started, moved along, and was now more than halfway done. The dressmaking business had declined due to neglect, and its profits had almost quietly faded away. A benefit night was approaching; Mr. Jennings Rodolph gave in to Miss Amelia Martin's persistent requests and personally introduced her to the 'comic gentleman' for the event. The comic gentleman was all smiles and charm—he had written a duet specifically for the occasion, which Miss Martin would sing with him. The night arrived; the venue was huge—ninety-seven sixpenny gin-and-water drinks, thirty-two glasses of brandy-and-water, twenty-five bottled ales, and forty-one neguses; the ornamental painter's apprentice, along with his wife and a few select friends, sat at one of the side tables near the orchestra. The concert began. A sentimental song was performed by a light-haired young man in a blue coat with bright basket buttons—[applause]. Another song, somewhat uncertain, by another man in another blue coat and more bright buttons—[increased applause]. A duet by Mr. Jennings Rodolph and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, 'Red Ruffian, retire!'—[great applause]. A solo by Miss Julia Montague (only this time)—'I am a Friar'—[enthusiasm]. An original comic duet by Mr. H. Taplin (the comic gentleman) and Miss Martin—'The Time of Day.' 'Brayvo! Brayvo!' shouted the ornamental painter's apprentice's group, as Miss Martin was elegantly led in by the comic gentleman. 'Get to it, Harry,' called out the comic gentleman's friends. 'Tap-tap-tap,' went the leader's bow on the music stand. The symphony began, soon followed by a faint ventriloquial chirping, seemingly from the deepest depths of Miss Amelia Martin. 'Sing out!' shouted one man in a white overcoat. 'Don't be shy to give it your all, old gal,' exclaimed another, while the sound of twenty-five bottled ales went 'S-s-s-s-s-s-s.' 'Shame, shame!' protested the ornamental painter's apprentice's group—'S-s-s-s' went the bottled ales again, joined by all the gins and most of the brandies.

'Turn them geese out,' cried the ornamental painter's journeyman's party, with great indignation.

'Let those geese loose,' shouted the ornamental painter's apprentice's group, filled with anger.

'Sing out,' whispered Mr. Jennings Rodolph.

'So I do,' responded Miss Amelia Martin.

'So I do,' replied Miss Amelia Martin.

'Sing louder,' said Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

'Sing louder,' Mrs. Jennings Rodolph said.

'I can't,' replied Miss Amelia Martin.

'I can't,' Miss Amelia Martin replied.

'Off, off, off,' cried the rest of the audience.

'Off, off, off,' shouted the rest of the audience.

'Bray-vo!' shouted the painter's party. It wouldn't do-Miss Amelia Martin left the orchestra, with much less ceremony than she had entered it; and, as she couldn't sing out, never came out. The general good humour was not restored until Mr. Jennings Rodolph had become purple in the face, by imitating divers quadrupeds for half an hour, without being able to render himself audible; and, to this day, neither has Miss Amelia Martin's good humour been restored, nor the dresses made for and presented to Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, nor the local abilities which Mr. Jennings Rodolph once staked his professional reputation that Miss Martin possessed.

'Bravo!' cheered the painter's crew. It wasn't great—Miss Amelia Martin left the orchestra with a lot less flair than when she joined; and since she couldn't sing, she never came out. The overall cheerful mood didn't return until Mr. Jennings Rodolph turned purple from trying to mimic various animals for half an hour, all while unable to make himself heard. To this day, neither has Miss Amelia Martin's good mood returned, nor have the dresses made for and given to Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, nor the local talent that Mr. Jennings Rodolph once confidently claimed Miss Martin had.

CHAPTER IX-THE DANCING ACADEMY

Of all the dancing academies that ever were established, there never was one more popular in its immediate vicinity than Signor Billsmethi's, of the 'King's Theatre.' It was not in Spring-gardens, or Newman-street, or Berners-street, or Gower-street, or Charlotte-street, or Percy- street, or any other of the numerous streets which have been devoted time out of mind to professional people, dispensaries, and boarding- houses; it was not in the West-end at all-it rather approximated to the eastern portion of London, being situated in the populous and improving neighbourhood of Gray's-inn-lane. It was not a dear dancing academy-four-and-sixpence a quarter is decidedly cheap upon the whole. It was very select, the number of pupils being strictly limited to seventy-five, and a quarter's payment in advance being rigidly exacted. There was public tuition and private tuition-an assembly-room and a parlour. Signor Billsmethi's family were always thrown in with the parlour, and included in parlour price; that is to say, a private pupil had Signor Billsmethi's parlour to dance in, and Signor Billsmethi's family to dance with; and when he had been sufficiently broken in in the parlour, he began to run in couples in the assembly-room.

Of all the dance schools that have ever been established, none was more popular in its immediate surroundings than Signor Billsmethi's at the 'King's Theatre.' It wasn’t located in Spring Gardens, Newman Street, Berners Street, Gower Street, Charlotte Street, Percy Street, or any of the many streets traditionally known for professional people, clinics, and boarding houses; it wasn’t in the West End at all—it was actually closer to the eastern part of London, situated in the bustling and growing neighborhood of Gray's Inn Lane. It wasn’t an expensive dance academy—four and sixpence a quarter is definitely affordable overall. It was quite exclusive, with the number of students strictly limited to seventy-five, and payment for the quarter was required in advance. There was public and private tuition—an assembly room and a parlor. Signor Billsmethi's family was always included with the parlor, meaning a private student had Signor Billsmethi's parlor to dance in and Signor Billsmethi's family to dance with; and once they had been sufficiently trained in the parlor, they started dancing in pairs in the assembly room.

Such was the dancing academy of Signor Billsmethi, when Mr. Augustus Cooper, of Fetter-lane, first saw an unstamped advertisement walking leisurely down Holborn-hill, announcing to the world that Signor Billsmethi, of the King's Theatre, intended opening for the season with a Grand Ball.

Such was the dance academy of Signor Billsmethi when Mr. Augustus Cooper, from Fetter-lane, first spotted an unmarked advertisement casually strolling down Holborn-hill, announcing to everyone that Signor Billsmethi, of the King's Theatre, was planning to open for the season with a Grand Ball.

Now, Mr. Augustus Cooper was in the oil and colour line-just of age, with a little money, a little business, and a little mother, who, having managed her husband and his business in his lifetime, took to managing her son and his business after his decease; and so, somehow or other, he had been cooped up in the little back parlour behind the shop on week- days, and in a little deal box without a lid (called by courtesy a pew) at Bethel Chapel, on Sundays, and had seen no more of the world than if he had been an infant all his days; whereas Young White, at the gas- fitter's over the way, three years younger than him, had been flaring away like winkin'-going to the theatre-supping at harmonic meetings-eating oysters by the barrel-drinking stout by the gallon-even out all night, and coming home as cool in the morning as if nothing had happened. So Mr. Augustus Cooper made up his mind that he would not stand it any longer, and had that very morning expressed to his mother a firm determination to be 'blowed,' in the event of his not being instantly provided with a street-door key. And he was walking down Holborn-hill, thinking about all these things, and wondering how he could manage to get introduced into genteel society for the first time, when his eyes rested on Signor Billsmethi's announcement, which it immediately struck him was just the very thing he wanted; for he should not only be able to select a genteel circle of acquaintance at once, out of the five-and-seventy pupils at four-and-sixpence a quarter, but should qualify himself at the same time to go through a hornpipe in private society, with perfect ease to himself and great delight to his friends. So, he stopped the unstamped advertisement-an animated sandwich, composed of a boy between two boards-and having procured a very small card with the Signor's address indented thereon, walked straight at once to the Signor's house-and very fast he walked too, for fear the list should be filled up, and the five-and-seventy completed, before he got there. The Signor was at home, and, what was still more gratifying, he was an Englishman! Such a nice man-and so polite! The list was not full, but it was a most extraordinary circumstance that there was only just one vacancy, and even that one would have been filled up, that very morning, only Signor Billsmethi was dissatisfied with the reference, and, being very much afraid that the lady wasn't select, wouldn't take her.

Now, Mr. Augustus Cooper was in the oil and color business—just turned 18, with a bit of cash, a small operation, and a doting mother who, after managing her husband and his business during his life, took on the task of managing her son and his ventures after his death. As a result, he found himself stuck in the little back parlor behind the shop during the week and confined to a small deal box without a lid (called a pew out of courtesy) at Bethel Chapel on Sundays, seeing no more of the world than if he had been an infant his whole life. Meanwhile, Young White, the gas-fitter across the street, who was three years younger, had been living it up—going to the theater, attending musical gatherings, gorging on oysters, chugging stout by the gallon, and even staying out all night, returning home in the morning as cool as if nothing had happened. Mr. Augustus Cooper decided he couldn’t take it any longer and had that morning declared to his mother a firm commitment to be 'blowed' if he didn’t get a street-door key immediately. He was walking down Holborn Hill, mulling over these thoughts and pondering how to be introduced into polite society for the first time, when he noticed Signor Billsmethi's ad, which struck him as just what he needed; he could not only select a refined circle of acquaintances from the seventy-five students at four-and-sixpence a quarter but also learn to navigate a hornpipe in private gatherings with ease and delight his friends. So, he stopped the informal ad—an animated sandwich with a boy between two boards—and got a tiny card with the Signor's address written on it, then hurried straight to the Signor's house, walking quickly for fear the list would fill up and the seventy-five would be complete before he arrived. The Signor was home, and even better, he was an Englishman! What a nice guy—so polite! The list wasn't full, but it was quite remarkable that there was only one vacancy, and that spot had almost been filled that very morning, except Signor Billsmethi was unhappy with the reference and was worried the lady might not be suitably refined, so he wouldn’t take her.

'And very much delighted I am, Mr. Cooper,' said Signor Billsmethi, 'that I did not take her. I assure you, Mr. Cooper-I don't say it to flatter you, for I know you're above it-that I consider myself extremely fortunate in having a gentleman of your manners and appearance, sir.'

'And I am very pleased, Mr. Cooper,' said Signor Billsmethi, 'that I did not take her. I assure you, Mr. Cooper—I don't say this to flatter you, since I know you're beyond that—that I consider myself very lucky to have a gentleman of your demeanor and looks, sir.'

'I am very glad of it too, sir,' said Augustus Cooper.

'I’m really glad about it too, sir,' said Augustus Cooper.

'And I hope we shall be better acquainted, sir,' said Signor Billsmethi.

'And I hope we get to know each other better, sir,' said Signor Billsmethi.

'And I'm sure I hope we shall too, sir,' responded Augustus Cooper. Just then, the door opened, and in came a young lady, with her hair curled in a crop all over her head, and her shoes tied in sandals all over her ankles.

'And I really hope we will too, sir,' replied Augustus Cooper. Just then, the door opened, and a young lady walked in, with her hair curled all over her head and her shoes tied like sandals around her ankles.

'Don't run away, my dear,' said Signor Billsmethi; for the young lady didn't know Mr. Cooper was there when she ran in, and was going to run out again in her modesty, all in confusion-like. 'Don't run away, my dear,' said Signor Billsmethi, 'this is Mr. Cooper-Mr. Cooper, of Fetter-lane. Mr. Cooper, my daughter, sir-Miss Billsmethi, sir, who I hope will have the pleasure of dancing many a quadrille, minuet, gavotte, country-dance, fandango, double-hornpipe, and farinagholkajingo with you, sir. She dances them all, sir; and so shall you, sir, before you're a quarter older, sir.'

"Don't run away, my dear," said Signor Billsmethi; the young lady didn't realize Mr. Cooper was there when she rushed in and was about to dash out again all flustered. "Don't run away, my dear," said Signor Billsmethi, "this is Mr. Cooper—Mr. Cooper of Fetter Lane. Mr. Cooper, this is my daughter, Miss Billsmethi, who I hope will have the pleasure of dancing many quadrilles, minuets, gavottes, country dances, fandangos, double hornpipes, and farinagholkajingos with you, sir. She can do them all, sir; and you'll be dancing too, sir, before you know it."

And Signor Bellsmethi slapped Mr. Augustus Cooper on the back, as if he had known him a dozen years,-so friendly;-and Mr. Cooper bowed to the young lady, and the young lady curtseyed to him, and Signor Billsmethi said they were as handsome a pair as ever he'd wish to see; upon which the young lady exclaimed, 'Lor, pa!' and blushed as red as Mr. Cooper himself-you might have thought they were both standing under a red lamp at a chemist's shop; and before Mr. Cooper went away it was settled that he should join the family circle that very night-taking them just as they were-no ceremony nor nonsense of that kind-and learn his positions in order that he might lose no time, and be able to come out at the forthcoming ball.

And Signor Bellsmethi patted Mr. Augustus Cooper on the back like they were old friends, so friendly; and Mr. Cooper bowed to the young lady, who curtsied back to him. Signor Bellsmethi said they were the most attractive pair he’d ever want to see, to which the young lady exclaimed, "Oh my, Dad!" and blushed as deeply as Mr. Cooper did—you might think they were both standing under a red lamp at a pharmacy. Before Mr. Cooper left, it was arranged that he would join the family that very evening—no formality or nonsense—and get to know his roles so he wouldn’t waste any time and could be ready for the upcoming ball.

Well; Mr. Augustus Cooper went away to one of the cheap shoemakers' shops in Holborn, where gentlemen's dress-pumps are seven-and-sixpence, and men's strong walking just nothing at all, and bought a pair of the regular seven-and-sixpenny, long-quartered, town-mades, in which he astonished himself quite as much as his mother, and sallied forth to Signor Billsmethi's. There were four other private pupils in the parlour: two ladies and two gentlemen. Such nice people! Not a bit of pride about them. One of the ladies in particular, who was in training for a Columbine, was remarkably affable; and she and Miss Billsmethi took such an interest in Mr. Augustus Cooper, and joked, and smiled, and looked so bewitching, that he got quite at home, and learnt his steps in no time. After the practising was over, Signor Billsmethi, and Miss Billsmethi, and Master Billsmethi, and a young lady, and the two ladies, and the two gentlemen, danced a quadrille-none of your slipping and sliding about, but regular warm work, flying into corners, and diving among chairs, and shooting out at the door,-something like dancing! Signor Billsmethi in particular, notwithstanding his having a little fiddle to play all the time, was out on the landing every figure, and Master Billsmethi, when everybody else was breathless, danced a hornpipe, with a cane in his hand, and a cheese-plate on his head, to the unqualified admiration of the whole company. Then, Signor Billsmethi insisted, as they were so happy, that they should all stay to supper, and proposed sending Master Billsmethi for the beer and spirits, whereupon the two gentlemen swore, 'strike 'em wulgar if they'd stand that;' and were just going to quarrel who should pay for it, when Mr. Augustus Cooper said he would, if they'd have the kindness to allow him-and they had the kindness to allow him; and Master Billsmethi brought the beer in a can, and the rum in a quart pot. They had a regular night of it; and Miss Billsmethi squeezed Mr. Augustus Cooper's hand under the table; and Mr. Augustus Cooper returned the squeeze, and returned home too, at something to six o'clock in the morning, when he was put to bed by main force by the apprentice, after repeatedly expressing an uncontrollable desire to pitch his revered parent out of the second-floor window, and to throttle the apprentice with his own neck-handkerchief.

Well, Mr. Augustus Cooper went to one of the inexpensive shoemakers' shops in Holborn, where men's dress shoes cost seven-and-sixpence and sturdy walking shoes were practically free, and bought a pair of the regular seven-and-sixpenny town-made shoes. He was as surprised as his mother when he put them on and set off to see Signor Billsmethi. In the parlor, there were four other students: two ladies and two gentlemen. They were such nice people! Not a hint of pride among them. One of the ladies, who was training to be a Columbine, was particularly friendly; she and Miss Billsmethi took a genuine interest in Mr. Augustus Cooper, joked, smiled, and looked so charming that he felt right at home and picked up his dance steps quickly. After the practice, Signor Billsmethi, Miss Billsmethi, Master Billsmethi, a young lady, the two ladies, and the two gentlemen danced a quadrille—none of that slipping and sliding, but real dancing, darting into corners, weaving among chairs, and bursting out the door—something like actual dancing! Signor Billsmethi, despite playing a little fiddle the whole time, led every figure, and Master Billsmethi, when everyone else was out of breath, performed a hornpipe with a cane in hand and a cheese plate on his head, earning the admiration of the entire group. Then, Signor Billsmethi insisted that since everyone was having such a good time, they should all stay for supper and suggested sending Master Billsmethi for the beer and spirits. The two gentlemen protested, swearing they'd never stand for it, and were about to argue over who should pay when Mr. Augustus Cooper offered to cover it if they would allow him—and they kindly agreed. Master Billsmethi brought in the beer in a can and the rum in a quart pot. They had a great evening; Miss Billsmethi squeezed Mr. Augustus Cooper's hand under the table; he returned the squeeze and headed home, arriving around six o'clock in the morning. He was put to bed by force by the apprentice after repeatedly stating a strong desire to throw his beloved parent out the second-floor window and strangle the apprentice with his own neck handkerchief.

Weeks had worn on, and the seven-and-sixpenny town-mades had nearly worn out, when the night arrived for the grand dress-ball at which the whole of the five-and-seventy pupils were to meet together, for the first time that season, and to take out some portion of their respective four-and- sixpences in lamp-oil and fiddlers. Mr. Augustus Cooper had ordered a new coat for the occasion-a two-pound-tenner from Turnstile. It was his first appearance in public; and, after a grand Sicilian shawl-dance by fourteen young ladies in character, he was to open the quadrille department with Miss Billsmethi herself, with whom he had become quite intimate since his first introduction. It was a night! Everything was admirably arranged. The sandwich-boy took the hats and bonnets at the street-door; there was a turn-up bedstead in the back parlour, on which Miss Billsmethi made tea and coffee for such of the gentlemen as chose to pay for it, and such of the ladies as the gentlemen treated; red port-wine negus and lemonade were handed round at eighteen-pence a head; and in pursuance of a previous engagement with the public-house at the corner of the street, an extra potboy was laid on for the occasion. In short, nothing could exceed the arrangements, except the company. Such ladies! Such pink silk stockings! Such artificial flowers! Such a number of cabs! No sooner had one cab set down a couple of ladies, than another cab drove up and set down another couple of ladies, and they all knew: not only one another, but the majority of the gentlemen into the bargain, which made it all as pleasant and lively as could be. Signor Billsmethi, in black tights, with a large blue bow in his buttonhole, introduced the ladies to such of the gentlemen as were strangers: and the ladies talked away-and laughed they did-it was delightful to see them.

Weeks passed, and the town-made outfits costing seven and sixpence were almost worn out when the night finally came for the grand dress ball, where all seventy-five students would gather together for the first time that season and spend some of their four and sixpence on lamp oil and musicians. Mr. Augustus Cooper had ordered a new coat for the occasion—a two-pound-ten from Turnstile. This was his first public appearance, and after a stunning Sicilian shawl dance performed by fourteen young ladies, he was set to begin the quadrille with Miss Billsmethi herself, with whom he had grown quite close since their first meeting. What a night it was! Everything was perfectly organized. The sandwich boy took the hats and bonnets at the street door; there was a fold-out bed in the back parlor where Miss Billsmethi prepared tea and coffee for gentlemen who chose to pay for it, and for the ladies treated by the gentlemen; red port-wine negus and lemonade were served at eighteen pence per person; and as previously arranged with the pub at the end of the street, an extra potboy was assigned for the event. In short, the arrangements were impeccable, except for the company. Such ladies! Such pink silk stockings! Such artificial flowers! So many cabs! As soon as one cab dropped off a pair of ladies, another cab arrived with another pair, and they all knew not just each other but most of the gentlemen too, which made the atmosphere as enjoyable and lively as possible. Signor Billsmethi, in black tights with a large blue bow in his buttonhole, introduced the ladies to the gentlemen who were strangers, and the ladies chatted away and laughed—it was wonderful to see them.

As to the shawl-dance, it was the most exciting thing that ever was beheld; there was such a whisking, and rustling, and fanning, and getting ladies into a tangle with artificial flowers, and then disentangling them again! And as to Mr. Augustus Cooper's share in the quadrille, he got through it admirably. He was missing from his partner, now and then, certainly, and discovered on such occasions to be either dancing with laudable perseverance in another set, or sliding about in perspective, without any definite object; but, generally speaking, they managed to shove him through the figure, until he turned up in the right place. Be this as it may, when he had finished, a great many ladies and gentlemen came up and complimented him very much, and said they had never seen a beginner do anything like it before; and Mr. Augustus Cooper was perfectly satisfied with himself, and everybody else into the bargain; and 'stood' considerable quantities of spirits-and- water, negus, and compounds, for the use and behoof of two or three dozen very particular friends, selected from the select circle of five- and-seventy pupils.

As for the shawl dance, it was the most exciting thing anyone had ever seen; there was so much whirling, rustling, fanning, and getting ladies tangled up with fake flowers, and then untangling them again! And regarding Mr. Augustus Cooper's role in the quadrille, he did remarkably well. He occasionally disappeared from his partner, sure, and on those occasions, he was either dancing with impressive determination in another group or gliding around aimlessly; but generally, they managed to guide him through the dance until he ended up in the right spot. Regardless, when he finished, many ladies and gentlemen came up to compliment him, saying they'd never seen a beginner do anything like that before. Mr. Augustus Cooper was completely pleased with himself and everyone else too; he treated them to generous amounts of whiskey and water, negus, and other mixed drinks for the benefit of a couple dozen special friends chosen from the exclusive group of seventy-five students.

Now, whether it was the strength of the compounds, or the beauty of the ladies, or what not, it did so happen that Mr. Augustus Cooper encouraged, rather than repelled, the very flattering attentions of a young lady in brown gauze over white calico who had appeared particularly struck with him from the first; and when the encouragements had been prolonged for some time, Miss Billsmethi betrayed her spite and jealousy thereat by calling the young lady in brown gauze a 'creeter,' which induced the young lady in brown gauze to retort, in certain sentences containing a taunt founded on the payment of four-and-sixpence a quarter, which reference Mr. Augustus Cooper, being then and there in a state of considerable bewilderment, expressed his entire concurrence in. Miss Billsmethi, thus renounced, forthwith began screaming in the loudest key of her voice, at the rate of fourteen screams a minute; and being unsuccessful, in an onslaught on the eyes and face, first of the lady in gauze and then of Mr. Augustus Cooper, called distractedly on the other three-and-seventy pupils to furnish her with oxalic acid for her own private drinking; and, the call not being honoured, made another rush at Mr. Cooper, and then had her stay-lace cut, and was carried off to bed. Mr. Augustus Cooper, not being remarkable for quickness of apprehension, was at a loss to understand what all this meant, until Signor Billsmethi explained it in a most satisfactory manner, by stating to the pupils, that Mr. Augustus Cooper had made and confirmed divers promises of marriage to his daughter on divers occasions, and had now basely deserted her; on which, the indignation of the pupils became universal; and as several chivalrous gentlemen inquired rather pressingly of Mr. Augustus Cooper, whether he required anything for his own use, or, in other words, whether he 'wanted anything for himself,' he deemed it prudent to make a precipitate retreat. And the upshot of the matter was, that a lawyer's letter came next day, and an action was commenced next week; and that Mr. Augustus Cooper, after walking twice to the Serpentine for the purpose of drowning himself, and coming twice back without doing it, made a confidante of his mother, who compromised the matter with twenty pounds from the till: which made twenty pounds four shillings and sixpence paid to Signor Billsmethi, exclusive of treats and pumps. And Mr. Augustus Cooper went back and lived with his mother, and there he lives to this day; and as he has lost his ambition for society, and never goes into the world, he will never see this account of himself, and will never be any the wiser.

Now, whether it was the strength of the drinks, or the beauty of the ladies, or whatever else, Mr. Augustus Cooper found himself encouraging, rather than shying away from, the very flattering attention of a young woman in a brown gauze dress over a white calico one who seemed particularly taken with him from the start. After this encouragement went on for a while, Miss Billsmethi, feeling spiteful and jealous, called the young lady in brown gauze a 'creeter.' This prompted the young lady to fire back with some remarks that included a jab about paying four-and-sixpence a quarter, to which Mr. Augustus Cooper, who was quite bewildered at the time, wholeheartedly agreed. Miss Billsmethi, feeling slighted, immediately began screeching at the top of her lungs, producing about fourteen screams a minute; and when she failed in her attempts to scratch the eyes and face of both the lady in gauze and Mr. Augustus Cooper, she desperately called on the other seventy-three students to provide her with oxalic acid for her personal use. When her request was ignored, she made another charge at Mr. Cooper, then had her stay-lace cut, and was taken off to bed. Mr. Augustus Cooper, not known for his quick understanding, struggled to comprehend what was happening until Signor Billsmethi clarified the situation in a way that everyone understood, stating that Mr. Augustus Cooper had made and broken numerous marriage promises to his daughter on various occasions, and had now shamefully abandoned her. This sparked universal indignation among the students, and as several chivalrous boys pressed Mr. Augustus Cooper about whether he needed anything for himself, he wisely decided to make a hasty exit. The outcome was that a lawyer's letter arrived the next day, and a lawsuit was filed the following week. Mr. Augustus Cooper, after trying to drown himself at the Serpentine twice and ending up back without doing it, confided in his mother, who resolved the issue with twenty pounds from the till: which amounted to twenty pounds four shillings and sixpence paid to Signor Billsmethi, not counting treats and bounces. Mr. Augustus Cooper returned to live with his mother, and he remains there to this day; having lost his desire for social interaction and never going out into the world, he will never see this account of himself and will never be any the wiser.

CHAPTER X-SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE

There are certain descriptions of people who, oddly enough, appear to appertain exclusively to the metropolis. You meet them, every day, in the streets of London, but no one ever encounters them elsewhere; they seem indigenous to the soil, and to belong as exclusively to London as its own smoke, or the dingy bricks and mortar. We could illustrate the remark by a variety of examples, but, in our present sketch, we will only advert to one class as a specimen-that class which is so aptly and expressively designated as 'shabby-genteel.'

There are certain types of people who, strangely enough, seem to belong only to the city. You see them every day on the streets of London, but you never see them anywhere else; they seem native to the place, as much a part of London as its own smoke or the grimy bricks and mortar. We could illustrate this point with many examples, but in this sketch, we'll focus on just one group as a representative instance—that group that is aptly and expressively called 'shabby-genteel.'

Now, shabby people, God knows, may be found anywhere, and genteel people are not articles of greater scarcity out of London than in it; but this compound of the two-this shabby-gentility-is as purely local as the statue at Charing-cross, or the pump at Aldgate. It is worthy of remark, too, that only men are shabby-genteel; a woman is always either dirty and slovenly in the extreme, or neat and respectable, however poverty-stricken in appearance. A very poor man, 'who has seen better days,' as the phrase goes, is a strange compound of dirty-slovenliness and wretched attempts at faded smartness.

Now, you can find shabby people anywhere, and fashionable individuals aren't any rarer outside of London than they are within it; however, this mix of the two—this shabby-gentility—is as uniquely local as the statue at Charing Cross or the pump at Aldgate. It's also worth noting that only men can be shabby-genteel; a woman is always either extremely messy and unkempt or tidy and respectable, no matter how poor she may look. A very poor man, who "has seen better days," is an odd blend of filthiness and miserable attempts at faded style.

We will endeavour to explain our conception of the term which forms the title of this paper. If you meet a man, lounging up Drury-Lane, or leaning with his back against a post in Long-acre, with his hands in the pockets of a pair of drab trousers plentifully besprinkled with grease- spots: the trousers made very full over the boots, and ornamented with two cords down the outside of each leg-wearing, also, what has been a brown coat with bright buttons, and a hat very much pinched up at the side, cocked over his right eye-don't pity him. He is not shabby- genteel. The 'harmonic meetings' at some fourth-rate public-house, or the purlieus of a private theatre, are his chosen haunts; he entertains a rooted antipathy to any kind of work, and is on familiar terms with several pantomime men at the large houses. But, if you see hurrying along a by-street, keeping as close as he can to the area-railings, a man of about forty or fifty, clad in an old rusty suit of threadbare black cloth which shines with constant wear as if it had been bees- waxed-the trousers tightly strapped down, partly for the look of the thing and partly to keep his old shoes from slipping off at the heels,-if you observe, too, that his yellowish-white neckerchief is carefully pinned up, to conceal the tattered garment underneath, and that his hands are encased in the remains of an old pair of beaver gloves, you may set him down as a shabby-genteel man. A glance at that depressed face, and timorous air of conscious poverty, will make your heart ache-always supposing that you are neither a philosopher nor a political economist.

We will try to explain our understanding of the term that is the title of this paper. If you encounter a guy slouching around Drury Lane or leaning against a post in Long Acre, with his hands stuffed in the pockets of a pair of brown trousers covered in grease spots—these trousers being quite voluminous over his boots and featuring two cords running down each leg—and wearing what used to be a brown coat with shiny buttons and a hat pulled up at the side, tilted over his right eye—don’t feel sorry for him. He isn’t shabby-genteel. He prefers hanging around at some low-key pub or the fringes of a private theater; he has a strong dislike for any kind of work and is on casual terms with several performers at the big theaters. However, if you see a man in his forties or fifties hurrying down a side street, trying to stay as close as possible to the area railings, dressed in an old, worn-out black suit that shines from constant wearing as if it’s been waxed—the trousers tightly strapped down, partly for appearance and partly to keep his old shoes from slipping off—if you also notice his yellowish-white neckerchief pinned up carefully to hide the tatty garment underneath, and his hands covered with the remnants of old beaver gloves, you can classify him as shabby-genteel. A quick look at that dejected face and nervous air of self-aware poverty will tug at your heartstrings—assuming you’re not a philosopher or a political economist.

We were once haunted by a shabby-genteel man; he was bodily present to our senses all day, and he was in our mind's eye all night. The man of whom Sir Walter Scott speaks in his Demonology, did not suffer half the persecution from his imaginary gentleman-usher in black velvet, that we sustained from our friend in quondam black cloth. He first attracted our notice, by sitting opposite to us in the reading-room at the British Museum; and what made the man more remarkable was, that he always had before him a couple of shabby-genteel books-two old dog's-eared folios, in mouldy worm-eaten covers, which had once been smart. He was in his chair, every morning, just as the clock struck ten; he was always the last to leave the room in the afternoon; and when he did, he quitted it with the air of a man who knew not where else to go, for warmth and quiet. There he used to sit all day, as close to the table as possible, in order to conceal the lack of buttons on his coat: with his old hat carefully deposited at his feet, where he evidently flattered himself it escaped observation.

We were once troubled by a shabby-genteel man; he was physically present to our senses all day, and he lingered in our minds all night. The man that Sir Walter Scott mentions in his Demonology didn’t experience half the torment from his imaginary gentleman-usher in black velvet that we endured from our friend in former black cloth. He first caught our attention by sitting across from us in the reading room at the British Museum; what made him even more noticeable was that he always had a couple of shabby-genteel books in front of him—two old, dog-eared folios in moldy, worm-eaten covers, which had once looked decent. He was always in his chair each morning just as the clock struck ten; he was always the last to leave the room in the afternoon; and when he did, he left with the demeanor of someone who had no other place to go for warmth and quiet. There he would sit all day, as close to the table as possible, trying to hide the lack of buttons on his coat: with his old hat carefully placed at his feet, where he obviously hoped it would go unnoticed.

About two o'clock, you would see him munching a French roll or a penny loaf; not taking it boldly out of his pocket at once, like a man who knew he was only making a lunch; but breaking off little bits in his pocket, and eating them by stealth. He knew too well it was his dinner.

About two o'clock, you'd see him nibbling on a French roll or a cheap loaf; not boldly pulling it out of his pocket right away, like someone who was just having lunch; but sneaking little pieces out from his pocket and eating them secretly. He knew all too well it was his dinner.

When we first saw this poor object, we thought it quite impossible that his attire could ever become worse. We even went so far, as to speculate on the possibility of his shortly appearing in a decent second-hand suit. We knew nothing about the matter; he grew more and more shabby-genteel every day. The buttons dropped off his waistcoat, one by one; then, he buttoned his coat; and when one side of the coat was reduced to the same condition as the waistcoat, he buttoned it over-on the other side. He looked somewhat better at the beginning of the week than at the conclusion, because the neckerchief, though yellow, was not quite so dingy; and, in the midst of all this wretchedness, he never appeared without gloves and straps. He remained in this state for a week or two. At length, one of the buttons on the back of the coat fell off, and then the man himself disappeared, and we thought he was dead.

When we first saw this poor guy, we thought it was impossible for his clothes to get any worse. We even speculated that he might soon show up in a decent second-hand suit. We didn’t know anything about him; he just got more and more shabby every day. The buttons on his waistcoat fell off one by one; then, he buttoned his coat; and when one side of the coat ended up as ragged as the waistcoat, he just buttoned it on the other side. At the beginning of the week, he looked a bit better than by the end because his neckerchief, although yellow, wasn’t quite as dirty. Yet, in all this misery, he never appeared without gloves and straps. He stayed in this state for a week or two. Eventually, one of the buttons on the back of his coat fell off, and then the man himself vanished, and we thought he was dead.

We were sitting at the same table about a week after his disappearance, and as our eyes rested on his vacant chair, we insensibly fell into a train of meditation on the subject of his retirement from public life. We were wondering whether he had hung himself, or thrown himself off a bridge-whether he really was dead or had only been arrested-when our conjectures were suddenly set at rest by the entry of the man himself. He had undergone some strange metamorphosis, and walked up the centre of the room with an air which showed he was fully conscious of the improvement in his appearance. It was very odd. His clothes were a fine, deep, glossy black; and yet they looked like the same suit; nay, there were the very darns with which old acquaintance had made us familiar. The hat, too-nobody could mistake the shape of that hat, with its high crown gradually increasing in circumference towards the top. Long service had imparted to it a reddish-brown tint; but, now, it was as black as the coat. The truth flashed suddenly upon us-they had been 'revived.' It is a deceitful liquid that black and blue reviver; we have watched its effects on many a shabby-genteel man. It betrays its victims into a temporary assumption of importance: possibly into the purchase of a new pair of gloves, or a cheap stock, or some other trifling article of dress. It elevates their spirits for a week, only to depress them, if possible, below their original level. It was so in this case; the transient dignity of the unhappy man decreased, in exact proportion as the 'reviver' wore off. The knees of the unmentionables, and the elbows of the coat, and the seams generally, soon began to get alarmingly white. The hat was once more deposited under the table, and its owner crept into his seat as quietly as ever.

We were sitting at the same table about a week after he disappeared, and as we looked at his empty chair, we naturally started thinking about why he had stepped away from public life. We were wondering if he had hanged himself or jumped off a bridge—if he was really dead or just arrested—when suddenly, he walked in. He looked completely different and walked to the center of the room with a confidence that showed he was aware of how much better he looked. It was really strange. His clothes were a rich, shiny black, but they still seemed like the same outfit; in fact, they had the same patches we recognized from before. The hat, too—there was no mistaking the shape, with its tall crown that widened toward the top. Years of use had given it a reddish-brown color, but now it was as black as his coat. It hit us all at once—they had been ‘revived.’ It’s a deceptive liquid that black and blue reviver; we’ve seen its effects on many down-and-out men. It tricks its victims into feeling temporarily important, maybe leading them to buy a new pair of gloves, a cheap tie, or some other minor clothing item. It lifts their spirits for a week, only to drag them down even lower than before. That’s exactly what happened here; the brief moment of dignity for the poor guy faded just as quickly as the ‘reviver’ wore off. The knees of his pants, the elbows of his coat, and the seams in general quickly started to show alarming signs of wear. The hat was once again tucked under the table, and he quietly settled into his seat just like before.

There was a week of incessant small rain and mist. At its expiration the 'reviver' had entirely vanished, and the shabby-genteel man never afterwards attempted to effect any improvement in his outward appearance.

There was a week of constant light rain and fog. When it was over, the 'reviver' had completely disappeared, and the shabby-genteel man never tried to change his appearance again.

It would be difficult to name any particular part of town as the principal resort of shabby-genteel men. We have met a great many persons of this description in the neighbourhood of the inns of court. They may be met with, in Holborn, between eight and ten any morning; and whoever has the curiosity to enter the Insolvent Debtors' Court will observe, both among spectators and practitioners, a great variety of them. We never went on 'Change, by any chance, without seeing some shabby-genteel men, and we have often wondered what earthly business they can have there. They will sit there, for hours, leaning on great, dropsical, mildewed umbrellas, or eating Abernethy biscuits. Nobody speaks to them, nor they to any one. On consideration, we remember to have occasionally seen two shabby-genteel men conversing together on 'Change, but our experience assures us that this is an uncommon circumstance, occasioned by the offer of a pinch of snuff, or some such civility.

It’s hard to pinpoint any specific area of the city as the main hangout for shabby-genteel men. We've encountered many people like this around the inns of court. You can find them in Holborn, between eight and ten in the morning; and anyone curious enough to step into the Insolvent Debtors' Court will notice a wide range of them among the audience and the lawyers. We never went on 'Change without spotting some shabby-genteel men, and we often wondered what they were doing there. They’ll sit for hours, leaning on huge, damp, moldy umbrellas or munching on Abernethy biscuits. Nobody talks to them, and they don’t talk to anyone either. On reflection, we do recall occasionally seeing two shabby-genteel men chatting on 'Change, but our experience tells us that this is a rare event, usually sparked by the offer of a pinch of snuff or some other small act of politeness.

It would be a task of equal difficulty, either to assign any particular spot for the residence of these beings, or to endeavour to enumerate their general occupations. We were never engaged in business with more than one shabby-genteel man; and he was a drunken engraver, and lived in a damp back-parlour in a new row of houses at Camden-town, half street, half brick-field, somewhere near the canal. A shabby-genteel man may have no occupation, or he may be a corn agent, or a coal agent, or a wine merchant, or a collector of debts, or a broker's assistant, or a broken-down attorney. He may be a clerk of the lowest description, or a contributor to the press of the same grade. Whether our readers have noticed these men, in their walks, as often as we have, we know not; this we know-that the miserably poor man (no matter whether he owes his distresses to his own conduct, or that of others) who feels his poverty and vainly strives to conceal it, is one of the most pitiable objects in human nature. Such objects, with few exceptions, are shabby-genteel people.

It would be just as difficult to pinpoint a specific place for these people to live or to list their general jobs. We were only involved with one poorly dressed, genteel man; he was a drunk engraver who lived in a damp back room in a row of new houses in Camden Town, which was half street and half brick field, somewhere near the canal. A shabby-genteel man might not have a job at all, or he could be a corn agent, a coal agent, a wine merchant, a debt collector, a broker's assistant, or a failed lawyer. He might be a low-level clerk or a poorly paid journalist. We’re not sure if our readers have noticed these guys as much as we have, but we do know this: the extremely poor man—whether his troubles are due to his own choices or someone else's—who is aware of his poverty and tries helplessly to hide it, is one of the most pitiable sights in human nature. Generally, such people fit the shabby-genteel profile.

CHAPTER XI-MAKING A NIGHT OF IT

Damon and Pythias were undoubtedly very good fellows in their way: the former for his extreme readiness to put in special bail for a friend: and the latter for a certain trump-like punctuality in turning up just in the very nick of time, scarcely less remarkable. Many points in their character have, however, grown obsolete. Damons are rather hard to find, in these days of imprisonment for debt (except the sham ones, and they cost half-a-crown); and, as to the Pythiases, the few that have existed in these degenerate times, have had an unfortunate knack of making themselves scarce, at the very moment when their appearance would have been strictly classical. If the actions of these heroes, however, can find no parallel in modern times, their friendship can. We have Damon and Pythias on the one hand. We have Potter and Smithers on the other; and, lest the two last-mentioned names should never have reached the ears of our unenlightened readers, we can do no better than make them acquainted with the owners thereof.

Damon and Pythias were definitely good friends in their own way: Damon for always being ready to step in and support a buddy, and Pythias for his amazing knack of showing up just at the right time, which was pretty impressive. However, many traits of their characters have become outdated. It's hard to find a Damon these days, especially with debt imprisonment (except for the fake ones, and they cost a lot); as for Pythiases, the few that existed in these lesser times had a terrible habit of disappearing right when their presence would have been most fitting. If the deeds of these heroes can’t be matched in modern times, their friendship can. We have Damon and Pythias on one side, and we have Potter and Smithers on the other; and just in case those last two names haven't come across your radar, we should introduce you to who they are.

Mr. Thomas Potter, then, was a clerk in the city, and Mr. Robert Smithers was a ditto in the same; their incomes were limited, but their friendship was unbounded. They lived in the same street, walked into town every morning at the same hour, dined at the same slap-bang every day, and revelled in each other's company very night. They were knit together by the closest ties of intimacy and friendship, or, as Mr. Thomas Potter touchingly observed, they were 'thick-and-thin pals, and nothing but it.' There was a spice of romance in Mr. Smithers's disposition, a ray of poetry, a gleam of misery, a sort of consciousness of he didn't exactly know what, coming across him he didn't precisely know why-which stood out in fine relief against the off-hand, dashing, amateur-pickpocket-sort-of-manner, which distinguished Mr. Potter in an eminent degree.

Mr. Thomas Potter was a clerk in the city, and Mr. Robert Smithers was also one in the same place; their incomes were modest, but their friendship was limitless. They lived on the same street, walked into town every morning at the same time, had lunch at the same place every day, and enjoyed each other's company every night. They were closely bonded by strong ties of intimacy and friendship, or as Mr. Thomas Potter fondly put it, they were 'thick-and-thin pals, and nothing more.' There was a hint of romance in Mr. Smithers's personality, a touch of poetry, a glimmer of sadness, a sense of something he couldn't quite define, which contrasted sharply with the casual, flamboyant, amateur pickpocket vibe that distinctly characterized Mr. Potter.

The peculiarity of their respective dispositions, extended itself to their individual costume. Mr. Smithers generally appeared in public in a surtout and shoes, with a narrow black neckerchief and a brown hat, very much turned up at the sides-peculiarities which Mr. Potter wholly eschewed, for it was his ambition to do something in the celebrated 'kiddy' or stage-coach way, and he had even gone so far as to invest capital in the purchase of a rough blue coat with wooden buttons, made upon the fireman's principle, in which, with the addition of a low- crowned, flower-pot-saucer-shaped hat, he had created no inconsiderable sensation at the Albion in Little Russell-street, and divers other places of public and fashionable resort.

The uniqueness of their personalities extended to their individual styles. Mr. Smithers usually showed up in public wearing a long coat and shoes, with a narrow black neck scarf and a brown hat that was turned up at the sides—features that Mr. Potter completely avoided. He aimed to capture a look reminiscent of the celebrated 'kiddy' or stage-coach style and even went as far as investing in a rough blue coat with wooden buttons, made like a fireman's. With the addition of a low-crowned, flower-pot-saucer-shaped hat, he made quite an impression at the Albion on Little Russell Street and various other popular places.

Mr. Potter and Mr. Smithers had mutually agreed that, on the receipt of their quarter's salary, they would jointly and in company 'spend the evening'-an evident misnomer-the spending applying, as everybody knows, not to the evening itself but to all the money the individual may chance to be possessed of, on the occasion to which reference is made; and they had likewise agreed that, on the evening aforesaid, they would 'make a night of it'-an expressive term, implying the borrowing of several hours from to-morrow morning, adding them to the night before, and manufacturing a compound night of the whole.

Mr. Potter and Mr. Smithers had agreed that, when they received their quarterly paycheck, they would spend the evening together—which is a bit of a misnomer, since "spending" really refers not to the evening itself but to all the money each of them happened to have on that occasion. They also agreed that, on that evening, they would "make a night of it"—a phrase that means borrowing a few hours from tomorrow morning, adding them to the previous night, and creating one long night out of the two.

The quarter-day arrived at last-we say at last, because quarter-days are as eccentric as comets: moving wonderfully quick when you have a good deal to pay, and marvellously slow when you have a little to receive. Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers met by appointment to begin the evening with a dinner; and a nice, snug, comfortable dinner they had, consisting of a little procession of four chops and four kidneys, following each other, supported on either side by a pot of the real draught stout, and attended by divers cushions of bread, and wedges of cheese.

The quarter-day finally arrived—we say finally because quarter-days are as unpredictable as comets: moving incredibly fast when you owe a lot, and surprisingly slow when you’re expecting a little. Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers met as planned to kick off the evening with dinner; and they enjoyed a nice, cozy, comfortable meal that featured a small parade of four chops and four kidneys, accompanied on each side by a pot of real draft stout, and complemented by various pieces of bread and wedges of cheese.

When the cloth was removed, Mr. Thomas Potter ordered the waiter to bring in, two goes of his best Scotch whiskey, with warm water and sugar, and a couple of his 'very mildest' Havannahs, which the waiter did. Mr. Thomas Potter mixed his grog, and lighted his cigar; Mr. Robert Smithers did the same; and then, Mr. Thomas Potter jocularly proposed as the first toast, 'the abolition of all offices whatever' (not sinecures, but counting-houses), which was immediately drunk by Mr. Robert Smithers, with enthusiastic applause. So they went on, talking politics, puffing cigars, and sipping whiskey-and-water, until the 'goes'-most appropriately so called-were both gone, which Mr. Robert Smithers perceiving, immediately ordered in two more goes of the best Scotch whiskey, and two more of the very mildest Havannahs; and the goes kept coming in, and the mild Havannahs kept going out, until, what with the drinking, and lighting, and puffing, and the stale ashes on the table, and the tallow-grease on the cigars, Mr. Robert Smithers began to doubt the mildness of the Havannahs, and to feel very much as if he had been sitting in a hackney-coach with his back to the horses.

When the cloth was removed, Mr. Thomas Potter instructed the waiter to bring in two shots of his best Scotch whiskey, with warm water and sugar, along with a couple of his 'mildest' Havannah cigars, which the waiter did. Mr. Thomas Potter mixed his drink and lit his cigar; Mr. Robert Smithers did the same. Then, Mr. Thomas Potter jokingly proposed as the first toast, 'the abolition of all offices whatsoever' (not sinecures, but counting-houses), which Mr. Robert Smithers immediately toasted with enthusiastic applause. They continued talking politics, smoking cigars, and sipping whiskey-and-water until the 'shots'—fittingly named—were both finished. Noticing this, Mr. Robert Smithers quickly ordered two more shots of the best Scotch whiskey and two more of the mildest Havannahs. The shots kept arriving, and the mild Havannahs kept being smoked, until, with all the drinking, lighting, puffing, and stale ashes on the table, along with the grease from the candles on the cigars, Mr. Robert Smithers started to question the mildness of the Havannahs and felt very much like he had been sitting in a taxi with his back to the horses.

As to Mr. Thomas Potter, he would keep laughing out loud, and volunteering inarticulate declarations that he was 'all right;' in proof of which, he feebly bespoke the evening paper after the next gentleman, but finding it a matter of some difficulty to discover any news in its columns, or to ascertain distinctly whether it had any columns at all, walked slowly out to look for the moon, and, after coming back quite pale with looking up at the sky so long, and attempting to express mirth at Mr. Robert Smithers having fallen asleep, by various galvanic chuckles, laid his head on his arm, and went to sleep also. When he awoke again, Mr. Robert Smithers awoke too, and they both very gravely agreed that it was extremely unwise to eat so many pickled walnuts with the chops, as it was a notorious fact that they always made people queer and sleepy; indeed, if it had not been for the whiskey and cigars, there was no knowing what harm they mightn't have done 'em. So they took some coffee, and after paying the bill,-twelve and twopence the dinner, and the odd tenpence for the waiter-thirteen shillings in all-started out on their expedition to manufacture a night.

As for Mr. Thomas Potter, he kept laughing out loud and making unintelligible claims that he was 'fine;' to prove it, he weakly asked for the evening paper after the next guy, but struggled to find any news in it, or even to figure out if it had any actual columns at all. He slowly went outside to look for the moon, and after returning quite pale from staring at the sky for so long, he tried to express amusement at Mr. Robert Smithers falling asleep with a series of awkward chuckles. Eventually, he laid his head on his arm and dozed off too. When he woke up again, Mr. Robert Smithers was awake as well, and they both seriously agreed that it was very unwise to eat so many pickled walnuts with their dinner, as it was well known that they always made people feel strange and sleepy; in fact, if it hadn’t been for the whiskey and cigars, who knows what trouble they could’ve gotten into. So they had some coffee, and after settling the bill—twelve shillings and two pence for dinner, plus an extra ten pence for the waiter—thirteen shillings total—they set off on their adventure to create a night.

It was just half-past eight, so they thought they couldn't do better than go at half-price to the slips at the City Theatre, which they did accordingly. Mr. Robert Smithers, who had become extremely poetical after the settlement of the bill, enlivening the walk by informing Mr. Thomas Potter in confidence that he felt an inward presentiment of approaching dissolution, and subsequently embellishing the theatre, by falling asleep with his head and both arms gracefully drooping over the front of the boxes.

It was just 8:30, so they figured they couldn't pass up the chance to get half-price tickets to the City Theatre, and so they did. Mr. Robert Smithers, who had gotten pretty poetic after settling the bill, made the walk more entertaining by quietly telling Mr. Thomas Potter that he had a gut feeling about impending doom. He later added to the atmosphere of the theatre by dozing off with his head and arms elegantly draped over the front of the boxes.

Such was the quiet demeanour of the unassuming Smithers, and such were the happy effects of Scotch whiskey and Havannahs on that interesting person! But Mr. Thomas Potter, whose great aim it was to be considered as a 'knowing card,' a 'fast-goer,' and so forth, conducted himself in a very different manner, and commenced going very fast indeed-rather too fast at last, for the patience of the audience to keep pace with him. On his first entry, he contented himself by earnestly calling upon the gentlemen in the gallery to 'flare up,' accompanying the demand with another request, expressive of his wish that they would instantaneously 'form a union,' both which requisitions were responded to, in the manner most in vogue on such occasions.

Such was the calm demeanor of the unassuming Smithers, and such were the happy effects of Scotch whiskey and Havannahs on that interesting person! But Mr. Thomas Potter, whose main goal was to be seen as a 'knowing card,' a 'fast-goer,' and so on, acted very differently and started speeding up—rather too much at last, for the audience to keep up with him. On his first entry, he focused on earnestly urging the gentlemen in the gallery to 'flare up,' along with another request, expressing his hope that they would immediately 'form a union.' Both of these demands were met in the way that was most common at such occasions.

'Give that dog a bone!' cried one gentleman in his shirt-sleeves.

'Give that dog a bone!' shouted a man in his t-shirt.

'Where have you been a having half a pint of intermediate beer?' cried a second. 'Tailor!' screamed a third. 'Barber's clerk!' shouted a fourth. 'Throw him o-ver!' roared a fifth; while numerous voices concurred in desiring Mr. Thomas Potter to 'go home to his mother!' All these taunts Mr. Thomas Potter received with supreme contempt, cocking the low-crowned hat a little more on one side, whenever any reference was made to his personal appearance, and, standing up with his arms a- kimbo, expressing defiance melodramatically.

"Where have you been, having a half pint of average beer?" yelled one. "Tailor!" shouted another. "Barber's assistant!" yelled a fourth. "Throw him out!" roared a fifth, while many voices chimed in, telling Mr. Thomas Potter to "go home to his mother!" Mr. Thomas Potter took all these insults with total disdain, tilting his low-crowned hat a bit more to the side whenever anyone made comments about his looks, and standing with his arms on his hips, dramatically showing his defiance.

The overture-to which these various sounds had been an ad libitum accompaniment-concluded, the second piece began, and Mr. Thomas Potter, emboldened by impunity, proceeded to behave in a most unprecedented and outrageous manner. First of all, he imitated the shake of the principal female singer; then, groaned at the blue fire; then, affected to be frightened into convulsions of terror at the appearance of the ghost; and, lastly, not only made a running commentary, in an audible voice, upon the dialogue on the stage, but actually awoke Mr. Robert Smithers, who, hearing his companion making a noise, and having a very indistinct notion where he was, or what was required of him, immediately, by way of imitating a good example, set up the most unearthly, unremitting, and appalling howling that ever audience heard. It was too much. 'Turn them out!' was the general cry. A noise, as of shuffling of feet, and men being knocked up with violence against wainscoting, was heard: a hurried dialogue of 'Come out?'-'I won't!'-'You shall!'-'I shan't!'-'Give me your card, Sir?'-'You're a scoundrel, Sir!' and so forth, succeeded. A round of applause betokened the approbation of the audience, and Mr. Robert Smithers and Mr. Thomas Potter found themselves shot with astonishing swiftness into the road, without having had the trouble of once putting foot to ground during the whole progress of their rapid descent.

The overture—during which these various sounds had been a spontaneous background—finished, the second piece started, and Mr. Thomas Potter, feeling bold from not getting caught, began to act in a completely unprecedented and outrageous way. First, he mimicked the shake of the lead female singer; then he groaned at the blue fire; next, he pretended to be scared to the point of convulsions at the sight of the ghost; and lastly, not only did he loudly commentate on the dialogue happening on stage, but he also woke up Mr. Robert Smithers, who, hearing his friend making noise and having a very vague idea of where he was or what he was supposed to do, immediately, in a bid to follow suit, let out the most unearthly, relentless, and horrifying wailing that any audience had ever heard. It was too much. "Get them out!" was the shout from the crowd. Then came the sound of shuffling feet and men being violently shoved against the walls: a hasty back-and-forth of "Come out?"—"I won't!"—"You will!"—"I won't!"—"Give me your card, sir?"—"You're a scoundrel, sir!" and so on ensued. A round of applause signified the audience's approval, and Mr. Robert Smithers and Mr. Thomas Potter found themselves surprisingly quickly thrown out onto the street, without having to put a single foot on the ground during their rapid ejection.

Mr. Robert Smithers, being constitutionally one of the slow-goers, and having had quite enough of fast-going, in the course of his recent expulsion, to last until the quarter-day then next ensuing at the very least, had no sooner emerged with his companion from the precincts of Milton-street, than he proceeded to indulge in circuitous references to the beauties of sleep, mingled with distant allusions to the propriety of returning to Islington, and testing the influence of their patent Bramahs over the street-door locks to which they respectively belonged. Mr. Thomas Potter, however, was valorous and peremptory. They had come out to make a night of it: and a night must be made. So Mr. Robert Smithers, who was three parts dull, and the other dismal, despairingly assented; and they went into a wine-vaults, to get materials for assisting them in making a night; where they found a good many young ladies, and various old gentlemen, and a plentiful sprinkling of hackney-coachmen and cab-drivers, all drinking and talking together; and Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers drank small glasses of brandy, and large glasses of soda, until they began to have a very confused idea, either of things in general, or of anything in particular; and, when they had done treating themselves they began to treat everybody else; and the rest of the entertainment was a confused mixture of heads and heels, black eyes and blue uniforms, mud and gas-lights, thick doors, and stone paving.

Mr. Robert Smithers, who was naturally a slow-paced person and had already experienced more rushing around during his recent expulsion than he wanted for a while, had just stepped out with his friend from the Milton Street area when he started to talk about the joys of sleep, mixed in with hints about the appropriateness of heading back to Islington and testing how well their new Bramah keys worked on their respective street door locks. However, Mr. Thomas Potter was determined and assertive. They had come out to enjoy the night, and enjoy it they would. So Mr. Robert Smithers, feeling mostly dull and somewhat gloomy, reluctantly agreed; they headed into a wine bar to get some drinks to help them enjoy the evening. Inside, they found quite a few young ladies, several older gentlemen, and a good number of cab drivers and coachmen, all chatting and drinking together. Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers sipped on small glasses of brandy and large glasses of soda until they became quite confused about everything—either the world in general or specific details. After treating themselves, they started treating everyone else, and the rest of the night turned into a chaotic mix of stumbling around, fights, bruises, and the sights and sounds of the city, filled with mud and gas lights, heavy doors, and stone pavements.

Then, as standard novelists expressively inform us-'all was a blank!' and in the morning the blank was filled up with the words 'Station- house,' and the station-house was filled up with Mr. Thomas Potter, Mr. Robert Smithers, and the major part of their wine-vault companions of the preceding night, with a comparatively small portion of clothing of any kind. And it was disclosed at the Police-office, to the indignation of the Bench, and the astonishment of the spectators, how one Robert Smithers, aided and abetted by one Thomas Potter, had knocked down and beaten, in divers streets, at different times, five men, four boys, and three women; how the said Thomas Potter had feloniously obtained possession of five door-knockers, two bell-handles, and a bonnet; how Robert Smithers, his friend, had sworn, at least forty pounds' worth of oaths, at the rate of five shillings apiece; terrified whole streets full of Her Majesty's subjects with awful shrieks and alarms of fire; destroyed the uniforms of five policemen; and committed various other atrocities, too numerous to recapitulate. And the magistrate, after an appropriate reprimand, fined Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Thomas Smithers five shillings each, for being, what the law vulgarly terms, drunk; and thirty-four pounds for seventeen assaults at forty shillings a-head, with liberty to speak to the prosecutors.

Then, as typical novelists dramatically tell us, 'everything was a blank!' and in the morning, that blank was filled with the words 'Station-house,' where Mr. Thomas Potter, Mr. Robert Smithers, and most of their drinking buddies from the night before showed up, wearing very little clothing. It was revealed at the Police station, to the shock of the judges and the crowd, how one Robert Smithers, with the help of Thomas Potter, had knocked down and assaulted five men, four boys, and three women across various streets at different times; how Thomas Potter had illegally taken five door knockers, two bell handles, and a bonnet; how Robert Smithers had likely cursed at least forty pounds' worth of insults, costing five shillings each; terrified whole streets of citizens with loud screams and fire alarms; ruined the uniforms of five police officers; and committed many other offenses too numerous to recount. After giving a proper reprimand, the magistrate fined Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers five shillings each for being what the law calls drunk, and thirty-four pounds for seventeen assaults at forty shillings each, with the option to talk to the victims.

The prosecutors were spoken to, and Messrs. Potter and Smithers lived on credit, for a quarter, as best they might; and, although the prosecutors expressed their readiness to be assaulted twice a week, on the same terms, they have never since been detected in 'making a night of it.'

The prosecutors were consulted, and Messrs. Potter and Smithers got by on credit for a while, as best they could; and even though the prosecutors said they were willing to be attacked twice a week under the same conditions, they have not been caught 'partying hard' since then.

CHAPTER XII-THE PRISONERS' VAN

We were passing the corner of Bow-street, on our return from a lounging excursion the other afternoon, when a crowd, assembled round the door of the Police-office, attracted our attention. We turned up the street accordingly. There were thirty or forty people, standing on the pavement and half across the road; and a few stragglers were patiently stationed on the opposite side of the way-all evidently waiting in expectation of some arrival. We waited too, a few minutes, but nothing occurred; so, we turned round to an unshorn, sallow-looking cobbler, who was standing next us with his hands under the bib of his apron, and put the usual question of 'What's the matter?' The cobbler eyed us from head to foot, with superlative contempt, and laconically replied 'Nuffin.'

We were walking past the corner of Bow Street on our way back from a leisurely outing the other afternoon when a crowd gathered around the Police Office caught our attention. We decided to head up the street. There were about thirty or forty people standing on the sidewalk and partially blocking the road, with a few stragglers patiently stationed on the other side—all clearly waiting for something to happen. We waited for a few minutes too, but nothing happened, so we turned to an unshaven, pale-looking cobbler who was standing next to us with his hands in his apron pockets and asked the usual question, "What's going on?" The cobbler looked us up and down with total disdain and simply replied, "Nothing."

Now, we were perfectly aware that if two men stop in the street to look at any given object, or even to gaze in the air, two hundred men will be assembled in no time; but, as we knew very well that no crowd of people could by possibility remain in a street for five minutes without getting up a little amusement among themselves, unless they had some absorbing object in view, the natural inquiry next in order was, 'What are all these people waiting here for?'-'Her Majesty's carriage,' replied the cobbler. This was still more extraordinary. We could not imagine what earthly business Her Majesty's carriage could have at the Public Office, Bow-street. We were beginning to ruminate on the possible causes of such an uncommon appearance, when a general exclamation from all the boys in the crowd of 'Here's the wan!' caused us to raise our heads, and look up the street.

Now, we knew that if two guys stopped in the street to look at something, or even just stared up at the sky, two hundred other people would gather around in no time. But since we understood that no crowd could hang around in the street for five minutes without finding something to entertain themselves, unless they were focused on something really interesting, the obvious question was, 'What are all these people waiting for?' 'Her Majesty's carriage,' the cobbler answered. That was even more surprising. We couldn't figure out what Her Majesty's carriage would be doing at the Public Office on Bow Street. We were starting to think about the possible reasons for such an unusual sight when all the boys in the crowd shouted, 'Here's the wan!' which made us look up the street.

The covered vehicle, in which prisoners are conveyed from the police- offices to the different prisons, was coming along at full speed. It then occurred to us, for the first time, that Her Majesty's carriage was merely another name for the prisoners' van, conferred upon it, not only by reason of the superior gentility of the term, but because the aforesaid van is maintained at Her Majesty's expense: having been originally started for the exclusive accommodation of ladies and gentlemen under the necessity of visiting the various houses of call known by the general denomination of 'Her Majesty's Gaols.'

The covered vehicle that transports prisoners from the police station to various prisons was speeding along. For the first time, it struck us that Her Majesty's carriage was just another name for the prisoners' van, a title given not only because it sounds more refined, but also because the van is funded by Her Majesty: it was initially created for the exclusive use of ladies and gentlemen who needed to visit the places commonly referred to as 'Her Majesty's Gaols.'

The van drew up at the office-door, and the people thronged round the steps, just leaving a little alley for the prisoners to pass through. Our friend the cobbler, and the other stragglers, crossed over, and we followed their example. The driver, and another man who had been seated by his side in front of the vehicle, dismounted, and were admitted into the office. The office-door was closed after them, and the crowd were on the tiptoe of expectation.

The van pulled up to the office door, and people crowded around the steps, leaving a small path for the prisoners to walk through. Our friend the cobbler and some others crossed over, and we did the same. The driver and another man who had been sitting next to him in the front of the vehicle got out and went inside the office. The office door was closed behind them, and the crowd was on the edge of their seats with anticipation.

After a few minutes' delay, the door again opened, and the two first prisoners appeared. They were a couple of girls, of whom the elder-could not be more than sixteen, and the younger of whom had certainly not attained her fourteenth year. That they were sisters, was evident, from the resemblance which still subsisted between them, though two additional years of depravity had fixed their brand upon the elder girl's features, as legibly as if a red-hot iron had seared them. They were both gaudily dressed, the younger one especially; and, although there was a strong similarity between them in both respects, which was rendered the more obvious by their being handcuffed together, it is impossible to conceive a greater contrast than the demeanour of the two presented. The younger girl was weeping bitterly-not for display, or in the hope of producing effect, but for very shame: her face was buried in her handkerchief: and her whole manner was but too expressive of bitter and unavailing sorrow.

After a few minutes' delay, the door opened again, and the first two prisoners stepped out. They were a couple of girls; the older one couldn’t be more than sixteen, and the younger one definitely hadn’t reached her fourteenth year. It was clear they were sisters, evident in their resemblance, though two additional years of hardship had left their mark on the older girl's face, as clearly as if it had been burned with a hot iron. They were both dressed in bright, flashy clothes, especially the younger one; and while there was a strong similarity in their appearance, made even more obvious by the fact that they were handcuffed together, the contrast in their behavior was striking. The younger girl was crying bitterly—not for show, or hoping to make an impression, but out of pure shame: her face was buried in her handkerchief, and her entire demeanor was a clear expression of deep and futile sorrow.

'How long are you for, Emily?' screamed a red-faced woman in the crowd. 'Six weeks and labour,' replied the elder girl with a flaunting laugh; 'and that's better than the stone jug anyhow; the mill's a deal better than the Sessions, and here's Bella a-going too for the first time. Hold up your head, you chicken,' she continued, boisterously tearing the other girl's handkerchief away; 'Hold up your head, and show 'em your face. I an't jealous, but I'm blessed if I an't game!'-'That's right, old gal,' exclaimed a man in a paper cap, who, in common with the greater part of the crowd, had been inexpressibly delighted with this little incident.-'Right!' replied the girl; 'ah, to be sure; what's the odds, eh?'-'Come! In with you,' interrupted the driver. 'Don't you be in a hurry, coachman,' replied the girl, 'and recollect I want to be set down in Cold Bath Fields-large house with a high garden-wall in front; you can't mistake it. Hallo. Bella, where are you going to-you'll pull my precious arm off?' This was addressed to the younger girl, who, in her anxiety to hide herself in the caravan, had ascended the steps first, and forgotten the strain upon the handcuff. 'Come down, and let's show you the way.' And after jerking the miserable girl down with a force which made her stagger on the pavement, she got into the vehicle, and was followed by her wretched companion.

'How long are you due, Emily?' shouted a red-faced woman in the crowd. 'Six weeks and then I’ll go into labor,' replied the older girl with a playful laugh; 'and that’s way better than the stone jug anyway; the mill is way better than the Sessions, and here’s Bella going for the first time. Hold your head up, you little chicken,' she continued, lively tearing the other girl's handkerchief away; 'Hold your head up, and show them your face. I’m not jealous, but I’ll be darned if I’m not game!' - 'That’s right, old girl,' shouted a man in a paper cap, who, like most of the crowd, was thoroughly entertained by this little moment. - 'Right!' replied the girl; 'oh, for sure; what’s the difference, right?' - 'Come on! Get in!' interrupted the driver. 'Don’t rush, coachman,' replied the girl, 'and remember I want to be dropped off in Cold Bath Fields—big house with a tall garden wall in front; you can’t miss it. Hey. Bella, where are you going—you’re going to break my precious arm off?' This was directed at the younger girl, who, in her eagerness to hide in the caravan, had climbed the steps first and forgotten about the tension on the handcuff. 'Come down, and let’s show you the way.' And after pulling the poor girl down with a force that made her stumble on the pavement, she climbed into the vehicle, followed by her miserable companion.

These two girls had been thrown upon London streets, their vices and debauchery, by a sordid and rapacious mother. What the younger girl was then, the elder had been once; and what the elder then was, the younger must soon become. A melancholy prospect, but how surely to be realised; a tragic drama, but how often acted! Turn to the prisons and police offices of London-nay, look into the very streets themselves. These things pass before our eyes, day after day, and hour after hour-they have become such matters of course, that they are utterly disregarded. The progress of these girls in crime will be as rapid as the flight of a pestilence, resembling it too in its baneful influence and wide- spreading infection. Step by step, how many wretched females, within the sphere of every man's observation, have become involved in a career of vice, frightful to contemplate; hopeless at its commencement, loathsome and repulsive in its course; friendless, forlorn, and unpitied, at its miserable conclusion!

These two girls had been left on the streets of London, victims of their mother's greed and dysfunction. The younger girl was once like the older one; soon, the older girl would be what the younger girl is now. It's a sad reality, but one that's all but guaranteed to happen; a tragic story that plays out far too often. Just look at the prisons and police stations in London—or even the streets themselves. These situations unfold before us every day and every hour—they've become so common that we hardly notice them anymore. The decline of these girls into crime will be as swift as an outbreak of disease, mirroring its harmful impact and far-reaching consequences. Step by step, countless miserable women, visible to everyone, have found themselves trapped in a life of vice that is horrifying to think about; hopeless from the start, disgusting and repulsive as it progresses; abandoned, desolate, and unloved at its tragic end!

There were other prisoners-boys of ten, as hardened in vice as men of fifty-a houseless vagrant, going joyfully to prison as a place of food and shelter, handcuffed to a man whose prospects were ruined, character lost, and family rendered destitute, by his first offence. Our curiosity, however, was satisfied. The first group had left an impression on our mind we would gladly have avoided, and would willingly have effaced.

There were other prisoners—boys of ten, as tough in crime as men of fifty—a homeless drifter, joyfully heading to prison for food and shelter, handcuffed to a man whose future was destroyed, reputation gone, and family left in poverty because of his first offense. Our curiosity, though, was satisfied. The first group left an impression on us that we would have preferred to avoid and would have gladly erased.

The crowd dispersed; the vehicle rolled away with its load of guilt and misfortune; and we saw no more of the Prisoners' Van.

The crowd broke up; the vehicle drove off with its burden of guilt and misfortune; and we didn’t see the Prisoners' Van again.

TALES

CHAPTER I-THE BOARDING-HOUSE

Mrs. Tibbs was, beyond all dispute, the most tidy, fidgety, thrifty little personage that ever inhaled the smoke of London; and the house of Mrs. Tibbs was, decidedly, the neatest in all Great Coram-street. The area and the area-steps, and the street-door and the street-door steps, and the brass handle, and the door-plate, and the knocker, and the fan- light, were all as clean and bright, as indefatigable white-washing, and hearth-stoning, and scrubbing and rubbing, could make them. The wonder was, that the brass door-plate, with the interesting inscription 'Mrs. Tibbs,' had never caught fire from constant friction, so perseveringly was it polished. There were meat-safe-looking blinds in the parlour- windows, blue and gold curtains in the drawing-room, and spring-roller blinds, as Mrs. Tibbs was wont in the pride of her heart to boast, 'all the way up.' The bell-lamp in the passage looked as clear as a soap- bubble; you could see yourself in all the tables, and French-polish yourself on any one of the chairs. The banisters were bees-waxed; and the very stair-wires made your eyes wink, they were so glittering.

Mrs. Tibbs was, without a doubt, the most neat, fidgety, and thrifty little person who ever breathed the smoke of London; and her house was definitely the tidiest on all of Great Coram Street. The area and the area steps, the street door and the street door steps, the brass handle, the door plate, the knocker, and the fan light were all as clean and shiny as relentless whitewashing, hearth-stoning, scrubbing, and polishing could make them. The amazing thing was that the brass door plate, with the intriguing inscription 'Mrs. Tibbs,' had never caught fire from constant rubbing, so diligently was it polished. There were meat-safe-looking blinds in the parlor windows, blue and gold curtains in the drawing room, and spring-roller blinds, as Mrs. Tibbs liked to proudly boast, 'all the way up.' The bell lamp in the hallway looked as clear as a soap bubble; you could see yourself in all the tables and French polish yourself on any of the chairs. The banisters were beeswaxed; and even the stair wires made your eyes wink, they were so shiny.

Mrs. Tibbs was somewhat short of stature, and Mr. Tibbs was by no means a large man. He had, moreover, very short legs, but, by way of indemnification, his face was peculiarly long. He was to his wife what the 0 is in 90-he was of some importance with her-he was nothing without her. Mrs. Tibbs was always talking. Mr. Tibbs rarely spoke; but, if it were at any time possible to put in a word, when he should have said nothing at all, he had that talent. Mrs. Tibbs detested long stories, and Mr. Tibbs had one, the conclusion of which had never been heard by his most intimate friends. It always began, 'I recollect when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six,'-but, as he spoke very slowly and softly, and his better half very quickly and loudly, he rarely got beyond the introductory sentence. He was a melancholy specimen of the story-teller. He was the wandering Jew of Joe Millerism.

Mrs. Tibbs was a bit short, and Mr. Tibbs wasn’t a big guy either. He had really short legs, but to make up for it, his face was unusually long. He was to his wife what the 0 is in 90—he mattered to her, but he was nothing without her. Mrs. Tibbs was always talking. Mr. Tibbs hardly ever spoke; however, if there was a chance to say something when he really shouldn’t have, he had a knack for that. Mrs. Tibbs hated long stories, and Mr. Tibbs had one that even his closest friends had never heard the end of. It always started with, “I remember when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six,” but since he spoke very slowly and softly, while his wife talked really quickly and loudly, he barely got past the first sentence. He was a pretty sad example of a storyteller. He was the wandering Jew of joke-telling.

Mr. Tibbs enjoyed a small independence from the pension-list-about 43l. 15s. 10d. a year. His father, mother, and five interesting scions from the same stock, drew a like sum from the revenue of a grateful country, though for what particular service was never known. But, as this said independence was not quite sufficient to furnish two people with all the luxuries of this life, it had occurred to the busy little spouse of Tibbs, that the best thing she could do with a legacy of 700l., would be to take and furnish a tolerable house-somewhere in that partially- explored tract of country which lies between the British Museum, and a remote village called Somers-town-for the reception of boarders. Great Coram-street was the spot pitched upon. The house had been furnished accordingly; two female servants and a boy engaged; and an advertisement inserted in the morning papers, informing the public that 'Six individuals would meet with all the comforts of a cheerful musical home in a select private family, residing within ten minutes' walk of'-everywhere. Answers out of number were received, with all sorts of initials; all the letters of the alphabet seemed to be seized with a sudden wish to go out boarding and lodging; voluminous was the correspondence between Mrs. Tibbs and the applicants; and most profound was the secrecy observed. 'E.' didn't like this; 'I.' couldn't think of putting up with that; 'I. O. U.' didn't think the terms would suit him; and 'G. R.' had never slept in a French bed. The result, however, was, that three gentlemen became inmates of Mrs. Tibbs's house, on terms which were 'agreeable to all parties.' In went the advertisement again, and a lady with her two daughters, proposed to increase-not their families, but Mrs. Tibbs's.

Mr. Tibbs enjoyed a bit of independence from the pension list—about £43.15.10 a year. His father, mother, and five interesting siblings received a similar amount from the funds of a grateful country, though it was never clear why. However, since this independence wasn't quite enough to provide all the luxuries for two people, Tibbs's hardworking wife thought the best way to use a legacy of £700 would be to rent and furnish a decent house somewhere in that partially explored area between the British Museum and a distant village called Somers Town, to take in boarders. Great Coram Street was chosen as the location. The house was furnished accordingly; two female servants and a boy were hired; and an advertisement was placed in the morning papers, letting everyone know that “Six individuals would find all the comforts of a cheerful musical home in a select private family, residing within a ten-minute walk of”—well, everywhere. They received countless responses, with all sorts of initials; it seemed like every letter of the alphabet suddenly wanted to go boarding and lodging; the correspondence between Mrs. Tibbs and the applicants was extensive, and the secrecy was quite serious. 'E.' didn’t like this; 'I.' couldn’t tolerate that; 'I. O. U.' thought the terms wouldn’t suit him; and 'G. R.' had never slept in a French bed. The outcome, however, was that three gentlemen became residents of Mrs. Tibbs's house, on terms that were 'agreeable to all parties.' The advertisement went out again, and a lady with her two daughters expressed a desire to increase—not their family, but Mrs. Tibbs's.

'Charming woman, that Mrs. Maplesone!' said Mrs. Tibbs, as she and her spouse were sitting by the fire after breakfast; the gentlemen having gone out on their several avocations. 'Charming woman, indeed!' repeated little Mrs. Tibbs, more by way of soliloquy than anything else, for she never thought of consulting her husband. 'And the two daughters are delightful. We must have some fish to-day; they'll join us at dinner for the first time.'

'What a lovely woman Mrs. Maplesone is!' said Mrs. Tibbs, as she and her husband sat by the fire after breakfast, while the men had gone off to their various jobs. 'She really is lovely!' little Mrs. Tibbs said again, more to herself than anything, since she never bothered to ask her husband. 'And her two daughters are wonderful. We should get some fish today; they'll be joining us for dinner for the first time.'

Mr. Tibbs placed the poker at right angles with the fire shovel, and essayed to speak, but recollected he had nothing to say.

Mr. Tibbs positioned the poker at a right angle to the fire shovel and tried to speak, but realized he had nothing to say.

'The young ladies,' continued Mrs. T., 'have kindly volunteered to bring their own piano.'

'The young ladies,' continued Mrs. T., 'have generously offered to bring their own piano.'

Tibbs thought of the volunteer story, but did not venture it.

Tibbs thought about sharing the volunteer story but decided against it.

A bright thought struck him-

An idea popped into his head-

'It's very likely-' said he.

"It's highly likely," he said.

'Pray don't lean your head against the paper,' interrupted Mrs. Tibbs; 'and don't put your feet on the steel fender; that's worse.'

'Please don’t lean your head against the paper,' interrupted Mrs. Tibbs; 'and don’t put your feet on the metal fender; that’s even worse.'

Tibbs took his head from the paper, and his feet from the fender, and proceeded. 'It's very likely one of the young ladies may set her cap at young Mr. Simpson, and you know a marriage-'

Tibbs lifted his head from the paper and moved his feet from the fender, and continued speaking. "It's quite possible that one of the young women might try to win over young Mr. Simpson, and you know how a marriage—"

'A what!' shrieked Mrs. Tibbs. Tibbs modestly repeated his former suggestion.

'A what!' screamed Mrs. Tibbs. Tibbs humbly repeated his earlier suggestion.

'I beg you won't mention such a thing,' said Mrs. T. 'A marriage, indeed to rob me of my boarders-no, not for the world.'

"I really hope you don't bring that up," Mrs. T said. "A marriage, seriously? That would mean losing my boarders—no way, not for anything."

Tibbs thought in his own mind that the event was by no means unlikely, but, as he never argued with his wife, he put a stop to the dialogue, by observing it was 'time to go to business.' He always went out at ten o'clock in the morning, and returned at five in the afternoon, with an exceedingly dirty face, and smelling mouldy. Nobody knew what he was, or where he went; but Mrs. Tibbs used to say with an air of great importance, that he was engaged in the City.

Tibbs thought to himself that the event was definitely possible, but since he never argued with his wife, he ended the conversation by saying it was 'time to go to work.' He always left at ten in the morning and came back at five in the afternoon, with a very dirty face and a musty smell. Nobody knew what he did or where he went, but Mrs. Tibbs would often say with a sense of importance that he was working in the City.

The Miss Maplesones and their accomplished parent arrived in the course of the afternoon in a hackney-coach, and accompanied by a most astonishing number of packages. Trunks, bonnet-boxes, muff-boxes and parasols, guitar-cases, and parcels of all imaginable shapes, done up in brown paper, and fastened with pins, filled the passage. Then, there was such a running up and down with the luggage, such scampering for warm water for the ladies to wash in, and such a bustle, and confusion, and heating of servants, and curling-irons, as had never been known in Great Coram-street before. Little Mrs. Tibbs was quite in her element, bustling about, talking incessantly, and distributing towels and soap, like a head nurse in a hospital. The house was not restored to its usual state of quiet repose, until the ladies were safely shut up in their respective bedrooms, engaged in the important occupation of dressing for dinner.

The Miss Maplesons and their accomplished parent arrived in the afternoon in a cab, bringing with them an astonishing number of bags. Trunks, bonnet boxes, muff boxes, parasols, guitar cases, and parcels of all shapes, wrapped in brown paper and secured with pins, filled the hallway. There was a flurry of activity with the luggage, a scramble for warm water for the ladies to wash, and a level of bustle, confusion, and busy servants with curling irons that had never been seen on Great Coram Street before. Little Mrs. Tibbs was completely in her element, bustling around, chatting non-stop, and handing out towels and soap like a head nurse in a hospital. The house didn't return to its usual state of quiet until the ladies were settled in their respective bedrooms, focused on the important task of getting ready for dinner.

'Are these gals 'andsome?' inquired Mr. Simpson of Mr. Septimus Hicks, another of the boarders, as they were amusing themselves in the drawing- room, before dinner, by lolling on sofas, and contemplating their pumps.

'Are these girls attractive?' asked Mr. Simpson of Mr. Septimus Hicks, another boarder, as they were passing the time in the living room before dinner, lounging on the sofas and looking at their shoes.

'Don't know,' replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who was a tallish, white-faced young man, with spectacles, and a black ribbon round his neck instead of a neckerchief-a most interesting person; a poetical walker of the hospitals, and a 'very talented young man.' He was fond of 'lugging' into conversation all sorts of quotations from Don Juan, without fettering himself by the propriety of their application; in which particular he was remarkably independent. The other, Mr. Simpson, was one of those young men, who are in society what walking gentlemen are on the stage, only infinitely worse skilled in his vocation than the most indifferent artist. He was as empty-headed as the great bell of St. Paul's; always dressed according to the caricatures published in the monthly fashion; and spelt Character with a K.

"Don't know," replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, a tall, pale young man wearing glasses and a black ribbon around his neck instead of a neckerchief—a truly interesting person; a poetic wanderer of the hospitals, and a 'very talented young man.' He loved to casually throw in all sorts of quotes from Don Juan during conversations, without worrying about whether they actually fit; he was quite independent in that regard. The other, Mr. Simpson, was one of those young men who are to society what a walking figure is to the stage, only much less skilled in his role than even the worst artist. He was as clueless as the huge bell of St. Paul's; always dressed according to the caricatures featured in the monthly fashion magazines; and spelled Character with a K.

'I saw a devilish number of parcels in the passage when I came home,' simpered Mr. Simpson.

'I saw a crazy number of packages in the hallway when I got home,' Mr. Simpson said with a smirk.

'Materials for the toilet, no doubt,' rejoined the Don Juan reader.

'Materials for the bathroom, no doubt,' replied the Don Juan reader.

-'Much linen, lace, and several pair Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete; With other articles of ladies fair, To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat.'

-'A lot of linen, lace, and several pairs of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, all complete; With other items for lovely ladies, to keep them looking beautiful or tidy.'

'Is that from Milton?' inquired Mr. Simpson.

"Is that from Milton?" Mr. Simpson asked.

'No-from Byron,' returned Mr. Hicks, with a look of contempt. He was quite sure of his author, because he had never read any other. 'Hush! Here come the gals,' and they both commenced talking in a very loud key.

'No—from Byron,' Mr. Hicks replied, with a look of disdain. He was confident about his author because he had never read anything else. 'Shh! Here come the girls,' and they both started talking very loudly.

'Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones, Mr. Hicks. Mr. Hicks-Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones,' said Mrs. Tibbs, with a very red face, for she had been superintending the cooking operations below stairs, and looked like a wax doll on a sunny day. 'Mr. Simpson, I beg your pardon-Mr. Simpson-Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones'-and vice versAc. The gentlemen immediately began to slide about with much politeness, and to look as if they wished their arms had been legs, so little did they know what to do with them. The ladies smiled, curtseyed, and glided into chairs, and dived for dropped pocket- handkerchiefs: the gentlemen leant against two of the curtain-pegs; Mrs. Tibbs went through an admirable bit of serious pantomime with a servant who had come up to ask some question about the fish-sauce; and then the two young ladies looked at each other; and everybody else appeared to discover something very attractive in the pattern of the fender.

'Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones, Mr. Hicks. Mr. Hicks—Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones,' Mrs. Tibbs said, her face bright red because she had been overseeing the cooking down stairs and looked like a wax doll on a sunny day. 'Mr. Simpson, I’m sorry—Mr. Simpson—Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones'—and vice versa, etc. The gentlemen immediately started to move around politely, looking as if they wished their arms could be legs since they had no idea what to do with them. The ladies smiled, curtsied, and smoothly took their seats, diving for dropped handkerchiefs; the gentlemen leaned against two of the curtain pegs; Mrs. Tibbs performed an impressive act of serious pantomime with a servant who had come up to ask a question about the fish sauce; and then the two young ladies exchanged glances; while everyone else seemed to find something very interesting in the design of the fender.

'Julia, my love,' said Mrs. Maplesone to her youngest daughter, in a tone loud enough for the remainder of the company to hear-'Julia.'

'Julia, my love,' Mrs. Maplesone said to her youngest daughter, in a tone loud enough for the rest of the company to hear—'Julia.'

'Yes, Ma.'

'Yes, Mom.'

'Don't stoop.'-This was said for the purpose of directing general attention to Miss Julia's figure, which was undeniable. Everybody looked at her, accordingly, and there was another pause.

'Don't slouch.' - This was said to draw everyone's attention to Miss Julia's figure, which was hard to miss. Everyone turned to look at her, and there was another pause.

'We had the most uncivil hackney-coachman to-day, you can imagine,' said Mrs. Maplesone to Mrs. Tibbs, in a confidential tone.

'We had the rudest cab driver today, you can imagine,' said Mrs. Maplesone to Mrs. Tibbs, in a confidential tone.

'Dear me!' replied the hostess, with an air of great commiseration. She couldn't say more, for the servant again appeared at the door, and commenced telegraphing most earnestly to her 'Missis.'

'Oh dear!' said the hostess, sounding very sympathetic. She couldn’t say anything else because the servant came back to the door and started signaling most urgently to her 'Missis.'

'I think hackney-coachmen generally are uncivil,' said Mr. Hicks in his most insinuating tone.

"I think hackney drivers are usually rude," said Mr. Hicks in his smoothest tone.

'Positively I think they are,' replied Mrs. Maplesone, as if the idea had never struck her before.

'Definitely, I think they are,' replied Mrs. Maplesone, as if the idea had never occurred to her before.

'And cabmen, too,' said Mr. Simpson. This remark was a failure, for no one intimated, by word or sign, the slightest knowledge of the manners and customs of cabmen.

'And taxi drivers, too,' said Mr. Simpson. This comment didn’t land, as no one showed, through words or gestures, the slightest awareness of the habits and practices of taxi drivers.

'Robinson, what do you want?' said Mrs. Tibbs to the servant, who, by way of making her presence known to her mistress, had been giving sundry hems and sniffs outside the door during the preceding five minutes.

'Robinson, what do you need?' Mrs. Tibbs asked the servant, who had been making her presence known with various hems and sniffs outside the door for the past five minutes.

'Please, ma'am, master wants his clean things,' replied the servant, taken off her guard. The two young men turned their faces to the window, and 'went off' like a couple of bottles of ginger-beer; the ladies put their handkerchiefs to their mouths; and little Mrs. Tibbs bustled out of the room to give Tibbs his clean linen,-and the servant warning.

'Excuse me, ma'am, the master wants his clean things,' replied the servant, caught off guard. The two young men turned towards the window and burst out laughing like a couple of bottles of ginger beer; the ladies covered their mouths with handkerchiefs; and little Mrs. Tibbs hurried out of the room to get Tibbs his clean linen—and to give the servant a heads-up.

Mr. Calton, the remaining boarder, shortly afterwards made his appearance, and proved a surprising promoter of the conversation. Mr. Calton was a superannuated beau-an old boy. He used to say of himself that although his features were not regularly handsome, they were striking. They certainly were. It was impossible to look at his face without being reminded of a chubby street-door knocker, half-lion half- monkey; and the comparison might be extended to his whole character and conversation. He had stood still, while everything else had been moving. He never originated a conversation, or started an idea; but if any commonplace topic were broached, or, to pursue the comparison, if anybody lifted him up, he would hammer away with surprising rapidity. He had the tic-douloureux occasionally, and then he might be said to be muffled, because he did not make quite as much noise as at other times, when he would go on prosing, rat-tat-tat the same thing over and over again. He had never been married; but he was still on the look-out for a wife with money. He had a life interest worth about 300l. a year-he was exceedingly vain, and inordinately selfish. He had acquired the reputation of being the very pink of politeness, and he walked round the park, and up Regent-street, every day.

Mr. Calton, the last remaining boarder, soon showed up and turned out to be quite the conversationalist. Mr. Calton was an old gentleman who liked to think of himself as a still-handsome fellow. He often claimed that while his features weren't classically attractive, they were definitely memorable. And they were. It was hard to look at his face without thinking of a chubby door knocker, part lion, part monkey; and that comparison could also apply to his personality and style of speaking. He had remained stuck in time while everything else changed around him. He never started a conversation or came up with an idea, but if someone else brought up a topic, or to continue the analogy, if anyone got him going, he would rattle on with surprising speed. Occasionally, he suffered from facial neuralgia, and during those times, he was quieter, as he didn't make as much noise as usual, when he would just keep repeating the same things over and over. He had never been married, but he was still on the lookout for a wealthy wife. He had a life interest worth about £300 a year; he was extremely vain and very self-centered. He had built a reputation for being the epitome of politeness, and he walked around the park and up Regent Street every day.

This respectable personage had made up his mind to render himself exceedingly agreeable to Mrs. Maplesone-indeed, the desire of being as amiable as possible extended itself to the whole party; Mrs. Tibbs having considered it an admirable little bit of management to represent to the gentlemen that she had some reason to believe the ladies were fortunes, and to hint to the ladies, that all the gentlemen were 'eligible.' A little flirtation, she thought, might keep her house full, without leading to any other result.

This respectable person had decided to be super pleasant to Mrs. Maplesone—in fact, the goal of being as nice as possible applied to the whole group; Mrs. Tibbs thought it was a clever tactic to suggest to the guys that she believed the ladies were wealthy and to hint to the ladies that all the men were 'eligible.' She thought a little flirting might keep her house busy without having any other consequences.

Mrs. Maplesone was an enterprising widow of about fifty: shrewd, scheming, and good-looking. She was amiably anxious on behalf of her daughters; in proof whereof she used to remark, that she would have no objection to marry again, if it would benefit her dear girls-she could have no other motive. The 'dear girls' themselves were not at all insensible to the merits of 'a good establishment.' One of them was twenty-five; the other, three years younger. They had been at different watering-places, for four seasons; they had gambled at libraries, read books in balconies, sold at fancy fairs, danced at assemblies, talked sentiment-in short, they had done all that industrious girls could do-but, as yet, to no purpose.

Mrs. Maplesone was an enterprising widow in her fifties: sharp, crafty, and attractive. She was genuinely concerned for her daughters; in fact, she often said that she wouldn't mind marrying again if it would be for the benefit of her beloved girls—she had no other reason. Her "dear girls" were certainly aware of the benefits of a "good establishment." One was twenty-five; the other was three years younger. They had spent four seasons at various resorts; they had played games at libraries, read books on balconies, sold items at charity fairs, danced at social gatherings, and indulged in sentimental conversations—in short, they had done everything diligent girls could do—but so far, it hadn't helped them.

'What a magnificent dresser Mr. Simpson is!' whispered Matilda Maplesone to her sister Julia.

'What a fantastic dresser Mr. Simpson is!' whispered Matilda Maplesone to her sister Julia.

'Splendid!' returned the youngest. The magnificent individual alluded to wore a maroon-coloured dress-coat, with a velvet collar and cuffs of the same tint-very like that which usually invests the form of the distinguished unknown who condescends to play the 'swell' in the pantomime at 'Richardson's Show.'

'Splendid!' replied the youngest. The impressive person mentioned wore a maroon dress coat, with a velvet collar and cuffs that matched—very similar to what the well-known unknown puts on when they take on the role of the 'swell' in the pantomime at 'Richardson's Show.'

'What whiskers!' said Miss Julia.

"Those whiskers are amazing!" said Miss Julia.

'Charming!' responded her sister; 'and what hair!' His hair was like a wig, and distinguished by that insinuating wave which graces the shining locks of those chef-d'oeuvres of art surmounting the waxen images in Bartellot's window in Regent-street; his whiskers meeting beneath his chin, seemed strings wherewith to tie it on, ere science had rendered them unnecessary by her patent invisible springs.

'Charming!' her sister replied. 'And what amazing hair!' His hair looked like a wig and had that alluring wave that decorates the shiny locks of those masterpieces perched on the wax figures in Bartellot's window on Regent Street. His whiskers, meeting under his chin, seemed like strings meant to hold it all together, before science made them obsolete with its patented invisible springs.

'Dinner's on the table, ma'am, if you please,' said the boy, who now appeared for the first time, in a revived black coat of his master's.

'Dinner's ready, ma'am, whenever you're set,' said the boy, who now showed up for the first time, wearing a refreshed black coat of his master's.

'Oh! Mr. Calton, will you lead Mrs. Maplesone?-Thank you.' Mr. Simpson offered his arm to Miss Julia; Mr. Septimus Hicks escorted the lovely Matilda; and the procession proceeded to the dining-room. Mr. Tibbs was introduced, and Mr. Tibbs bobbed up and down to the three ladies like a figure in a Dutch clock, with a powerful spring in the middle of his body, and then dived rapidly into his seat at the bottom of the table, delighted to screen himself behind a soup-tureen, which he could just see over, and that was all. The boarders were seated, a lady and gentleman alternately, like the layers of bread and meat in a plate of sandwiches; and then Mrs. Tibbs directed James to take off the covers. Salmon, lobster-sauce, giblet-soup, and the usual accompaniments were discovered: potatoes like petrifactions, and bits of toasted bread, the shape and size of blank dice.

'Oh! Mr. Calton, would you take Mrs. Maplesone?-Thank you.' Mr. Simpson offered his arm to Miss Julia; Mr. Septimus Hicks walked with the lovely Matilda; and the group made their way to the dining room. Mr. Tibbs was introduced, and he bobbed up and down to the three ladies like a figure in a Dutch clock, with a strong spring in the middle of his body, and then quickly dove into his seat at the bottom of the table, happy to hide behind a soup tureen, which he could just see over, and that was it. The guests were seated, alternating lady and gentleman, like the layers of bread and meat in a sandwich; and then Mrs. Tibbs told James to remove the covers. Salmon, lobster sauce, giblet soup, and the usual sides were revealed: potatoes like fossils, and pieces of toasted bread, the shape and size of blank dice.

'Soup for Mrs. Maplesone, my dear,' said the bustling Mrs. Tibbs. She always called her husband 'my dear' before company. Tibbs, who had been eating his bread, and calculating how long it would be before he should get any fish, helped the soup in a hurry, made a small island on the table-cloth, and put his glass upon it, to hide it from his wife.

'Soup for Mrs. Maplesone, my dear,' said the busy Mrs. Tibbs. She always referred to her husband as 'my dear' in front of guests. Tibbs, who had been munching on his bread and thinking about how long it would be until he got any fish, quickly poured the soup, creating a little puddle on the tablecloth, and placed his glass on it to keep it out of sight from his wife.

'Miss Julia, shall I assist you to some fish?'

'Miss Julia, would you like me to get you some fish?'

'If you please-very little-oh! plenty, thank you' (a bit about the size of a walnut put upon the plate).

'If you don’t mind—just a little—oh! that's enough, thank you' (a bit about the size of a walnut placed on the plate).

'Julia is a very little eater,' said Mrs. Maplesone to Mr. Calton.

'Julia hardly eats anything,' Mrs. Maplesone said to Mr. Calton.

The knocker gave a single rap. He was busy eating the fish with his eyes: so he only ejaculated, 'Ah!'

The door knocker made a single knock. He was so focused on the fish that he only exclaimed, "Ah!"

'My dear,' said Mrs. Tibbs to her spouse after every one else had been helped, 'what do you take?' The inquiry was accompanied with a look intimating that he mustn't say fish, because there was not much left. Tibbs thought the frown referred to the island on the table-cloth; he therefore coolly replied, 'Why-I'll take a little-fish, I think.'

'My dear,' Mrs. Tibbs said to her husband after everyone else had been served, 'what would you like?' The question came with a look that suggested he shouldn't say fish, since there wasn't much left. Tibbs thought the frown was about the island on the tablecloth; so he casually replied, 'Well, I'll have a little fish, I think.'

'Did you say fish, my dear?' (another frown).

'Yes, dear,' replied the villain, with an expression of acute hunger depicted in his countenance. The tears almost started to Mrs. Tibbs's eyes, as she helped her 'wretch of a husband,' as she inwardly called him, to the last eatable bit of salmon on the dish.

'Yes, dear,' replied the villain, with a look of intense hunger on his face. Tears nearly filled Mrs. Tibbs's eyes as she helped her 'wretched husband,' as she secretly referred to him, to the last edible piece of salmon on the plate.

'James, take this to your master, and take away your master's knife.' This was deliberate revenge, as Tibbs never could eat fish without one. He was, however, constrained to chase small particles of salmon round and round his plate with a piece of bread and a fork, the number of successful attempts being about one in seventeen.

'James, bring this to your boss, and take back your boss's knife.' This was payback, as Tibbs could never eat fish without one. He was, however, stuck chasing little bits of salmon around and around his plate with a piece of bread and a fork, managing to succeed about once out of every seventeen tries.

'Take away, James,' said Mrs. Tibbs, as Tibbs swallowed the fourth mouthful-and away went the plates like lightning.

'Take it away, James,' said Mrs. Tibbs, as Tibbs swallowed the fourth bite—and off went the plates in a flash.

'I'll take a bit of bread, James,' said the poor 'master of the house,' more hungry than ever.

'I'll have a piece of bread, James,' said the poor 'master of the house,' feeling hungrier than ever.

'Never mind your master now, James,' said Mrs. Tibbs, 'see about the meat.' This was conveyed in the tone in which ladies usually give admonitions to servants in company, that is to say, a low one; but which, like a stage whisper, from its peculiar emphasis, is most distinctly heard by everybody present.

"Forget about your master for now, James," Mrs. Tibbs said, "take care of the meat." She said this in the tone that women typically use to instruct servants when others are around, meaning it was quiet; but like a stage whisper, the unique emphasis made it clearly audible to everyone present.

A pause ensued, before the table was replenished-a sort of parenthesis in which Mr. Simpson, Mr. Calton, and Mr. Hicks, produced respectively a bottle of sauterne, bucellas, and sherry, and took wine with everybody-except Tibbs. No one ever thought of him.

A pause followed before the table was refilled—a kind of break during which Mr. Simpson, Mr. Calton, and Mr. Hicks brought out a bottle of sauterne, bucellas, and sherry, and toasted with everyone—except Tibbs. No one ever thought of him.

Between the fish and an intimated sirloin, there was a prolonged interval.

Between the fish and a hinted-at sirloin, there was a long wait.

Here was an opportunity for Mr. Hicks. He could not resist the singularly appropriate quotation-

Here was a chance for Mr. Hicks. He couldn't resist the perfectly fitting quote—

'But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goats' flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, And when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.'

'But beef is rare in these islands without oxen; there’s goat meat for sure, along with kid and mutton. And when a holiday comes around, they put a joint on their primitive spits to cook.'

'Very ungentlemanly behaviour,' thought little Mrs. Tibbs, 'to talk in that way.'

'Very unladylike behavior,' thought little Mrs. Tibbs, 'to speak like that.'

'Ah,' said Mr. Calton, filling his glass. 'Tom Moore is my poet.'

'Ah,' said Mr. Calton, pouring himself a drink. 'Tom Moore is my favorite poet.'

'And mine,' said Mrs. Maplesone.

"And mine," said Mrs. Maplesone.

'And mine,' said Miss Julia.

"And mine," said Miss Julia.

'And mine,' added Mr. Simpson.

"And mine," added Mr. Simpson.

'Look at his compositions,' resumed the knocker.

'Look at his compositions,' the knocker continued.

'To be sure,' said Simpson, with confidence.

"Of course," Simpson said confidently.

'Look at Don Juan,' replied Mr. Septimus Hicks.

'Julia's letter,' suggested Miss Matilda.

'Julia's letter,' suggested Miss M.

'Can anything be grander than the Fire Worshippers?' inquired Miss Julia.

'Can anything be more impressive than the Fire Worshippers?' asked Miss Julia.

'To be sure,' said Simpson.

"Sure thing," said Simpson.

'Or Paradise and the Peri,' said the old beau.

'Or Paradise and the Peri,' said the old guy.

'Yes; or Paradise and the Peer,' repeated Simpson, who thought he was getting through it capitally.

'Yes; or Paradise and the Peer,' repeated Simpson, who thought he was doing really well with it.

'It's all very well,' replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who, as we have before hinted, never had read anything but Don Juan. 'Where will you find anything finer than the description of the siege, at the commencement of the seventh canto?'

'It's all well and good,' replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who, as we’ve mentioned before, had only ever read Don Juan. 'Where will you find anything better than the description of the siege at the beginning of the seventh canto?'

'Talking of a siege,' said Tibbs, with a mouthful of bread-'when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six, our commanding officer was Sir Charles Rampart; and one day, when we were exercising on the ground on which the London University now stands, he says, says he, Tibbs (calling me from the ranks), Tibbs-'

'Speaking of a siege,' said Tibbs, with a mouthful of bread, 'when I was in the volunteer corps back in 1806, our commanding officer was Sir Charles Rampart. One day, while we were training on the grounds where London University now is, he called out to me from the ranks, "Tibbs—"'

'Tell your master, James,' interrupted Mrs. Tibbs, in an awfully distinct tone, 'tell your master if he won't carve those fowls, to send them to me.' The discomfited volunteer instantly set to work, and carved the fowls almost as expeditiously as his wife operated on the haunch of mutton. Whether he ever finished the story is not known but, if he did, nobody heard it.

'Tell your boss, James,' interrupted Mrs. Tibbs, in a very clear tone, 'tell your boss if he won't carve those chickens, to send them to me.' The embarrassed volunteer immediately got to work and carved the chickens nearly as quickly as his wife dealt with the haunch of mutton. Whether he ever finished the story is unknown, but if he did, no one heard it.

As the ice was now broken, and the new inmates more at home, every member of the company felt more at ease. Tibbs himself most certainly did, because he went to sleep immediately after dinner. Mr. Hicks and the ladies discoursed most eloquently about poetry, and the theatres, and Lord Chesterfield's Letters; and Mr. Calton followed up what everybody said, with continuous double knocks. Mrs. Tibbs highly approved of every observation that fell from Mrs. Maplesone; and as Mr. Simpson sat with a smile upon his face and said 'Yes,' or 'Certainly,' at intervals of about four minutes each, he received full credit for understanding what was going forward. The gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing-room very shortly after they had left the dining-parlour. Mrs. Maplesone and Mr. Calton played cribbage, and the 'young people' amused themselves with music and conversation. The Miss Maplesones sang the most fascinating duets, and accompanied themselves on guitars, ornamented with bits of ethereal blue ribbon. Mr. Simpson put on a pink waistcoat, and said he was in raptures; and Mr. Hicks felt in the seventh heaven of poetry or the seventh canto of Don Juan-it was the same thing to him. Mrs. Tibbs was quite charmed with the newcomers; and Mr. Tibbs spent the evening in his usual way-he went to sleep, and woke up, and went to sleep again, and woke at supper-time.

As the ice was broken and the new guests settled in, everyone felt more relaxed. Tibbs certainly did, as he fell asleep right after dinner. Mr. Hicks and the ladies chatted passionately about poetry, theaters, and Lord Chesterfield's Letters; Mr. Calton chimed in with continuous double knocks. Mrs. Tibbs wholeheartedly agreed with everything Mrs. Maplesone said, and Mr. Simpson sat there with a smile, responding with 'Yes' or 'Certainly' every four minutes or so, getting credit for keeping up with the conversation. The gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room shortly after leaving the dining room. Mrs. Maplesone and Mr. Calton played cribbage while the younger crowd entertained themselves with music and conversation. The Miss Maplesones sang captivating duets, accompanying themselves on guitars decorated with bits of light blue ribbon. Mr. Simpson donned a pink waistcoat and proclaimed he was in ecstasy, while Mr. Hicks felt like he was in the seventh heaven of poetry or the seventh canto of Don Juan—either way, it felt the same to him. Mrs. Tibbs was quite taken with the newcomers, and Mr. Tibbs spent the evening in his usual fashion—dozing off, waking up, dozing off again, and then waking up for supper.

We are not about to adopt the licence of novel-writers, and to let 'years roll on;' but we will take the liberty of requesting the reader to suppose that six months have elapsed, since the dinner we have described, and that Mrs. Tibbs's boarders have, during that period, sang, and danced, and gone to theatres and exhibitions, together, as ladies and gentlemen, wherever they board, often do. And we will beg them, the period we have mentioned having elapsed, to imagine farther, that Mr. Septimus Hicks received, in his own bedroom (a front attic), at an early hour one morning, a note from Mr. Calton, requesting the favour of seeing him, as soon as convenient to himself, in his (Calton's) dressing-room on the second-floor back.

We’re not going to take the liberty of novelists and let 'time pass'; instead, we ask the reader to imagine that six months have gone by since the dinner we just described. During this time, Mrs. Tibbs’s boarders have spent their days singing, dancing, and going to theaters and exhibitions together, as respectable folks usually do. Now, with this time frame in mind, let’s picture that Mr. Septimus Hicks received, in his bedroom (an attic at the front), a note from Mr. Calton one morning asking to meet him at his (Calton’s) dressing room on the second floor, whenever it suited him.

'Tell Mr. Calton I'll come down directly,' said Mr. Septimus to the boy. 'Stop-is Mr. Calton unwell?' inquired this excited walker of hospitals, as he put on a bed-furniture-looking dressing-gown.

'Tell Mr. Calton I'll be down in a minute,' said Mr. Septimus to the boy. 'Wait—Is Mr. Calton sick?' asked this eager hospital-goer as he put on a dressing gown that looked like bed linens.

'Not as I knows on, sir,' replied the boy. ' Please, sir, he looked rather rum, as it might be.'

'Not as far as I know, sir,' replied the boy. 'Please, sir, he looked kind of odd, if you ask me.'

'Ah, that's no proof of his being ill,' returned Hicks, unconsciously. 'Very well: I'll be down directly.' Downstairs ran the boy with the message, and down went the excited Hicks himself, almost as soon as the message was delivered. 'Tap, tap.' 'Come in.'-Door opens, and discovers Mr. Calton sitting in an easy chair. Mutual shakes of the hand exchanged, and Mr. Septimus Hicks motioned to a seat. A short pause. Mr. Hicks coughed, and Mr. Calton took a pinch of snuff. It was one of those interviews where neither party knows what to say. Mr. Septimus Hicks broke silence.

'Ah, that's not evidence that he's sick,' Hicks replied, without thinking. 'Alright, I'll be down in a minute.' The boy ran downstairs with the message, and Hicks followed almost immediately after it was delivered. 'Tap, tap.' 'Come in.' - The door opens, revealing Mr. Calton sitting in a comfortable chair. They exchanged handshakes, and Mr. Septimus Hicks indicated a seat. There was a brief pause. Mr. Hicks coughed, and Mr. Calton took a pinch of snuff. It was one of those meetings where neither person knows what to say. Mr. Septimus Hicks broke the silence.

'I received a note-' he said, very tremulously, in a voice like a Punch with a cold.

'I got a note-' he said, rather shakily, in a voice like a sick Punch.

'Yes,' returned the other, 'you did.'

'Yeah,' the other person replied, 'you did.'

'Exactly.'

'Yes.'

Yes.

Now, although this dialogue must have been satisfactory, both gentlemen felt there was something more important to be said; therefore they did as most men in such a situation would have done-they looked at the table with a determined aspect. The conversation had been opened, however, and Mr. Calton had made up his mind to continue it with a regular double knock. He always spoke very pompously.

Now, even though this conversation must have been satisfying, both men sensed there was something more significant to discuss; so they did what most people in such a situation would do—they stared at the table with a determined look. The discussion had been initiated, and Mr. Calton was set on pursuing it with a firm approach. He always spoke very grandly.

'Hicks,' said he, 'I have sent for you, in consequence of certain arrangements which are pending in this house, connected with a marriage.'

'Hicks,' he said, 'I called you here because of some arrangements that are in the works in this house related to a marriage.'

'With a marriage!' gasped Hicks, compared with whose expression of countenance, Hamlet's, when he sees his father's ghost, is pleasing and composed.

'With a marriage!' Hicks gasped, his expression more chaotic than Hamlet's when he sees his father's ghost, which looks calm and composed by comparison.

'With a marriage,' returned the knocker. 'I have sent for you to prove the great confidence I can repose in you.'

'With a marriage,' replied the knocker. 'I've called you here to show the great trust I can place in you.'

'And will you betray me?' eagerly inquired Hicks, who in his alarm had even forgotten to quote.

'And will you betray me?' Hicks asked eagerly, having forgotten to even quote in his alarm.

'I betray you! Won't you betray me?'

'I betray you! Will you betray me?'

'Never: no one shall know, to my dying day, that you had a hand in the business,' responded the agitated Hicks, with an inflamed countenance, and his hair standing on end as if he were on the stool of an electrifying machine in full operation.

'Never: no one will ever know, until my dying day, that you were involved in this,' replied the visibly shaken Hicks, with a flushed face and his hair standing up as if he were sitting on an electric chair in full power.

'People must know that, some time or other-within a year, I imagine,' said Mr. Calton, with an air of great self-complacency. 'We may have a family.'

'People need to understand that, at some point—within a year, I think,' said Mr. Calton, sounding very pleased with himself. 'We might have a family.'

'We!-That won't affect you, surely?'

'We! That shouldn't affect you, right?'

'The devil it won't!'

'Not a chance!'

'No! how can it?' said the bewildered Hicks. Calton was too much inwrapped in the contemplation of his happiness to see the equivoque between Hicks and himself; and threw himself back in his chair. 'Oh, Matilda!' sighed the antique beau, in a lack-a-daisical voice, and applying his right hand a little to the left of the fourth button of his waistcoat, counting from the bottom. 'Oh, Matilda!'

'No! How can it?' said the confused Hicks. Calton was so caught up in thinking about his happiness that he didn't notice the misunderstanding between Hicks and himself, and he leaned back in his chair. 'Oh, Matilda!' breathed the old dandy, in a lazy voice, placing his right hand a little to the left of the fourth button on his waistcoat, counting from the bottom. 'Oh, Matilda!'

'What Matilda?' inquired Hicks, starting up.

'What Matilda?' asked Hicks, sitting up.

'Matilda Maplesone,' responded the other, doing the same.

'Matilda Maplesone,' replied the other, doing the same.

'I marry her to-morrow morning,' said Hicks.

'I’m marrying her tomorrow morning,' said Hicks.

'It's false,' rejoined his companion: 'I marry her!'

'That's not true,' replied his companion: 'I’m marrying her!'

'You marry her?'

'Are you marrying her?'

'I marry her!'

"I'm marrying her!"

'You marry Matilda Maplesone?'

'Are you marrying Matilda Maplesone?'

'Matilda Maplesone.'

'Miss Maplesone marry you?'

'Is Miss Maplesone marrying you?'

'Miss Maplesone! No; Mrs. Maplesone.'

'Ms. Maplesone! No; Mrs. Maplesone.'

'Good Heaven!' said Hicks, falling into his chair: 'You marry the mother, and I the daughter!'

'Good heavens!' said Hicks, collapsing into his chair. 'You marry the mother, and I marry the daughter!'

'Most extraordinary circumstance!' replied Mr. Calton, 'and rather inconvenient too; for the fact is, that owing to Matilda's wishing to keep her intention secret from her daughters until the ceremony had taken place, she doesn't like applying to any of her friends to give her away. I entertain an objection to making the affair known to my acquaintance just now; and the consequence is, that I sent to you to know whether you'd oblige me by acting as father.'

'What an extraordinary situation!' Mr. Calton replied, 'and quite inconvenient as well; the thing is, Matilda wants to keep her plans a secret from her daughters until the ceremony happens, so she’s hesitant to ask any of her friends to give her away. I don’t want to let my acquaintances know about this right now, and as a result, I reached out to see if you’d be willing to step in as her father.'

'I should have been most happy, I assure you,' said Hicks, in a tone of condolence; 'but, you see, I shall be acting as bridegroom. One character is frequently a consequence of the other; but it is not usual to act in both at the same time. There's Simpson-I have no doubt he'll do it for you.'

'I would have been very happy, I promise you,' said Hicks, in a sympathetic tone; 'but, you see, I'll be playing the role of the groom. One character often leads to the other; however, it's not typical to play both at the same time. There's Simpson—I’m sure he’ll do it for you.'

'I don't like to ask him,' replied Calton, 'he's such a donkey.'

'I don't like to ask him,' Calton replied, 'he's such an idiot.'

Mr. Septimus Hicks looked up at the ceiling, and down at the floor; at last an idea struck him. 'Let the man of the house, Tibbs, be the father,' he suggested; and then he quoted, as peculiarly applicable to Tibbs and the pair-

Mr. Septimus Hicks looked up at the ceiling and down at the floor; finally, an idea came to him. "Let the man of the house, Tibbs, be the father," he suggested; and then he quoted something he felt was especially relevant to Tibbs and the couple—

'Oh Powers of Heaven! what dark eyes meets she there? 'Tis-'tis her father's-fixed upon the pair.'

“Oh Powers of Heaven! What dark eyes does she meet there? It’s her father’s, locked onto the couple.”

'The idea has struck me already,' said Mr. Calton: 'but, you see, Matilda, for what reason I know not, is very anxious that Mrs. Tibbs should know nothing about it, till it's all over. It's a natural delicacy, after all, you know.'

"The thought has crossed my mind already," said Mr. Calton. "But, you see, Matilda, for some reason I can’t understand, is really worried that Mrs. Tibbs shouldn’t find out about it until everything is finished. It’s just a natural sensitivity, after all, you know."

'He's the best-natured little man in existence, if you manage him properly,' said Mr. Septimus Hicks. 'Tell him not to mention it to his wife, and assure him she won't mind it, and he'll do it directly. My marriage is to be a secret one, on account of the mother and my father; therefore he must be enjoined to secrecy.'

'He's the kindest little guy around, as long as you handle him right,' said Mr. Septimus Hicks. 'Just tell him not to bring it up to his wife, and reassure him that she won’t care, and he’ll do it right away. My marriage has to be a secret because of my mother and father; so he needs to be told to keep it under wraps.'

A small double knock, like a presumptuous single one, was that instant heard at the street-door. It was Tibbs; it could be no one else; for no one else occupied five minutes in rubbing his shoes. He had been out to pay the baker's bill.

A quick double knock, similar to an overly confident single knock, was immediately heard at the front door. It was Tibbs; it could only be him, since no one else takes five minutes to clean their shoes. He had just gone out to settle the baker's bill.

'Mr. Tibbs,' called Mr. Calton in a very bland tone, looking over the banisters.

'Mr. Tibbs,' called Mr. Calton in a very casual tone, looking over the banisters.

'Sir!' replied he of the dirty face.

'Sir!' replied the guy with the dirty face.

'Will you have the kindness to step up-stairs for a moment?'

'Could you please come upstairs for a moment?'

'Certainly, sir,' said Tibbs, delighted to be taken notice of. The bedroom-door was carefully closed, and Tibbs, having put his hat on the floor (as most timid men do), and been accommodated with a seat, looked as astounded as if he were suddenly summoned before the familiars of the Inquisition.

'Of course, sir,' said Tibbs, thrilled to be acknowledged. The bedroom door was gently shut, and Tibbs, having placed his hat on the floor (like most nervous men do), and after being offered a seat, looked as shocked as if he had been suddenly called before the members of the Inquisition.

'A rather unpleasant occurrence, Mr. Tibbs,' said Calton, in a very portentous manner, 'obliges me to consult you, and to beg you will not communicate what I am about to say, to your wife.'

'A pretty unpleasant situation, Mr. Tibbs,' Calton said in a very serious tone, 'forces me to talk to you and to ask that you not tell your wife what I’m about to say.'

Tibbs acquiesced, wondering in his own mind what the deuce the other could have done, and imagining that at least he must have broken the best decanters.

Tibbs agreed, wondering to himself what on earth the other person could have done, and imagining that he must have at least broken the best decanters.

Mr. Calton resumed; 'I am placed, Mr. Tibbs, in rather an unpleasant situation.'

Mr. Calton continued, "I'm in a pretty awkward spot, Mr. Tibbs."

Tibbs looked at Mr. Septimus Hicks, as if he thought Mr. H.'s being in the immediate vicinity of his fellow-boarder might constitute the unpleasantness of his situation; but as he did not exactly know what to say, he merely ejaculated the monosyllable 'Lor!'

Tibbs glanced at Mr. Septimus Hicks, as if he believed that Mr. H. being so close to his fellow boarder might make his situation more uncomfortable; but since he wasn’t quite sure what to say, he simply exclaimed the word 'Wow!'

'Now,' continued the knocker, 'let me beg you will exhibit no manifestations of surprise, which may be overheard by the domestics, when I tell you-command your feelings of astonishment-that two inmates of this house intend to be married to-morrow morning.' And he drew back his chair, several feet, to perceive the effect of the unlooked-for announcement.

'Now,' the knocker continued, 'please try not to show any surprise that could be overheard by the staff when I tell you—control your astonishment—that two residents of this house plan to get married tomorrow morning.' He leaned back in his chair several feet to see how the unexpected news would be received.

If Tibbs had rushed from the room, staggered down-stairs, and fainted in the passage-if he had instantaneously jumped out of the window into the mews behind the house, in an agony of surprise-his behaviour would have been much less inexplicable to Mr. Calton than it was, when he put his hands into his inexpressible-pockets, and said with a half-chuckle, 'Just so.'

If Tibbs had rushed out of the room, stumbled downstairs, and passed out in the hall—if he had suddenly jumped out the window into the alley behind the house in shock—his actions would have made a lot more sense to Mr. Calton than when he put his hands into his inexplicable pockets and said with a half-laugh, 'Just so.'

'You are not surprised, Mr. Tibbs?' inquired Mr. Calton.

'You're not surprised, Mr. Tibbs?' asked Mr. Calton.

'Bless you, no, sir,' returned Tibbs; 'after all, its very natural. When two young people get together, you know-'

'Bless you, no, sir,' replied Tibbs; 'after all, it’s totally natural. When two young people are together, you know-'

'Certainly, certainly,' said Calton, with an indescribable air of self- satisfaction.

'Definitely, definitely,' said Calton, with an unmistakable air of self-satisfaction.

'You don't think it's at all an out-of-the-way affair then?' asked Mr. Septimus Hicks, who had watched the countenance of Tibbs in mute astonishment.

'You don't think it's at all an unusual thing, then?' asked Mr. Septimus Hicks, who had watched Tibbs's expression in silent amazement.

'No, sir,' replied Tibbs; 'I was just the same at his age.' He actually smiled when he said this.

'No, sir,' replied Tibbs; 'I was exactly the same at his age.' He actually smiled when he said this.

'How devilish well I must carry my years!' thought the delighted old beau, knowing he was at least ten years older than Tibbs at that moment.

'How incredibly well I must carry my age!' thought the pleased old beau, knowing he was at least ten years older than Tibbs at that moment.

'Well, then, to come to the point at once,' he continued, 'I have to ask you whether you will object to act as father on the occasion?'

'Well, to get straight to the point,' he continued, 'I need to ask if you would mind stepping in as the father for this occasion?'

'Certainly not,' replied Tibbs; still without evincing an atom of surprise.

'Of course not,' replied Tibbs, still showing no sign of surprise.

'You will not?'

'You won't?'

'Decidedly not,' reiterated Tibbs, still as calm as a pot of porter with the head off.

'Definitely not,' Tibbs emphasized again, remaining as calm as a flat pint of beer.

Mr. Calton seized the hand of the petticoat-governed little man, and vowed eternal friendship from that hour. Hicks, who was all admiration and surprise, did the same.

Mr. Calton grabbed the hand of the little man ruled by his petticoat and promised to be friends forever from that moment. Hicks, who was completely in awe and shocked, did the same.

'Now, confess,' asked Mr. Calton of Tibbs, as he picked up his hat, 'were you not a little surprised?'

'Now, admit it,' Mr. Calton asked Tibbs as he grabbed his hat, 'were you not a little surprised?'

'I b'lieve you!' replied that illustrious person, holding up one hand; 'I b'lieve you! When I first heard of it.'

'I believe you!' replied that famous person, raising one hand; 'I believe you! When I first heard about it.'

'So sudden,' said Septimus Hicks.

"That was so sudden," said Septimus Hicks.

'So strange to ask me, you know,' said Tibbs.

'It's so strange that you're asking me, you know,' said Tibbs.

'So odd altogether!' said the superannuated love-maker; and then all three laughed.

'So strange altogether!' said the retired flirt; and then all three laughed.

'I say,' said Tibbs, shutting the door which he had previously opened, and giving full vent to a hitherto corked-up giggle, 'what bothers me is, what will his father say?'

'I say,' Tibbs said, closing the door he had just opened and bursting into a laugh he had been holding back. 'What worries me is, what will his dad say?'

Mr. Septimus Hicks looked at Mr. Calton.

'Yes; but the best of it is,' said the latter, giggling in his turn, 'I haven't got a father-he! he! he!'

'Yeah, but the funniest part is,' said the other, giggling back, 'I don't have a dad—ha! ha! ha!'

'You haven't got a father. No; but he has,' said Tibbs.

'You don't have a dad. No; but he does,' said Tibbs.

'Who has?' inquired Septimus Hicks.

"Who has?" asked Septimus Hicks.

'Why, him.'

'Him, who? Do you know my secret? Do you mean me?'

'Him, who? Do you know my secret? Are you talking about me?'

'You! No; you know who I mean,' returned Tibbs with a knowing wink.

'You! No; you know who I’m talking about,' replied Tibbs with a knowing wink.

'For Heaven's sake, whom do you mean?' inquired Mr. Calton, who, like Septimus Hicks, was all but out of his senses at the strange confusion.

"For Heaven's sake, who are you talking about?" asked Mr. Calton, who, like Septimus Hicks, was almost bewildered by the strange chaos.

'Why Mr. Simpson, of course,' replied Tibbs; 'who else could I mean?'

'Of course, Mr. Simpson,' replied Tibbs; 'who else would I be talking about?'

'I see it all,' said the Byron-quoter; 'Simpson marries Julia Maplesone to-morrow morning!'

'I see it all,' said the Byron-quoting guy; 'Simpson is marrying Julia Maplesone tomorrow morning!'

'Undoubtedly,' replied Tibbs, thoroughly satisfied, 'of course he does.'

'Definitely,' replied Tibbs, completely satisfied, 'of course he does.'

It would require the pencil of Hogarth to illustrate-our feeble pen is inadequate to describe-the expression which the countenances of Mr. Calton and Mr. Septimus Hicks respectively assumed, at this unexpected announcement. Equally impossible is it to describe, although perhaps it is easier for our lady readers to imagine, what arts the three ladies could have used, so completely to entangle their separate partners. Whatever they were, however, they were successful. The mother was perfectly aware of the intended marriage of both daughters; and the young ladies were equally acquainted with the intention of their estimable parent. They agreed, however, that it would have a much better appearance if each feigned ignorance of the other's engagement; and it was equally desirable that all the marriages should take place on the same day, to prevent the discovery of one clandestine alliance, operating prejudicially on the others. Hence, the mystification of Mr. Calton and Mr. Septimus Hicks, and the pre-engagement of the unwary Tibbs.

It would take Hogarth’s pencil to illustrate—our weak writing can’t do justice to—the expressions on Mr. Calton’s and Mr. Septimus Hicks’s faces at this surprising announcement. It’s just as impossible to describe, though our female readers might find it easier to imagine, the tactics the three ladies used to completely ensnare their respective partners. Whatever those tactics were, they worked. The mother was fully aware of the intended marriages of both daughters; and the young ladies were just as privy to their mother’s plans. However, they all agreed it would look better if each pretended not to know about the other's engagement, and it was also important that all the marriages happen on the same day to avoid revealing one secret relationship that could negatively impact the others. Thus, the confusion for Mr. Calton and Mr. Septimus Hicks, along with the entanglement of the unsuspecting Tibbs.

On the following morning, Mr. Septimus Hicks was united to Miss Matilda Maplesone. Mr. Simpson also entered into a 'holy alliance' with Miss Julia; Tibbs acting as father, 'his first appearance in that character.' Mr. Calton, not being quite so eager as the two young men, was rather struck by the double discovery; and as he had found some difficulty in getting any one to give the lady away, it occurred to him that the best mode of obviating the inconvenience would be not to take her at all. The lady, however, 'appealed,' as her counsel said on the trial of the cause, Maplesone v. Calton, for a breach of promise, 'with a broken heart, to the outraged laws of her country.' She recovered damages to the amount of 1,000l. which the unfortunate knocker was compelled to pay. Mr. Septimus Hicks having walked the hospitals, took it into his head to walk off altogether. His injured wife is at present residing with her mother at Boulogne. Mr. Simpson, having the misfortune to lose his wife six weeks after marriage (by her eloping with an officer during his temporary sojourn in the Fleet Prison, in consequence of his inability to discharge her little mantua-maker's bill), and being disinherited by his father, who died soon afterwards, was fortunate enough to obtain a permanent engagement at a fashionable haircutter's; hairdressing being a science to which he had frequently directed his attention. In this situation he had necessarily many opportunities of making himself acquainted with the habits, and style of thinking, of the exclusive portion of the nobility of this kingdom. To this fortunate circumstance are we indebted for the production of those brilliant efforts of genius, his fashionable novels, which so long as good taste, unsullied by exaggeration, cant, and quackery, continues to exist, cannot fail to instruct and amuse the thinking portion of the community.

On the following morning, Mr. Septimus Hicks married Miss Matilda Maplesone. Mr. Simpson also entered into a "holy alliance" with Miss Julia, with Tibbs stepping in as the father, marking his first appearance in that role. Mr. Calton, not being as eager as the two young men, was somewhat surprised by this double revelation; and since he had trouble finding anyone to give the lady away, he figured that the best way to avoid the hassle was simply not to take her at all. However, the lady, as her lawyer put it during the trial in Maplesone v. Calton for breach of promise, "appealed with a broken heart to the outraged laws of her country." She was awarded damages amounting to £1,000, which the unfortunate Mr. Knocker had to pay. Mr. Septimus Hicks, having walked the hospitals, decided to walk away completely. His wronged wife is currently staying with her mother in Boulogne. Mr. Simpson, unfortunately losing his wife six weeks after their wedding (when she ran off with an officer while he was temporarily in the Fleet Prison due to his inability to pay her small dressmaker's bill), also got disinherited by his father, who died shortly afterward. He was lucky enough to land a permanent job at a trendy hair salon since he had often shown interest in hairdressing. In that position, he had plenty of chances to get to know the habits and mindset of the elite among the nobility in this country. Thanks to this fortunate situation, we owe the creation of his brilliant works, his fashionable novels, which, as long as good taste untainted by exaggeration, nonsense, and fraud exists, will continue to teach and entertain the thoughtful segments of society.

It only remains to add, that this complication of disorders completely deprived poor Mrs. Tibbs of all her inmates, except the one whom she could have best spared-her husband. That wretched little man returned home, on the day of the wedding, in a state of partial intoxication; and, under the influence of wine, excitement, and despair, actually dared to brave the anger of his wife. Since that ill-fated hour he has constantly taken his meals in the kitchen, to which apartment, it is understood, his witticisms will be in future confined: a turn-up bedstead having been conveyed there by Mrs. Tibbs's order for his exclusive accommodation. It is possible that he will be enabled to finish, in that seclusion, his story of the volunteers.

It just needs to be added that this mix of troubles completely left poor Mrs. Tibbs without any of her residents, except for the one she could have most easily done without—her husband. That unfortunate man came home on the day of the wedding, partially drunk; and, fueled by a mix of alcohol, excitement, and despair, he actually dared to face his wife's anger. Since that unfortunate moment, he has been taking his meals in the kitchen, where it’s understood that his jokes will now be limited to that space: a fold-out bed has been moved there by Mrs. Tibbs’s request for his exclusive use. It's possible that he will manage to finish his story about the volunteers in that solitude.

The advertisement has again appeared in the morning papers. Results must be reserved for another chapter.

The ad has shown up again in the morning papers. Results will have to wait for another chapter.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

'Well!' said little Mrs. Tibbs to herself, as she sat in the front parlour of the Coram-street mansion one morning, mending a piece of stair-carpet off the first Landings;-'Things have not turned out so badly, either, and if I only get a favourable answer to the advertisement, we shall be full again.'

'Well!' said little Mrs. Tibbs to herself, as she sat in the front parlor of the Coram-street house one morning, fixing a piece of stair carpet from the first landing; 'Things haven’t turned out so badly, either, and if I just get a positive response to the ad, we’ll be fully booked again.'

Mrs. Tibbs resumed her occupation of making worsted lattice-work in the carpet, anxiously listening to the twopenny postman, who was hammering his way down the street, at the rate of a penny a knock. The house was as quiet as possible. There was only one low sound to be heard-it was the unhappy Tibbs cleaning the gentlemen's boots in the back kitchen, and accompanying himself with a buzzing noise, in wretched mockery of humming a tune.

Mrs. Tibbs went back to making worsted lattice-work in the carpet, nervously listening for the two-penny postman, who was banging along the street, each knock costing a penny. The house was as quiet as it could be. The only sound was the miserable Tibbs cleaning the gentlemen's boots in the back kitchen, humming a tune with a buzzing noise in a pitiful attempt to mockingly sing along.

The postman drew near the house. He paused-so did Mrs. Tibbs. A knock-a bustle-a letter-post-paid.

The postman approached the house. He stopped—Mrs. Tibbs did too. A knock—a flurry—a letter—postage paid.

'T. I. presents compt. to I. T. and T. I. begs To say that i see the advertisement And she will Do Herself the pleasure of calling On you at 12 o'clock to-morrow morning.

'T. I. presents compliment to I. T. and T. I. wants to say that I see the advertisement and she will take the pleasure of visiting you at 12 o'clock tomorrow morning.

'T. I. as To apologise to I. T. for the shortness Of the notice But i hope it will not unconvenience you.

'T. I. to apologize to I. T. for the short notice, but I hope it doesn't inconvenience you.

'I remain yours Truly 'Wednesday evening.'

'I remain yours truly, Wednesday evening.'

Little Mrs. Tibbs perused the document, over and over again; and the more she read it, the more was she confused by the mixture of the first and third person; the substitution of the 'i' for the 'T. I.;' and the transition from the 'I. T.' to the 'You.' The writing looked like a skein of thread in a tangle, and the note was ingeniously folded into a perfect square, with the direction squeezed up into the right-hand corner, as if it were ashamed of itself. The back of the epistle was pleasingly ornamented with a large red wafer, which, with the addition of divers ink-stains, bore a marvellous resemblance to a black beetle trodden upon. One thing, however, was perfectly clear to the perplexed Mrs. Tibbs. Somebody was to call at twelve. The drawing-room was forthwith dusted for the third time that morning; three or four chairs were pulled out of their places, and a corresponding number of books carefully upset, in order that there might be a due absence of formality. Down went the piece of stair-carpet before noticed, and up ran Mrs. Tibbs 'to make herself tidy.'

Little Mrs. Tibbs read the document repeatedly, and the more she read it, the more confused she became by the mix of first and third person; the switch from 'I' to 'T. I.;' and the change from 'I. T.' to 'You.' The writing looked like a tangled mess of thread, and the note was cleverly folded into a perfect square, with the address crammed into the top right corner, as if it were embarrassed. The back of the letter was nicely decorated with a large red seal, which, along with some ink stains, looked remarkably like a squashed black beetle. One thing, however, was completely clear to the puzzled Mrs. Tibbs. Someone was supposed to come by at twelve. The drawing-room was promptly dusted for the third time that morning; three or four chairs were moved out of place, and several books were purposely knocked over to create a casual atmosphere. Down went the previously mentioned stair carpet, and up ran Mrs. Tibbs to get herself ready.

The clock of New Saint Pancras Church struck twelve, and the Foundling, with laudable politeness, did the same ten minutes afterwards, Saint something else struck the quarter, and then there arrived a single lady with a double knock, in a pelisse the colour of the interior of a damson pie; a bonnet of the same, with a regular conservatory of artificial flowers; a white veil, and a green parasol, with a cobweb border.

The clock at New Saint Pancras Church struck twelve, and the Foundling, being quite polite, did the same ten minutes later. Saint something else struck a quarter past, and then a lone lady arrived with a double knock, wearing a pelisse that was the color of a damson pie on the inside; a bonnet in the same shade, adorned with a collection of fake flowers; a white veil, and a green parasol with a cobweb border.

The visitor (who was very fat and red-faced) was shown into the drawing- room; Mrs. Tibbs presented herself, and the negotiation commenced.

The visitor (who was very overweight and had a flushed face) was led into the living room; Mrs. Tibbs introduced herself, and the discussion began.

'I called in consequence of an advertisement,' said the stranger, in a voice as if she had been playing a set of Pan's pipes for a fortnight without leaving off.

"I called because of an ad," said the stranger, her voice sounding like she'd been playing a set of Pan's pipes for two weeks straight without stopping.

'Yes!' said Mrs. Tibbs, rubbing her hands very slowly, and looking the applicant full in the face-two things she always did on such occasions.

'Yes!' Mrs. Tibbs said, slowly rubbing her hands and looking the applicant straight in the face—two things she always did on these occasions.

'Money isn't no object whatever to me,' said the lady, 'so much as living in a state of retirement and obtrusion.'

'Money doesn’t matter to me at all,' said the lady, 'it’s more about living in a state of privacy and avoidance.'

Mrs. Tibbs, as a matter of course, acquiesced in such an exceedingly natural desire.

Mrs. Tibbs, as usual, agreed to such a completely natural desire.

'I am constantly attended by a medical man,' resumed the pelisse wearer; 'I have been a shocking unitarian for some time-I, indeed, have had very little peace since the death of Mr. Bloss.'

'I am always accompanied by a doctor,' the woman in the fur coat continued; 'I've been quite distressed for a while—I really haven't had much peace since Mr. Bloss died.'

Mrs. Tibbs looked at the relict of the departed Bloss, and thought he must have had very little peace in his time. Of course she could not say so; so she looked very sympathising.

Mrs. Tibbs looked at the remains of the late Bloss and thought he must have had very little peace in his life. Of course, she couldn't say that; so she looked very sympathetic.

'I shall be a good deal of trouble to you,' said Mrs. Bloss; 'but, for that trouble I am willing to pay. I am going through a course of treatment which renders attention necessary. I have one mutton-chop in bed at half-past eight, and another at ten, every morning.'

'I will be quite a hassle for you,' said Mrs. Bloss; 'but I'm willing to compensate for that hassle. I'm undergoing a treatment that requires special attention. I have one mutton chop in bed at 8:30, and another at 10 every morning.'

Mrs. Tibbs, as in duty bound, expressed the pity she felt for anybody placed in such a distressing situation; and the carnivorous Mrs. Bloss proceeded to arrange the various preliminaries with wonderful despatch. 'Now mind,' said that lady, after terms were arranged; 'I am to have the second-floor front, for my bed-room?'

Mrs. Tibbs, feeling obligated, shared her sympathy for anyone in such a tough situation; and the ruthless Mrs. Bloss quickly got everything ready. 'Now listen,' said that lady, after they had settled the terms; 'I get the second-floor front for my bedroom, right?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'And you'll find room for my little servant Agnes?'

'And will you have a spot for my little servant Agnes?'

'Oh! certainly.'

'Oh, for sure.'

'And I can have one of the cellars in the area for my bottled porter.'

'And I can get one of the cellars in the area for my bottled porter.'

'With the greatest pleasure;-James shall get it ready for you by Saturday.'

'With great pleasure, James will have it ready for you by Saturday.'

'And I'll join the company at the breakfast-table on Sunday morning,' said Mrs. Bloss. 'I shall get up on purpose.'

'I'll join everyone at the breakfast table on Sunday morning,' said Mrs. Bloss. 'I'll get up just for that.'

'Very well,' returned Mrs. Tibbs, in her most amiable tone; for satisfactory references had 'been given and required,' and it was quite certain that the new-comer had plenty of money. 'It's rather singular,' continued Mrs. Tibbs, with what was meant for a most bewitching smile, 'that we have a gentleman now with us, who is in a very delicate state of health-a Mr. Gobler.-His apartment is the back drawing-room.'

"Alright," replied Mrs. Tibbs in her friendliest tone; satisfactory references had been provided and requested, and it was clear that the newcomer had a lot of money. "It's quite unusual," Mrs. Tibbs continued, attempting a charming smile, "that we have a gentleman with us who is in a very fragile state of health—Mr. Gobler. His room is the back drawing-room."

'The next room?' inquired Mrs. Bloss.

'The next room?' asked Mrs. Bloss.

'The next room,' repeated the hostess.

'The next room,' the hostess repeated.

'How very promiscuous!' ejaculated the widow.

"How very promiscuous!" the widow exclaimed.

'He hardly ever gets up,' said Mrs. Tibbs in a whisper.

'He hardly ever gets up,' Mrs. Tibbs said softly.

'Lor!' cried Mrs. Bloss, in an equally low tone.

'Wow!' cried Mrs. Bloss, in a similarly quiet tone.

'And when he is up,' said Mrs. Tibbs, 'we never can persuade him to go to bed again.'

'And when he gets up,' said Mrs. Tibbs, 'we can never convince him to go to bed again.'

'Dear me!' said the astonished Mrs. Bloss, drawing her chair nearer Mrs. Tibbs. 'What is his complaint?'

"Goodness!" exclaimed the shocked Mrs. Bloss, pulling her chair closer to Mrs. Tibbs. "What’s his issue?"

'Why, the fact is,' replied Mrs. Tibbs, with a most communicative air, 'he has no stomach whatever.'

'Well, the truth is,' replied Mrs. Tibbs, with a very open demeanor, 'he has no appetite at all.'

'No what?' inquired Mrs. Bloss, with a look of the most indescribable alarm.

'No what?' Mrs. Bloss asked, her face showing the most indescribable alarm.

'No stomach,' repeated Mrs. Tibbs, with a shake of the head.

'No stomach,' Mrs. Tibbs repeated, shaking her head.

'Lord bless us! what an extraordinary case!' gasped Mrs. Bloss, as if she understood the communication in its literal sense, and was astonished at a gentleman without a stomach finding it necessary to board anywhere.

‘Lord bless us! What an extraordinary case!’ gasped Mrs. Bloss, as if she understood the message literally and was astonished that a gentleman without a stomach felt the need to stay anywhere.

'When I say he has no stomach,' explained the chatty little Mrs. Tibbs, 'I mean that his digestion is so much impaired, and his interior so deranged, that his stomach is not of the least use to him;-in fact, it's an inconvenience.'

'When I say he has no stomach,' explained the talkative little Mrs. Tibbs, 'I mean that his digestion is so messed up, and his insides are so out of whack, that his stomach isn't useful to him at all—in fact, it's a burden.'

'Never heard such a case in my life!' exclaimed Mrs. Bloss. 'Why, he's worse than I am.'

'I've never heard of anything like this in my life!' exclaimed Mrs. Bloss. 'Honestly, he's even worse than I am.'

'Oh, yes!' replied Mrs. Tibbs;-'certainly.' She said this with great confidence, for the damson pelisse suggested that Mrs. Bloss, at all events, was not suffering under Mr. Gobler's complaint.

'Oh, yes!' replied Mrs. Tibbs; 'certainly.' She said this with a lot of confidence because the damson pelisse implied that Mrs. Bloss, at least, wasn't dealing with Mr. Gobler's issue.

'You have quite incited my curiosity,' said Mrs. Bloss, as she rose to depart. 'How I long to see him!'

'You've really sparked my curiosity,' said Mrs. Bloss as she got up to leave. 'I can't wait to meet him!'

'He generally comes down, once a week,' replied Mrs. Tibbs; 'I dare say you'll see him on Sunday.' With this consolatory promise Mrs. Bloss was obliged to be contented. She accordingly walked slowly down the stairs, detailing her complaints all the way; and Mrs. Tibbs followed her, uttering an exclamation of compassion at every step. James (who looked very gritty, for he was cleaning the knives) fell up the kitchen-stairs, and opened the street-door; and, after mutual farewells, Mrs. Bloss slowly departed, down the shady side of the street.

'He usually comes by once a week,' Mrs. Tibbs replied. 'I’m sure you’ll see him on Sunday.' With this comforting promise, Mrs. Bloss had to settle for that. She then walked slowly down the stairs, listing her complaints the whole way, and Mrs. Tibbs followed her, expressing sympathy at every step. James, looking quite dirty since he was cleaning the knives, stumbled up the kitchen stairs and opened the front door. After exchanging goodbyes, Mrs. Bloss slowly left, walking down the shady side of the street.

It is almost superfluous to say, that the lady whom we have just shown out at the street-door (and whom the two female servants are now inspecting from the second-floor windows) was exceedingly vulgar, ignorant, and selfish. Her deceased better-half had been an eminent cork-cutter, in which capacity he had amassed a decent fortune. He had no relative but his nephew, and no friend but his cook. The former had the insolence one morning to ask for the loan of fifteen pounds; and, by way of retaliation, he married the latter next day; he made a will immediately afterwards, containing a burst of honest indignation against his nephew (who supported himself and two sisters on 100l. a year), and a bequest of his whole property to his wife. He felt ill after breakfast, and died after dinner. There is a mantelpiece-looking tablet in a civic parish church, setting forth his virtues, and deploring his loss. He never dishonoured a bill, or gave away a halfpenny.

It's almost unnecessary to mention that the woman we just let out at the front door (and whom the two female servants are now watching from the second-floor windows) was extremely vulgar, ignorant, and selfish. Her late husband had been a well-known cork cutter and had made a decent fortune in that trade. He had no relatives besides his nephew and no friends other than his cook. One morning, the nephew had the nerve to ask for a loan of fifteen pounds; as revenge, the man married the cook the next day. He quickly wrote a will after that, expressing his honest anger toward his nephew (who lived on £100 a year to support himself and two sisters) and leaving all his property to his wife. He felt sick after breakfast and died after dinner. There's a plaque in a local church highlighting his virtues and mourning his loss. He never bounced a check or gave away a penny.

The relict and sole executrix of this noble-minded man was an odd mixture of shrewdness and simplicity, liberality and meanness. Bred up as she had been, she knew no mode of living so agreeable as a boarding- house: and having nothing to do, and nothing to wish for, she naturally imagined she must be ill-an impression which was most assiduously promoted by her medical attendant, Dr. Wosky, and her handmaid Agnes: both of whom, doubtless for good reasons, encouraged all her extravagant notions.

The remaining and only executor of this noble-minded man was a strange mix of cleverness and naivety, generosity and stinginess. Having been raised as she had, she knew of no lifestyle as comfortable as living in a boarding house. With nothing to do and nothing to desire, she naturally thought she must be unwell—an idea that was diligently supported by her doctor, Dr. Wosky, and her maid Agnes, both of whom, likely for good reasons, encouraged all her wild ideas.

Since the catastrophe recorded in the last chapter, Mrs. Tibbs had been very shy of young-lady boarders. Her present inmates were all lords of the creation, and she availed herself of the opportunity of their assemblage at the dinner-table, to announce the expected arrival of Mrs. Bloss. The gentlemen received the communication with stoical indifference, and Mrs. Tibbs devoted all her energies to prepare for the reception of the valetudinarian. The second-floor front was scrubbed, and washed, and flannelled, till the wet went through to the drawing- room ceiling. Clean white counterpanes, and curtains, and napkins, water-bottles as clear as crystal, blue jugs, and mahogany furniture, added to the splendour, and increased the comfort, of the apartment. The warming-pan was in constant requisition, and a fire lighted in the room every day. The chattels of Mrs. Bloss were forwarded by instalments. First, there came a large hamper of Guinness's stout, and an umbrella; then, a train of trunks; then, a pair of clogs and a bandbox; then, an easy chair with an air-cushion; then, a variety of suspicious-looking packages; and-'though last not least'-Mrs. Bloss and Agnes: the latter in a cherry-coloured merino dress, open-work stockings, and shoes with sandals: like a disguised Columbine.

Since the disaster mentioned in the last chapter, Mrs. Tibbs had been quite hesitant about young female boarders. Her current residents were all men, and she took the opportunity at the dinner table to announce the upcoming arrival of Mrs. Bloss. The gentlemen reacted with indifferent calmness, and Mrs. Tibbs put all her energy into getting ready to welcome the elderly woman. The front room on the second floor was scrubbed, cleaned, and polished until the moisture seeped through to the drawing-room ceiling. Fresh white bedcovers, curtains, and napkins, crystal-clear water bottles, blue jugs, and mahogany furniture enhanced the elegance and comfort of the room. The warming pan was constantly in use, and a fire was lit in the room every day. Mrs. Bloss's belongings arrived in installments. First, a large hamper of Guinness's stout and an umbrella came; then, a series of trunks; then, a pair of clogs and a hatbox; next, an easy chair with an air cushion; followed by various suspicious-looking packages; and—last but not least—Mrs. Bloss and Agnes arrived: the latter in a cherry-colored merino dress, open-work stockings, and sandals, looking like a disguised Columbine.

The installation of the Duke of Wellington, as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, was nothing, in point of bustle and turmoil, to the installation of Mrs. Bloss in her new quarters. True, there was no bright doctor of civil law to deliver a classical address on the occasion; but there were several other old women present, who spoke quite as much to the purpose, and understood themselves equally well. The chop-eater was so fatigued with the process of removal that she declined leaving her room until the following morning; so a mutton-chop, pickle, a pill, a pint bottle of stout, and other medicines, were carried up-stairs for her consumption.

The installation of the Duke of Wellington as Chancellor of the University of Oxford was nothing compared to the chaos of Mrs. Bloss moving into her new place. Sure, there wasn’t a distinguished doctor of civil law giving a formal speech, but several other older women were there, talking just as much and understanding each other perfectly. The chop-eater was so worn out from the move that she decided to stay in her room until the next morning, so a mutton chop, some pickles, a pill, a pint of stout, and other medicine were taken upstairs for her to use.

'Why, what do you think, ma'am?' inquired the inquisitive Agnes of her mistress, after they had been in the house some three hours; 'what do you think, ma'am? the lady of the house is married.'

'What do you think, ma'am?' Agnes asked her mistress after they had been in the house for about three hours. 'What do you think, ma'am? The lady of the house is married.'

'Married!' said Mrs. Bloss, taking the pill and a draught of Guinness-'married! Unpossible!'

'Married!' said Mrs. Bloss, taking the pill and a gulp of Guinness—'married! No way!'

'She is indeed, ma'am,' returned the Columbine; 'and her husband, ma'am, lives-he-he-he-lives in the kitchen, ma'am.'

'She really is, ma'am,' replied the Columbine; 'and her husband, ma'am, lives—he-he-he—lives in the kitchen, ma'am.'

'In the kitchen!'

'Yes, ma'am: and he-he-he-the housemaid says, he never goes into the parlour except on Sundays; and that Ms. Tibbs makes him clean the gentlemen's boots; and that he cleans the windows, too, sometimes; and that one morning early, when he was in the front balcony cleaning the drawing-room windows, he called out to a gentleman on the opposite side of the way, who used to live here-"Ah! Mr. Calton, sir, how are you?"' Here the attendant laughed till Mrs. Bloss was in serious apprehension of her chuckling herself into a fit.

'Yes, ma'am: and he-he-he-the housemaid says he never goes into the parlor except on Sundays; and that Ms. Tibbs makes him clean the gentlemen's boots; and that he sometimes cleans the windows too; and that one early morning, while he was on the front balcony cleaning the drawing-room windows, he called out to a gentleman across the street, who used to live here—“Ah! Mr. Calton, sir, how are you?”' Here the attendant laughed until Mrs. Bloss was seriously worried she might laugh herself into a fit.

'Well, I never!' said Mrs. Bloss.

'Well, I can't believe it!' said Mrs. Bloss.

'Yes. And please, ma'am, the servants gives him gin-and-water sometimes; and then he cries, and says he hates his wife and the boarders, and wants to tickle them.'

'Yes. And please, ma'am, the servants give him gin-and-water sometimes; and then he cries, saying he hates his wife and the boarders, and wants to tickle them.'

'Tickle the boarders!' exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, seriously alarmed.

'Tickle the borders!' exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, genuinely worried.

'No, ma'am, not the boarders, the servants.'

'No, ma'am, not the guests, the staff.'

'Oh, is that all!' said Mrs. Bloss, quite satisfied.

'Oh, is that it!' said Mrs. Bloss, quite satisfied.

'He wanted to kiss me as I came up the kitchen-stairs, just now,' said Agnes, indignantly; 'but I gave it him-a little wretch!'

'He wanted to kiss me as I was coming up the kitchen stairs just now,' Agnes said indignantly; 'but I gave him what for—a little jerk!'

This intelligence was but too true. A long course of snubbing and neglect; his days spent in the kitchen, and his nights in the turn-up bedstead, had completely broken the little spirit that the unfortunate volunteer had ever possessed. He had no one to whom he could detail his injuries but the servants, and they were almost of necessity his chosen confidants. It is no less strange than true, however, that the little weaknesses which he had incurred, most probably during his military career, seemed to increase as his comforts diminished. He was actually a sort of journeyman Giovanni of the basement story.

This information was unfortunately all too accurate. A long time of being ignored and belittled; his days spent in the kitchen and his nights on the pull-out bed had completely crushed whatever spirit the poor volunteer had ever had. He had no one he could talk to about his troubles except the servants, and they unintentionally became his chosen confidants. It’s both strange and true, though, that the small weaknesses he had developed, likely during his time in the military, seemed to grow as his comforts faded away. He was basically a kind of handyman Giovanni living in the basement.

The next morning, being Sunday, breakfast was laid in the front parlour at ten o'clock. Nine was the usual time, but the family always breakfasted an hour later on sabbath. Tibbs enrobed himself in his Sunday costume-a black coat, and exceedingly short, thin trousers; with a very large white waistcoat, white stockings and cravat, and Blucher boots-and mounted to the parlour aforesaid. Nobody had come down, and he amused himself by drinking the contents of the milkpot with a teaspoon.

The next morning, which was Sunday, breakfast was set up in the front parlor at ten o'clock. Nine was the normal time, but the family always had breakfast an hour later on Sundays. Tibbs got dressed in his Sunday outfit—a black coat and extremely short, thin trousers; with a very large white waistcoat, white stockings and cravat, and Blucher boots—and went up to the parlor. Nobody had come down yet, so he entertained himself by drinking the milk from the milk jug with a teaspoon.

A pair of slippers were heard descending the stairs. Tibbs flew to a chair; and a stern-looking man, of about fifty, with very little hair on his head, and a Sunday paper in his hand, entered the room.

A pair of slippers was heard coming down the stairs. Tibbs rushed to a chair, and a serious-looking man, around fifty, with very little hair on his head and a Sunday paper in his hand, walked into the room.

'Good morning, Mr. Evenson,' said Tibbs, very humbly, with something between a nod and a bow.

'Good morning, Mr. Evenson,' said Tibbs, very respectfully, with a gesture that was a mix of a nod and a bow.

'How do you do, Mr. Tibbs?' replied he of the slippers, as he sat himself down, and began to read his paper without saying another word.

'How's it going, Mr. Tibbs?' said the guy in the slippers as he sat down and started reading his paper without saying anything else.

'Is Mr. Wisbottle in town to-day, do you know, sir?' inquired Tibbs, just for the sake of saying something.

"Do you know if Mr. Wisbottle is in town today, sir?" Tibbs asked, just to have something to say.

'I should think he was,' replied the stern gentleman. 'He was whistling "The Light Guitar," in the next room to mine, at five o'clock this morning.'

'I would think he was,' replied the serious man. 'He was whistling "The Light Guitar" in the room next to mine at five o'clock this morning.'

'He's very fond of whistling,' said Tibbs, with a slight smirk.

'He really likes to whistle,' said Tibbs, with a slight smirk.

'Yes-I ain't,' was the laconic reply.

'Yeah, I'm not,' was the brief response.

Mr. John Evenson was in the receipt of an independent income, arising chiefly from various houses he owned in the different suburbs. He was very morose and discontented. He was a thorough radical, and used to attend a great variety of public meetings, for the express purpose of finding fault with everything that was proposed. Mr. Wisbottle, on the other hand, was a high Tory. He was a clerk in the Woods and Forests Office, which he considered rather an aristocratic employment; he knew the peerage by heart, and, could tell you, off-hand, where any illustrious personage lived. He had a good set of teeth, and a capital tailor. Mr. Evenson looked on all these qualifications with profound contempt; and the consequence was that the two were always disputing, much to the edification of the rest of the house. It should be added, that, in addition to his partiality for whistling, Mr. Wisbottle had a great idea of his singing powers. There were two other boarders, besides the gentleman in the back drawing-room-Mr. Alfred Tomkins and Mr. Frederick O'Bleary. Mr. Tomkins was a clerk in a wine-house; he was a connoisseur in paintings, and had a wonderful eye for the picturesque. Mr. O'Bleary was an Irishman, recently imported; he was in a perfectly wild state; and had come over to England to be an apothecary, a clerk in a government office, an actor, a reporter, or anything else that turned up-he was not particular. He was on familiar terms with two small Irish members, and got franks for everybody in the house. He felt convinced that his intrinsic merits must procure him a high destiny. He wore shepherd's-plaid inexpressibles, and used to look under all the ladies' bonnets as he walked along the streets. His manners and appearance reminded one of Orson.

Mr. John Evenson had an independent income, mainly from the various houses he owned in different suburbs. He was very gloomy and dissatisfied. He was a die-hard radical and often attended a wide range of public meetings just to criticize everything proposed. On the other hand, Mr. Wisbottle was a staunch Tory. He worked as a clerk in the Woods and Forests Office, which he saw as quite an aristocratic job; he knew the peerage inside out and could readily tell you where any notable person lived. He had a nice set of teeth and was well-dressed. Mr. Evenson looked down on all these traits with deep disdain, leading to constant arguments between the two, much to the entertainment of the other residents. Additionally, apart from his fondness for whistling, Mr. Wisbottle had a high opinion of his singing abilities. There were two other boarders, besides the gentleman in the back drawing-room—Mr. Alfred Tomkins and Mr. Frederick O'Bleary. Mr. Tomkins was a clerk at a wine house; he was an art enthusiast with a great eye for the picturesque. Mr. O'Bleary was a recently arrived Irishman who was quite wild; he came to England hoping to become an apothecary, a clerk in a government office, an actor, a reporter, or anything else that came his way—he wasn't picky. He was on friendly terms with two small Irish members of parliament and managed to get franks for everyone in the house. He truly believed that his inherent qualities would lead him to a great future. He wore checkered trousers and had a habit of looking under all the ladies' bonnets as he walked down the streets. His manner and appearance were reminiscent of Orson.

'Here comes Mr. Wisbottle,' said Tibbs; and Mr. Wisbottle forthwith appeared in blue slippers, and a shawl dressing-gown, whistling 'Di piacer.'

'Here comes Mr. Wisbottle,' said Tibbs; and Mr. Wisbottle immediately appeared in blue slippers and a shawl robe, whistling 'Di piacer.'

'Good morning, sir,' said Tibbs again. It was almost the only thing he ever said to anybody.

'Good morning, sir,' Tibbs said again. It was practically the only thing he ever said to anyone.

'How are you, Tibbs?' condescendingly replied the amateur; and he walked to the window, and whistled louder than ever.

'How are you, Tibbs?' the amateur replied in a condescending tone, and he walked over to the window, whistling louder than ever.

'Pretty air, that!' said Evenson, with a snarl, and without taking his eyes off the paper.

'Nice air, that!' said Evenson, with a sneer, and without looking away from the paper.

'Glad you like it,' replied Wisbottle, highly gratified.

"Glad you like it," replied Wisbottle, really pleased.

'Don't you think it would sound better, if you whistled it a little louder?' inquired the mastiff.

"Don’t you think it would sound better if you whistled it a bit louder?" asked the mastiff.

'No; I don't think it would,' rejoined the unconscious Wisbottle.

'No; I don't think it would,' replied the unaware Wisbottle.

'I'll tell you what, Wisbottle,' said Evenson, who had been bottling up his anger for some hours-'the next time you feel disposed to whistle "The Light Guitar" at five o'clock in the morning, I'll trouble you to whistle it with your head out o' window. If you don't, I'll learn the triangle-I will, by-'

"I'll tell you something, Wisbottle," said Evenson, who had been holding back his anger for a few hours, "the next time you feel like whistling 'The Light Guitar' at five in the morning, I kindly ask you to do it with your head out the window. If you don’t, I’ll learn the triangle—I really will."

The entrance of Mrs. Tibbs (with the keys in a little basket) interrupted the threat, and prevented its conclusion.

The arrival of Mrs. Tibbs (with the keys in a small basket) interrupted the threat and stopped it from finishing.

Mrs. Tibbs apologised for being down rather late; the bell was rung; James brought up the urn, and received an unlimited order for dry toast and bacon. Tibbs sat down at the bottom of the table, and began eating water-cresses like a Nebuchadnezzar. Mr. O'Bleary appeared, and Mr. Alfred Tomkins. The compliments of the morning were exchanged, and the tea was made.

Mrs. Tibbs apologized for being a bit late; the bell was rung; James brought up the urn and got an open order for dry toast and bacon. Tibbs sat down at the end of the table and started eating watercress like a Nebuchadnezzar. Mr. O'Bleary showed up, along with Mr. Alfred Tomkins. They exchanged morning pleasantries, and the tea was made.

'God bless me!' exclaimed Tomkins, who had been looking out at the window. 'Here-Wisbottle-pray come here-make haste.'

"God bless me!" exclaimed Tomkins, who had been looking out the window. "Hey, Wisbottle, please come here—hurry up."

Mr. Wisbottle started from the table, and every one looked up.

Mr. Wisbottle stood up from the table, and everyone looked up.

'Do you see,' said the connoisseur, placing Wisbottle in the right position-'a little more this way: there-do you see how splendidly the light falls upon the left side of that broken chimney-pot at No. 48?'

'Do you see,' said the expert, positioning Wisbottle correctly—'a little more this way: there—do you see how beautifully the light hits the left side of that broken chimney pot at No. 48?'

'Dear me! I see,' replied Wisbottle, in a tone of admiration.

'Oh wow! I get it,' replied Wisbottle, sounding impressed.

'I never saw an object stand out so beautifully against the clear sky in my life,' ejaculated Alfred. Everybody (except John Evenson) echoed the sentiment; for Mr. Tomkins had a great character for finding out beauties which no one else could discover-he certainly deserved it.

'I have never seen anything stand out so beautifully against the clear sky in my life,' Alfred exclaimed. Everyone (except John Evenson) agreed; Mr. Tomkins had a real knack for spotting beauty that no one else could see—he definitely earned that reputation.

'I have frequently observed a chimney-pot in College-green, Dublin, which has a much better effect,' said the patriotic O'Bleary, who never allowed Ireland to be outdone on any point.

'I have often seen a chimney pot in College Green, Dublin, that looks much better,' said the patriotic O'Bleary, who never let Ireland be outdone in any respect.

The assertion was received with obvious incredulity, for Mr. Tomkins declared that no other chimney-pot in the United Kingdom, broken or unbroken, could be so beautiful as the one at No. 48.

The claim was met with clear disbelief, as Mr. Tomkins stated that no other chimney pot in the UK, whether broken or intact, could be as beautiful as the one at No. 48.

The room-door was suddenly thrown open, and Agnes appeared, leading in Mrs. Bloss, who was dressed in a geranium-coloured muslin gown, and displayed a gold watch of huge dimensions; a chain to match; and a splendid assortment of rings, with enormous stones. A general rush was made for a chair, and a regular introduction took place. Mr. John Evenson made a slight inclination of the head; Mr. Frederick O'Bleary, Mr. Alfred Tomkins, and Mr. Wisbottle, bowed like the mandarins in a grocer's shop; Tibbs rubbed hands, and went round in circles. He was observed to close one eye, and to assume a clock-work sort of expression with the other; this has been considered as a wink, and it has been reported that Agnes was its object. We repel the calumny, and challenge contradiction.

The door suddenly flew open, and Agnes walked in, leading Mrs. Bloss, who was wearing a bright geranium-colored muslin dress and showing off a large gold watch, a matching chain, and an impressive collection of rings with huge stones. Everyone rushed to find a seat, and formal introductions were made. Mr. John Evenson gave a slight nod; Mr. Frederick O'Bleary, Mr. Alfred Tomkins, and Mr. Wisbottle bowed like store clerks; Tibbs rubbed his hands and moved in circles. He was seen closing one eye and giving a mechanical look with the other; this has been interpreted as a wink, rumored to be aimed at Agnes. We reject this slander and invite anyone to challenge it.

Mrs. Tibbs inquired after Mrs. Bloss's health in a low tone. Mrs. Bloss, with a supreme contempt for the memory of Lindley Murray, answered the various questions in a most satisfactory manner; and a pause ensued, during which the eatables disappeared with awful rapidity.

Mrs. Tibbs asked about Mrs. Bloss's health in a quiet voice. Mrs. Bloss, completely dismissive of Lindley Murray's memory, answered the various questions quite satisfactorily; and a pause followed, during which the food was consumed at an alarming speed.

'You must have been very much pleased with the appearance of the ladies going to the Drawing-room the other day, Mr. O'Bleary?' said Mrs. Tibbs, hoping to start a topic.

'You must have really enjoyed seeing the ladies heading to the Drawing-room the other day, Mr. O'Bleary?' said Mrs. Tibbs, hoping to spark a conversation.

'Yes,' replied Orson, with a mouthful of toast.

'Yeah,' replied Orson, with a mouthful of toast.

'Never saw anything like it before, I suppose?' suggested Wisbottle.

"Never seen anything like it before, right?" suggested Wisbottle.

'No-except the Lord Lieutenant's levees,' replied O'Bleary.

'No—except for the Lord Lieutenant's receptions,' replied O'Bleary.

'Are they at all equal to our drawing-rooms?'

'Are they even close to our living rooms?'

'Oh, infinitely superior!'

'Oh, so much better!'

'Gad! I don't know,' said the aristocratic Wisbottle, 'the Dowager Marchioness of Publiccash was most magnificently dressed, and so was the Baron Slappenbachenhausen.'

'Wow! I don't know,' said the aristocratic Wisbottle, 'the Dowager Marchioness of Publiccash was dressed to the nines, and so was Baron Slappenbachenhausen.'

'What was he presented on?' inquired Evenson.

'What was he presented on?' Evenson asked.

'On his arrival in England.'

'Upon his arrival in England.'

'I thought so,' growled the radical; 'you never hear of these fellows being presented on their going away again. They know better than that.'

'I thought so,' the radical growled; 'you never hear about these guys getting a send-off when they leave again. They know better than that.'

'Unless somebody pervades them with an apintment,' said Mrs. Bloss, joining in the conversation in a faint voice.

'Unless someone fills them with an appointment,' said Mrs. Bloss, joining in the conversation in a soft voice.

'Well,' said Wisbottle, evading the point, 'it's a splendid sight.'

'Well,' said Wisbottle, dodging the issue, 'it's an amazing sight.'

'And did it never occur to you,' inquired the radical, who never would be quiet; 'did it never occur to you, that you pay for these precious ornaments of society?'

'And did it never cross your mind,' asked the radical, who could never be quiet; 'did it never cross your mind, that you pay for these valuable ornaments of society?'

'It certainly has occurred to me,' said Wisbottle, who thought this answer was a poser; 'it has occurred to me, and I am willing to pay for them.'

"It’s definitely crossed my mind," said Wisbottle, who thought this response was a challenge; "it's crossed my mind, and I'm willing to pay for them."

'Well, and it has occurred to me too,' replied John Evenson, 'and I ain't willing to pay for 'em. Then why should I?-I say, why should I?' continued the politician, laying down the paper, and knocking his knuckles on the table. 'There are two great principles-demand-'

'Well, it’s crossed my mind too,' replied John Evenson, 'and I’m not willing to pay for them. So why should I? I mean, why should I?' continued the politician, setting down the paper and tapping his knuckles on the table. 'There are two major principles—demand—'

'A cup of tea if you please, dear,' interrupted Tibbs.

'A cup of tea, please, dear,' interrupted Tibbs.

'And supply-'

And supply—

'May I trouble you to hand this tea to Mr. Tibbs?' said Mrs. Tibbs, interrupting the argument, and unconsciously illustrating it.

'Could you please pass this tea to Mr. Tibbs?' asked Mrs. Tibbs, interrupting the argument and unintentionally highlighting it.

The thread of the orator's discourse was broken. He drank his tea and resumed the paper.

The flow of the speaker's talk was interrupted. He sipped his tea and picked up the paper again.

'If it's very fine,' said Mr. Alfred Tomkins, addressing the company in general, 'I shall ride down to Richmond to-day, and come back by the steamer. There are some splendid effects of light and shade on the Thames; the contrast between the blueness of the sky and the yellow water is frequently exceedingly beautiful.' Mr. Wisbottle hummed, 'Flow on, thou shining river.'

'If it's really nice out,' said Mr. Alfred Tomkins, speaking to everyone, 'I’m going to ride down to Richmond today and come back by boat. There are some amazing light and shadow effects on the Thames; the contrast between the blue sky and the yellow water is often incredibly beautiful.' Mr. Wisbottle hummed, 'Flow on, thou shining river.'

'We have some splendid steam-vessels in Ireland,' said O'Bleary.

'We have some amazing steamships in Ireland,' said O'Bleary.

'Certainly,' said Mrs. Bloss, delighted to find a subject broached in which she could take part.

"Of course," Mrs. Bloss said, happy to find a topic she could join in on.

'The accommodations are extraordinary,' said O'Bleary.

"The accommodations are amazing," said O'Bleary.

'Extraordinary indeed,' returned Mrs. Bloss. 'When Mr. Bloss was alive, he was promiscuously obligated to go to Ireland on business. I went with him, and raly the manner in which the ladies and gentlemen were accommodated with berths, is not creditable.'

'Extraordinary indeed,' replied Mrs. Bloss. 'When Mr. Bloss was alive, he was frequently required to go to Ireland for business. I accompanied him, and honestly, the way the ladies and gentlemen were provided with sleeping arrangements is not impressive.'

Tibbs, who had been listening to the dialogue, looked aghast, and evinced a strong inclination to ask a question, but was checked by a look from his wife. Mr. Wisbottle laughed, and said Tomkins had made a pun; and Tomkins laughed too, and said he had not.

Tibbs, who had been listening to the conversation, looked shocked and seemed really eager to ask a question, but he was silenced by a glance from his wife. Mr. Wisbottle laughed and said that Tomkins had made a pun; Tomkins laughed as well and said he hadn’t.

The remainder of the meal passed off as breakfasts usually do. Conversation flagged, and people played with their teaspoons. The gentlemen looked out at the window; walked about the room; and, when they got near the door, dropped off one by one. Tibbs retired to the back parlour by his wife's orders, to check the green-grocer's weekly account; and ultimately Mrs. Tibbs and Mrs. Bloss were left alone together.

The rest of the meal went by like breakfasts usually do. Conversations slowed down, and people fiddled with their teaspoons. The men looked out the window, walked around the room, and when they approached the door, they slipped out one by one. Tibbs went to the back parlor at his wife's request to go over the green grocer's weekly bill; eventually, Mrs. Tibbs and Mrs. Bloss were left alone together.

'Oh dear!' said the latter, 'I feel alarmingly faint; it's very singular.' (It certainly was, for she had eaten four pounds of solids that morning.) 'By-the-bye,' said Mrs. Bloss, 'I have not seen Mr. What's-his-name yet.'

'Oh no!' said the latter, 'I feel really lightheaded; it's very strange.' (It definitely was, since she'd eaten four pounds of food that morning.) 'By the way,' said Mrs. Bloss, 'I haven't seen Mr. What's-his-name yet.'

'Mr. Gobler?' suggested Mrs. Tibbs.

'Mr. Gobler?' Mrs. Tibbs suggested.

'Yes.'

'Oh!' said Mrs. Tibbs, 'he is a most mysterious person. He has his meals regularly sent up-stairs, and sometimes don't leave his room for weeks together.'

'Oh!' said Mrs. Tibbs, 'he's such a mysterious guy. His meals get sent up to his room regularly, and sometimes he doesn't leave his room for weeks on end.'

'I haven't seen or heard nothing of him,' repeated Mrs. Bloss.

"I haven't seen or heard anything from him," repeated Mrs. Bloss.

'I dare say you'll hear him to-night,' replied Mrs. Tibbs; 'he generally groans a good deal on Sunday evenings.'

'I bet you'll hear him tonight,' replied Mrs. Tibbs; 'he usually groans a lot on Sunday evenings.'

'I never felt such an interest in any one in my life,' ejaculated Mrs. Bloss. A little double-knock interrupted the conversation; Dr. Wosky was announced, and duly shown in. He was a little man with a red face-dressed of course in black, with a stiff white neckerchief. He had a very good practice, and plenty of money, which he had amassed by invariably humouring the worst fancies of all the females of all the families he had ever been introduced into. Mrs. Tibbs offered to retire, but was entreated to stay.

'I’ve never been so interested in anyone in my life,' exclaimed Mrs. Bloss. A quick knock at the door interrupted the conversation; Dr. Wosky was announced and came in. He was a short man with a red face, of course dressed in black, with a stiff white neckerchief. He had a successful practice and plenty of money, which he had made by always indulging the worst whims of all the women in the families he had ever met. Mrs. Tibbs offered to leave, but they insisted she stay.

'Well, my dear ma'am, and how are we?' inquired Wosky, in a soothing tone.

'Well, my dear ma'am, how are you doing?' Wosky asked in a calming tone.

'Very ill, doctor-very ill,' said Mrs. Bloss, in a whisper

'Really sick, doctor—really sick,' Mrs. Bloss said in a whisper.

'Ah! we must take care of ourselves;-we must, indeed,' said the obsequious Wosky, as he felt the pulse of his interesting patient.

'Ah! we need to take care of ourselves; we really do,' said the eager Wosky, as he checked the pulse of his interesting patient.

'How is our appetite?'

'How's our appetite?'

Mrs. Bloss shook her head.

'Our friend requires great care,' said Wosky, appealing to Mrs. Tibbs, who of course assented. 'I hope, however, with the blessing of Providence, that we shall be enabled to make her quite stout again.' Mrs. Tibbs wondered in her own mind what the patient would be when she was made quite stout.

'Our friend needs a lot of care,' said Wosky, looking at Mrs. Tibbs, who nodded in agreement. 'I hope, though, with the help of Providence, that we'll be able to make her healthy again.' Mrs. Tibbs privately wondered what the patient would be like once she was truly healthy.

'We must take stimulants,' said the cunning Wosky-'plenty of nourishment, and, above all, we must keep our nerves quiet; we positively must not give way to our sensibilities. We must take all we can get,' concluded the doctor, as he pocketed his fee, 'and we must keep quiet.'

'We need to take stimulants,' said the crafty Wosky, 'lots of nutrition, and most importantly, we have to stay calm; we absolutely can't let our emotions take over. We have to take everything we can get,' the doctor concluded, as he put his fee in his pocket, 'and we need to keep it together.'

'Dear man!' exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, as the doctor stepped into the carriage.

'Dear man!' exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, as the doctor got into the carriage.

'Charming creature indeed-quite a lady's man!' said Mrs. Tibbs, and Dr. Wosky rattled away to make fresh gulls of delicate females, and pocket fresh fees.

"Such a charming creature—definitely a ladies' man!" said Mrs. Tibbs, as Dr. Wosky chatted away to impress the delicate women and line his pockets with fresh fees.

As we had occasion, in a former paper, to describe a dinner at Mrs. Tibbs's; and as one meal went off very like another on all ordinary occasions; we will not fatigue our readers by entering into any other detailed account of the domestic economy of the establishment. We will therefore proceed to events, merely premising that the mysterious tenant of the back drawing-room was a lazy, selfish hypochondriac; always complaining and never ill. As his character in many respects closely assimilated to that of Mrs. Bloss, a very warm friendship soon sprung up between them. He was tall, thin, and pale; he always fancied he had a severe pain somewhere or other, and his face invariably wore a pinched, screwed-up expression; he looked, indeed, like a man who had got his feet in a tub of exceedingly hot water, against his will.

Since we previously described a dinner at Mrs. Tibbs's and most meals generally turn out the same on regular occasions, we won’t bore our readers with another detailed account of how things work at the house. Instead, we’ll move on to the events, only noting that the mysterious occupant of the back drawing-room was a lazy, self-centered hypochondriac; always complaining yet never actually sick. Their personalities matched well, which led to a strong friendship between him and Mrs. Bloss. He was tall, thin, and pale; he constantly believed he had a severe pain somewhere, and his face always had a tight, pinched look, as if he were forced to keep his feet in a tub of very hot water.

For two or three months after Mrs. Bloss's first appearance in Coram- street, John Evenson was observed to become, every day, more sarcastic and more ill-natured; and there was a degree of additional importance in his manner, which clearly showed that he fancied he had discovered something, which he only wanted a proper opportunity of divulging. He found it at last.

For two or three months after Mrs. Bloss first showed up on Coram Street, John Evenson was seen becoming more sarcastic and unpleasant every day. There was a sense of added self-importance in his behavior that made it clear he thought he had figured something out, and he was just waiting for the right moment to reveal it. He finally found that moment.

One evening, the different inmates of the house were assembled in the drawing-room engaged in their ordinary occupations. Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss were sitting at a small card-table near the centre window, playing cribbage; Mr. Wisbottle was describing semicircles on the music-stool, turning over the leaves of a book on the piano, and humming most melodiously; Alfred Tomkins was sitting at the round table, with his elbows duly squared, making a pencil sketch of a head considerably larger than his own; O'Bleary was reading Horace, and trying to look as if he understood it; and John Evenson had drawn his chair close to Mrs. Tibbs's work-table, and was talking to her very earnestly in a low tone.

One evening, the various residents of the house gathered in the living room, going about their usual activities. Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss were at a small card table by the window, playing cribbage; Mr. Wisbottle was drawing semicircles on the music stool, flipping through a book on the piano, and humming melodiously; Alfred Tomkins was at the round table, elbows squared, drawing a pencil sketch of a head much larger than his own; O'Bleary was reading Horace, trying to look like he understood it; and John Evenson had positioned his chair close to Mrs. Tibbs's worktable, speaking to her earnestly in a low voice.

'I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs,' said the radical, laying his forefinger on the muslin she was at work on; 'I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs, that nothing but the interest I take in your welfare would induce me to make this communication. I repeat, I fear Wisbottle is endeavouring to gain the affections of that young woman, Agnes, and that he is in the habit of meeting her in the store-room on the first floor, over the leads. From my bedroom I distinctly heard voices there, last night. I opened my door immediately, and crept very softly on to the landing; there I saw Mr. Tibbs, who, it seems, had been disturbed also.-Bless me, Mrs. Tibbs, you change colour!'

"I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs," said the radical, placing his finger on the muslin she was working on, "I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs, that the only reason I'm bringing this up is because I care about your well-being. I must say, I’m worried that Wisbottle is trying to win over that young woman, Agnes, and that he often meets her in the storeroom on the first floor, above the leads. From my bedroom, I clearly heard voices there last night. I opened my door right away and quietly crept onto the landing; there I saw Mr. Tibbs, who, it turns out, had also been disturbed. -Goodness, Mrs. Tibbs, you look pale!"

'No, no-it's nothing,' returned Mrs. T. in a hurried manner; 'it's only the heat of the room.'

'No, no—it's nothing,' Mrs. T. replied quickly; 'it's just the heat of the room.'

'A flush!' ejaculated Mrs. Bloss from the card-table; 'that's good for four.'

'A flush!' shouted Mrs. Bloss from the card table; 'that's worth four.'

'If I thought it was Mr. Wisbottle,' said Mrs. Tibbs, after a pause, 'he should leave this house instantly.'

'If I thought it was Mr. Wisbottle,' said Mrs. Tibbs, after a pause, 'he should leave this house immediately.'

'Go!' said Mrs. Bloss again.

"Go!" Mrs. Bloss said again.

'And if I thought,' continued the hostess with a most threatening air, 'if I thought he was assisted by Mr. Tibbs-'

'And if I thought,' the hostess continued with a very intimidating look, 'if I thought he was getting help from Mr. Tibbs-'

'One for his nob!' said Gobler.

'Oh,' said Evenson, in a most soothing tone-he liked to make mischief-'I should hope Mr. Tibbs was not in any way implicated. He always appeared to me very harmless.'

'Oh,' said Evenson, in a very calming tone—he enjoyed causing trouble—'I certainly hope Mr. Tibbs wasn't involved in any way. He always seemed very innocent to me.'

'I have generally found him so,' sobbed poor little Mrs. Tibbs; crying like a watering-pot.

'I have generally found him to be that way,' sobbed poor little Mrs. Tibbs, crying like a watering can.

'Hush! hush! pray-Mrs. Tibbs-consider-we shall be observed-pray, don't!' said John Evenson, fearing his whole plan would be interrupted. 'We will set the matter at rest with the utmost care, and I shall be most happy to assist you in doing so.' Mrs. Tibbs murmured her thanks.

'Hush! Hush! Please, Mrs. Tibbs, think about it—we might be seen—please, don’t!' said John Evenson, worried that his entire plan would be derailed. 'We will resolve this matter very carefully, and I would be more than happy to help you do so.' Mrs. Tibbs quietly expressed her gratitude.

'When you think every one has retired to rest to-night,' said Evenson very pompously, 'if you'll meet me without a light, just outside my bedroom door, by the staircase window, I think we can ascertain who the parties really are, and you will afterwards be enabled to proceed as you think proper.'

"When you assume everyone has gone to bed tonight," Evenson said very pompously, "if you meet me without a light just outside my bedroom door by the staircase window, I believe we can figure out who the real parties are, and you will then be able to act as you see fit."

Mrs. Tibbs was easily persuaded; her curiosity was excited, her jealousy was roused, and the arrangement was forthwith made. She resumed her work, and John Evenson walked up and down the room with his hands in his pockets, looking as if nothing had happened. The game of cribbage was over, and conversation began again.

Mrs. Tibbs was easily convinced; her curiosity was piqued, her jealousy was stirred, and the plan was quickly set. She went back to her work, while John Evenson strolled around the room with his hands in his pockets, acting as if nothing had occurred. The game of cribbage was finished, and conversation resumed.

'Well, Mr. O'Bleary,' said the humming-top, turning round on his pivot, and facing the company, 'what did you think of Vauxhall the other night?'

'Well, Mr. O'Bleary,' said the humming-top, turning around on its pivot and facing the group, 'what did you think of Vauxhall the other night?'

'Oh, it's very fair,' replied Orson, who had been enthusiastically delighted with the whole exhibition.

'Oh, it's really great,' replied Orson, who had been genuinely thrilled with the entire exhibition.

'Never saw anything like that Captain Ross's set-out-eh?'

'Never seen anything like that Captain Ross's departure, huh?'

'No,' returned the patriot, with his usual reservation-'except in Dublin.'

'No,' replied the patriot, with his usual caution—'except in Dublin.'

'I saw the Count de Canky and Captain Fitzthompson in the Gardens,' said Wisbottle; 'they appeared much delighted.'

'I saw Count de Canky and Captain Fitzthompson in the Gardens,' said Wisbottle; 'they seemed really happy.'

'Then it must be beautiful,' snarled Evenson.

'Then it must be beautiful,' snapped Evenson.

'I think the white bears is partickerlerly well done,' suggested Mrs. Bloss. 'In their shaggy white coats, they look just like Polar bears-don't you think they do, Mr. Evenson?'

'I think the white bears are particularly well done,' suggested Mrs. Bloss. 'In their shaggy white coats, they look just like polar bears—don’t you think so, Mr. Evenson?'

'I think they look a great deal more like omnibus cads on all fours,' replied the discontented one.

'I think they look a lot more like a bunch of lazy guys on all fours,' replied the unhappy one.

'Upon the whole, I should have liked our evening very well,' gasped Gobler; 'only I caught a desperate cold which increased my pain dreadfully! I was obliged to have several shower-baths, before I could leave my room.'

'Overall, I would have really enjoyed our evening,' gasped Gobler; 'except I caught a terrible cold that made my pain a lot worse! I had to take several showers before I could leave my room.'

'Capital things those shower-baths!' ejaculated Wisbottle.

"Those shower baths are amazing!" exclaimed Wisbottle.

'Excellent!' said Tomkins.

"Awesome!" said Tomkins.

'Delightful!' chimed in O'Bleary. (He had once seen one, outside a tinman's.)

'Delightful!' O'Bleary exclaimed. (He had once seen one, outside a tinman's.)

'Disgusting machines!' rejoined Evenson, who extended his dislike to almost every created object, masculine, feminine, or neuter.

'Disgusting machines!' Evenson replied, expressing his dislike for almost every created object, whether male, female, or neutral.

'Disgusting, Mr. Evenson!' said Gobler, in a tone of strong indignation.-'Disgusting! Look at their utility-consider how many lives they have saved by promoting perspiration.'

'Disgusting, Mr. Evenson!' Gobler said, with strong indignation. 'Disgusting! Look at their usefulness—think about how many lives they've saved by encouraging sweating.'

'Promoting perspiration, indeed,' growled John Evenson, stopping short in his walk across the large squares in the pattern of the carpet-'I was ass enough to be persuaded some time ago to have one in my bedroom. 'Gad, I was in it once, and it effectually cured me, for the mere sight of it threw me into a profuse perspiration for six months afterwards.'

'Promoting sweat, for sure,' grumbled John Evenson, pausing mid-stride on the large squares of the carpet, 'I was foolish enough to be convinced a while back to put one in my bedroom. Honestly, I was in it once, and it completely cured me because just the sight of it made me sweat buckets for six months afterward.'

A titter followed this announcement, and before it had subsided James brought up 'the tray,' containing the remains of a leg of lamb which had made its dACbut at dinner; bread; cheese; an atom of butter in a forest of parsley; one pickled walnut and the third of another; and so forth. The boy disappeared, and returned again with another tray, containing glasses and jugs of hot and cold water. The gentlemen brought in their spirit-bottles; the housemaid placed divers plated bedroom candlesticks under the card-table; and the servants retired for the night.

A giggle followed this announcement, and before it died down, James brought in 'the tray,' which held the leftover leg of lamb from dinner; some bread; cheese; a tiny bit of butter surrounded by a pile of parsley; one pickled walnut and a third of another; and so on. The boy left and came back with another tray that had glasses and jugs of hot and cold water. The gentlemen brought in their bottles of spirits; the housemaid set various plated bedroom candlesticks under the card table; and the servants left for the night.

Chairs were drawn round the table, and the conversation proceeded in the customary manner. John Evenson, who never ate supper, lolled on the sofa, and amused himself by contradicting everybody. O'Bleary ate as much as he could conveniently carry, and Mrs. Tibbs felt a due degree of indignation thereat; Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss conversed most affectionately on the subject of pill-taking, and other innocent amusements; and Tomkins and Wisbottle 'got into an argument;' that is to say, they both talked very loudly and vehemently, each flattering himself that he had got some advantage about something, and neither of them having more than a very indistinct idea of what they were talking about. An hour or two passed away; and the boarders and the plated candlesticks retired in pairs to their respective bedrooms. John Evenson pulled off his boots, locked his door, and determined to sit up until Mr. Gobler had retired. He always sat in the drawing-room an hour after everybody else had left it, taking medicine, and groaning.

Chairs were pulled up around the table, and the conversation went on as usual. John Evenson, who never had dinner, lounged on the sofa, entertaining himself by arguing with everyone. O'Bleary ate as much as he could without overdoing it, which made Mrs. Tibbs feel justifiably annoyed; Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss chatted fondly about taking medicine and other innocent pastimes; and Tomkins and Wisbottle "got into a debate," meaning they both spoke loudly and passionately, each convinced they had the upper hand on something, despite neither really knowing what they were arguing about. A couple of hours went by, and the boarders and the shiny candlesticks headed off in pairs to their rooms. John Evenson took off his boots, locked his door, and decided to stay up until Mr. Gobler had gone to bed. He always lingered in the drawing room for an hour after everyone else had left, taking his medicine and sighing.

Great Coram-street was hushed into a state of profound repose: it was nearly two o'clock. A hackney-coach now and then rumbled slowly by; and occasionally some stray lawyer's clerk, on his way home to Somers-town, struck his iron heel on the top of the coal-cellar with a noise resembling the click of a smoke-Jack. A low, monotonous, gushing sound was heard, which added considerably to the romantic dreariness of the scene. It was the water 'coming in' at number eleven.

Great Coram Street was quiet and peaceful: it was almost two o'clock. A taxi occasionally rolled by slowly, and now and then, a lawyer's clerk, heading home to Somers Town, would tap his heel on the top of the coal cellar, making a noise like the click of a smoke jack. A low, steady, gushing sound could be heard, which added to the romantic bleakness of the scene. It was the water 'coming in' at number eleven.

'He must be asleep by this time,' said John Evenson to himself, after waiting with exemplary patience for nearly an hour after Mr. Gobler had left the drawing-room. He listened for a few moments; the house was perfectly quiet; he extinguished his rushlight, and opened his bedroom door. The staircase was so dark that it was impossible to see anything.

'He must be asleep by now,' John Evenson thought to himself after patiently waiting for almost an hour after Mr. Gobler had left the drawing-room. He listened for a moment; the house was completely silent. He turned off his small light and opened his bedroom door. The staircase was so dark that he couldn't see a thing.

'S-s-s!' whispered the mischief-maker, making a noise like the first indication a catherine-wheel gives of the probability of its going off.

'S-s-s!' whispered the troublemaker, making a sound like the first hint that a catherine-wheel is about to go off.

'Hush!' whispered somebody else.

"Be quiet!" whispered someone else.

'Is that you, Mrs. Tibbs?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Where?'

'Where at?'

'Here;' and the misty outline of Mrs. Tibbs appeared at the staircase window, like the ghost of Queen Anne in the tent scene in Richard.

'Here;' and the vague shape of Mrs. Tibbs showed up at the staircase window, like the ghost of Queen Anne in the tent scene in Richard.

'This way, Mrs. Tibbs,' whispered the delighted busybody: 'give me your hand-there! Whoever these people are, they are in the store-room now, for I have been looking down from my window, and I could see that they accidentally upset their candlestick, and are now in darkness. You have no shoes on, have you?'

'This way, Mrs. Tibbs,' whispered the thrilled busybody: 'give me your hand—there! Whoever these people are, they're in the storage room right now because I've been watching from my window, and I saw that they accidentally knocked over their candlestick, and now they're in the dark. You’re not wearing any shoes, are you?'

'No,' said little Mrs. Tibbs, who could hardly speak for trembling.

'No,' said Mrs. Tibbs, who was shaking so much she could barely talk.

'Well; I have taken my boots off, so we can go down, close to the store- room door, and listen over the banisters;' and down-stairs they both crept accordingly, every board creaking like a patent mangle on a Saturday afternoon.

'Well, I’ve taken my boots off, so we can go down, close to the storeroom door, and listen over the banisters;' and downstairs they both crept accordingly, every board creaking like a modern washing machine on a Saturday afternoon.

'It's Wisbottle and somebody, I'll swear,' exclaimed the radical in an energetic whisper, when they had listened for a few moments.

'It's Wisbottle and someone, I swear,' exclaimed the radical in a lively whisper, after they had listened for a few moments.

'Hush-pray let's hear what they say!' exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, the gratification of whose curiosity was now paramount to every other consideration.

'Hush—come on, let's hear what they say!' exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, whose curiosity was now more important than anything else.

'Ah! if I could but believe you,' said a female voice coquettishly, 'I'd be bound to settle my missis for life.'

'Oh! if only I could believe you,' said a playful female voice, 'I would definitely be set for life with my partner.'

'What does she say?' inquired Mr. Evenson, who was not quite so well situated as his companion.

"What does she say?" asked Mr. Evenson, who wasn't quite as well off as his companion.

'She says she'll settle her missis's life,' replied Mrs. Tibbs. 'The wretch! they're plotting murder.'

'She says she'll take care of her wife's life,' replied Mrs. Tibbs. 'The scoundrel! They're planning a murder.'

'I know you want money,' continued the voice, which belonged to Agnes; 'and if you'd secure me the five hundred pound, I warrant she should take fire soon enough.'

'I know you want money,' continued the voice, which belonged to Agnes; 'and if you could get me the five hundred pounds, I guarantee she'll ignite soon enough.'

'What's that?' inquired Evenson again. He could just hear enough to want to hear more.

'What's that?' Evenson asked again. He could just hear enough to want to hear more.

'I think she says she'll set the house on fire,' replied the affrighted Mrs. Tibbs. 'But thank God I'm insured in the Phoenix!'

'I think she’s saying she’ll burn the house down,' replied the terrified Mrs. Tibbs. 'But thank God I have insurance with Phoenix!'

'The moment I have secured your mistress, my dear,' said a man's voice in a strong Irish brogue, 'you may depend on having the money.'

'The moment I've secured your mistress, my dear,' said a man's voice in a strong Irish accent, 'you can count on getting the money.'

'Bless my soul, it's Mr. O'Bleary!' exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, in a parenthesis.

'Goodness gracious, it's Mr. O'Bleary!' exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, in a parenthesis.

'The villain!' said the indignant Mr. Evenson.

'The villain!' exclaimed the outraged Mr. Evenson.

'The first thing to be done,' continued the Hibernian, 'is to poison Mr. Gobler's mind.'

'The first thing to do,' the Hibernian continued, 'is to poison Mr. Gobler's mind.'

'Oh, certainly,' returned Agnes.

"Oh, definitely," replied Agnes.

'What's that?' inquired Evenson again, in an agony of curiosity and a whisper.

"What's that?" Evenson asked again, full of curiosity and whispering.

'He says she's to mind and poison Mr. Gobler,' replied Mrs. Tibbs, aghast at this sacrifice of human life.

'He says she's supposed to watch over and poison Mr. Gobler,' replied Mrs. Tibbs, shocked by this sacrifice of human life.

'And in regard of Mrs. Tibbs,' continued O'Bleary.-Mrs. Tibbs shuddered.

'And about Mrs. Tibbs,' O'Bleary went on. -Mrs. Tibbs shuddered.

'Hush!' exclaimed Agnes, in a tone of the greatest alarm, just as Mrs. Tibbs was on the extreme verge of a fainting fit. 'Hush!'

'Hush!' exclaimed Agnes, in a voice filled with alarm, just as Mrs. Tibbs was on the brink of fainting. 'Hush!'

'Hush!' exclaimed Evenson, at the same moment to Mrs. Tibbs.

"Hush!" Evenson exclaimed to Mrs. Tibbs at the same moment.

'There's somebody coming up-stairs,' said Agnes to O'Bleary.

'Someone's coming upstairs,' Agnes said to O'Bleary.

'There's somebody coming down-stairs,' whispered Evenson to Mrs. Tibbs.

"Someone's coming down the stairs," Evenson whispered to Mrs. Tibbs.

'Go into the parlour, sir,' said Agnes to her companion. 'You will get there, before whoever it is, gets to the top of the kitchen stairs.'

'Go into the living room, sir,' Agnes said to her companion. 'You'll get there before whoever it is makes it to the top of the kitchen stairs.'

'The drawing-room, Mrs. Tibbs!' whispered the astonished Evenson to his equally astonished companion; and for the drawing-room they both made, plainly hearing the rustling of two persons, one coming down-stairs, and one coming up.

'The living room, Mrs. Tibbs!' whispered the surprised Evenson to his equally surprised companion; and they both headed for the living room, clearly hearing the rustling of two people, one coming downstairs and one coming upstairs.

'What can it be?' exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs. 'It's like a dream. I wouldn't be found in this situation for the world!'

'What could it be?' exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs. 'It's like a dream. I wouldn’t want to be in this situation for anything!'

'Nor I,' returned Evenson, who could never bear a joke at his own expense. 'Hush! here they are at the door.'

'Me neither,' replied Evenson, who could never take a joke about himself. 'Quiet! They're at the door.'

'What fun!' whispered one of the new-comers.-It was Wisbottle.

'How fun!' whispered one of the newcomers. It was Wisbottle.

'Glorious!' replied his companion, in an equally low tone.-This was Alfred Tomkins. 'Who would have thought it?'

'Glorious!' replied his companion, in a similarly quiet voice. - This was Alfred Tomkins. 'Who would have expected it?'

'I told you so,' said Wisbottle, in a most knowing whisper. 'Lord bless you, he has paid her most extraordinary attention for the last two months. I saw 'em when I was sitting at the piano to-night.'

'I told you so,' Wisbottle said, with a knowing whisper. 'Honestly, he’s been giving her a lot of attention for the past two months. I saw them when I was sitting at the piano tonight.'

'Well, do you know I didn't notice it?' interrupted Tomkins.

'Well, did you know I didn't notice it?' interrupted Tomkins.

'Not notice it!' continued Wisbottle. 'Bless you; I saw him whispering to her, and she crying; and then I'll swear I heard him say something about to-night when we were all in bed.'

'Didn’t notice it!' continued Wisbottle. 'I’m telling you, I saw him whispering to her, and she was crying; and I could’ve sworn I heard him mention something about tonight when we were all in bed.'

'They're talking of us!' exclaimed the agonised Mrs. Tibbs, as the painful suspicion, and a sense of their situation, flashed upon her mind.

'They're talking about us!' exclaimed the distressed Mrs. Tibbs, as the painful suspicion and awareness of their situation hit her.

'I know it-I know it,' replied Evenson, with a melancholy consciousness that there was no mode of escape.

'I know it—I know it,' replied Evenson, with a sad awareness that there was no way out.

'What's to be done? we cannot both stop here!' ejaculated Mrs. Tibbs, in a state of partial derangement.

'What are we going to do? We can't both stay here!' exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, in a state of partial madness.

'I'll get up the chimney,' replied Evenson, who really meant what he said.

"I'll go up the chimney," replied Evenson, who truly meant what he said.

'You can't,' said Mrs. Tibbs, in despair. 'You can't-it's a register stove.'

'You can't,' Mrs. Tibbs said, feeling hopeless. 'You can't—it's a register stove.'

'Hush!' repeated John Evenson.

"Quiet!" John Evenson repeated.

'Hush-hush!' cried somebody down-stairs.

"Quiet!" called someone downstairs.

'What a d-d hushing!' said Alfred Tomkins, who began to get rather bewildered.

'What a d-d silence!' said Alfred Tomkins, who started to feel quite confused.

'There they are!' exclaimed the sapient Wisbottle, as a rustling noise was heard in the store-room.

'There they are!' shouted the clever Wisbottle, as a rustling sound came from the storeroom.

'Hark!' whispered both the young men.

'Hear that!' whispered both young men.

'Hark!' repeated Mrs. Tibbs and Evenson.

'Hear that!' repeated Mrs. Tibbs and Evenson.

'Let me alone, sir,' said a female voice in the store-room.

'Leave me alone, sir,' said a woman's voice in the storeroom.

'Oh, Hagnes!' cried another voice, which clearly belonged to Tibbs, for nobody else ever owned one like it, 'Oh, Hagnes-lovely creature!'

'Oh, Hagnes!' yelled another voice, which clearly belonged to Tibbs, since nobody else had a voice like that, 'Oh, Hagnes—gorgeous being!'

'Be quiet, sir!' (A bounce.)

'Hag-'

'Hag'

'Be quiet, sir-I am ashamed of you. Think of your wife, Mr. Tibbs. Be quiet, sir!'

'Be quiet, sir—I’m disappointed in you. Think about your wife, Mr. Tibbs. Be quiet, sir!'

'My wife!' exclaimed the valorous Tibbs, who was clearly under the influence of gin-and-water, and a misplaced attachment; 'I ate her! Oh, Hagnes! when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and-'

'My wife!' shouted the brave Tibbs, who was obviously buzzed from gin and water and an ill-placed affection; 'I ate her! Oh, Hagnes! when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and-'

'I declare I'll scream. Be quiet, sir, will you?' (Another bounce and a scuffle.)

'I swear I’ll scream. Can you be quiet, sir?' (Another bounce and a scuffle.)

'What's that?' exclaimed Tibbs, with a start.

"What's that?" Tibbs exclaimed, shocked.

'What's what?' said Agnes, stopping short.

'What's going on?' said Agnes, stopping short.

'Why that!'

'Why is that!'

'Ah! you have done it nicely now, sir,' sobbed the frightened Agnes, as a tapping was heard at Mrs. Tibbs's bedroom door, which would have beaten any dozen woodpeckers hollow.

'Ah! you’ve done it really well now, sir,' sobbed the terrified Agnes, as a tapping was heard at Mrs. Tibbs's bedroom door, which would have outdone any dozen woodpeckers.

'Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!' called out Mrs. Bloss. 'Mrs. Tibbs, pray get up.' (Here the imitation of a woodpecker was resumed with tenfold violence.)

'Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!' shouted Mrs. Bloss. 'Mrs. Tibbs, please get up.' (At this point, the imitation of a woodpecker started up again, even louder.)

'Oh, dear-dear!' exclaimed the wretched partner of the depraved Tibbs. 'She's knocking at my door. We must be discovered! What will they think?'

'Oh, no!' exclaimed the miserable partner of the corrupt Tibbs. 'She's knocking at my door. We're going to be found out! What will they think?'

'Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!' screamed the woodpecker again.

'Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!' shouted the woodpecker again.

'What's the matter!' shouted Gobler, bursting out of the back drawing- room, like the dragon at Astley's.

"What's wrong?" shouted Gobler, bursting out of the back drawing-room like a dragon at Astley's.

'Oh, Mr. Gobler!' cried Mrs. Bloss, with a proper approximation to hysterics; 'I think the house is on fire, or else there's thieves in it. I have heard the most dreadful noises!'

'Oh, Mr. Gobler!' cried Mrs. Bloss, sounding almost hysterical; 'I think the house is on fire, or there are thieves in it. I've heard the most terrible noises!'

'The devil you have!' shouted Gobler again, bouncing back into his den, in happy imitation of the aforesaid dragon, and returning immediately with a lighted candle. 'Why, what's this? Wisbottle! Tomkins! O'Bleary! Agnes! What the deuce! all up and dressed?'

'The devil you have!' shouted Gobler again, bouncing back into his den, happily mimicking the mentioned dragon, and quickly returning with a lit candle. 'What’s going on? Wisbottle! Tomkins! O'Bleary! Agnes! What the heck! Everyone's up and ready?'

'Astonishing!' said Mrs. Bloss, who had run down-stairs, and taken Mr. Gobler's arm.

'Amazing!' said Mrs. Bloss, who had rushed downstairs and taken Mr. Gobler's arm.

'Call Mrs. Tibbs directly, somebody,' said Gobler, turning into the front drawing-room.-'What! Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!!'

'Call Mrs. Tibbs directly, someone,' said Gobler, stepping into the front living room. 'What! Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!!'

'Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!' repeated everybody, as that unhappy pair were discovered: Mrs. Tibbs seated in an arm-chair by the fireplace, and Mr. Evenson standing by her side.

'Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!' everyone echoed, as that unfortunate couple was found: Mrs. Tibbs sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, and Mr. Evenson standing next to her.

We must leave the scene that ensued to the reader's imagination. We could tell, how Mrs. Tibbs forthwith fainted away, and how it required the united strength of Mr. Wisbottle and Mr. Alfred Tomkins to hold her in her chair; how Mr. Evenson explained, and how his explanation was evidently disbelieved; how Agnes repelled the accusations of Mrs. Tibbs by proving that she was negotiating with Mr. O'Bleary to influence her mistress's affections in his behalf; and how Mr. Gobler threw a damp counterpane on the hopes of Mr. O'Bleary by avowing that he (Gobler) had already proposed to, and been accepted by, Mrs. Bloss; how Agnes was discharged from that lady's service; how Mr. O'Bleary discharged himself from Mrs. Tibbs's house, without going through the form of previously discharging his bill; and how that disappointed young gentleman rails against England and the English, and vows there is no virtue or fine feeling extant, 'except in Ireland.' We repeat that we could tell all this, but we love to exercise our self-denial, and we therefore prefer leaving it to be imagined.

We’ll leave what happened next up to the reader’s imagination. We could describe how Mrs. Tibbs immediately fainted and how Mr. Wisbottle and Mr. Alfred Tomkins had to support her in her chair; how Mr. Evenson tried to explain himself, but no one believed him; how Agnes defended herself against Mrs. Tibbs's accusations by showing that she was talking to Mr. O'Bleary to win her mistress's favor; and how Mr. Gobler dashed Mr. O'Bleary's hopes by revealing that he had already proposed to and been accepted by Mrs. Bloss. We could talk about how Agnes lost her job with that lady; how Mr. O'Bleary left Mrs. Tibbs's house without paying his bill; and how that frustrated young man complained about England and the English, insisting that there’s no goodness or kindness anywhere but in Ireland. We could explain all of this, but we prefer to exercise restraint and let you imagine it instead.

The lady whom we have hitherto described as Mrs. Bloss, is no more. Mrs. Gobler exists: Mrs. Bloss has left us for ever. In a secluded retreat in Newington Butts, far, far removed from the noisy strife of that great boarding-house, the world, the enviable Gobler and his pleasing wife revel in retirement: happy in their complaints, their table, and their medicine, wafted through life by the grateful prayers of all the purveyors of animal food within three miles round.

The woman we've been referring to as Mrs. Bloss is gone. Mrs. Gobler is here: Mrs. Bloss has left us for good. In a quiet spot in Newington Butts, far from the noisy chaos of that big boarding house, the fortunate Gobler and his charming wife enjoy their retirement: content with their complaints, their meals, and their medications, carried through life by the thankful prayers of all the suppliers of food for animals within three miles.

We would willingly stop here, but we have a painful duty imposed upon us, which we must discharge. Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs have separated by mutual consent, Mrs. Tibbs receiving one moiety of 43l. 15s. 10d., which we before stated to be the amount of her husband's annual income, and Mr. Tibbs the other. He is spending the evening of his days in retirement; and he is spending also, annually, that small but honourable independence. He resides among the original settlers at Walworth; and it has been stated, on unquestionable authority, that the conclusion of the volunteer story has been heard in a small tavern in that respectable neighbourhood.

We'd love to stop here, but we have an uncomfortable duty to fulfill. Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs have separated by mutual agreement, with Mrs. Tibbs receiving half of £43.15.10, which we previously mentioned is her husband’s annual income, and Mr. Tibbs getting the other half. He is spending his later years in seclusion, and he is also using up that small but respectable independence each year. He lives among the original settlers in Walworth; it has been reported, by reliable sources, that the conclusion of the volunteer story has been heard in a small pub in that respectable area.

The unfortunate Mrs. Tibbs has determined to dispose of the whole of her furniture by public auction, and to retire from a residence in which she has suffered so much. Mr. Robins has been applied to, to conduct the sale, and the transcendent abilities of the literary gentlemen connected with his establishment are now devoted to the task of drawing up the preliminary advertisement. It is to contain, among a variety of brilliant matter, seventy-eight words in large capitals, and six original quotations in inverted commas.

The unfortunate Mrs. Tibbs has decided to sell all her furniture at a public auction and move away from a place where she has endured so much. Mr. Robins has been asked to oversee the sale, and the outstanding skills of the writers at his firm are now focused on crafting the initial advertisement. It will include, among various engaging content, seventy-eight words in all caps, and six unique quotes in quotation marks.

CHAPTER II-MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN

Mr. Augustus Minns was a bachelor, of about forty as he said-of about eight-and-forty as his friends said. He was always exceedingly clean, precise, and tidy; perhaps somewhat priggish, and the most retiring man in the world. He usually wore a brown frock-coat without a wrinkle, light inexplicables without a spot, a neat neckerchief with a remarkably neat tie, and boots without a fault; moreover, he always carried a brown silk umbrella with an ivory handle. He was a clerk in Somerset-house, or, as he said himself, he held 'a responsible situation under Government.' He had a good and increasing salary, in addition to some 10,000l. of his own (invested in the funds), and he occupied a first floor in Tavistock-street, Covent-garden, where he had resided for twenty years, having been in the habit of quarrelling with his landlord the whole time: regularly giving notice of his intention to quit on the first day of every quarter, and as regularly countermanding it on the second. There were two classes of created objects which he held in the deepest and most unmingled horror; these were dogs, and children. He was not unamiable, but he could, at any time, have viewed the execution of a dog, or the assassination of an infant, with the liveliest satisfaction. Their habits were at variance with his love of order; and his love of order was as powerful as his love of life. Mr. Augustus Minns had no relations, in or near London, with the exception of his cousin, Mr. Octavius Budden, to whose son, whom he had never seen (for he disliked the father), he had consented to become godfather by proxy. Mr. Budden having realised a moderate fortune by exercising the trade or calling of a corn-chandler, and having a great predilection for the country, had purchased a cottage in the vicinity of Stamford-hill, whither he retired with the wife of his bosom, and his only son, Master Alexander Augustus Budden. One evening, as Mr. and Mrs. B. were admiring their son, discussing his various merits, talking over his education, and disputing whether the classics should be made an essential part thereof, the lady pressed so strongly upon her husband the propriety of cultivating the friendship of Mr. Minns in behalf of their son, that Mr. Budden at last made up his mind, that it should not be his fault if he and his cousin were not in future more intimate.

Mr. Augustus Minns was a bachelor, about forty as he claimed, or nearly forty-eight as his friends believed. He was always extremely clean, precise, and tidy; perhaps a bit too proper, and the most reserved person you could imagine. He typically wore a perfectly pressed brown frock coat, spotless light trousers, a neat neckerchief with a very tidy tie, and boots that were flawless; moreover, he always carried a brown silk umbrella with an ivory handle. He worked as a clerk at Somerset House, or as he put it, he held "a responsible position under Government." He had a decent and rising salary, along with £10,000 of his own (invested in government bonds), and he lived on the first floor of a building on Tavistock Street in Covent Garden, where he had been for twenty years, frequently arguing with his landlord the whole time: regularly giving notice to leave on the first day of each quarter, and just as regularly canceling it on the second. There were two types of living beings that he held in the deepest and most absolute horror: dogs and children. He wasn't mean-spirited, but he could, at any moment, have watched the execution of a dog or the killing of a child with great satisfaction. Their behaviors clashed with his love of order; and his love of order was as strong as his love for life. Mr. Augustus Minns had no relatives in or around London, except for his cousin, Mr. Octavius Budden, to whose son, whom he had never met (since he disliked the father), he had agreed to be a godfather by proxy. Mr. Budden had made a modest fortune working as a corn merchant, and with a strong preference for the countryside, he had bought a cottage near Stamford Hill, where he settled down with his beloved wife and their only son, Master Alexander Augustus Budden. One evening, as Mr. and Mrs. Budden were admiring their son, discussing his various qualities, reviewing his education, and debating whether classics should be a vital part of it, Mrs. Budden strongly urged her husband about the importance of cultivating a friendship with Mr. Minns for their son’s sake, until Mr. Budden finally resolved that it would not be his fault if he and his cousin were not closer in the future.

'I'll break the ice, my love,' said Mr. Budden, stirring up the sugar at the bottom of his glass of brandy-and-water, and casting a sidelong look at his spouse to see the effect of the announcement of his determination, 'by asking Minns down to dine with us, on Sunday.'

'I’ll break the ice, my love,' said Mr. Budden, stirring the sugar at the bottom of his glass of brandy and water, and glancing at his wife to gauge her reaction to his decision, 'by inviting Minns over for dinner with us on Sunday.'

'Then pray, Budden, write to your cousin at once,' replied Mrs. Budden. 'Who knows, if we could only get him down here, but he might take a fancy to our Alexander, and leave him his property?-Alick, my dear, take your legs off the rail of the chair!'

'Then please, Budden, write to your cousin right away,' replied Mrs. Budden. 'Who knows, if we could just get him to come down here, he might take a liking to our Alexander and leave him his property? Alick, sweetheart, put your legs down from the chair's rail!'

'Very true,' said Mr. Budden, musing, 'very true indeed, my love!' On the following morning, as Mr. Minns was sitting at his breakfast-table, alternately biting his dry toast and casting a look upon the columns of his morning paper, which he always read from the title to the printer's name, he heard a loud knock at the street-door; which was shortly afterwards followed by the entrance of his servant, who put into his hands a particularly small card, on which was engraven in immense letters, 'Mr. Octavius Budden, Amelia Cottage (Mrs. B.'s name was Amelia), Poplar-walk, Stamford-hill.'

"Very true," said Mr. Budden, thinking aloud, "very true indeed, my love!" The next morning, as Mr. Minns sat at his breakfast table, alternately biting into his dry toast and glancing at the columns of his morning paper—which he always read from the title to the printer's name—he heard a loud knock at the front door. This was soon followed by the entrance of his servant, who handed him a particularly small card with large letters that read, "Mr. Octavius Budden, Amelia Cottage (Mrs. B.'s name was Amelia), Poplar-walk, Stamford-hill."

'Budden!' ejaculated Minns, 'what can bring that vulgar man here!-say I'm asleep-say I'm out, and shall never be home again-anything to keep him down-stairs.'

'Budden!' exclaimed Minns, 'what could possibly bring that rude guy here!—tell him I’m asleep—tell him I’m out and won’t ever be back—anything to keep him downstairs.'

'But please, sir, the gentleman's coming up,' replied the servant, and the fact was made evident, by an appalling creaking of boots on the staircase accompanied by a pattering noise; the cause of which, Minns could not, for the life of him, divine.

'But please, sir, the gentleman's coming up,' replied the servant, and the fact was made evident by a loud creaking of boots on the staircase, accompanied by a pattering noise, the cause of which Minns could not, for the life of him, figure out.

'Hem-show the gentleman in,' said the unfortunate bachelor. Exit servant, and enter Octavius preceded by a large white dog, dressed in a suit of fleecy hosiery, with pink eyes, large ears, and no perceptible tail.

'Hem—show the gentleman in,' said the unfortunate bachelor. Exit servant, and enter Octavius accompanied by a large white dog, dressed in a suit of fluffy stockings, with pink eyes, big ears, and no visible tail.

The cause of the pattering on the stairs was but too plain. Mr. Augustus Minns staggered beneath the shock of the dog's appearance.

The reason for the noise on the stairs was clear. Mr. Augustus Minns was thrown off balance by the sudden appearance of the dog.

'My dear fellow, how are you?' said Budden, as he entered.

'Hey there, my friend, how are you?' said Budden, as he walked in.

He always spoke at the top of his voice, and always said the same thing half-a-dozen times.

He always talked at the top of his lungs and repeated the same thing half a dozen times.

'How are you, my hearty?'

'How are you, my friend?'

'How do you do, Mr. Budden?-pray take a chair!' politely stammered the discomfited Minns.

'How are you, Mr. Budden? Please, have a seat!' politely stuttered the uncomfortable Minns.

'Thank you-thank you-well-how are you, eh?'

'Thank you, thank you—so, how are you doing?'

'Uncommonly well, thank you,' said Minns, casting a diabolical look at the dog, who, with his hind legs on the floor, and his fore paws resting on the table, was dragging a bit of bread and butter out of a plate, preparatory to devouring it, with the buttered side next the carpet.

'I'm doing really well, thanks,' said Minns, giving a sinister glance at the dog, who, with his back legs on the floor and his front paws on the table, was pulling a piece of bread and butter off a plate, getting ready to eat it with the buttered side facing the carpet.

'Ah, you rogue!' said Budden to his dog; 'you see, Minns, he's like me, always at home, eh, my boy!-Egad, I'm precious hot and hungry! I've walked all the way from Stamford-hill this morning.'

'Ah, you rascal!' Budden said to his dog; 'you see, Minns, he's just like me, always at home, right, my boy? -Wow, I'm really hot and hungry! I've walked all the way from Stamford Hill this morning.'

'Have you breakfasted?' inquired Minns.

"Have you had breakfast?" asked Minns.

'Oh, no!-came to breakfast with you; so ring the bell, my dear fellow, will you? and let's have another cup and saucer, and the cold ham.-Make myself at home, you see!' continued Budden, dusting his boots with a table-napkin. 'Ha!-ha!-ha!-'pon my life, I'm hungry.'

'Oh, no! I'm joining you for breakfast; so ring the bell, my good man, will you? Let's get another cup and saucer, and the cold ham. Just making myself at home, you see!' Budden continued, wiping his boots with a napkin. 'Ha! Ha! Ha! Honestly, I'm hungry.'

Minns rang the bell, and tried to smile.

Minns rang the bell and attempted to smile.

'I decidedly never was so hot in my life,' continued Octavius, wiping his forehead; 'well, but how are you, Minns? 'Pon my soul, you wear capitally!'

'I honestly have never felt this hot in my life,' continued Octavius, wiping his forehead; 'but how are you, Minns? Seriously, you look fantastic!'

'D'ye think so?' said Minns; and he tried another smile.

"Do you think so?" said Minns, and he tried to smile again.

''Pon my life, I do!'

"I swear I do!"

'Mrs. B. and-what's his name-quite well?'

'Mrs. B. and—what’s his name—doing okay?'

'Alick-my son, you mean; never better-never better. But at such a place as we've got at Poplar-walk, you know, he couldn't be ill if he tried. When I first saw it, by Jove! it looked so knowing, with the front garden, and the green railings and the brass knocker, and all that-I really thought it was a cut above me.'

'Alick—my son, you mean; never better—never better. But in a place like the one we have on Poplar Walk, you know, he couldn't be sick if he wanted to be. When I first saw it, wow! it looked so impressive, with the front garden, the green railings, and the brass knocker, and all that—I honestly thought it was a step above me.'

'Don't you think you'd like the ham better,' interrupted Minns, 'if you cut it the other way?' He saw, with feelings which it is impossible to describe, that his visitor was cutting or rather maiming the ham, in utter violation of all established rules.

'Don't you think you'd enjoy the ham more,' interrupted Minns, 'if you cut it the other way?' He realized, with feelings that are impossible to describe, that his guest was cutting, or rather destroying, the ham, completely disregarding all the traditional rules.

'No, thank ye,' returned Budden, with the most barbarous indifference to crime, 'I prefer it this way, it eats short. But I say, Minns, when will you come down and see us? You will be delighted with the place; I know you will. Amelia and I were talking about you the other night, and Amelia said-another lump of sugar, please; thank ye-she said, don't you think you could contrive, my dear, to say to Mr. Minns, in a friendly way-come down, sir-damn the dog! he's spoiling your curtains, Minns-ha!-ha!-ha!' Minns leaped from his seat as though he had received the discharge from a galvanic battery.

'No, thank you,' Budden replied, with a total lack of concern for anything wrong, 'I like it this way; it's quick to eat. But I’m telling you, Minns, when are you going to come down and visit us? You'll love the place; I know you will. Amelia and I were talking about you the other night, and Amelia said—another lump of sugar, please; thank you—she said, don't you think you could casually mention to Mr. Minns, in a friendly way—come down, sir—damn the dog! He’s ruining your curtains, Minns—ha! ha! ha!' Minns jumped out of his seat as if he had just been shocked by a battery.

'Come out, sir!-go out, hoo!' cried poor Augustus, keeping, nevertheless, at a very respectful distance from the dog; having read of a case of hydrophobia in the paper of that morning. By dint of great exertion, much shouting, and a marvellous deal of poking under the tables with a stick and umbrella, the dog was at last dislodged, and placed on the landing outside the door, where he immediately commenced a most appalling howling; at the same time vehemently scratching the paint off the two nicely-varnished bottom panels, until they resembled the interior of a backgammon-board.

'Come out, sir! - go out, whoo!' shouted poor Augustus, keeping a very respectful distance from the dog since he had read about a case of rabies in the morning paper. After a lot of effort, plenty of shouting, and a significant amount of poking under the tables with a stick and an umbrella, the dog was finally moved and placed on the landing outside the door, where it immediately started howling terribly; at the same time, it furiously scratched the paint off the two nicely varnished bottom panels until they looked like the inside of a backgammon board.

'A good dog for the country that!' coolly observed Budden to the distracted Minns, 'but he's not much used to confinement. But now, Minns, when will you come down? I'll take no denial, positively. Let's see, to-day's Thursday.-Will you come on Sunday? We dine at five, don't say no-do.'

"A good dog for the countryside!" Budden said calmly to the flustered Minns. "But he's not really used to being cooped up. Now, Minns, when are you going to come over? I won't take no for an answer, absolutely not. Let's see, today is Thursday—will you come on Sunday? We eat dinner at five, don’t say no—please do."

After a great deal of pressing, Mr. Augustus Minns, driven to despair, accepted the invitation, and promised to be at Poplar-walk on the ensuing Sunday, at a quarter before five to the minute.

After a lot of persuasion, Mr. Augustus Minns, feeling desperate, accepted the invitation and promised to be at Poplar-walk the following Sunday at exactly a quarter to five.

'Now mind the direction,' said Budden: 'the coach goes from the Flower- pot, in Bishopsgate-street, every half hour. When the coach stops at the Swan, you'll see, immediately opposite you, a white house.'

'Now pay attention to the direction,' said Budden: 'the coach leaves from the Flowerpot on Bishopsgate Street every half hour. When the coach stops at the Swan, you'll see a white house directly across from you.'

'Which is your house-I understand,' said Minns, wishing to cut short the visit, and the story, at the same time.

"Which is your house, I get it," said Minns, wanting to wrap up the visit and the story at the same time.

'No, no, that's not mine; that's Grogus's, the great ironmonger's. I was going to say-you turn down by the side of the white house till you can't go another step further-mind that!-and then you turn to your right, by some stables-well; close to you, you'll see a wall with "Beware of the Dog" written on it in large letters-(Minns shuddered)-go along by the side of that wall for about a quarter of a mile-and anybody will show you which is my place.'

'No, no, that’s not mine; that’s Grogus’s, the famous ironworker. I was going to say—you turn down by the side of the white house until you can’t go any further—watch out for that!—and then you turn right by some stables—well; nearby, you’ll see a wall with “Beware of the Dog” written on it in big letters—(Minns shuddered)—walk along that wall for about a quarter of a mile—anyone will show you which is my place.'

'Very well-thank ye-good-bye.'

'Thanks, goodbye.'

'Be punctual.'

'Be on time.'

'Certainly: good morning.'

"Of course: good morning."

'I say, Minns, you've got a card.'

'Yes, I have; thank ye.' And Mr. Octavius Budden departed, leaving his cousin looking forward to his visit on the following Sunday, with the feelings of a penniless poet to the weekly visit of his Scotch landlady.

'Yes, I have; thank you.' And Mr. Octavius Budden left, leaving his cousin anticipating his visit the following Sunday, feeling like a broke poet waiting for the weekly check-in from his Scottish landlady.

Sunday arrived; the sky was bright and clear; crowds of people were hurrying along the streets, intent on their different schemes of pleasure for the day; everything and everybody looked cheerful and happy except Mr. Augustus Minns.

Sunday came; the sky was bright and clear; crowds of people were hurrying down the streets, focused on their various plans for enjoyment that day; everything and everyone looked cheerful and happy except for Mr. Augustus Minns.

The day was fine, but the heat was considerable; when Mr. Minns had fagged up the shady side of Fleet-street, Cheapside, and Threadneedle- street, he had become pretty warm, tolerably dusty, and it was getting late into the bargain. By the most extraordinary good fortune, however, a coach was waiting at the Flower-pot, into which Mr. Augustus Minns got, on the solemn assurance of the cad that the vehicle would start in three minutes-that being the very utmost extremity of time it was allowed to wait by Act of Parliament. A quarter of an hour elapsed, and there were no signs of moving. Minns looked at his watch for the sixth time.

The day was nice, but it was pretty hot; by the time Mr. Minns had trudged up the shady side of Fleet Street, Cheapside, and Threadneedle Street, he was quite warm, pretty dusty, and it was getting late. However, by some incredible luck, a coach was waiting at the Flower-pot, and Mr. Augustus Minns hopped in, with the cad promising that the vehicle would leave in three minutes—that being the absolute maximum time it was allowed to wait by law. Fifteen minutes passed, and there were no signs of moving. Minns checked his watch for the sixth time.

'Coachman, are you going or not?' bawled Mr. Minns, with his head and half his body out of the coach window.

'Hey, driver, are you going or not?' shouted Mr. Minns, with his head and half his body out of the coach window.

'Di-rectly, sir,' said the coachman, with his hands in his pockets, looking as much unlike a man in a hurry as possible.

'Directly, sir,' said the coachman, with his hands in his pockets, looking as much unlike a man in a hurry as possible.

'Bill, take them cloths off.' Five minutes more elapsed: at the end of which time the coachman mounted the box, from whence he looked down the street, and up the street, and hailed all the pedestrians for another five minutes.

'Bill, take those clothes off.' Five more minutes passed: at the end of which time the driver got up on the box, from where he looked down the street, up the street, and called out to all the pedestrians for another five minutes.

'Coachman! if you don't go this moment, I shall get out,' said Mr. Minns, rendered desperate by the lateness of the hour, and the impossibility of being in Poplar-walk at the appointed time.

'Driver! If you don't leave right now, I'm getting out,' said Mr. Minns, feeling frantic because of how late it was and the impossibility of being in Poplar-walk at the scheduled time.

'Going this minute, sir,' was the reply;-and, accordingly, the machine trundled on for a couple of hundred yards, and then stopped again. Minns doubled himself up in a corner of the coach, and abandoned himself to his fate, as a child, a mother, a bandbox and a parasol, became his fellow-passengers.

'On my way right now, sir,' came the reply; and so, the machine rolled on for a couple of hundred yards before stopping again. Minns curled up in a corner of the coach, resigned to his fate, as a child, a mother, a hatbox, and a parasol joined him as fellow passengers.

The child was an affectionate and an amiable infant; the little dear mistook Minns for his other parent, and screamed to embrace him.

The child was a loving and friendly baby; the little one mistook Minns for their other parent and cried to hold him.

'Be quiet, dear,' said the mamma, restraining the impetuosity of the darling, whose little fat legs were kicking, and stamping, and twining themselves into the most complicated forms, in an ecstasy of impatience. 'Be quiet, dear, that's not your papa.'

'Be quiet, sweetheart,' said the mom, holding back the enthusiasm of the little one, whose chubby legs were kicking, stomping, and getting tangled into the most complicated shapes in a fit of impatience. 'Be quiet, sweetheart, that's not your dad.'

'Thank Heaven I am not!' thought Minns, as the first gleam of pleasure he had experienced that morning shone like a meteor through his wretchedness.

'Thank goodness I'm not!' thought Minns, as the first spark of happiness he had felt that morning flashed like a meteor through his misery.

Playfulness was agreeably mingled with affection in the disposition of the boy. When satisfied that Mr. Minns was not his parent, he endeavoured to attract his notice by scraping his drab trousers with his dirty shoes, poking his chest with his mamma's parasol, and other nameless endearments peculiar to infancy, with which he beguiled the tediousness of the ride, apparently very much to his own satisfaction.

Playfulness mixed nicely with affection in the boy's nature. Once he was sure Mr. Minns wasn't his parent, he tried to get his attention by scuffing his gray pants with his dirty shoes, poking his chest with his mom's umbrella, and other cute little things typical of young children, which he used to make the boring ride more enjoyable, clearly delighting himself in the process.

When the unfortunate gentleman arrived at the Swan, he found to his great dismay, that it was a quarter past five. The white house, the stables, the 'Beware of the Dog,'-every landmark was passed, with a rapidity not unusual to a gentleman of a certain age when too late for dinner. After the lapse of a few minutes, Mr. Minns found himself opposite a yellow brick house with a green door, brass knocker, and door-plate, green window-frames and ditto railings, with 'a garden' in front, that is to say, a small loose bit of gravelled ground, with one round and two scalene triangular beds, containing a fir-tree, twenty or thirty bulbs, and an unlimited number of marigolds. The taste of Mr. and Mrs. Budden was further displayed by the appearance of a Cupid on each side of the door, perched upon a heap of large chalk flints, variegated with pink conch-shells. His knock at the door was answered by a stumpy boy, in drab livery, cotton stockings and high-lows, who, after hanging his hat on one of the dozen brass pegs which ornamented the passage, denominated by courtesy 'The Hall,' ushered him into a front drawing-room commanding a very extensive view of the backs of the neighbouring houses. The usual ceremony of introduction, and so forth, over, Mr. Minns took his seat: not a little agitated at finding that he was the last comer, and, somehow or other, the Lion of about a dozen people, sitting together in a small drawing-room, getting rid of that most tedious of all time, the time preceding dinner.

When the unfortunate gentleman arrived at the Swan, he was dismayed to find it was a quarter past five. He rushed past every landmark—the white house, the stables, the 'Beware of the Dog'—with a speed typical of a man his age when he’s late for dinner. After a few minutes, Mr. Minns found himself in front of a yellow brick house with a green door, brass knocker, and doorplate, green window frames, and matching railings, along with 'a garden'—a small, loose patch of gravel with one round bed and two oddly-shaped triangular beds, containing a fir tree, twenty or thirty bulbs, and lots of marigolds. The tastes of Mr. and Mrs. Budden were further displayed by the presence of a Cupid on either side of the door, perched on a pile of large chalk flints decorated with pink conch shells. His knock at the door was answered by a short boy in brown livery, cotton stockings, and high shoes, who, after hanging his hat on one of the dozen brass hooks that decorated the passage, politely referred to as 'The Hall,' led him into the front drawing-room that had a wide view of the backs of the neighboring houses. After the usual introductions and so on, Mr. Minns took a seat, feeling quite anxious to realize he was the last to arrive, and somehow the center of attention among about a dozen people crammed into a small drawing-room, wasting away the most tedious time of all—the time before dinner.

'Well, Brogson,' said Budden, addressing an elderly gentleman in a black coat, drab knee-breeches, and long gaiters, who, under pretence of inspecting the prints in an Annual, had been engaged in satisfying himself on the subject of Mr. Minns's general appearance, by looking at him over the tops of the leaves-'Well, Brogson, what do ministers mean to do? Will they go out, or what?'

'Well, Brogson,' said Budden, talking to an older man in a black coat, drab knee-breeches, and long gaiters, who had been pretending to look at the prints in an Annual while actually checking out Mr. Minns’s overall appearance by peeking at him from behind the pages—'Well, Brogson, what are the ministers planning to do? Are they going to leave, or what?'

'Oh-why-really, you know, I'm the last person in the world to ask for news. Your cousin, from his situation, is the most likely person to answer the question.'

'Oh, really, you know, I'm the last person in the world to ask for news. Your cousin, given his situation, is the most likely person to answer that question.'

Mr. Minns assured the last speaker, that although he was in Somerset- house, he possessed no official communication relative to the projects of his Majesty's Ministers. But his remark was evidently received incredulously; and no further conjectures being hazarded on the subject, a long pause ensued, during which the company occupied themselves in coughing and blowing their noses, until the entrance of Mrs. Budden caused a general rise.

Mr. Minns assured the last speaker that even though he was at Somerset House, he had no official information regarding the plans of the King’s Ministers. However, his comment was clearly met with skepticism, and as no one else dared to speculate further on the topic, there was a long silence during which everyone was busy coughing and blowing their noses, until Mrs. Budden walked in, prompting everyone to get up.

The ceremony of introduction being over, dinner was announced, and down- stairs the party proceeded accordingly-Mr. Minns escorting Mrs. Budden as far as the drawing-room door, but being prevented, by the narrowness of the staircase, from extending his gallantry any farther. The dinner passed off as such dinners usually do. Ever and anon, amidst the clatter of knives and forks, and the hum of conversation, Mr. B.'s voice might be heard, asking a friend to take wine, and assuring him he was glad to see him; and a great deal of by-play took place between Mrs. B. and the servants, respecting the removal of the dishes, during which her countenance assumed all the variations of a weather-glass, from 'stormy' to 'set fair.'

The introduction ceremony finished, dinner was announced, and the group headed downstairs. Mr. Minns walked Mrs. Budden to the drawing-room door but was unable to be more gallant because the staircase was so narrow. Dinner went as these things usually do. Amid the clatter of knives and forks and the buzz of conversation, you could occasionally hear Mr. B.'s voice asking a friend to toast and expressing how happy he was to see him. There was also a lot of back-and-forth between Mrs. B. and the servants about clearing the dishes, during which her expression changed from 'stormy' to 'clear skies.'

Upon the dessert and wine being placed on the table, the servant, in compliance with a significant look from Mrs. B., brought down 'Master Alexander,' habited in a sky-blue suit with silver buttons; and possessing hair of nearly the same colour as the metal. After sundry praises from his mother, and various admonitions as to his behaviour from his father, he was introduced to his godfather.

Upon the dessert and wine being served at the table, the server, responding to a meaningful glance from Mrs. B., brought in 'Master Alexander,' dressed in a sky-blue suit with silver buttons, and having hair that was almost the same color as the metal. After receiving several compliments from his mother and various warnings about his behavior from his father, he was introduced to his godfather.

'Well, my little fellow-you are a fine boy, ain't you?' said Mr. Minns, as happy as a tomtit on birdlime.

'Well, my little buddy—you’re a great kid, aren’t you?' said Mr. Minns, as happy as a bird stuck in sticky stuff.

'Yes.'

'Yep.'

'How old are you?'

'What’s your age?'

'Eight, next We'nsday. How old are you?'

'Eight, next Wednesday. How old are you?'

'Alexander,' interrupted his mother, 'how dare you ask Mr. Minns how old he is!'

'Alexander,' his mother interrupted, 'how could you ask Mr. Minns how old he is!'

'He asked me how old I was,' said the precocious child, to whom Minns had from that moment internally resolved that he never would bequeath one shilling. As soon as the titter occasioned by the observation had subsided, a little smirking man with red whiskers, sitting at the bottom of the table, who during the whole of dinner had been endeavouring to obtain a listener to some stories about Sheridan, called, out, with a very patronising air, 'Alick, what part of speech is be.'

'He asked me how old I was,' said the smart kid, to whom Minns had from that moment decided he would never leave a single penny. Once the giggles from that remark quieted down, a little smug guy with red sideburns, sitting at the end of the table, who had been trying to get someone to listen to his stories about Sheridan all during dinner, called out in a very condescending way, 'Alick, what part of speech is be?'

'A verb.'

'That's a good boy,' said Mrs. Budden, with all a mother's pride.

"That's a good boy," said Mrs. Budden, filled with all a mother's pride.

'Now, you know what a verb is?'

'So, do you know what a verb is?'

'A verb is a word which signifies to be, to do, or to suffer; as, I am-I rule-I am ruled. Give me an apple, Ma.'

'A verb is a word that means to be, to do, or to experience; for example, I am—I rule—I am ruled. Please give me an apple, Mom.'

'I'll give you an apple,' replied the man with the red whiskers, who was an established friend of the family, or in other words was always invited by Mrs. Budden, whether Mr. Budden liked it or not, 'if you'll tell me what is the meaning of be.'

"I'll give you an apple," replied the man with the red whiskers, who was a regular family friend, meaning he was always invited by Mrs. Budden, whether Mr. Budden liked it or not, "if you tell me what the meaning of 'be' is."

'Be?' said the prodigy, after a little hesitation-'an insect that gathers honey.'

'Be?' said the prodigy, after a moment's pause—'an insect that collects honey.'

'No, dear,' frowned Mrs. Budden; 'B double E is the substantive.'

'No, dear,' frowned Mrs. Budden; 'B double E is the noun.'

'I don't think he knows much yet about common substantives,' said the smirking gentleman, who thought this an admirable opportunity for letting off a joke. 'It's clear he's not very well acquainted with proper names. He! he! he!'

'I don't think he knows much yet about common nouns,' said the smirking gentleman, who saw this as a great chance to make a joke. 'It's obvious he's not very familiar with proper names. Ha! Ha! Ha!'

'Gentlemen,' called out Mr. Budden, from the end of the table, in a stentorian voice, and with a very important air, 'will you have the goodness to charge your glasses? I have a toast to propose.'

'Gentlemen,' called out Mr. Budden, from the end of the table, in a loud voice and with a very serious demeanor, 'could you please fill your glasses? I have a toast to propose.'

'Hear! hear!' cried the gentlemen, passing the decanters. After they had made the round of the table, Mr. Budden proceeded-'Gentlemen; there is an individual present-'

'Hear! hear!' shouted the gentlemen, passing around the decanters. After they had gone around the table, Mr. Budden continued, 'Gentlemen; there is someone here-'

'Hear! hear!' said the little man with red whiskers.

'Hear! hear!' said the little man with red facial hair.

'Pray be quiet, Jones,' remonstrated Budden.

"Please be quiet, Jones," Budden objected.

'I say, gentlemen, there is an individual present,' resumed the host, 'in whose society, I am sure we must take great delight-and-and-the conversation of that individual must have afforded to every one present, the utmost pleasure.' ['Thank Heaven, he does not mean me!' thought Minns, conscious that his diffidence and exclusiveness had prevented his saying above a dozen words since he entered the house.] 'Gentlemen, I am but a humble individual myself, and I perhaps ought to apologise for allowing any individual feeling of friendship and affection for the person I allude to, to induce me to venture to rise, to propose the health of that person-a person that, I am sure-that is to say, a person whose virtues must endear him to those who know him-and those who have not the pleasure of knowing him, cannot dislike him.'

"I must say, gentlemen, there's someone here," the host continued, "whose company I’m sure we all find extremely enjoyable—and—and the conversation with this individual has surely brought great pleasure to everyone present." ['Thank goodness, he's not talking about me!' thought Minns, aware that his shyness and tendency to keep to himself had kept him from saying more than a few words since arriving.] "Gentlemen, I'm just an ordinary person myself, and I should probably apologize for letting my personal feelings of friendship and affection for the person I’m referring to lead me to stand up and propose a toast to them—a person who, I am certain—well, a person whose qualities must endear him to those who know him—and those who haven’t had the pleasure of knowing him cannot truly dislike him."

'Hear! hear!' said the company, in a tone of encouragement and approval.

"Hear! Hear!" said the group, sounding encouraging and approving.

'Gentlemen,' continued Budden, 'my cousin is a man who-who is a relation of my own.' (Hear! hear!) Minns groaned audibly. 'Who I am most happy to see here, and who, if he were not here, would certainly have deprived us of the great pleasure we all feel in seeing him. (Loud cries of hear!) Gentlemen, I feel that I have already trespassed on your attention for too long a time. With every feeling-of-with every sentiment of-of-'

'Gentlemen,' Budden continued, 'my cousin is someone who is a relative of mine.' (Hear! hear!) Minns groaned loudly. 'I’m very glad to see him here, and if he weren’t here, we would definitely miss out on the great pleasure of having him with us. (Loud cries of hear!) Gentlemen, I realize that I've already taken up too much of your time. With every sense of— with every feeling of—'

'Gratification'-suggested the friend of the family.

'Gratification' - suggested the family friend.

'-Of gratification, I beg to propose the health of Mr. Minns.'

'-I would like to propose a toast to Mr. Minns' health.'

'Standing, gentlemen!' shouted the indefatigable little man with the whiskers-'and with the honours. Take your time from me, if you please. Hip! hip! hip!-Za!-Hip! hip! hip!-Za!-Hip hip!-Za-a-a!'

'Stand up, gentlemen!' shouted the tireless little man with the whiskers. 'And let’s acknowledge the honors. Take your cue from me, if you would. Hip! hip! hip!-Hooray!-Hip! hip! hip!-Hooray!-Hip hip!-Hooray!'

All eyes were now fixed on the subject of the toast, who by gulping down port wine at the imminent hazard of suffocation, endeavoured to conceal his confusion. After as long a pause as decency would admit, he rose, but, as the newspapers sometimes say in their reports, 'we regret that we are quite unable to give even the substance of the honourable gentleman's observations.' The words 'present company-honour-present occasion,' and 'great happiness'-heard occasionally, and repeated at intervals, with a countenance expressive of the utmost confusion and misery, convinced the company that he was making an excellent speech; and, accordingly, on his resuming his seat, they cried 'Bravo!' and manifested tumultuous applause. Jones, who had been long watching his opportunity, then darted up.

All eyes were now on the person being toasted, who, by gulping down port wine and risking choking, tried to hide his embarrassment. After a pause long enough to be polite, he stood up, but, as the newspapers often say, 'we regret that we are unable to provide even a summary of the gentleman's comments.' The phrases 'present company', 'honor', 'present occasion', and 'great happiness' were heard now and then, repeated at intervals, all while he looked extremely confused and miserable, convincing the guests that he was giving an amazing speech; so when he sat back down, they cheered 'Bravo!' and showed their enthusiastic applause. Jones, who had been waiting for the right moment, then sprang up.

'Budden,' said he, 'will you allow me to propose a toast?'

'Budden,' he said, 'can I suggest a toast?'

'Certainly,' replied Budden, adding in an under-tone to Minns right across the table, 'Devilish sharp fellow that: you'll be very much pleased with his speech. He talks equally well on any subject.' Minns bowed, and Mr. Jones proceeded:

'Absolutely,' Budden responded, lowering his voice to Minns across the table, 'Really clever guy: you’ll be very impressed with his speech. He can hold his own on any topic.' Minns nodded, and Mr. Jones continued:

'It has on several occasions, in various instances, under many circumstances, and in different companies, fallen to my lot to propose a toast to those by whom, at the time, I have had the honour to be surrounded, I have sometimes, I will cheerfully own-for why should I deny it?-felt the overwhelming nature of the task I have undertaken, and my own utter incapability to do justice to the subject. If such have been my feelings, however, on former occasions, what must they be now-now-under the extraordinary circumstances in which I am placed. (Hear! hear!) To describe my feelings accurately, would be impossible; but I cannot give you a better idea of them, gentlemen, than by referring to a circumstance which happens, oddly enough, to occur to my mind at the moment. On one occasion, when that truly great and illustrious man, Sheridan, was-'

'On several occasions, in various situations, under many circumstances, and in different company, I’ve had the chance to propose a toast to those who have honored me with their presence. I have to admit—why deny it?—that I have often felt overwhelmed by the task at hand and completely inadequate to do it justice. If I’ve felt that way before, just imagine how I feel now—now—under these extraordinary circumstances in which I find myself. (Hear! hear!) It’s impossible to accurately describe my feelings, but I can give you a better idea of them by recalling a moment that, oddly enough, occurs to me right now. Once, when that truly great and remarkable man, Sheridan, was-’

Now, there is no knowing what new villainy in the form of a joke would have been heaped on the grave of that very ill-used man, Mr. Sheridan, if the boy in drab had not at that moment entered the room in a breathless state, to report that, as it was a very wet night, the nine o'clock stage had come round, to know whether there was anybody going to town, as, in that case, he (the nine o'clock) had room for one inside.

Now, there's no telling what kind of new mockery would have been piled on the grave of that very mistreated man, Mr. Sheridan, if the boy in the dull-colored clothes hadn't burst into the room, out of breath, to say that since it was a very rainy night, the nine o'clock stage had arrived to see if anyone was heading to town, because if so, it (the nine o'clock) had room for one person inside.

Mr. Minns started up; and, despite countless exclamations of surprise, and entreaties to stay, persisted in his determination to accept the vacant place. But, the brown silk umbrella was nowhere to be found; and as the coachman couldn't wait, he drove back to the Swan, leaving word for Mr. Minns to 'run round' and catch him. However, as it did not occur to Mr. Minns for some ten minutes or so, that he had left the brown silk umbrella with the ivory handle in the other coach, coming down; and, moreover, as he was by no means remarkable for speed, it is no matter of surprise that when he accomplished the feat of 'running round' to the Swan, the coach-the last coach-had gone without him.

Mr. Minns got up, and despite countless surprised shouts and pleas to stay, he stuck to his decision to take the open position. However, he couldn't find his brown silk umbrella anywhere; since the coachman couldn't wait, he drove back to the Swan, leaving a message for Mr. Minns to "run around" and catch him. But it took Mr. Minns about ten minutes to realize that he had left the brown silk umbrella with the ivory handle in the other coach on the way down; and since he wasn't exactly known for his speed, it's no surprise that by the time he finished the task of "running around" to the Swan, the coach—the last one—had left without him.

It was somewhere about three o'clock in the morning, when Mr. Augustus Minns knocked feebly at the street-door of his lodgings in Tavistock- street, cold, wet, cross, and miserable. He made his will next morning, and his professional man informs us, in that strict confidence in which we inform the public, that neither the name of Mr. Octavius Budden, nor of Mrs. Amelia Budden, nor of Master Alexander Augustus Budden, appears therein.

It was around three o'clock in the morning when Mr. Augustus Minns weakly knocked on the street door of his lodging on Tavistock Street, feeling cold, wet, irritated, and miserable. He made his will the next morning, and his lawyer tells us, in the strict confidentiality that we share with the public, that neither the name of Mr. Octavius Budden, nor Mrs. Amelia Budden, nor Master Alexander Augustus Budden appears in it.

CHAPTER III-SENTIMENT

The Miss Crumptons, or to quote the authority of the inscription on the garden-gate of Minerva House, Hammersmith, 'The Misses Crumpton,' were two unusually tall, particularly thin, and exceedingly skinny personages: very upright, and very yellow. Miss Amelia Crumpton owned to thirty-eight, and Miss Maria Crumpton admitted she was forty; an admission which was rendered perfectly unnecessary by the self-evident fact of her being at least fifty. They dressed in the most interesting manner-like twins! and looked as happy and comfortable as a couple of marigolds run to seed. They were very precise, had the strictest possible ideas of propriety, wore false hair, and always smelt very strongly of lavender.

The Miss Crumptons, or as stated on the sign at the garden gate of Minerva House, Hammersmith, 'The Misses Crumpton,' were two unusually tall, particularly thin, and extremely skinny women: very upright and very yellow. Miss Amelia Crumpton claimed to be thirty-eight, and Miss Maria Crumpton admitted she was forty; an admission that was completely unnecessary given that it was obvious she was at least fifty. They dressed in the most interesting way—like twins!—and looked as happy and comfortable as a couple of marigolds gone to seed. They were very precise, had the strictest ideas of propriety, wore false hair, and always smelled strongly of lavender.

Minerva House, conducted under the auspices of the two sisters, was a 'finishing establishment for young ladies,' where some twenty girls of the ages of from thirteen to nineteen inclusive, acquired a smattering of everything, and a knowledge of nothing; instruction in French and Italian, dancing lessons twice a-week; and other necessaries of life. The house was a white one, a little removed from the roadside, with close palings in front. The bedroom windows were always left partly open, to afford a bird's-eye view of numerous little bedsteads with very white dimity furniture, and thereby impress the passer-by with a due sense of the luxuries of the establishment; and there was a front parlour hung round with highly varnished maps which nobody ever looked at, and filled with books which no one ever read, appropriated exclusively to the reception of parents, who, whenever they called, could not fail to be struck with the very deep appearance of the place.

Minerva House, run by the two sisters, was a "finishing school for young ladies," where about twenty girls aged thirteen to nineteen learned a bit of everything but didn’t really know anything deeply. They received lessons in French and Italian, took dance classes twice a week, and were taught other essential skills for life. The house was white and set back from the road, surrounded by a tall fence in front. The bedroom windows were always left partly open, giving a glimpse of several tiny beds with very white dimity bedding, meant to impress passersby with the establishment's supposed luxuries. There was also a front parlor decorated with shiny maps that no one ever looked at and filled with books that nobody ever read, reserved solely for visiting parents, who were sure to notice the place’s air of sophistication during their visits.

'Amelia, my dear,' said Miss Maria Crumpton, entering the school-room one morning, with her false hair in papers: as she occasionally did, in order to impress the young ladies with a conviction of its reality. 'Amelia, my dear, here is a most gratifying note I have just received. You needn't mind reading it aloud.'

'Amelia, my dear,' said Miss Maria Crumpton, walking into the classroom one morning with her hair in curlers, as she sometimes did to convince the young ladies that it was real. 'Amelia, my dear, I just got a really nice note. You don’t have to read it aloud.'

Miss Amelia, thus advised, proceeded to read the following note with an air of great triumph:

Miss Amelia, taking this advice to heart, began to read the following note with a sense of great victory:

'Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., presents his compliments to Miss Crumpton, and will feel much obliged by Miss Crumpton's calling on him, if she conveniently can, to-morrow morning at one o'clock, as Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., is anxious to see Miss Crumpton on the subject of placing Miss Brook Dingwall under her charge.

Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., sends his regards to Miss Crumpton and would greatly appreciate it if she could visit him tomorrow morning at one o'clock, as he is eager to discuss placing Miss Brook Dingwall in her care.

'Adelphi.

Adelphi.

'Monday morning.'

'A Member of Parliament's daughter!' ejaculated Amelia, in an ecstatic tone.

'A Member of Parliament's daughter!' Amelia exclaimed, in an ecstatic tone.

'A Member of Parliament's daughter!' repeated Miss Maria, with a smile of delight, which, of course, elicited a concurrent titter of pleasure from all the young ladies.

'A Member of Parliament's daughter!' Miss Maria said again, smiling with delight, which, of course, brought a giggle of happiness from all the young ladies.

'It's exceedingly delightful!' said Miss Amelia; whereupon all the young ladies murmured their admiration again. Courtiers are but school-boys, and court-ladies school-girl's.

'It's so delightful!' said Miss Amelia; and all the young ladies murmured their admiration again. Courtiers are just schoolboys, and court ladies are schoolgirls.

So important an announcement at once superseded the business of the day. A holiday was declared, in commemoration of the great event; the Miss Crumptons retired to their private apartment to talk it over; the smaller girls discussed the probable manners and customs of the daughter of a Member of Parliament; and the young ladies verging on eighteen wondered whether she was engaged, whether she was pretty, whether she wore much bustle, and many other whethers of equal importance.

So significant an announcement immediately took over the day's agenda. A holiday was declared to celebrate the great event; the Miss Crumptons went to their private room to discuss it; the younger girls talked about the likely manners and customs of the daughter of a Member of Parliament; and the young ladies nearing eighteen speculated on whether she was engaged, whether she was attractive, whether she wore a lot of bustle, and many other equally important questions.

The two Miss Crumptons proceeded to the Adelphi at the appointed time next day, dressed, of course, in their best style, and looking as amiable as they possibly could-which, by-the-bye, is not saying much for them. Having sent in their cards, through the medium of a red-hot looking footman in bright livery, they were ushered into the august presence of the profound Dingwall.

The two Miss Crumptons arrived at the Adelphi at the scheduled time the next day, dressed in their finest outfits and trying their best to look pleasant—which, to be honest, isn’t saying much for them. After handing their cards to a very eager-looking footman in bright livery, they were shown into the impressive presence of the serious Dingwall.

Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was very haughty, solemn, and portentous. He had, naturally, a somewhat spasmodic expression of countenance, which was not rendered the less remarkable by his wearing an extremely stiff cravat. He was wonderfully proud of the M.P. attached to his name, and never lost an opportunity of reminding people of his dignity. He had a great idea of his own abilities, which must have been a great comfort to him, as no one else had; and in diplomacy, on a small scale, in his own family arrangements, he considered himself unrivalled. He was a county magistrate, and discharged the duties of his station with all due justice and impartiality; frequently committing poachers, and occasionally committing himself. Miss Brook Dingwall was one of that numerous class of young ladies, who, like adverbs, may be known by their answering to a commonplace question, and doing nothing else.

Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was very arrogant, serious, and imposing. He had a somewhat twitchy expression, which was made even more striking by his very stiff cravat. He was incredibly proud of the M.P. after his name and never missed a chance to remind people of his status. He had a high opinion of his own abilities, which must have been a great comfort to him, since no one else did; and in small-scale diplomacy within his family, he saw himself as unmatched. He was a county magistrate and carried out his duties with all the necessary justice and fairness; often sending poachers to prison, and occasionally making a fool of himself. Miss Brook Dingwall was part of that large group of young women who, like adverbs, can be recognized by their tendency to respond to basic questions and do nothing else.

On the present occasion, this talented individual was seated in a small library at a table covered with papers, doing nothing, but trying to look busy, playing at shop. Acts of Parliament, and letters directed to 'Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P.,' were ostentatiously scattered over the table; at a little distance from which, Mrs. Brook Dingwall was seated at work. One of those public nuisances, a spoiled child, was playing about the room, dressed after the most approved fashion-in a blue tunic with a black belt-a quarter of a yard wide, fastened with an immense buckle-looking like a robber in a melodrama, seen through a diminishing glass.

On this particular day, this skilled person was sitting in a small library at a table piled with papers, doing nothing but pretending to be busy, playing at being important. Acts of Parliament and letters addressed to 'Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P.,' were deliberately spread across the table; a short distance away, Mrs. Brook Dingwall was busy working. One of those public nuisances, a spoiled child, was running around the room, dressed in the latest style—in a blue tunic with a wide black belt, fastened with a huge buckle—looking like a villain from a melodrama, seen through a funhouse mirror.

After a little pleasantry from the sweet child, who amused himself by running away with Miss Maria Crumpton's chair as fast as it was placed for her, the visitors were seated, and Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., opened the conversation.

After a bit of lighthearted fun from the sweet child, who entertained himself by quickly running off with Miss Maria Crumpton's chair as soon as it was set for her, the guests took their seats, and Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., began the conversation.

He had sent for Miss Crumpton, he said, in consequence of the high character he had received of her establishment from his friend, Sir Alfred Muggs.

He said he had called for Miss Crumpton because of the great reputation her establishment had from his friend, Sir Alfred Muggs.

Miss Crumpton murmured her acknowledgments to him (Muggs), and Cornelius proceeded.

Miss Crumpton quietly thanked him (Muggs), and Cornelius continued.

'One of my principal reasons, Miss Crumpton, for parting with my daughter, is, that she has lately acquired some sentimental ideas, which it is most desirable to eradicate from her young mind.' (Here the little innocent before noticed, fell out of an arm-chair with an awful crash.)

'One of my main reasons, Miss Crumpton, for sending my daughter away is that she has recently picked up some sentimental ideas that I really want to get rid of from her young mind.' (At this point, the little innocent we mentioned earlier fell out of an armchair with a loud crash.)

'Naughty boy!' said his mamma, who appeared more surprised at his taking the liberty of falling down, than at anything else; 'I'll ring the bell for James to take him away.'

'Naughty boy!' said his mom, who seemed more surprised that he had the audacity to fall down than anything else; 'I'll ring the bell for James to come and take him away.'

'Pray don't check him, my love,' said the diplomatist, as soon as he could make himself heard amidst the unearthly howling consequent upon the threat and the tumble. 'It all arises from his great flow of spirits.' This last explanation was addressed to Miss Crumpton.

'Please don’t stop him, my love,' said the diplomat as soon as he could be heard above the otherworldly howling that followed the threat and the fall. 'It’s just due to his burst of energy.' This last explanation was directed at Miss Crumpton.

'Certainly, sir,' replied the antique Maria: not exactly seeing, however, the connexion between a flow of animal spirits, and a fall from an arm-chair.

'Of course, sir,' replied the old-fashioned Maria, although she didn't really see the connection between a burst of energy and falling off an armchair.

Silence was restored, and the M.P. resumed: 'Now, I know nothing so likely to effect this object, Miss Crumpton, as her mixing constantly in the society of girls of her own age; and, as I know that in your establishment she will meet such as are not likely to contaminate her young mind, I propose to send her to you.'

Silence returned, and the M.P. continued: 'Now, I can't think of anything better to achieve this goal, Miss Crumpton, than having her mix regularly with girls her own age; and since I know that in your establishment she will be around those who are not likely to harm her young mind, I suggest sending her to you.'

The youngest Miss Crumpton expressed the acknowledgments of the establishment generally. Maria was rendered speechless by bodily pain. The dear little fellow, having recovered his animal spirits, was standing upon her most tender foot, by way of getting his face (which looked like a capital O in a red-lettered play-bill) on a level with the writing-table.

The youngest Miss Crumpton expressed the general thanks of the establishment. Maria was left speechless from physical pain. The dear little guy, having regained his playful energy, was standing on her most sensitive foot to get his face (which looked like a big O on a flashy theater poster) at the same height as the writing desk.

'Of course, Lavinia will be a parlour boarder,' continued the enviable father; 'and on one point I wish my directions to be strictly observed. The fact is, that some ridiculous love affair, with a person much her inferior in life, has been the cause of her present state of mind. Knowing that of course, under your care, she can have no opportunity of meeting this person, I do not object to-indeed, I should rather prefer-her mixing with such society as you see yourself.'

'Of course, Lavinia will be living in the parlor,' continued the envious father; 'and I want my wishes to be followed exactly. The truth is, some silly romance with someone far below her social standing has caused her current state of mind. Knowing that she won't have any chance to meet this person while under your care, I don't mind—actually, I would prefer it—if she mingles with whatever company you choose.'

This important statement was again interrupted by the high-spirited little creature, in the excess of his joyousness breaking a pane of glass, and nearly precipitating himself into an adjacent area. James was rung for; considerable confusion and screaming succeeded; two little blue legs were seen to kick violently in the air as the man left the room, and the child was gone.

This important statement was interrupted again by the cheerful little creature, who, in his excitement, broke a window and nearly fell into a nearby area. James was called; there was a lot of confusion and screaming; two little blue legs were seen kicking wildly in the air as the man left the room, and the child was gone.

'Mr. Brook Dingwall would like Miss Brook Dingwall to learn everything,' said Mrs. Brook Dingwall, who hardly ever said anything at all.

'Mr. Brook Dingwall wants Miss Brook Dingwall to learn everything,' said Mrs. Brook Dingwall, who rarely spoke at all.

'Certainly,' said both the Miss Crumptons together.

'Of course,' said both the Miss Crumptons at the same time.

'And as I trust the plan I have devised will be effectual in weaning my daughter from this absurd idea, Miss Crumpton,' continued the legislator, 'I hope you will have the goodness to comply, in all respects, with any request I may forward to you.'

'And as I trust the plan I've come up with will be effective in getting my daughter away from this ridiculous idea, Miss Crumpton,' the legislator continued, 'I hope you'll be kind enough to comply with any request I send your way.'

The promise was of course made; and after a lengthened discussion, conducted on behalf of the Dingwalls with the most becoming diplomatic gravity, and on that of the Crumptons with profound respect, it was finally arranged that Miss Lavinia should be forwarded to Hammersmith on the next day but one, on which occasion the half-yearly ball given at the establishment was to take place. It might divert the dear girl's mind. This, by the way, was another bit of diplomacy.

The promise was, of course, made; and after a lengthy discussion, held on behalf of the Dingwalls with the utmost diplomatic seriousness, and on the part of the Crumptons with deep respect, it was finally decided that Miss Lavinia would be sent to Hammersmith two days later, when the half-yearly ball at the establishment was scheduled to take place. It might help take her mind off things. This, by the way, was just another piece of diplomacy.

Miss Lavinia was introduced to her future governess, and both the Miss Crumptons pronounced her 'a most charming girl;' an opinion which, by a singular coincidence, they always entertained of any new pupil.

Miss Lavinia was introduced to her future governess, and both Miss Crumptons declared her "a really charming girl;" a view that, curiously enough, they always had of any new student.

Courtesies were exchanged, acknowledgments expressed, condescension exhibited, and the interview terminated.

Courtesies were exchanged, acknowledgments expressed, condescension shown, and the interview ended.

Preparations, to make use of theatrical phraseology, 'on a scale of magnitude never before attempted,' were incessantly made at Minerva House to give every effect to the forthcoming ball. The largest room in the house was pleasingly ornamented with blue calico roses, plaid tulips, and other equally natural-looking artificial flowers, the work of the young ladies themselves. The carpet was taken up, the folding- doors were taken down, the furniture was taken out, and rout-seats were taken in. The linen-drapers of Hammersmith were astounded at the sudden demand for blue sarsenet ribbon, and long white gloves. Dozens of geraniums were purchased for bouquets, and a harp and two violins were bespoke from town, in addition to the grand piano already on the premises. The young ladies who were selected to show off on the occasion, and do credit to the establishment, practised incessantly, much to their own satisfaction, and greatly to the annoyance of the lame old gentleman over the way; and a constant correspondence was kept up, between the Misses Crumpton and the Hammersmith pastrycook.

Preparations, to use theatrical language, 'on a scale never attempted before,' were continuously made at Minerva House to ensure the upcoming ball was a success. The biggest room in the house was nicely decorated with blue calico roses, plaid tulips, and other equally realistic artificial flowers, crafted by the young ladies themselves. The carpet was rolled up, the folding doors were taken down, the furniture was cleared out, and seating for the event was brought in. The linen-drapers in Hammersmith were shocked by the sudden demand for blue sarsenet ribbon and long white gloves. Dozens of geraniums were bought for bouquets, and a harp and two violins were ordered from town, in addition to the grand piano already in the house. The young ladies chosen to showcase their talents and represent the establishment practiced tirelessly, much to their own delight and the annoyance of the elderly gentleman across the street; and a steady correspondence was maintained between the Misses Crumpton and the Hammersmith pastry chef.

The evening came; and then there was such a lacing of stays, and tying of sandals, and dressing of hair, as never can take place with a proper degree of bustle out of a boarding-school. The smaller girls managed to be in everybody's way, and were pushed about accordingly; and the elder ones dressed, and tied, and flattered, and envied, one another, as earnestly and sincerely as if they had actually come out.

The evening arrived, and there was so much adjusting of corsets, tying of sandals, and styling of hair that could never happen with the same hustle outside of a boarding school. The younger girls somehow got in everyone's way and were shuffled around as a result. The older girls dressed up, tied their laces, complimented, and envied each other just as seriously and genuinely as if they had truly made their debut.

'How do I look, dear?' inquired Miss Emily Smithers, the belle of the house, of Miss Caroline Wilson, who was her bosom friend, because she was the ugliest girl in Hammersmith, or out of it.

'How do I look, dear?' asked Miss Emily Smithers, the star of the house, to her close friend Miss Caroline Wilson, who was considered the least attractive girl in Hammersmith, or anywhere else.

'Oh! charming, dear. How do I?'

'Delightful! you never looked so handsome,' returned the belle, adjusting her own dress, and not bestowing a glance on her poor companion.

'Awesome! You’ve never looked so good,' replied the beauty, fixing her own dress and not even looking at her poor companion.

'I hope young Hilton will come early,' said another young lady to Miss somebody else, in a fever of expectation.

'I hope young Hilton shows up early,' said another young woman to Miss somebody else, with a mix of excitement and anticipation.

'I'm sure he'd be highly flattered if he knew it,' returned the other, who was practising l'ACtAC.

'I'm sure he'd be really flattered if he knew it,' replied the other, who was practicing l'ACtAC.

'Oh! he's so handsome,' said the first.

'Oh! he's so good-looking,' said the first.

'Such a charming person!' added a second.

'Such a charming person!' added another.

'Such a distinguAC air!' said a third.

'Such a distinguished air!' said a third.

'Oh, what do you think?' said another girl, running into the room; 'Miss Crumpton says her cousin's coming.'

'Oh, what do you think?' said another girl, rushing into the room. 'Miss Crumpton says her cousin is coming.'

'What! Theodosius Butler?' said everybody in raptures.

'What! Theodosius Butler?' everyone exclaimed in excitement.

'Is he handsome?' inquired a novice.

'Is he good-looking?' asked a newcomer.

'No, not particularly handsome,' was the general reply; 'but, oh, so clever!'

'No, not especially handsome,' was the general reply; 'but, oh, so smart!'

Mr. Theodosius Butler was one of those immortal geniuses who are to be met with in almost every circle. They have, usually, very deep, monotonous voices. They always persuade themselves that they are wonderful persons, and that they ought to be very miserable, though they don't precisely know why. They are very conceited, and usually possess half an idea; but, with enthusiastic young ladies, and silly young gentlemen, they are very wonderful persons. The individual in question, Mr. Theodosius, had written a pamphlet containing some very weighty considerations on the expediency of doing something or other; and as every sentence contained a good many words of four syllables, his admirers took it for granted that he meant a good deal.

Mr. Theodosius Butler was one of those timeless geniuses you find in almost every social circle. They typically have very deep, monotonous voices. They constantly convince themselves that they are extraordinary individuals who should be very unhappy, although they don't really know why. They're quite full of themselves and usually have half-formed ideas; however, to enthusiastic young women and silly young men, they are truly impressive. The person in question, Mr. Theodosius, had written a pamphlet that included some serious points about the importance of doing something or other; and since every sentence contained quite a few four-syllable words, his fans assumed he was saying something significant.

'Perhaps that's he,' exclaimed several young ladies, as the first pull of the evening threatened destruction to the bell of the gate.

'That might be him,' exclaimed several young women, as the first pull of the evening almost knocked the gatebell off.

An awful pause ensued. Some boxes arrived and a young lady-Miss Brook Dingwall, in full ball costume, with an immense gold chain round her neck, and her dress looped up with a single rose; an ivory fan in her hand, and a most interesting expression of despair in her face.

An awkward silence followed. Some boxes arrived, and a young woman—Miss Brook Dingwall—dressed to the nines for the ball, with a huge gold chain around her neck and her dress pinned up with a single rose; she held an ivory fan and had a captivating look of despair on her face.

The Miss Crumptons inquired after the family, with the most excruciating anxiety, and Miss Brook Dingwall was formally introduced to her future companions. The Miss Crumptons conversed with the young ladies in the most mellifluous tones, in order that Miss Brook Dingwall might be properly impressed with their amiable treatment.

The Miss Crumptons asked about the family with intense eagerness, and Miss Brook Dingwall was officially introduced to her future companions. The Miss Crumptons spoke to the young ladies in the sweetest tones, so that Miss Brook Dingwall would be suitably impressed by their friendly behavior.

Another pull at the bell. Mr. Dadson the writing-master, and his wife. The wife in green silk, with shoes and cap-trimmings to correspond: the writing-master in a white waistcoat, black knee-shorts, and ditto silk stockings, displaying a leg large enough for two writing-masters. The young ladies whispered one another, and the writing-master and his wife flattered the Miss Crumptons, who were dressed in amber, with long sashes, like dolls.

Another tug at the bell. Mr. Dadson, the writing teacher, and his wife. The wife wore green silk, matching shoes and cap trimmings; the writing teacher sported a white waistcoat, black shorts, and similar silk stockings, showing off legs big enough for two writing teachers. The young ladies whispered to each other, while the writing teacher and his wife complimented the Miss Crumptons, who were dressed in amber, complete with long sashes, like dolls.

Repeated pulls at the bell, and arrivals too numerous to particularise: papas and mammas, and aunts and uncles, the owners and guardians of the different pupils; the singing-master, Signor Lobskini, in a black wig; the piano-forte player and the violins; the harp, in a state of intoxication; and some twenty young men, who stood near the door, and talked to one another, occasionally bursting into a giggle. A general hum of conversation. Coffee handed round, and plentifully partaken of by fat mammas, who looked like the stout people who come on in pantomimes for the sole purpose of being knocked down.

There were repeated rings of the bell and so many arrivals it was hard to count: dads and moms, aunts and uncles, the owners and guardians of the different students; the singing teacher, Signor Lobskini, wearing a black wig; the piano player and the violinists; the harp, barely holding it together; and about twenty young guys near the door, chatting and occasionally bursting into laughter. There was a general buzz of conversation. Coffee was being served and enjoyed by the overweight moms, who looked like the hefty characters from pantomimes meant to be knocked over.

The popular Mr. Hilton was the next arrival; and he having, at the request of the Miss Crumptons, undertaken the office of Master of the Ceremonies, the quadrilles commenced with considerable spirit. The young men by the door gradually advanced into the middle of the room, and in time became sufficiently at ease to consent to be introduced to partners. The writing-master danced every set, springing about with the most fearful agility, and his wife played a rubber in the back-parlour-a little room with five book-shelves, dignified by the name of the study. Setting her down to whist was a half-yearly piece of generalship on the part of the Miss Crumptons; it was necessary to hide her somewhere, on account of her being a fright.

The popular Mr. Hilton was the next to arrive; and, at the request of the Miss Crumptons, he took on the role of Master of Ceremonies, prompting the quadrilles to kick off with a lot of energy. The young men by the door gradually moved into the center of the room and eventually felt comfortable enough to be introduced to their partners. The writing master danced in every set, bouncing around with incredible agility, while his wife played a game of whist in the back parlor—a small room with five bookshelves, grandly called the study. Getting her to play whist was a clever move by the Miss Crumptons; they had to hide her somewhere since she was quite unattractive.

The interesting Lavinia Brook Dingwall was the only girl present, who appeared to take no interest in the proceedings of the evening. In vain was she solicited to dance; in vain was the universal homage paid to her as the daughter of a member of parliament. She was equally unmoved by the splendid tenor of the inimitable Lobskini, and the brilliant execution of Miss Laetitia Parsons, whose performance of 'The Recollections of Ireland' was universally declared to be almost equal to that of Moscheles himself. Not even the announcement of the arrival of Mr. Theodosius Butler could induce her to leave the corner of the back drawing-room in which she was seated.

The intriguing Lavinia Brook Dingwall was the only girl there, and she seemed completely uninterested in the evening’s events. People asked her to dance, but it was useless; they offered their respect since she was the daughter of a member of parliament, but she didn’t care. She was just as indifferent to the amazing singing of the incomparable Lobskini and the brilliant performance by Miss Laetitia Parsons, whose rendition of 'The Recollections of Ireland' was widely considered almost as good as Moscheles himself. Not even the news of Mr. Theodosius Butler’s arrival could get her to move from the corner of the back drawing-room where she sat.

'Now, Theodosius,' said Miss Maria Crumpton, after that enlightened pamphleteer had nearly run the gauntlet of the whole company, 'I must introduce you to our new pupil.'

'Now, Theodosius,' said Miss Maria Crumpton, after that informed pamphleteer had nearly passed through the entire group, 'I need to introduce you to our new student.'

Theodosius looked as if he cared for nothing earthly.

Theodosius seemed like he didn't care about anything material.

'She's the daughter of a member of parliament,' said Maria.-Theodosius started.

"She's the daughter of a member of parliament," Maria said. Theodosius jumped.

'And her name is-?' he inquired.

'And her name is-?' he asked.

'Miss Brook Dingwall.'

'Ms. Brook Dingwall.'

'Great Heaven!' poetically exclaimed Theodosius, in a low tone.

"OMG!" Theodosius exclaimed softly.

Miss Crumpton commenced the introduction in due form. Miss Brook Dingwall languidly raised her head.

Miss Crumpton started the introduction properly. Miss Brook Dingwall weakly lifted her head.

'Edward!' she exclaimed, with a half-shriek, on seeing the well-known nankeen legs.

'Edward!' she shouted, half in surprise, when she saw the familiar nankeen legs.

Fortunately, as Miss Maria Crumpton possessed no remarkable share of penetration, and as it was one of the diplomatic arrangements that no attention was to be paid to Miss Lavinia's incoherent exclamations, she was perfectly unconscious of the mutual agitation of the parties; and therefore, seeing that the offer of his hand for the next quadrille was accepted, she left him by the side of Miss Brook Dingwall.

Fortunately, since Miss Maria Crumpton had no real insight, and it was agreed that Miss Lavinia's jumbled outbursts should be ignored, she was completely unaware of the shared anxiety between the individuals involved. So, when she noticed that he had gotten a "yes" for the next dance, she walked away, leaving him with Miss Brook Dingwall.

'Oh, Edward!' exclaimed that most romantic of all romantic young ladies, as the light of science seated himself beside her, 'Oh, Edward, is it you?'

'Oh, Edward!' exclaimed the most romantic of all romantic young women, as the light of science sat down next to her, 'Oh, Edward, is that you?'

Mr. Theodosius assured the dear creature, in the most impassioned manner, that he was not conscious of being anybody but himself.

Mr. Theodosius assured the dear creature, in the most passionate way, that he was not aware of being anyone other than himself.

'Then why-why-this disguise? Oh! Edward M'Neville Walter, what have I not suffered on your account?'

'Then why—why this disguise? Oh! Edward M'Neville Walter, what have I not suffered because of you?'

'Lavinia, hear me,' replied the hero, in his most poetic strain. 'Do not condemn me unheard. If anything that emanates from the soul of such a wretch as I, can occupy a place in your recollection-if any being, so vile, deserve your notice-you may remember that I once published a pamphlet (and paid for its publication) entitled "Considerations on the Policy of Removing the Duty on Bees'-wax."'

'Lavinia, listen to me,' replied the hero, in his most poetic tone. 'Don’t judge me without hearing me out. If anything that comes from the heart of someone as unfortunate as I am can find a spot in your memory—if any creature so unworthy deserves your attention—you might recall that I once published a pamphlet (and paid for it) called "Considerations on the Policy of Removing the Duty on Beeswax."'

'I do-I do!' sobbed Lavinia.

"I do! I do!" sobbed Lavinia.

'That,' continued the lover, 'was a subject to which your father was devoted heart and soul.'

'That,' the lover went on, 'was a topic your father was completely dedicated to.'

'He was-he was!' reiterated the sentimentalist.

'He was—he was!' repeated the sentimentalist.

'I knew it,' continued Theodosius, tragically; 'I knew it-I forwarded him a copy. He wished to know me. Could I disclose my real name? Never! No, I assumed that name which you have so often pronounced in tones of endearment. As M'Neville Walter, I devoted myself to the stirring cause; as M'Neville Walter I gained your heart; in the same character I was ejected from your house by your father's domestics; and in no character at all have I since been enabled to see you. We now meet again, and I proudly own that I am-Theodosius Butler.'

'I knew it,' Theodosius said sadly; 'I knew it—I sent him a copy. He wanted to know me. Could I reveal my real name? Never! No, I took on the name you have so often said with affection. As M'Neville Walter, I committed myself to the exciting cause; as M'Neville Walter, I won your heart; and in that same role, I was thrown out of your house by your father's staff; and in no role have I been able to see you since. Now we meet again, and I proudly admit that I am—Theodosius Butler.'

The young lady appeared perfectly satisfied with this argumentative address, and bestowed a look of the most ardent affection on the immortal advocate of bees'-wax.

The young lady seemed completely happy with this debate and gave the most intense look of love to the legendary supporter of beeswax.

'May I hope,' said he, 'that the promise your father's violent behaviour interrupted, may be renewed?'

"Can I hope," he said, "that the promise your father's violent behavior interrupted can be renewed?"

'Let us join this set,' replied Lavinia, coquettishly-for girls of nineteen can coquette.

'Let's join this group,' Lavinia replied, playfully—because girls at nineteen can be flirty.

'No,' ejaculated he of the nankeens. 'I stir not from this spot, writhing under this torture of suspense. May I-may I-hope?'

'No,' he exclaimed, wearing the nankeen trousers. 'I won't move from this spot, writhing in this torture of suspense. Can I—can I—hope?'

'You may.'

"You can."

'The promise is renewed?'

'Is the promise renewed?'

'It is.'

It is.

'I have your permission?'

'Do I have your permission?'

'You have.'

"You've got."

'To the fullest extent?'

'To the max?'

'You know it,' returned the blushing Lavinia. The contortions of the interesting Butler's visage expressed his raptures.

'You know it,' replied the blushing Lavinia. The expressions on the interesting Butler's face showed his delight.

We could dilate upon the occurrences that ensued. How Mr. Theodosius and Miss Lavinia danced, and talked, and sighed for the remainder of the evening-how the Miss Crumptons were delighted thereat. How the writing- master continued to frisk about with one-horse power, and how his wife, from some unaccountable freak, left the whist-table in the little back- parlour, and persisted in displaying her green head-dress in the most conspicuous part of the drawing-room. How the supper consisted of small triangular sandwiches in trays, and a tart here and there by way of variety; and how the visitors consumed warm water disguised with lemon, and dotted with nutmeg, under the denomination of negus. These, and other matters of as much interest, however, we pass over, for the purpose of describing a scene of even more importance.

We could go on about the events that followed. How Mr. Theodosius and Miss Lavinia danced, chatted, and sighed for the rest of the evening—how the Miss Crumptons were thrilled by it. How the writing teacher kept prancing around with limited energy, and how his wife, for some unknown reason, left the whist table in the small back room and insisted on showing off her green headpiece in the most visible spot of the drawing room. How the supper consisted of small triangular sandwiches served on trays, with a tart or two for variety; and how the guests drank warm water flavored with lemon and sprinkled with nutmeg, referred to as negus. These, and other equally interesting matters, we will skip over to describe a scene of even greater significance.

A fortnight after the date of the ball, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was seated at the same library-table, and in the same room, as we have before described. He was alone, and his face bore an expression of deep thought and solemn gravity-he was drawing up 'A Bill for the better observance of Easter Monday.'

A couple of weeks after the ball, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was sitting at the same library table in the same room we’ve previously described. He was alone, and his face showed signs of deep concentration and serious thought—he was drafting 'A Bill for the Better Observance of Easter Monday.'

The footman tapped at the door-the legislator started from his reverie, and 'Miss Crumpton' was announced. Permission was given for Miss Crumpton to enter the sanctum; Maria came sliding in, and having taken her seat with a due portion of affectation, the footman retired, and the governess was left alone with the M.P. Oh! how she longed for the presence of a third party! Even the facetious young gentleman would have been a relief.

The footman knocked on the door—the legislator snapped out of his daydream, and “Miss Crumpton” was announced. He allowed Miss Crumpton to enter the private room; Maria glided in, and after taking her seat with just the right amount of pretentiousness, the footman left, leaving the governess alone with the M.P. Oh! how she wished for the company of a third person! Even the joking young man would have been a welcome distraction.

Miss Crumpton began the duet. She hoped Mrs. Brook Dingwall and the handsome little boy were in good health.

Miss Crumpton started the duet. She hoped Mrs. Brook Dingwall and the cute little boy were doing well.

They were. Mrs. Brook Dingwall and little Frederick were at Brighton.

They were. Mrs. Brook Dingwall and little Frederick were in Brighton.

'Much obliged to you, Miss Crumpton,' said Cornelius, in his most dignified manner, 'for your attention in calling this morning. I should have driven down to Hammersmith, to see Lavinia, but your account was so very satisfactory, and my duties in the House occupy me so much, that I determined to postpone it for a week. How has she gone on?'

"Thank you so much, Miss Crumpton," Cornelius said, in his most dignified way, "for stopping by this morning. I was planning to drive down to Hammersmith to see Lavinia, but your update was so thorough, and my responsibilities in the House take up so much of my time, that I decided to postpone it for a week. How has she been doing?"

'Very well indeed, sir,' returned Maria, dreading to inform the father that she had gone off.

'Of course, sir,' Maria replied, nervous about telling her father that she had left.

'Ah, I thought the plan on which I proceeded would be a match for her.'

'Ah, I thought the strategy I was using would compete with her.'

Here was a favourable opportunity to say that somebody else had been a match for her. But the unfortunate governess was unequal to the task.

Here was a good chance to say that someone else had been a match for her. But the unfortunate governess couldn't handle it.

'You have persevered strictly in the line of conduct I prescribed, Miss Crumpton?'

'You have strictly followed the behavior I suggested, Miss Crumpton?'

'Strictly, sir.'

"Absolutely, sir."

'You tell me in your note that her spirits gradually improved.'

'In your note, you mentioned that her spirits slowly got better.'

'Very much indeed, sir.'

'Absolutely, sir.'

'To be sure. I was convinced they would.'

'Definitely. I was sure they would.'

'But I fear, sir,' said Miss Crumpton, with visible emotion, 'I fear the plan has not succeeded, quite so well as we could have wished.'

'But I'm worried, sir,' said Miss Crumpton, with apparent emotion, 'I'm afraid the plan hasn't worked out as well as we hoped.'

No!' exclaimed the prophet. 'Bless me! Miss Crumpton, you look alarmed. What has happened?'

No!' exclaimed the prophet. 'Wow! Miss Crumpton, you look really worried. What’s wrong?'

'Miss Brook Dingwall, sir-'

'Yes, ma'am?'

'Has gone, sir'-said Maria, exhibiting a strong inclination to faint.

'He's gone, sir,' said Maria, looking like she was about to faint.

'Gone!'

'Missing!'

'Eloped, sir.'

'Got married, sir.'

'Eloped!-Who with-when-where-how?' almost shrieked the agitated diplomatist.

'Eloped! Who with? When? Where? How?' almost shrieked the agitated diplomat.

The natural yellow of the unfortunate Maria's face changed to all the hues of the rainbow, as she laid a small packet on the member's table.

The natural yellow of the unfortunate Maria's face shifted to all the colors of the rainbow as she placed a small packet on the member's table.

He hurriedly opened it. A letter from his daughter, and another from Theodosius. He glanced over their contents-'Ere this reaches you, far distant-appeal to feelings-love to distraction-bees'-wax-slavery,' &c., &c. He dashed his hand to his forehead, and paced the room with fearfully long strides, to the great alarm of the precise Maria.

He quickly opened it. A letter from his daughter and another from Theodosius. He skimmed through their contents—"By the time this gets to you, far away—appeal to feelings—love to distraction—bees' wax—slavery," etc., etc. He slammed his hand to his forehead and paced around the room with anxious strides, deeply alarming the meticulous Maria.

'Now mind; from this time forward,' said Mr. Brook Dingwall, suddenly stopping at the table, and beating time upon it with his hand; 'from this time forward, I never will, under any circumstances whatever, permit a man who writes pamphlets to enter any other room of this house but the kitchen.-I'll allow my daughter and her husband one hundred and fifty pounds a-year, and never see their faces again: and, damme! ma'am, I'll bring in a bill for the abolition of finishing-schools.'

"Now listen up; from this moment on," said Mr. Brook Dingwall, suddenly stopping at the table and tapping it with his hand, "from this moment on, I will never, under any circumstances, let a man who writes pamphlets enter any room in this house except the kitchen. I’ll give my daughter and her husband one hundred and fifty pounds a year, and never see them again. And, damn it, ma'am, I’m going to propose a bill to get rid of finishing schools."

Some time has elapsed since this passionate declaration. Mr. and Mrs. Butler are at present rusticating in a small cottage at Ball's-pond, pleasantly situated in the immediate vicinity of a brick-field. They have no family. Mr. Theodosius looks very important, and writes incessantly; but, in consequence of a gross combination on the part of publishers, none of his productions appear in print. His young wife begins to think that ideal misery is preferable to real unhappiness; and that a marriage, contracted in haste, and repented at leisure, is the cause of more substantial wretchedness than she ever anticipated.

Some time has passed since this passionate declaration. Mr. and Mrs. Butler are currently spending time in a small cottage at Ball's Pond, nicely located right next to a brick field. They have no children. Mr. Theodosius looks very serious and writes constantly; however, due to a questionable collusion among publishers, none of his works are getting published. His young wife is starting to believe that ideal misery is better than real unhappiness, and that a marriage rushed into, but regretted over time, leads to more genuine misery than she ever expected.

On cool reflection, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was reluctantly compelled to admit that the untoward result of his admirable arrangements was attributable, not to the Miss Crumptons, but his own diplomacy. He, however, consoles himself, like some other small diplomatists, by satisfactorily proving that if his plans did not succeed, they ought to have done so. Minerva House is in status quo, and 'The Misses Crumpton' remain in the peaceable and undisturbed enjoyment of all the advantages resulting from their Finishing-School.

On reflecting back, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was reluctantly forced to admit that the unfortunate outcome of his excellent plans was due, not to the Miss Crumptons, but to his own diplomacy. He, however, reassures himself, like some other small diplomats, by convincingly arguing that if his plans didn’t work out, they should have. Minerva House remains the same, and 'The Misses Crumpton' continue to peacefully enjoy all the benefits of their Finishing School.

CHAPTER IV-THE TUGGSES AT RAMSGATE

Once upon a time there dwelt, in a narrow street on the Surrey side of the water, within three minutes' walk of old London Bridge, Mr. Joseph Tuggs-a little dark-faced man, with shiny hair, twinkling eyes, short legs, and a body of very considerable thickness, measuring from the centre button of his waistcoat in front, to the ornamental buttons of his coat behind. The figure of the amiable Mrs. Tuggs, if not perfectly symmetrical, was decidedly comfortable; and the form of her only daughter, the accomplished Miss Charlotte Tuggs, was fast ripening into that state of luxuriant plumpness which had enchanted the eyes, and captivated the heart, of Mr. Joseph Tuggs in his earlier days. Mr. Simon Tuggs, his only son, and Miss Charlotte Tuggs's only brother, was as differently formed in body, as he was differently constituted in mind, from the remainder of his family. There was that elongation in his thoughtful face, and that tendency to weakness in his interesting legs, which tell so forcibly of a great mind and romantic disposition. The slightest traits of character in such a being, possess no mean interest to speculative minds. He usually appeared in public, in capacious shoes with black cotton stockings; and was observed to be particularly attached to a black glazed stock, without tie or ornament of any description.

Once upon a time, in a narrow street on the Surrey side of the water, just a three-minute walk from old London Bridge, lived Mr. Joseph Tuggs—a little dark-faced man with shiny hair, twinkling eyes, short legs, and a body that was quite robust, measuring from the center button of his waistcoat in front to the decorative buttons of his coat behind. The figure of the friendly Mrs. Tuggs, while not perfectly shaped, was definitely comfortable; and the form of their only daughter, the talented Miss Charlotte Tuggs, was quickly developing into a state of lush plumpness that had once enchanted the eyes and captured the heart of Mr. Joseph Tuggs in his younger days. Mr. Simon Tuggs, his only son and Miss Charlotte Tuggs's only brother, was as physically different as he was mentally distinct from the rest of his family. His thoughtful face had an elongation, and his interesting legs showed a tendency to weakness, which strongly suggested a great mind and a romantic nature. The smallest traits of character in someone like him hold significant interest for curious thinkers. He usually appeared in public wearing roomy shoes with black cotton stockings and was particularly fond of a black glazed stock, without any tie or decoration of any kind.

There is perhaps no profession, however useful; no pursuit, however meritorious; which can escape the petty attacks of vulgar minds. Mr. Joseph Tuggs was a grocer. It might be supposed that a grocer was beyond the breath of calumny; but no-the neighbours stigmatised him as a chandler; and the poisonous voice of envy distinctly asserted that he dispensed tea and coffee by the quartern, retailed sugar by the ounce, cheese by the slice, tobacco by the screw, and butter by the pat. These taunts, however, were lost upon the Tuggses. Mr. Tuggs attended to the grocery department; Mrs. Tuggs to the cheesemongery; and Miss Tuggs to her education. Mr. Simon Tuggs kept his father's books, and his own counsel.

There may be no job, no matter how helpful, and no endeavor, no matter how commendable, that can avoid the petty criticism of narrow-minded people. Mr. Joseph Tuggs was a grocer. One might think that a grocer would be free from slander, but no—his neighbors labeled him a chandler, and the toxic whispers of envy clearly claimed that he sold tea and coffee by the quarter, sugar by the ounce, cheese by the slice, tobacco by the screw, and butter by the pat. However, these insults had no effect on the Tuggs family. Mr. Tuggs managed the grocery side of things, Mrs. Tuggs took care of the cheese trade, and Miss Tuggs focused on her education. Mr. Simon Tuggs kept track of his father's accounts and his own advice.

One fine spring afternoon, the latter gentleman was seated on a tub of weekly Dorset, behind the little red desk with a wooden rail, which ornamented a corner of the counter; when a stranger dismounted from a cab, and hastily entered the shop. He was habited in black cloth, and bore with him, a green umbrella, and a blue bag.

One beautiful spring afternoon, the latter gentleman was sitting on a tub of weekly Dorset, behind the small red desk with a wooden rail that decorated a corner of the counter, when a stranger got out of a cab and quickly entered the shop. He was dressed in black fabric and carried a green umbrella and a blue bag.

'Mr. Tuggs?' said the stranger, inquiringly.

'Mr. Tuggs?' the stranger asked, curious.

'My name is Tuggs,' replied Mr. Simon.

'My name is Tuggs,' Mr. Simon replied.

'It's the other Mr. Tuggs,' said the stranger, looking towards the glass door which led into the parlour behind the shop, and on the inside of which, the round face of Mr. Tuggs, senior, was distinctly visible, peeping over the curtain.

'It's the other Mr. Tuggs,' said the stranger, glancing at the glass door that led into the parlor behind the shop. On the inside, Mr. Tuggs, senior, was clearly visible, peeking over the curtain with his round face.

Mr. Simon gracefully waved his pen, as if in intimation of his wish that his father would advance. Mr. Joseph Tuggs, with considerable celerity, removed his face from the curtain and placed it before the stranger.

Mr. Simon elegantly waved his pen, as if signaling to his father to step forward. Mr. Joseph Tuggs quickly pulled his face away from the curtain and presented it to the stranger.

'I come from the Temple,' said the man with the bag.

'I come from the Temple,' said the guy with the bag.

'From the Temple!' said Mrs. Tuggs, flinging open the door of the little parlour and disclosing Miss Tuggs in perspective.

'From the Temple!' exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, throwing open the door of the small parlor and revealing Miss Tuggs in view.

'From the Temple!' said Miss Tuggs and Mr. Simon Tuggs at the same moment.

'From the Temple!' said Miss Tuggs and Mr. Simon Tuggs at the same time.

'From the Temple!' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, turning as pale as a Dutch cheese.

'From the Temple!' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, turning as pale as a piece of cheese.

'From the Temple,' repeated the man with the bag; 'from Mr. Cower's, the solicitor's. Mr. Tuggs, I congratulate you, sir. Ladies, I wish you joy of your prosperity! We have been successful.' And the man with the bag leisurely divested himself of his umbrella and glove, as a preliminary to shaking hands with Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

'From the Temple,' repeated the man with the bag; 'from Mr. Cower's, the lawyer's. Mr. Tuggs, congratulations, sir. Ladies, I wish you well on your success! We've done it.' And the man with the bag casually took off his umbrella and glove before shaking hands with Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Now the words 'we have been successful,' had no sooner issued from the mouth of the man with the bag, than Mr. Simon Tuggs rose from the tub of weekly Dorset, opened his eyes very wide, gasped for breath, made figures of eight in the air with his pen, and finally fell into the arms of his anxious mother, and fainted away without the slightest ostensible cause or pretence.

Now, the moment the words "we have been successful" came out of the man with the bag, Mr. Simon Tuggs jumped up from the tub of weekly Dorset, opened his eyes wide, gasped for air, waved his pen in the air in a figure-eight motion, and finally collapsed into the arms of his worried mother, fainting away for no clear reason at all.

'Water!' screamed Mrs. Tuggs.

"Water!" yelled Mrs. Tuggs.

'Look up, my son,' exclaimed Mr. Tuggs.

'Look up, my son,' Mr. Tuggs said.

'Simon! dear Simon!' shrieked Miss Tuggs.

'Simon! dear Simon!' shouted Miss Tuggs.

'I'm better now,' said Mr. Simon Tuggs. 'What! successful!' And then, as corroborative evidence of his being better, he fainted away again, and was borne into the little parlour by the united efforts of the remainder of the family, and the man with the bag.

'I'm feeling better now,' said Mr. Simon Tuggs. 'What! Successful!' And then, as proof that he was indeed better, he fainted again and was carried into the small parlor by the combined efforts of the rest of the family and the man with the bag.

To a casual spectator, or to any one unacquainted with the position of the family, this fainting would have been unaccountable. To those who understood the mission of the man with the bag, and were moreover acquainted with the excitability of the nerves of Mr. Simon Tuggs, it was quite comprehensible. A long-pending lawsuit respecting the validity of a will, had been unexpectedly decided; and Mr. Joseph Tuggs was the possessor of twenty thousand pounds.

To an onlooker or anyone unfamiliar with the family's situation, this fainting would be puzzling. But for those who knew the purpose of the man with the bag and were aware of Mr. Simon Tuggs' highly sensitive nature, it made perfect sense. A long-standing legal battle over the validity of a will had been abruptly resolved, and Mr. Joseph Tuggs was now the owner of twenty thousand pounds.

A prolonged consultation took place, that night, in the little parlour-a consultation that was to settle the future destinies of the Tuggses. The shop was shut up, at an unusually early hour; and many were the unavailing kicks bestowed upon the closed door by applicants for quarterns of sugar, or half-quarterns of bread, or penn'orths of pepper, which were to have been 'left till Saturday,' but which fortune had decreed were to be left alone altogether.

A long meeting happened that night in the small living room—a meeting that would determine the future of the Tuggs family. The shop closed much earlier than usual, and many frustrated customers kicked at the locked door, hoping to buy quarters of sugar, half-quarters of bread, or small amounts of pepper that were supposed to be "saved until Saturday," but luck had decided they would be left untouched altogether.

'We must certainly give up business,' said Miss Tuggs.

'We definitely have to quit the business,' said Miss Tuggs.

'Oh, decidedly,' said Mrs. Tuggs.

"Oh, definitely," said Mrs. Tuggs.

'Simon shall go to the bar,' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

'Simon will go to the bar,' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

'And I shall always sign myself "Cymon" in future,' said his son.

'From now on, I’ll always sign myself as "Cymon,"' said his son.

'And I shall call myself Charlotta,' said Miss Tuggs.

'And I’ll call myself Charlotta,' said Miss Tuggs.

'And you must always call me "Ma," and father "Pa,"' said Mrs. Tuggs.

"And you have to always call me 'Ma' and your father 'Pa,'" said Mrs. Tuggs.

'Yes, and Pa must leave off all his vulgar habits,' interposed Miss Tuggs.

'Yes, and Dad has to stop all his crude habits,' interjected Miss Tuggs.

'I'll take care of all that,' responded Mr. Joseph Tuggs, complacently. He was, at that very moment, eating pickled salmon with a pocket-knife.

"I'll handle all that," replied Mr. Joseph Tuggs, confidently. He was, at that exact moment, eating pickled salmon with a pocket knife.

'We must leave town immediately,' said Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

'We need to leave town right away,' said Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

Everybody concurred that this was an indispensable preliminary to being genteel. The question then arose, Where should they go?

Everybody agreed that this was a crucial step to being classy. The question then came up, Where should they go?

'Gravesend?' mildly suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs. The idea was unanimously scouted. Gravesend was low.

'Gravesend?' Mr. Joseph Tuggs suggested casually. The idea was quickly dismissed by everyone. Gravesend was considered undesirable.

'Margate?' insinuated Mrs. Tuggs. Worse and worse-nobody there, but tradespeople.

'Margate?' hinted Mrs. Tuggs. Things just kept getting worse—there was no one there but shopkeepers.

'Brighton?' Mr. Cymon Tuggs opposed an insurmountable objection. All the coaches had been upset, in turn, within the last three weeks; each coach had averaged two passengers killed, and six wounded; and, in every case, the newspapers had distinctly understood that 'no blame whatever was attributable to the coachman.'

'Brighton?' Mr. Cymon Tuggs raised a serious objection. All the coaches had been in accidents, one after another, over the last three weeks; each coach had averaged two passengers dead and six injured; and, in every instance, the newspapers had clearly stated that 'no blame at all was due to the coachman.'

'Ramsgate?' ejaculated Mr. Cymon, thoughtfully. To be sure; how stupid they must have been, not to have thought of that before! Ramsgate was just the place of all others.

'Ramsgate?' exclaimed Mr. Cymon, deep in thought. Of course; how silly they must have been not to think of that sooner! Ramsgate was exactly the right place after all.

Two months after this conversation, the City of London Ramsgate steamer was running gaily down the river. Her flag was flying, her band was playing, her passengers were conversing; everything about her seemed gay and lively.-No wonder-the Tuggses were on board.

Two months after this conversation, the City of London Ramsgate steamer was cheerfully cruising down the river. Her flag was flying, her band was playing, her passengers were chatting; everything about her seemed happy and vibrant. No surprise—the Tuggses were on board.

'Charming, ain't it?' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, in a bottle-green great- coat, with a velvet collar of the same, and a blue travelling-cap with a gold band.

'Isn't it charming?' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, in a bottle-green overcoat with a velvet collar of the same color, and a blue travel cap with a gold band.

'Soul-inspiring,' replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs-he was entered at the bar. 'Soul-inspiring!'

'Soul-inspiring,' replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs—he was registered at the bar. 'Soul-inspiring!'

'Delightful morning, sir!' said a stoutish, military-looking gentleman in a blue surtout buttoned up to his chin, and white trousers chained down to the soles of his boots.

'Lovely morning, sir!' said a stocky, military-looking guy in a blue coat buttoned up to his chin, and white pants fastened down to the soles of his boots.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs took upon himself the responsibility of answering the observation. 'Heavenly!' he replied.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs took it upon himself to respond to the comment. "Heavenly!" he replied.

'You are an enthusiastic admirer of the beauties of Nature, sir?' said the military gentleman.

'You're an enthusiastic admirer of Nature's beauty, sir?' said the military gentleman.

'I am, sir,' replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

'Travelled much, sir?' inquired the military gentleman.

"Have you traveled a lot, sir?" asked the military man.

'Not much,' replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

'You've been on the continent, of course?' inquired the military gentleman.

"You've been to the continent, right?" asked the military gentleman.

'Not exactly,' replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs-in a qualified tone, as if he wished it to be implied that he had gone half-way and come back again.

'Not exactly,' replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs in a cautious tone, as if he wanted to suggest that he had gone part of the way and then turned back.

'You of course intend your son to make the grand tour, sir?' said the military gentleman, addressing Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

'You obviously plan for your son to take the grand tour, right?' said the military gentleman, speaking to Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

As Mr. Joseph Tuggs did not precisely understand what the grand tour was, or how such an article was manufactured, he replied, 'Of course.' Just as he said the word, there came tripping up, from her seat at the stern of the vessel, a young lady in a puce-coloured silk cloak, and boots of the same; with long black ringlets, large black eyes, brief petticoats, and unexceptionable ankles.

As Mr. Joseph Tuggs didn’t quite grasp what the grand tour was or how such an item was made, he replied, ‘Of course.’ Just as he said this, a young lady in a puce-colored silk cloak and matching boots came skipping up from her seat at the back of the boat, featuring long black curls, big black eyes, short skirts, and perfectly shaped ankles.

'Walter, my dear,' said the young lady to the military gentleman.

'Walter, my dear,' said the young woman to the soldier.

'Yes, Belinda, my love,' responded the military gentleman to the black- eyed young lady.

'Yes, Belinda, my love,' replied the soldier to the young lady with the dark eyes.

'What have you left me alone so long for?' said the young lady. 'I have been stared out of countenance by those rude young men.'

'Why did you leave me alone for so long?' said the young lady. 'I’ve been gawked at by those obnoxious young men.'

'What! stared at?' exclaimed the military gentleman, with an emphasis which made Mr. Cymon Tuggs withdraw his eyes from the young lady's face with inconceivable rapidity. 'Which young men-where?' and the military gentleman clenched his fist, and glared fearfully on the cigar-smokers around.

'What! Are you staring at?' exclaimed the military guy, emphasizing his words so much that Mr. Cymon Tuggs quickly looked away from the young lady's face. 'Which young men—where?' The military guy clenched his fist and glared angrily at the cigar smokers nearby.

'Be calm, Walter, I entreat,' said the young lady.

"Please stay calm, Walter," the young lady pleaded.

'I won't,' said the military gentleman.

'I won't,' said the military guy.

'Do, sir,' interposed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. 'They ain't worth your notice.'

'Go ahead, sir,' chimed in Mr. Cymon Tuggs. 'They aren't worth your attention.'

'No-no-they are not, indeed,' urged the young lady.

'No, no—they're really not,' insisted the young lady.

'I will be calm,' said the military gentleman. 'You speak truly, sir. I thank you for a timely remonstrance, which may have spared me the guilt of manslaughter.' Calming his wrath, the military gentleman wrung Mr. Cymon Tuggs by the hand.

'I will stay calm,' said the soldier. 'You’re right, sir. I appreciate your timely warning, which may have saved me from the guilt of manslaughter.' Easing his anger, the soldier shook Mr. Cymon Tuggs' hand.

'My sister, sir!' said Mr. Cymon Tuggs; seeing that the military gentleman was casting an admiring look towards Miss Charlotta.

'My sister, sir!' said Mr. Cymon Tuggs, noticing that the military gentleman was giving an admiring glance toward Miss Charlotta.

'My wife, ma'am-Mrs. Captain Waters,' said the military gentleman, presenting the black-eyed young lady.

'My wife, ma'am—Mrs. Captain Waters,' said the military guy, introducing the young lady with the dark eyes.

'My mother, ma'am-Mrs. Tuggs,' said Mr. Cymon. The military gentleman and his wife murmured enchanting courtesies; and the Tuggses looked as unembarrassed as they could.

'My mother, ma'am—Mrs. Tuggs,' said Mr. Cymon. The military gentleman and his wife exchanged charming pleasantries, and the Tuggses appeared as unbothered as possible.

'Walter, my dear,' said the black-eyed young lady, after they had sat chatting with the Tuggses some half-hour.

'Walter, my dear,' said the young lady with the dark eyes, after they had been chatting with the Tuggses for about half an hour.

'Yes, my love,' said the military gentleman.

'Yes, my love,' said the soldier.

'Don't you think this gentleman (with an inclination of the head towards Mr. Cymon Tuggs) is very much like the Marquis Carriwini?'

'Don't you think this guy (nodding towards Mr. Cymon Tuggs) looks a lot like the Marquis Carriwini?'

'Lord bless me, very!' said the military gentleman.

'Well, I'll be!' said the military gentleman.

'It struck me, the moment I saw him,' said the young lady, gazing intently, and with a melancholy air, on the scarlet countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs. Mr. Cymon Tuggs looked at everybody; and finding that everybody was looking at him, appeared to feel some temporary difficulty in disposing of his eyesight.

"It hit me the moment I saw him," said the young woman, staring intently and wearing a sad expression as she looked at the bright red face of Mr. Cymon Tuggs. Mr. Cymon Tuggs glanced at everyone, and noticing that everyone was watching him, seemed to have a brief struggle with where to direct his gaze.

'So exactly the air of the marquis,' said the military gentleman.

'Just like the air of the marquis,' said the military gentleman.

'Quite extraordinary!' sighed the military gentleman's lady.

'That's really something!' sighed the military gentleman's wife.

'You don't know the marquis, sir?' inquired the military gentleman.

"You don't know the marquis, sir?" asked the military man.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs stammered a negative.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs stammered a no.

'If you did,' continued Captain Walter Waters, 'you would feel how much reason you have to be proud of the resemblance-a most elegant man, with a most prepossessing appearance.'

'If you did,' continued Captain Walter Waters, 'you would realize how much you have to be proud of the resemblance— a very stylish man, with a very appealing look.'

'He is-he is indeed!' exclaimed Belinda Waters energetically. As her eye caught that of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, she withdrew it from his features in bashful confusion.

'He is—he is for sure!' exclaimed Belinda Waters excitedly. When her gaze met Mr. Cymon Tuggs, she quickly looked away in shy embarrassment.

All this was highly gratifying to the feelings of the Tuggses; and when, in the course of farther conversation, it was discovered that Miss Charlotta Tuggs was the fac simile of a titled relative of Mrs. Belinda Waters, and that Mrs. Tuggs herself was the very picture of the Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton, their delight in the acquisition of so genteel and friendly an acquaintance, knew no bounds. Even the dignity of Captain Walter Waters relaxed, to that degree, that he suffered himself to be prevailed upon by Mr. Joseph Tuggs, to partake of cold pigeon-pie and sherry, on deck; and a most delightful conversation, aided by these agreeable stimulants, was prolonged, until they ran alongside Ramsgate Pier.

All of this was incredibly satisfying for the Tuggses. During further conversation, it was revealed that Miss Charlotta Tuggs looked just like a titled relative of Mrs. Belinda Waters, and that Mrs. Tuggs herself resembled the Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton. Their excitement about having such a classy and friendly connection was limitless. Even Captain Walter Waters, who usually maintained his composure, relaxed enough to let Mr. Joseph Tuggs convince him to enjoy some cold pigeon pie and sherry on deck. They ended up having a delightful conversation, made even better by these pleasant drinks, which continued until they reached Ramsgate Pier.

'Good-bye, dear!' said Mrs. Captain Waters to Miss Charlotta Tuggs, just before the bustle of landing commenced; 'we shall see you on the sands in the morning; and, as we are sure to have found lodgings before then, I hope we shall be inseparables for many weeks to come.'

'Goodbye, dear!' Mrs. Captain Waters said to Miss Charlotta Tuggs just before the hectic landing began; 'we'll see you on the beach in the morning, and since we're sure to have found a place to stay by then, I hope we'll be inseparable for many weeks ahead.'

'Oh! I hope so,' said Miss Charlotta Tuggs, emphatically.

'Oh! I really hope so,' said Miss Charlotta Tuggs, emphatically.

'Tickets, ladies and gen'lm'n,' said the man on the paddle-box.

'Tickets, ladies and gentlemen,' said the man on the paddle-box.

'Want a porter, sir?' inquired a dozen men in smock-frocks.

"Want a porter, sir?" asked a dozen men in work clothes.

'Now, my dear!' said Captain Waters.

'Good-bye!' said Mrs. Captain Waters-'good-bye, Mr. Cymon!' and with a pressure of the hand which threw the amiable young man's nerves into a state of considerable derangement, Mrs. Captain Waters disappeared among the crowd. A pair of puce-coloured boots were seen ascending the steps, a white handkerchief fluttered, a black eye gleamed. The Waterses were gone, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs was alone in a heartless world.

'Goodbye!' said Mrs. Captain Waters, 'goodbye, Mr. Cymon!' and with a handshake that left the charming young man feeling quite flustered, Mrs. Captain Waters blended into the crowd. A pair of maroon boots were spotted going up the stairs, a white handkerchief waved, and a dark eye sparkled. The Waterses had left, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs was alone in a cold world.

Silently and abstractedly, did that too sensitive youth follow his revered parents, and a train of smock-frocks and wheelbarrows, along the pier, until the bustle of the scene around, recalled him to himself. The sun was shining brightly; the sea, dancing to its own music, rolled merrily in; crowds of people promenaded to and fro; young ladies tittered; old ladies talked; nursemaids displayed their charms to the greatest possible advantage; and their little charges ran up and down, and to and fro, and in and out, under the feet, and between the legs, of the assembled concourse, in the most playful and exhilarating manner. There were old gentlemen, trying to make out objects through long telescopes; and young ones, making objects of themselves in open shirt- collars; ladies, carrying about portable chairs, and portable chairs carrying about invalids; parties, waiting on the pier for parties who had come by the steam-boat; and nothing was to be heard but talking, laughing, welcoming, and merriment.

Silently and lost in thought, that overly sensitive young man followed his respected parents, along with a group of workers in smock-frocks and pushing wheelbarrows, down the pier, until the lively scene around him brought him back to reality. The sun was shining brightly; the sea, moving to its own rhythm, rolled in cheerfully; crowds of people strolled back and forth; young women giggled; older women chatted; nannies showcased their charges to the best advantage; and the little ones ran around, weaving in and out, underfoot, and between the legs of the gathered crowd, in the most playful and exciting way. There were older gentlemen trying to scope out things through long telescopes, while younger ones made themselves the center of attention in open shirts; ladies carried portable chairs, and portable chairs carried invalids; groups waited on the pier for others arriving by steamship; and all around, there was nothing but chatter, laughter, greetings, and joy.

'Fly, sir?' exclaimed a chorus of fourteen men and six boys, the moment Mr. Joseph Tuggs, at the head of his little party, set foot in the street.

'Fly, sir?' exclaimed a chorus of fourteen men and six boys, the moment Mr. Joseph Tuggs, at the head of his little group, stepped into the street.

'Here's the gen'lm'n at last!' said one, touching his hat with mock politeness. 'Werry glad to see you, sir,-been a-waitin' for you these six weeks. Jump in, if you please, sir!'

'Here's the gentleman at last!' said one, tipping his hat with fake politeness. 'Very glad to see you, sir—I've been waiting for you for six weeks. Please, hop in, sir!'

'Nice light fly and a fast trotter, sir,' said another: 'fourteen mile a hour, and surroundin' objects rendered inwisible by ex-treme welocity!'

'Nice light fly and a fast trotter, sir,' said another, 'fourteen miles an hour, and surrounding objects made invisible by extreme velocity!'

'Large fly for your luggage, sir,' cried a third. 'Werry large fly here, sir-reg'lar bluebottle!'

'Big fly for your luggage, sir,' shouted a third. 'Very big fly here, sir—a real bluebottle!'

'Here's your fly, sir!' shouted another aspiring charioteer, mounting the box, and inducing an old grey horse to indulge in some imperfect reminiscences of a canter. 'Look at him, sir!-temper of a lamb and haction of a steam-ingein!'

'Here's your fly, sir!' shouted another aspiring charioteer, climbing onto the box and getting an old gray horse to recall some half-hearted attempts at a canter. 'Look at him, sir! Temper of a lamb and action of a steam engine!'

Resisting even the temptation of securing the services of so valuable a quadruped as the last named, Mr. Joseph Tuggs beckoned to the proprietor of a dingy conveyance of a greenish hue, lined with faded striped calico; and, the luggage and the family having been deposited therein, the animal in the shafts, after describing circles in the road for a quarter of an hour, at last consented to depart in quest of lodgings.

Resisting the urge to hire such a valuable animal as the one just mentioned, Mr. Joseph Tuggs waved over the owner of a shabby, greenish carriage lined with worn-out striped fabric. Once the luggage and family were loaded inside, the animal hitched to the front spent about fifteen minutes going around in circles on the road before finally agreeing to head off in search of a place to stay.

'How many beds have you got?' screamed Mrs. Tuggs out of the fly, to the woman who opened the door of the first house which displayed a bill intimating that apartments were to be let within.

'How many beds do you have?' shouted Mrs. Tuggs from the carriage, to the woman who opened the door of the first house that had a sign saying rooms were available for rent.

'How many did you want, ma'am?' was, of course, the reply.

'How many would you like, ma'am?' was, of course, the response.

'Three.'

'3.'

'Will you step in, ma'am?' Down got Mrs. Tuggs. The family were delighted. Splendid view of the sea from the front windows-charming! A short pause. Back came Mrs. Tuggs again.-One parlour and a mattress.

'Will you come in, ma'am?' Down came Mrs. Tuggs. The family was thrilled. Fantastic view of the sea from the front windows—lovely! A brief pause. Back came Mrs. Tuggs again.—One living room and a mattress.

'Why the devil didn't they say so at first?' inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs, rather pettishly.

"Why didn't they say that at the beginning?" Mr. Joseph Tuggs asked, somewhat irritably.

'Don't know,' said Mrs. Tuggs.

"Idk," said Mrs. Tuggs.

'Wretches!' exclaimed the nervous Cymon. Another bill-another stoppage. Same question-same answer-similar result.

'Wretches!' exclaimed the anxious Cymon. Another bill—another hold-up. Same question—same answer—similar outcome.

'What do they mean by this?' inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs, thoroughly out of temper.

'What do they mean by this?' Mr. Joseph Tuggs asked, completely annoyed.

'Don't know,' said the placid Mrs. Tuggs.

'Don't know,' said the calm Mrs. Tuggs.

'Orvis the vay here, sir,' said the driver, by way of accounting for the circumstance in a satisfactory manner; and off they went again, to make fresh inquiries, and encounter fresh disappointments.

'Orvis the way here, sir,' said the driver, trying to explain the situation in a way that made sense; and off they went again, to make new inquiries and face new disappointments.

It had grown dusk when the 'fly'-the rate of whose progress greatly belied its name-after climbing up four or five perpendicular hills, stopped before the door of a dusty house, with a bay window, from which you could obtain a beautiful glimpse of the sea-if you thrust half of your body out of it, at the imminent peril of falling into the area. Mrs. Tuggs alighted. One ground-floor sitting-room, and three cells with beds in them up-stairs. A double-house. Family on the opposite side. Five children milk-and-watering in the parlour, and one little boy, expelled for bad behaviour, screaming on his back in the passage.

It was getting dark when the 'fly'—which moved much faster than its name suggested—after climbing up four or five steep hills, stopped in front of a dusty house with a bay window. From that window, you could catch a great view of the sea—if you leaned out far enough, risking a fall into the area below. Mrs. Tuggs got out. There was one living room on the ground floor and three small bedrooms upstairs. It was a two-family house. The family next door had five children playing in the living room and one little boy, who had been sent out for misbehaving, screaming on his back in the hallway.

'What's the terms?' said Mrs. Tuggs. The mistress of the house was considering the expediency of putting on an extra guinea; so, she coughed slightly, and affected not to hear the question.

'What are the terms?' said Mrs. Tuggs. The lady of the house was thinking about the possibility of adding an extra guinea, so she cleared her throat a bit and pretended not to hear the question.

'What's the terms?' said Mrs. Tuggs, in a louder key.

'What's the deal?' said Mrs. Tuggs, in a louder voice.

'Five guineas a week, ma'am, with attendance,' replied the lodging-house keeper. (Attendance means the privilege of ringing the bell as often as you like, for your own amusement.)

"Five guineas a week, ma'am, including attendance," replied the lodging-house keeper. (Attendance means you can ring the bell as often as you want, just for fun.)

'Rather dear,' said Mrs. Tuggs. 'Oh dear, no, ma'am!' replied the mistress of the house, with a benign smile of pity at the ignorance of manners and customs, which the observation betrayed. 'Very cheap!'

'Quite expensive,' said Mrs. Tuggs. 'Oh no, ma'am!' replied the lady of the house, with a kind smile of pity for the lack of understanding of manners and customs that the comment revealed. 'It's actually very reasonable!'

Such an authority was indisputable. Mrs. Tuggs paid a week's rent in advance, and took the lodgings for a month. In an hour's time, the family were seated at tea in their new abode.

Such authority was unquestionable. Mrs. Tuggs paid a week's rent upfront and booked the place for a month. Within an hour, the family was sitting down for tea in their new home.

'Capital srimps!' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

'Capital shrimps!' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Mr. Cymon eyed his father with a rebellious scowl, as he emphatically said 'Shrimps.'

Mr. Cymon glared at his father with a defiant scowl and firmly said, 'Shrimps.'

'Well, then, shrimps,' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. 'Srimps or shrimps, don't much matter.'

'Well, then, shrimps,' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. 'Shrimps or prawns, it doesn't really matter.'

There was pity, blended with malignity, in Mr. Cymon's eye, as he replied, 'Don't matter, father! What would Captain Waters say, if he heard such vulgarity?'

There was a mix of pity and malice in Mr. Cymon's eye as he replied, 'It doesn't matter, Dad! What would Captain Waters think if he heard such nonsense?'

'Or what would dear Mrs. Captain Waters say,' added Charlotta, 'if she saw mother-ma, I mean-eating them whole, heads and all!'

'Or what would dear Mrs. Captain Waters say,' added Charlotta, 'if she saw mother-ma, I mean - eating them whole, heads and all!'

'It won't bear thinking of!' ejaculated Mr. Cymon, with a shudder. 'How different,' he thought, 'from the Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton!'

"It’s hard to imagine!" exclaimed Mr. Cymon, shuddering. "How different," he thought, "from the Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton!"

'Very pretty woman, Mrs. Captain Waters, is she not, Cymon?' inquired Miss Charlotta.

'She's a very pretty woman, Mrs. Captain Waters, isn't she, Cymon?' asked Miss Charlotta.

A glow of nervous excitement passed over the countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, as he replied, 'An angel of beauty!'

A rush of nervous excitement spread across Mr. Cymon Tuggs's face as he replied, 'A beautiful angel!'

'Hallo!' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. 'Hallo, Cymon, my boy, take care. Married lady, you know;' and he winked one of his twinkling eyes knowingly.

'Hello!' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. 'Hello, Cymon, my boy, be careful. She's a married woman, you know;' and he winked one of his sparkling eyes knowingly.

'Why,' exclaimed Cymon, starting up with an ebullition of fury, as unexpected as alarming, 'why am I to be reminded of that blight of my happiness, and ruin of my hopes? Why am I to be taunted with the miseries which are heaped upon my head? Is it not enough to-to-to-' and the orator paused; but whether for want of words, or lack of breath, was never distinctly ascertained.

"Why," Cymon shouted, jumping up in a burst of anger that was both surprising and unsettling, "why do I have to be reminded of that curse on my happiness and the destruction of my hopes? Why am I being mocked about the hardships that are piled on me? Isn’t it enough to—” and he stopped; it was never clearly determined whether he ran out of words or air.

There was an impressive solemnity in the tone of this address, and in the air with which the romantic Cymon, at its conclusion, rang the bell, and demanded a flat candlestick, which effectually forbade a reply. He stalked dramatically to bed, and the Tuggses went to bed too, half an hour afterwards, in a state of considerable mystification and perplexity.

There was a striking seriousness in the tone of this speech, and in the way the romantic Cymon, at the end of it, rang the bell and asked for a flat candlestick, which clearly stopped any response. He dramatically walked to bed, and the Tuggses went to bed too, half an hour later, feeling quite confused and puzzled.

If the pier had presented a scene of life and bustle to the Tuggses on their first landing at Ramsgate, it was far surpassed by the appearance of the sands on the morning after their arrival. It was a fine, bright, clear day, with a light breeze from the sea. There were the same ladies and gentlemen, the same children, the same nursemaids, the same telescopes, the same portable chairs. The ladies were employed in needlework, or watch-guard making, or knitting, or reading novels; the gentlemen were reading newspapers and magazines; the children were digging holes in the sand with wooden spades, and collecting water therein; the nursemaids, with their youngest charges in their arms, were running in after the waves, and then running back with the waves after them; and, now and then, a little sailing-boat either departed with a gay and talkative cargo of passengers, or returned with a very silent and particularly uncomfortable-looking one.

If the pier had shown a lively and busy scene to the Tuggses when they first arrived at Ramsgate, it was nothing compared to what they saw on the beach the morning after. It was a beautiful, bright, clear day, with a gentle breeze coming from the sea. The same ladies and gentlemen were there, the same kids, the same nanny’s, the same telescopes, and the same portable chairs. The ladies were busy with needlework, making watch-guards, knitting, or reading novels; the gentlemen were reading newspapers and magazines; the kids were digging holes in the sand with wooden shovels and collecting water in them; the nannies, holding their youngest charges in their arms, were running into the waves and then rushing back with the waves chasing them; and now and then, a little sailboat either left with a cheerful and chatty group of passengers or came back with a very quiet and particularly uncomfortable-looking one.

'Well, I never!' exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, as she and Mr. Joseph Tuggs, and Miss Charlotta Tuggs, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, with their eight feet in a corresponding number of yellow shoes, seated themselves on four rush- bottomed chairs, which, being placed in a soft part of the sand, forthwith sunk down some two feet and a half-'Well, I never!'

'Well, I can't believe it!' exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, as she, Mr. Joseph Tuggs, Miss Charlotta Tuggs, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, with their eight feet in matching yellow shoes, settled onto four rush-bottomed chairs. These chairs, situated on a softer part of the sand, immediately sank down about two and a half feet—'Well, I can't believe it!'

Mr. Cymon, by an exertion of great personal strength, uprooted the chairs, and removed them further back.

Mr. Cymon, using a lot of personal strength, picked up the chairs and moved them further back.

'Why, I'm blessed if there ain't some ladies a-going in!' exclaimed Mr. Joseph Tuggs, with intense astonishment.

"Well, I’ll be! There are some ladies coming in!" exclaimed Mr. Joseph Tuggs, in utter amazement.

'Lor, pa!' exclaimed Miss Charlotta.

"Oh my!" exclaimed Miss Charlotta.

'There is, my dear,' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. And, sure enough, four young ladies, each furnished with a towel, tripped up the steps of a bathing-machine. In went the horse, floundering about in the water; round turned the machine; down sat the driver; and presently out burst the young ladies aforesaid, with four distinct splashes.

'There is, my dear,' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. And sure enough, four young ladies, each carrying a towel, walked up the steps of a bathing machine. The horse went in, splashing around in the water; the machine rotated; the driver sat down; and soon enough, the young ladies came out, each with a distinct splash.

'Well, that's sing'ler, too!' ejaculated Mr. Joseph Tuggs, after an awkward pause. Mr. Cymon coughed slightly.

'Well, that's singular, too!' exclaimed Mr. Joseph Tuggs after an awkward pause. Mr. Cymon coughed slightly.

'Why, here's some gentlemen a-going in on this side!' exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, in a tone of horror.

'Look, there are some guys going in on this side!' exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, in a horrified tone.

Three machines-three horses-three flounderings-three turnings round-three splashes-three gentlemen, disporting themselves in the water like so many dolphins.

Three machines—three horses—three struggles—three spins—three splashes—three gentlemen, playing in the water like a bunch of dolphins.

'Well, that's sing'ler!' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs again. Miss Charlotta coughed this time, and another pause ensued. It was agreeably broken.

'Well, that's singular!' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs again. Miss Charlotta coughed this time, and another pause followed. It was pleasantly interrupted.

'How d'ye do, dear? We have been looking for you, all the morning,' said a voice to Miss Charlotta Tuggs. Mrs. Captain Waters was the owner of it.

'How are you, dear? We've been looking for you all morning,' said a voice to Miss Charlotta Tuggs. Mrs. Captain Waters owned it.

'How d'ye do?' said Captain Walter Waters, all suavity; and a most cordial interchange of greetings ensued.

'How do you do?' said Captain Walter Waters, with great charm; and a very warm exchange of greetings followed.

'Belinda, my love,' said Captain Walter Waters, applying his glass to his eye, and looking in the direction of the sea.

'Belinda, my love,' said Captain Walter Waters, putting his binoculars to his eye and scanning the sea.

'Yes, my dear,' replied Mrs. Captain Waters.

'There's Harry Thompson!'

"There's Harry Thompson!"

'Where?' said Belinda, applying her glass to her eye.

'Where?' Belinda asked, putting her glass up to her eye.

'Bathing.'

'Bath time.'

'Lor, so it is! He don't see us, does he?'

'Wow, it really is! He doesn’t see us, does he?'

'No, I don't think he does' replied the captain. 'Bless my soul, how very singular!'

'No, I don't think he does,' replied the captain. 'Wow, how very strange!'

'What?' inquired Belinda.

"What?" asked Belinda.

'There's Mary Golding, too.'

'Lor!-where?' (Up went the glass again.)

'Wow!-where?' (Up went the glass again.)

'There!' said the captain, pointing to one of the young ladies before noticed, who, in her bathing costume, looked as if she was enveloped in a patent Mackintosh, of scanty dimensions.

'There!' said the captain, pointing to one of the young ladies who hadn’t been noticed before, and in her bathing suit, she looked like she was wrapped in a small, waterproof raincoat.

'So it is, I declare!' exclaimed Mrs. Captain Waters. 'How very curious we should see them both!'

'So it is, I swear!' exclaimed Mrs. Captain Waters. 'How strange it is that we should see both of them!'

'Very,' said the captain, with perfect coolness.

'Absolutely,' said the captain, with complete calm.

'It's the reg'lar thing here, you see,' whispered Mr. Cymon Tuggs to his father.

'It's the usual thing here, you see,' whispered Mr. Cymon Tuggs to his father.

'I see it is,' whispered Mr. Joseph Tuggs in reply. 'Queer, though-ain't it?' Mr. Cymon Tuggs nodded assent.

'I see it is,' whispered Mr. Joseph Tuggs in response. 'Weird, though—right?' Mr. Cymon Tuggs nodded in agreement.

'What do you think of doing with yourself this morning?' inquired the captain. 'Shall we lunch at Pegwell?'

'What do you plan to do with yourself this morning?' asked the captain. 'Should we have lunch at Pegwell?'

'I should like that very much indeed,' interposed Mrs. Tuggs. She had never heard of Pegwell; but the word 'lunch' had reached her ears, and it sounded very agreeably.

'I would really like that a lot,' chimed in Mrs. Tuggs. She had never heard of Pegwell; but the word 'lunch' had caught her attention, and it sounded very appealing.

'How shall we go?' inquired the captain; 'it's too warm to walk.'

'How should we get there?' asked the captain; 'it's too hot to walk.'

'A shay?' suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

'Chaise,' whispered Mr. Cymon.

"Chair," whispered Mr. Cymon.

'I should think one would be enough,' said Mr. Joseph Tuggs aloud, quite unconscious of the meaning of the correction. 'However, two shays if you like.'

"I'd say one would be enough," Mr. Joseph Tuggs said out loud, completely unaware of what the correction meant. "But if you prefer, two cars will do."

'I should like a donkey so much,' said Belinda.

'I would really like a donkey,' said Belinda.

'Oh, so should I!' echoed Charlotta Tuggs.

'Oh, I definitely should!' echoed Charlotta Tuggs.

'Well, we can have a fly,' suggested the captain, 'and you can have a couple of donkeys.'

'Well, we can take a flight,' suggested the captain, 'and you can have a couple of donkeys.'

A fresh difficulty arose. Mrs. Captain Waters declared it would be decidedly improper for two ladies to ride alone. The remedy was obvious. Perhaps young Mr. Tuggs would be gallant enough to accompany them.

A new problem came up. Mrs. Captain Waters said it would be totally inappropriate for two women to ride alone. The solution was clear. Maybe young Mr. Tuggs would be chivalrous enough to go with them.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs blushed, smiled, looked vacant, and faintly protested that he was no horseman. The objection was at once overruled. A fly was speedily found; and three donkeys-which the proprietor declared on his solemn asseveration to be 'three parts blood, and the other corn'-were engaged in the service.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs blushed, smiled, appeared confused, and weakly insisted that he wasn't a horseman. This objection was quickly dismissed. A fly was soon found, and three donkeys—which the owner firmly claimed were 'three parts blood, and the other corn'—were hired for the job.

'Kim up!' shouted one of the two boys who followed behind, to propel the donkeys, when Belinda Waters and Charlotta Tuggs had been hoisted, and pushed, and pulled, into their respective saddles.

'Kim up!' shouted one of the two boys trailing behind to urge the donkeys on, as Belinda Waters and Charlotta Tuggs had been lifted, pushed, and pulled into their saddles.

'Hi-hi-hi!' groaned the other boy behind Mr. Cymon Tuggs. Away went the donkey, with the stirrups jingling against the heels of Cymon's boots, and Cymon's boots nearly scraping the ground.

'Way-way! Wo-o-o-!' cried Mr. Cymon Tuggs as well as he could, in the midst of the jolting.

'Way-way! Wo-o-o-!' shouted Mr. Cymon Tuggs as best as he could, amid the bouncing.

'Don't make it gallop!' screamed Mrs. Captain Waters, behind.

"Don't let it run fast!" yelled Mrs. Captain Waters from behind.

'My donkey will go into the public-house!' shrieked Miss Tuggs in the rear.

'My donkey is going into the pub!' shrieked Miss Tuggs from the back.

'Hi-hi-hi!' groaned both the boys together; and on went the donkeys as if nothing would ever stop them.

'Hi-hi-hi!' groaned both boys together; and the donkeys continued on as if nothing could ever stop them.

Everything has an end, however; even the galloping of donkeys will cease in time. The animal which Mr. Cymon Tuggs bestrode, feeling sundry uncomfortable tugs at the bit, the intent of which he could by no means divine, abruptly sidled against a brick wall, and expressed his uneasiness by grinding Mr. Cymon Tuggs's leg on the rough surface. Mrs. Captain Waters's donkey, apparently under the influence of some playfulness of spirit, rushed suddenly, head first, into a hedge, and declined to come out again: and the quadruped on which Miss Tuggs was mounted, expressed his delight at this humorous proceeding by firmly planting his fore-feet against the ground, and kicking up his hind-legs in a very agile, but somewhat alarming manner.

Everything has an end, though; even the running of donkeys will stop eventually. The donkey that Mr. Cymon Tuggs was riding, feeling some uncomfortable tugs at the bit, which he couldn’t figure out, suddenly moved sideways against a brick wall and showed his discomfort by rubbing Mr. Cymon Tuggs's leg against the rough surface. Mrs. Captain Waters's donkey, seemingly feeling playful, suddenly charged headfirst into a hedge and refused to come out again. The donkey that Miss Tuggs was riding showed his amusement at this funny situation by firmly planting his front feet on the ground and kicking up his back legs in a very agile, but somewhat scary way.

This abrupt termination to the rapidity of the ride, naturally occasioned some confusion. Both the ladies indulged in vehement screaming for several minutes; and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, besides sustaining intense bodily pain, had the additional mental anguish of witnessing their distressing situation, without having the power to rescue them, by reason of his leg being firmly screwed in between the animal and the wall. The efforts of the boys, however, assisted by the ingenious expedient of twisting the tail of the most rebellious donkey, restored order in a much shorter time than could have reasonably been expected, and the little party jogged slowly on together.

This sudden stop to the fast ride caused a lot of confusion. Both ladies screamed loudly for several minutes, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, in addition to suffering serious physical pain, felt the extra stress of seeing their distressing situation without being able to help them because his leg was stuck tightly between the animal and the wall. However, the boys, using the clever trick of twisting the tail of the most difficult donkey, managed to restore order much faster than anyone could have expected, and the little group continued on their way slowly together.

'Now let 'em walk,' said Mr. Cymon Tuggs. 'It's cruel to overdrive 'em.'

'Now let them walk,' said Mr. Cymon Tuggs. 'It's harsh to overwork them.'

'Werry well, sir,' replied the boy, with a grin at his companion, as if he understood Mr. Cymon to mean that the cruelty applied less to the animals than to their riders.

"Werry well, sir," the boy said with a grin at his friend, as if he understood Mr. Cymon to mean that the cruelty affected the riders more than the animals.

'What a lovely day, dear!' said Charlotta.

'What a beautiful day, sweetheart!' said Charlotta.

'Charming; enchanting, dear!' responded Mrs. Captain Waters.

'Charming; enchanting, dear!' replied Mrs. Captain Waters.

'What a beautiful prospect, Mr. Tuggs!'

'What a beautiful view, Mr. Tuggs!'

Cymon looked full in Belinda's face, as he responded-'Beautiful, indeed!' The lady cast down her eyes, and suffered the animal she was riding to fall a little back. Cymon Tuggs instinctively did the same.

Cymon looked directly at Belinda's face and replied, "Beautiful, indeed!" The lady lowered her gaze and allowed the animal she was riding to fall back a little. Cymon Tuggs instinctively did the same.

There was a brief silence, broken only by a sigh from Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

There was a short pause, interrupted only by a sigh from Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

'Mr. Cymon,' said the lady suddenly, in a low tone, 'Mr. Cymon-I am another's.'

'Mr. Cymon,' the lady suddenly said in a low voice, 'Mr. Cymon—I belong to someone else.'

Mr. Cymon expressed his perfect concurrence in a statement which it was impossible to controvert.

Mr. Cymon agreed completely with a statement that was impossible to dispute.

'If I had not been-' resumed Belinda; and there she stopped.

'If I hadn't been-' Belinda started again, but then she paused.

'What-what?' said Mr. Cymon earnestly. 'Do not torture me. What would you say?'

'What? What?' Mr. Cymon said earnestly. 'Please don’t torment me. What would you say?'

'If I had not been'-continued Mrs. Captain Waters-'if, in earlier life, it had been my fate to have known, and been beloved by, a noble youth-a kindred soul-a congenial spirit-one capable of feeling and appreciating the sentiments which-'

'If I had not been'—continued Mrs. Captain Waters—'if, earlier in my life, I had been fortunate enough to know and be loved by a noble young man—a kindred spirit—someone who could truly feel and appreciate the sentiments which—'

'Heavens! what do I hear?' exclaimed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. 'Is it possible! can I believe my-Come up!' (This last unsentimental parenthesis was addressed to the donkey, who, with his head between his fore-legs, appeared to be examining the state of his shoes with great anxiety.)

'Wow! What am I hearing?' yelled Mr. Cymon Tuggs. 'Is it possible? Can I really believe my—Come here!' (This last unfeeling remark was directed at the donkey, who, with his head between his front legs, seemed to be worriedly inspecting the condition of his shoes.)

'Hi-hi-hi,' said the boys behind. 'Come up,' expostulated Cymon Tuggs again. 'Hi-hi-hi,' repeated the boys. And whether it was that the animal felt indignant at the tone of Mr. Tuggs's command, or felt alarmed by the noise of the deputy proprietor's boots running behind him; or whether he burned with a noble emulation to outstrip the other donkeys; certain it is that he no sooner heard the second series of 'hi-hi's,' than he started away, with a celerity of pace which jerked Mr. Cymon's hat off, instantaneously, and carried him to the Pegwell Bay hotel in no time, where he deposited his rider without giving him the trouble of dismounting, by sagaciously pitching him over his head, into the very doorway of the tavern.

"Hi-hi-hi," said the boys behind. "Come on," urged Cymon Tuggs again. "Hi-hi-hi," the boys repeated. Whether the animal felt insulted by Mr. Tuggs's command, was startled by the sound of the deputy proprietor's boots pounding behind him, or was driven by a competitive spirit to outrun the other donkeys, the fact is that as soon as he heard the second round of "hi-hi's," he took off. His sudden speed knocked Mr. Cymon's hat off and got him to the Pegwell Bay hotel in no time, where he promptly tossed his rider over his head right into the doorway of the tavern without giving him a chance to dismount.

Great was the confusion of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, when he was put right end uppermost, by two waiters; considerable was the alarm of Mrs. Tuggs in behalf of her son; agonizing were the apprehensions of Mrs. Captain Waters on his account. It was speedily discovered, however, that he had not sustained much more injury than the donkey-he was grazed, and the animal was grazing-and then it was a delightful party to be sure! Mr. and Mrs. Tuggs, and the captain, had ordered lunch in the little garden behind:-small saucers of large shrimps, dabs of butter, crusty loaves, and bottled ale. The sky was without a cloud; there were flower-pots and turf before them; the sea, from the foot of the cliff, stretching away as far as the eye could discern anything at all; vessels in the distance with sails as white, and as small, as nicely-got-up cambric handkerchiefs. The shrimps were delightful, the ale better, and the captain even more pleasant than either. Mrs. Captain Waters was in such spirits after lunch!-chasing, first the captain across the turf, and among the flower-pots; and then Mr. Cymon Tuggs; and then Miss Tuggs; and laughing, too, quite boisterously. But as the captain said, it didn't matter; who knew what they were, there? For all the people of the house knew, they might be common people. To which Mr. Joseph Tuggs responded, 'To be sure.' And then they went down the steep wooden steps a little further on, which led to the bottom of the cliff; and looked at the crabs, and the seaweed, and the eels, till it was more than fully time to go back to Ramsgate again. Finally, Mr. Cymon Tuggs ascended the steps last, and Mrs. Captain Waters last but one; and Mr. Cymon Tuggs discovered that the foot and ankle of Mrs. Captain Waters, were even more unexceptionable than he had at first supposed.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs was really confused when two waiters set him upright. Mrs. Tuggs was quite worried about her son, and Mrs. Captain Waters was extremely anxious on his behalf. However, it quickly became clear that he hadn’t been hurt much more than the donkey — he had some scratches, and the donkey was just munching away. Soon enough, it turned into a lovely gathering! Mr. and Mrs. Tuggs, along with the captain, ordered lunch in the little garden out back: small plates of big shrimp, some butter, crusty bread, and bottled ale. The sky was perfectly clear; there were flower pots and grass in front of them; the sea spread out from the cliff’s edge as far as the eye could see, with distant ships that looked like tiny white handkerchiefs. The shrimp were delicious, the ale was even better, and the captain was more enjoyable than both. Mrs. Captain Waters was in high spirits after lunch! She chased the captain over the grass and among the flower pots, followed by Mr. Cymon Tuggs and then Miss Tuggs, laughing loudly the whole time. But as the captain said, it didn’t really matter; who could tell who they were? For all they knew, they could be regular folks. Mr. Joseph Tuggs agreed, saying, "Of course." Then they went down the steep wooden steps a bit further along that led to the bottom of the cliff, exploring the crabs, seaweed, and eels until it was definitely time to head back to Ramsgate. Finally, Mr. Cymon Tuggs was the last to climb the steps, with Mrs. Captain Waters closely behind him. It was then that Mr. Cymon Tuggs realized that Mrs. Captain Waters's foot and ankle were even lovelier than he had initially thought.

Taking a donkey towards his ordinary place of residence, is a very different thing, and a feat much more easily to be accomplished, than taking him from it. It requires a great deal of foresight and presence of mind in the one case, to anticipate the numerous flights of his discursive imagination; whereas, in the other, all you have to do, is, to hold on, and place a blind confidence in the animal. Mr. Cymon Tuggs adopted the latter expedient on his return; and his nerves were so little discomposed by the journey, that he distinctly understood they were all to meet again at the library in the evening.

Taking a donkey to his usual home is a totally different task and a lot easier to pull off than taking him away from it. In the first case, you need a lot of foresight and quick thinking to deal with the donkey's wandering imagination; in the other, all you have to do is hang on and trust the animal blindly. Mr. Cymon Tuggs went with the second approach on his way back, and he was so calm during the journey that he clearly understood they were all supposed to meet again at the library in the evening.

The library was crowded. There were the same ladies, and the same gentlemen, who had been on the sands in the morning, and on the pier the day before. There were young ladies, in maroon-coloured gowns and black velvet bracelets, dispensing fancy articles in the shop, and presiding over games of chance in the concert-room. There were marriageable daughters, and marriage-making mammas, gaming and promenading, and turning over music, and flirting. There were some male beaux doing the sentimental in whispers, and others doing the ferocious in moustache. There were Mrs. Tuggs in amber, Miss Tuggs in sky-blue, Mrs. Captain Waters in pink. There was Captain Waters in a braided surtout; there was Mr. Cymon Tuggs in pumps and a gilt waistcoat; there was Mr. Joseph Tuggs in a blue coat and a shirt-frill.

The library was packed. The same ladies and gentlemen who had been on the beach in the morning and on the pier the day before were there. Young women in maroon dresses and black velvet bracelets were selling stylish items in the shop and managing games of chance in the concert room. There were eligible daughters and matchmaking mothers gambling, strolling, flipping through music, and flirting. Some guys were whispering sweet nothings, while others were trying to look tough with their mustaches. There was Mrs. Tuggs in amber, Miss Tuggs in sky-blue, and Mrs. Captain Waters in pink. Captain Waters was wearing a braided coat; Mr. Cymon Tuggs sported pumps and a gold waistcoat; and Mr. Joseph Tuggs had on a blue coat and a frilly shirt.

'Numbers three, eight, and eleven!' cried one of the young ladies in the maroon-coloured gowns.

'Numbers three, eight, and eleven!' shouted one of the young women in the maroon dresses.

'Numbers three, eight, and eleven!' echoed another young lady in the same uniform.

'Numbers three, eight, and eleven!' repeated another young woman in the same uniform.

'Number three's gone,' said the first young lady. 'Numbers eight and eleven!'

'Number three is gone,' said the first young lady. 'Numbers eight and eleven!'

'Numbers eight and eleven!' echoed the second young lady.

'Numbers eight and eleven!' echoed the second young woman.

'Number eight's gone, Mary Ann,' said the first young lady.

'Number eight is gone, Mary Ann,' said the first young lady.

'Number eleven!' screamed the second.

'Number 11!' screamed the second.

'The numbers are all taken now, ladies, if you please,' said the first. The representatives of numbers three, eight, and eleven, and the rest of the numbers, crowded round the table.

'All the numbers are taken now, ladies, if you don’t mind,' said the first. The representatives of numbers three, eight, and eleven, along with the other numbers, gathered around the table.

'Will you throw, ma'am?' said the presiding goddess, handing the dice- box to the eldest daughter of a stout lady, with four girls.

'Will you roll, ma'am?' asked the presiding goddess, handing the dice box to the eldest daughter of a sturdy woman with four daughters.

There was a profound silence among the lookers-on.

There was a deep silence among the onlookers.

'Throw, Jane, my dear,' said the stout lady. An interesting display of bashfulness-a little blushing in a cambric handkerchief-a whispering to a younger sister.

'Go ahead and throw, Jane, my dear,' said the heavyset lady. There was an interesting show of shyness—a slight blush while holding a cotton handkerchief—and a quiet conversation with her younger sister.

'Amelia, my dear, throw for your sister,' said the stout lady; and then she turned to a walking advertisement of Rowlands' Macassar Oil, who stood next her, and said, 'Jane is so very modest and retiring; but I can't be angry with her for it. An artless and unsophisticated girl is so truly amiable, that I often wish Amelia was more like her sister!'

'Amelia, darling, throw for your sister,' said the plump lady; and then she turned to a walking ad for Rowlands' Macassar Oil, who was standing next to her, and said, 'Jane is so incredibly modest and reserved; but I can’t be upset with her for it. A genuine and innocent girl is just so lovely, that I often wish Amelia was more like her sister!'

The gentleman with the whiskers whispered his admiring approval.

The man with the beard quietly expressed his admiration.

'Now, my dear!' said the stout lady. Miss Amelia threw-eight for her sister, ten for herself.

'Now, my dear!' said the plump lady. Miss Amelia threw eight for her sister and ten for herself.

'Nice figure, Amelia,' whispered the stout lady to a thin youth beside her.

'Nice figure, Amelia,' whispered the plump woman to the slender young person next to her.

'Beautiful!'

'Gorgeous!'

'And such a spirit! I am like you in that respect. I can not help admiring that life and vivacity. Ah! (a sigh) I wish I could make poor Jane a little more like my dear Amelia!'

'And what a spirit! I'm similar to you in that way. I can’t help but admire that energy and enthusiasm. Ah! (a sigh) I wish I could make poor Jane a bit more like my dear Amelia!'

The young gentleman cordially acquiesced in the sentiment; both he, and the individual first addressed, were perfectly contented.

The young man readily agreed with the feeling; both he and the person he was speaking to were completely satisfied.

'Who's this?' inquired Mr. Cymon Tuggs of Mrs. Captain Waters, as a short female, in a blue velvet hat and feathers, was led into the orchestra, by a fat man in black tights and cloudy Berlins.

"Who's this?" asked Mr. Cymon Tuggs of Mrs. Captain Waters, as a short woman, wearing a blue velvet hat and feathers, was brought into the orchestra by a heavyset man in black tights and fuzzy Berlins.

'Mrs. Tippin, of the London theatres,' replied Belinda, referring to the programme of the concert.

'Mrs. Tippin, from the London theaters,' replied Belinda, pointing to the concert program.

The talented Tippin having condescendingly acknowledged the clapping of hands, and shouts of 'bravo!' which greeted her appearance, proceeded to sing the popular cavatina of 'Bid me discourse,' accompanied on the piano by Mr. Tippin; after which, Mr. Tippin sang a comic song, accompanied on the piano by Mrs. Tippin: the applause consequent upon which, was only to be exceeded by the enthusiastic approbation bestowed upon an air with variations on the guitar, by Miss Tippin, accompanied on the chin by Master Tippin.

The talented Tippin, having somewhat patronizingly acknowledged the applause and shouts of 'bravo!' welcoming her arrival, began to sing the popular song 'Bid me discourse,' with Mr. Tippin playing the piano. After that, Mr. Tippin performed a funny song, with Mrs. Tippin accompanying him on the piano. The applause that followed was only outdone by the enthusiastic praise given to a guitar piece with variations, performed by Miss Tippin, with Master Tippin accompanying her on the chin.

Thus passed the evening; thus passed the days and evenings of the Tuggses, and the Waterses, for six weeks. Sands in the morning-donkeys at noon-pier in the afternoon-library at night-and the same people everywhere.

Thus passed the evening; thus passed the days and evenings of the Tuggses, and the Waterses, for six weeks. Sands in the morning—donkeys at noon—pier in the afternoon—library at night—and the same people everywhere.

On that very night six weeks, the moon was shining brightly over the calm sea, which dashed against the feet of the tall gaunt cliffs, with just enough noise to lull the old fish to sleep, without disturbing the young ones, when two figures were discernible-or would have been, if anybody had looked for them-seated on one of the wooden benches which are stationed near the verge of the western cliff. The moon had climbed higher into the heavens, by two hours' journeying, since those figures first sat down-and yet they had moved not. The crowd of loungers had thinned and dispersed; the noise of itinerant musicians had died away; light after light had appeared in the windows of the different houses in the distance; blockade-man after blockade-man had passed the spot, wending his way towards his solitary post; and yet those figures had remained stationary. Some portions of the two forms were in deep shadow, but the light of the moon fell strongly on a puce-coloured boot and a glazed stock. Mr. Cymon Tuggs and Mrs. Captain Waters were seated on that bench. They spoke not, but were silently gazing on the sea.

On that night six weeks ago, the moon was shining brightly over the calm sea, which lapped against the tall, jagged cliffs, making just enough noise to lull the old fish to sleep without waking the young ones. Two figures could be seen—or would have been if anyone had looked—sitting on one of the wooden benches near the edge of the western cliff. The moon had risen two hours since they first sat down, and yet they hadn't moved. The crowd of people had thinned out; the sounds of street musicians had faded; lights were appearing in the windows of distant houses; and blockaders kept passing by on their way to their lonely posts, yet those figures remained still. Parts of their forms were in deep shadow, but the moonlight shone brightly on a puce-colored boot and a polished stock. Mr. Cymon Tuggs and Mrs. Captain Waters were sitting on that bench. They didn't speak but were silently gazing at the sea.

'Walter will return to-morrow,' said Mrs. Captain Waters, mournfully breaking silence.

'Walter will be back tomorrow,' said Mrs. Captain Waters, sadly breaking the silence.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sighed like a gust of wind through a forest of gooseberry bushes, as he replied, 'Alas! he will.'

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sighed like a strong breeze through a patch of gooseberry bushes as he replied, 'Unfortunately, he will.'

'Oh, Cymon!' resumed Belinda, 'the chaste delight, the calm happiness, of this one week of Platonic love, is too much for me!' Cymon was about to suggest that it was too little for him, but he stopped himself, and murmured unintelligibly.

'Oh, Cymon!' Belinda continued, 'the pure joy, the peaceful happiness of this one week of Platonic love is too much for me!' Cymon was about to say that it was too little for him, but he held back and mumbled something unclear.

'And to think that even this gleam of happiness, innocent as it is,' exclaimed Belinda, 'is now to be lost for ever!'

'And to think that even this spark of happiness, as innocent as it is,' exclaimed Belinda, 'is now going to be lost forever!'

'Oh, do not say for ever, Belinda,' exclaimed the excitable Cymon, as two strongly-defined tears chased each other down his pale face-it was so long that there was plenty of room for a chase. 'Do not say for ever!'

"Oh, don't say forever, Belinda," exclaimed the passionate Cymon, as two clear tears raced down his pale face—there was plenty of space for them to race. "Don't say forever!"

'I must,' replied Belinda.

"I have to," replied Belinda.

'Why?' urged Cymon, 'oh why? Such Platonic acquaintance as ours is so harmless, that even your husband can never object to it.'

'Why?' Cymon pressed, 'oh why? Our Platonic friendship is so innocent that even your husband could never have a problem with it.'

'My husband!' exclaimed Belinda. 'You little know him. Jealous and revengeful; ferocious in his revenge-a maniac in his jealousy! Would you be assassinated before my eyes?' Mr. Cymon Tuggs, in a voice broken by emotion, expressed his disinclination to undergo the process of assassination before the eyes of anybody.

'My husband!' Belinda exclaimed. 'You hardly know him. He’s jealous and vengeful; he goes wild with his revenge—a total maniac when he's jealous! Would you really want to be killed right in front of me?' Mr. Cymon Tuggs, his voice shaky with emotion, said that he really didn't want to be killed in front of anyone.

'Then leave me,' said Mrs. Captain Waters. 'Leave me, this night, for ever. It is late: let us return.'

'Then go away from me,' said Mrs. Captain Waters. 'Leave me tonight, for good. It's late: let's go back.'

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sadly offered the lady his arm, and escorted her to her lodgings. He paused at the door-he felt a Platonic pressure of his hand. 'Good night,' he said, hesitating.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sadly offered the lady his arm and walked her to her place. He stopped at the door and felt a gentle pressure of his hand. "Good night," he said, hesitating.

'Good night,' sobbed the lady. Mr. Cymon Tuggs paused again.

'Good night,' cried the woman. Mr. Cymon Tuggs paused once more.

'Won't you walk in, sir?' said the servant. Mr. Tuggs hesitated. Oh, that hesitation! He did walk in.

'Won't you come in, sir?' asked the servant. Mr. Tuggs hesitated. Oh, that hesitation! He did step inside.

'Good night!' said Mr. Cymon Tuggs again, when he reached the drawing- room.

'Good night!' Mr. Cymon Tuggs said again when he got to the living room.

'Good night!' replied Belinda; 'and, if at any period of my life, I-Hush!' The lady paused and stared with a steady gaze of horror, on the ashy countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs. There was a double knock at the street-door.

'Good night!' replied Belinda; 'and if at any point in my life—Hush!' The lady paused and stared in horror at the pale face of Mr. Cymon Tuggs. There was a double knock at the front door.

'It is my husband!' said Belinda, as the captain's voice was heard below.

'It's my husband!' said Belinda, as the captain's voice echoed from below.

'And my family!' added Cymon Tuggs, as the voices of his relatives floated up the staircase.

'And my family!' added Cymon Tuggs, as the voices of his relatives drifted up the stairs.

'The curtain! The curtain!' gasped Mrs. Captain Waters, pointing to the window, before which some chintz hangings were closely drawn.

'The curtain! The curtain!' gasped Mrs. Captain Waters, pointing to the window, where some chintz curtains were tightly closed.

'But I have done nothing wrong,' said the hesitating Cymon.

'But I haven't done anything wrong,' said the hesitant Cymon.

'The curtain!' reiterated the frantic lady: 'you will be murdered.' This last appeal to his feelings was irresistible. The dismayed Cymon concealed himself behind the curtain with pantomimic suddenness.

'The curtain!' repeated the frantic lady, 'you'll be killed.' This final plea to his emotions was impossible to ignore. The shocked Cymon quickly hid behind the curtain with dramatic suddenness.

Enter the captain, Joseph Tuggs, Mrs. Tuggs, and Charlotta.

Enter Captain Joseph Tuggs, Mrs. Tuggs, and Charlotta.

'My dear,' said the captain, 'Lieutenant, Slaughter.' Two iron-shod boots and one gruff voice were heard by Mr. Cymon to advance, and acknowledge the honour of the introduction. The sabre of the lieutenant rattled heavily upon the floor, as he seated himself at the table. Mr. Cymon's fears almost overcame his reason.

'My dear,' said the captain, 'Lieutenant, Slaughter.' Mr. Cymon heard the sound of two heavy boots and a gruff voice approaching, acknowledging the introduction. The lieutenant's sabre clanked loudly on the floor as he took a seat at the table. Mr. Cymon's fears nearly overwhelmed his ability to think clearly.

'The brandy, my dear!' said the captain. Here was a situation! They were going to make a night of it! And Mr. Cymon Tuggs was pent up behind the curtain and afraid to breathe!

'The brandy, my dear!' said the captain. What a situation! They were going to party all night! And Mr. Cymon Tuggs was stuck behind the curtain, too scared to breathe!

'Slaughter,' said the captain, 'a cigar?'

Now, Mr. Cymon Tuggs never could smoke without feeling it indispensably necessary to retire, immediately, and never could smell smoke without a strong disposition to cough. The cigars were introduced; the captain was a professed smoker; so was the lieutenant; so was Joseph Tuggs. The apartment was small, the door was closed, the smoke powerful: it hung in heavy wreaths over the room, and at length found its way behind the curtain. Cymon Tuggs held his nose, his mouth, his breath. It was all of no use-out came the cough.

Now, Mr. Cymon Tuggs could never smoke without feeling the urgent need to step outside immediately, and he could never smell smoke without wanting to cough. The cigars were brought out; the captain was a devoted smoker; so was the lieutenant; and so was Joseph Tuggs. The room was small, the door was shut, and the smoke was thick: it floated in heavy rings through the room and eventually seeped behind the curtain. Cymon Tuggs covered his nose, his mouth, and held his breath. It was all pointless—out came the cough.

'Bless my soul!' said the captain, 'I beg your pardon, Miss Tuggs. You dislike smoking?'

"Goodness!" said the captain, "I’m sorry, Miss Tuggs. You don’t like smoking?"

'Oh, no; I don't indeed,' said Charlotta.

'Oh, no; I really don't,' said Charlotta.

'It makes you cough.'

"It makes you cough."

'Oh dear no.'

'Oh no.'

'You coughed just now.'

'You just coughed.'

'Me, Captain Waters! Lor! how can you say so?'

'Me, Captain Waters! Wow! How can you say that?'

'Somebody coughed,' said the captain.

"Someone coughed," said the captain.

'I certainly thought so,' said Slaughter. No; everybody denied it.

'I definitely thought so,' said Slaughter. No; everyone denied it.

'Fancy,' said the captain.

'Cool,' said the captain.

'Must be,' echoed Slaughter.

"Must be," echoed Slaughter.

Cigars resumed-more smoke-another cough-smothered, but violent.

Cigars started up again—more smoke—another cough—choked, but intense.

'Damned odd!' said the captain, staring about him.

'Damn weird!' said the captain, looking around.

'Sing'ler!' ejaculated the unconscious Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

'Sing'ler!' exclaimed the unconscious Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Lieutenant Slaughter looked first at one person mysteriously, then at another: then, laid down his cigar, then approached the window on tiptoe, and pointed with his right thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the curtain.

Lieutenant Slaughter first glanced at one person, then another, laid down his cigar, tiptoed to the window, and pointed with his right thumb over his shoulder toward the curtain.

'Slaughter!' ejaculated the captain, rising from table, 'what do you mean?'

'Slaughter!' the captain exclaimed, getting up from the table, 'what do you mean?'

The lieutenant, in reply, drew back the curtain and discovered Mr. Cymon Tuggs behind it: pallid with apprehension, and blue with wanting to cough.

The lieutenant responded by pulling back the curtain and revealing Mr. Cymon Tuggs behind it: pale with anxiety and struggling to hold back a cough.

'Aha!' exclaimed the captain, furiously. 'What do I see? Slaughter, your sabre!'

'Aha!' the captain shouted angrily. 'What do I see? Slaughter, give me your saber!'

'Cymon!' screamed the Tuggses.

'Cymon!' shouted the Tuggses.

'Mercy!' said Belinda.

"Wow!" said Belinda.

'Platonic!' gasped Cymon.

"Platonic!" Cymon gasped.

'Your sabre!' roared the captain: 'Slaughter-unhand me-the villain's life!'

'Your saber!' yelled the captain: 'Slaughter—get off me—the villain's life!'

'Murder!' screamed the Tuggses.

“Murder!” screamed the Tuggses.

'Hold him fast, sir!' faintly articulated Cymon.

'Hold him tight, sir!' Cymon said weakly.

'Water!' exclaimed Joseph Tuggs-and Mr. Cymon Tuggs and all the ladies forthwith fainted away, and formed a tableau.

'Water!' Joseph Tuggs shouted—and Mr. Cymon Tuggs and all the ladies immediately fainted and created a tableau.

Most willingly would we conceal the disastrous termination of the six weeks' acquaintance. A troublesome form, and an arbitrary custom, however, prescribe that a story should have a conclusion, in addition to a commencement; we have therefore no alternative. Lieutenant Slaughter brought a message-the captain brought an action. Mr. Joseph Tuggs interposed-the lieutenant negotiated. When Mr. Cymon Tuggs recovered from the nervous disorder into which misplaced affection, and exciting circumstances, had plunged him, he found that his family had lost their pleasant acquaintance; that his father was minus fifteen hundred pounds; and the captain plus the precise sum. The money was paid to hush the matter up, but it got abroad notwithstanding; and there are not wanting some who affirm that three designing impostors never found more easy dupes, than did Captain Waters, Mrs. Waters, and Lieutenant Slaughter, in the Tuggses at Ramsgate.

We would much rather hide the disastrous end of the six weeks we spent together. Unfortunately, a bothersome formality and an arbitrary tradition require that a story has to have an ending, in addition to a beginning; so we have no choice. Lieutenant Slaughter brought a message—the captain brought a lawsuit. Mr. Joseph Tuggs intervened—the lieutenant mediated. When Mr. Cymon Tuggs recovered from the anxiety caused by misplaced love and dramatic events, he realized that his family had lost their pleasant connection; that his father was down fifteen hundred pounds; and that the captain was up exactly that amount. The money was paid to keep the situation quiet, but it leaked out anyway; and there are those who claim that three scheming con artists found easier marks than Captain Waters, Mrs. Waters, and Lieutenant Slaughter did in the Tuggs family at Ramsgate.

CHAPTER V-HORATIO SPARKINS

'Indeed, my love, he paid Teresa very great attention on the last assembly night,' said Mrs. Malderton, addressing her spouse, who, after the fatigues of the day in the City, was sitting with a silk handkerchief over his head, and his feet on the fender, drinking his port;-'very great attention; and I say again, every possible encouragement ought to be given him. He positively must be asked down here to dine.'

'Indeed, my love, he paid Teresa a lot of attention at the last gathering,' said Mrs. Malderton, speaking to her husband, who, after a tiring day in the City, was sitting with a silk handkerchief over his head and his feet on the fender, sipping his port; 'a lot of attention; and I say again, we should give him all the encouragement possible. He definitely must be invited here for dinner.'

'Who must?' inquired Mr. Malderton.

"Who has to?" asked Mr. Malderton.

'Why, you know whom I mean, my dear-the young man with the black whiskers and the white cravat, who has just come out at our assembly, and whom all the girls are talking about. Young-dear me! what's his name?-Marianne, what is his name?' continued Mrs. Malderton, addressing her youngest daughter, who was engaged in netting a purse, and looking sentimental.

'You know who I mean, my dear—the young man with the black whiskers and the white cravat, who just made his debut at our assembly and whom all the girls are buzzing about. Young—what's his name? Marianne, what’s his name?' continued Mrs. Malderton, speaking to her youngest daughter, who was busy netting a purse and looking sentimental.

'Mr. Horatio Sparkins, ma,' replied Miss Marianne, with a sigh.

'Oh! yes, to be sure-Horatio Sparkins,' said Mrs. Malderton. 'Decidedly the most gentleman-like young man I ever saw. I am sure in the beautifully-made coat he wore the other night, he looked like-like-'

'Oh! yes, definitely—Horatio Sparkins,' said Mrs. Malderton. 'Without a doubt, the most gentlemanly young man I've ever seen. I’m sure in the well-tailored coat he wore the other night, he looked like—like—'

'Like Prince Leopold, ma-so noble, so full of sentiment!' suggested Marianne, in a tone of enthusiastic admiration.

'Like Prince Leopold, so noble and so full of feeling!' suggested Marianne, in a tone of enthusiastic admiration.

'You should recollect, my dear,' resumed Mrs. Malderton, 'that Teresa is now eight-and-twenty; and that it really is very important that something should be done.'

'You should remember, my dear,' continued Mrs. Malderton, 'that Teresa is now twenty-eight; and that it’s really important that something be done.'

Miss Teresa Malderton was a very little girl, rather fat, with vermilion cheeks, but good-humoured, and still disengaged, although, to do her justice, the misfortune arose from no lack of perseverance on her part. In vain had she flirted for ten years; in vain had Mr. and Mrs. Malderton assiduously kept up an extensive acquaintance among the young eligible bachelors of Camberwell, and even of Wandsworth and Brixton; to say nothing of those who 'dropped in' from town. Miss Malderton was as well known as the lion on the top of Northumberland House, and had an equal chance of 'going off.'

Miss Teresa Malderton was a tiny girl, a bit chubby, with bright red cheeks, but she had a cheerful personality and was still single, though to be fair, it wasn’t for lack of effort on her part. She had flirted uselessly for ten years; Mr. and Mrs. Malderton had tirelessly maintained a wide network among the young eligible bachelors in Camberwell, as well as in Wandsworth and Brixton, not to mention those who "dropped in" from the city. Miss Malderton was as well known as the lion on top of Northumberland House and had an equal chance of finding a suitor.

'I am quite sure you'd like him,' continued Mrs. Malderton, 'he is so gentlemanly!'

'I’m sure you’d like him,' Mrs. Malderton continued, 'he's so classy!'

'So clever!' said Miss Marianne.

“Super clever!” said Miss Marianne.

'And has such a flow of language!' added Miss Teresa.

'And has such a great way with words!' added Miss Teresa.

'He has a great respect for you, my dear,' said Mrs. Malderton to her husband. Mr. Malderton coughed, and looked at the fire.

'He has a lot of respect for you, my dear,' Mrs. Malderton said to her husband. Mr. Malderton coughed and looked at the fire.

'Yes I'm sure he's very much attached to pa's society,' said Miss Marianne.

'Yes, I'm sure he's really attached to Dad's company,' said Miss Marianne.

'No doubt of it,' echoed Miss Teresa.

'No doubt about it,' echoed Miss Teresa.

'Indeed, he said as much to me in confidence,' observed Mrs. Malderton.

'Indeed, he told me that in confidence,' Mrs. Malderton remarked.

'Well, well,' returned Mr. Malderton, somewhat flattered; 'if I see him at the assembly to-morrow, perhaps I'll ask him down. I hope he knows we live at Oak Lodge, Camberwell, my dear?'

'Well, well,' replied Mr. Malderton, feeling a bit flattered; 'if I see him at the gathering tomorrow, maybe I'll invite him over. I hope he knows we live at Oak Lodge, Camberwell, dear?'

'Of course-and that you keep a one-horse carriage.'

'Of course—and that you have a one-horse carriage.'

'I'll see about it,' said Mr. Malderton, composing himself for a nap; 'I'll see about it.'

"I'll look into it," Mr. Malderton said, getting comfortable for a nap; "I'll look into it."

Mr. Malderton was a man whose whole scope of ideas was limited to Lloyd's, the Exchange, the India House, and the Bank. A few successful speculations had raised him from a situation of obscurity and comparative poverty, to a state of affluence. As frequently happens in such cases, the ideas of himself and his family became elevated to an extraordinary pitch as their means increased; they affected fashion, taste, and many other fooleries, in imitation of their betters, and had a very decided and becoming horror of anything which could, by possibility, be considered low. He was hospitable from ostentation, illiberal from ignorance, and prejudiced from conceit. Egotism and the love of display induced him to keep an excellent table: convenience, and a love of good things of this life, ensured him plenty of guests. He liked to have clever men, or what he considered such, at his table, because it was a great thing to talk about; but he never could endure what he called 'sharp fellows.' Probably, he cherished this feeling out of compliment to his two sons, who gave their respected parent no uneasiness in that particular. The family were ambitious of forming acquaintances and connexions in some sphere of society superior to that in which they themselves moved; and one of the necessary consequences of this desire, added to their utter ignorance of the world beyond their own small circle, was, that any one who could lay claim to an acquaintance with people of rank and title, had a sure passport to the table at Oak Lodge, Camberwell.

Mr. Malderton was a man whose ideas were limited to Lloyd's, the Exchange, the India House, and the Bank. A few successful investments had lifted him from a life of obscurity and relative poverty to one of wealth. As often happens in such situations, both he and his family developed a heightened sense of self-worth as their finances grew; they mimicked the style, tastes, and other pretenses of those they considered superior and developed a definite aversion to anything that could be seen as lowly. He was welcoming out of showiness, stingy due to ignorance, and biased because of arrogance. His ego and need to show off led him to host a fine dining experience; his love for comfort and good food guaranteed he had many guests. He enjoyed having intelligent people—or what he thought were intelligent people—at his dinner table because it was something to brag about; however, he couldn't stand what he called 'sharp fellows.' This sentiment likely stemmed from his affection for his two sons, who never caused him any concern in that regard. The family aspired to build connections with higher social circles than their own, and one inevitable result of this longing, combined with their complete ignorance of the world beyond their limited social sphere, was that anyone who claimed to know people of rank and title had a guaranteed invitation to the table at Oak Lodge, Camberwell.

The appearance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins at the assembly, had excited no small degree of surprise and curiosity among its regular frequenters. Who could he be? He was evidently reserved, and apparently melancholy. Was he a clergyman?-He danced too well. A barrister?-He said he was not called. He used very fine words, and talked a great deal. Could he be a distinguished foreigner, come to England for the purpose of describing the country, its manners and customs; and frequenting public balls and public dinners, with the view of becoming acquainted with high life, polished etiquette, and English refinement?-No, he had not a foreign accent. Was he a surgeon, a contributor to the magazines, a writer of fashionable novels, or an artist?-No; to each and all of these surmises, there existed some valid objection.-'Then,' said everybody, 'he must be somebody.'-'I should think he must be,' reasoned Mr. Malderton, within himself, 'because he perceives our superiority, and pays us so much attention.'

The arrival of Mr. Horatio Sparkins at the gathering stirred up quite a bit of surprise and curiosity among the regular attendees. Who could he be? He seemed reserved and a bit gloomy. Was he a clergyman? He danced too well for that. A barrister? He claimed he wasn't practicing. He used very sophisticated language and talked a lot. Could he be a distinguished foreigner visiting England to study the country, its customs and social scene, and attending public dances and dinners to get acquainted with high society, refined manners, and English elegance? No, he didn't have a foreign accent. Was he a surgeon, a magazine contributor, a writer of fashionable novels, or an artist? No; there were valid reasons against each of these guesses. "Then," everyone concluded, "he must be someone important." "I would think so," reflected Mr. Malderton to himself, "because he recognizes our superiority and gives us so much attention."

The night succeeding the conversation we have just recorded, was 'assembly night.' The double-fly was ordered to be at the door of Oak Lodge at nine o'clock precisely. The Miss Maldertons were dressed in sky-blue satin trimmed with artificial flowers; and Mrs. M. (who was a little fat woman), in ditto ditto, looked like her eldest daughter multiplied by two. Mr. Frederick Malderton, the eldest son, in full- dress costume, was the very beau idACal of a smart waiter; and Mr. Thomas Malderton, the youngest, with his white dress-stock, blue coat, bright buttons, and red watch-ribbon, strongly resembled the portrait of that interesting, but rash young gentleman, George Barnwell. Every member of the party had made up his or her mind to cultivate the acquaintance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins. Miss Teresa, of course, was to be as amiable and interesting as ladies of eight-and-twenty on the look-out for a husband, usually are. Mrs. Malderton would be all smiles and graces. Miss Marianne would request the favour of some verses for her album. Mr. Malderton would patronise the great unknown by asking him to dinner. Tom intended to ascertain the extent of his information on the interesting topics of snuff and cigars. Even Mr. Frederick Malderton himself, the family authority on all points of taste, dress, and fashionable arrangement; who had lodgings of his own in town; who had a free admission to Covent-garden theatre; who always dressed according to the fashions of the months; who went up the water twice a-week in the season; and who actually had an intimate friend who once knew a gentleman who formerly lived in the Albany,-even he had determined that Mr. Horatio Sparkins must be a devilish good fellow, and that he would do him the honour of challenging him to a game at billiards.

The night after the conversation we just mentioned was "assembly night." The double-fly was scheduled to be at the door of Oak Lodge at nine o’clock sharp. The Miss Maldertons wore sky-blue satin dresses trimmed with fake flowers, and Mrs. M. (who was a bit pudgy) looked like her eldest daughter doubled. Mr. Frederick Malderton, the eldest son, in full-dress attire, looked just like a classy waiter; and Mr. Thomas Malderton, the youngest, with his white dress shirt, blue coat, shiny buttons, and red watch ribbon, strongly resembled the portrait of that intriguing, but reckless young man, George Barnwell. Every member of the group was set on making friends with Mr. Horatio Sparkins. Miss Teresa, of course, was going to be as charming and engaging as women in their late twenties looking for a husband typically are. Mrs. Malderton would be all smiles and grace. Miss Marianne would ask for some verses for her album. Mr. Malderton would favor the great unknown by inviting him to dinner. Tom planned to find out how much he knew about the fascinating topics of snuff and cigars. Even Mr. Frederick Malderton himself, the family expert on all things taste, fashion, and style; who had his own place in town; who had free access to Covent Garden Theatre; who always dressed according to the latest trends; who took river trips twice a week during the season; and who genuinely had a close friend who once knew a guy who lived in the Albany—even he had decided that Mr. Horatio Sparkins must be a really great guy and that he would honor him by challenging him to a game of billiards.

The first object that met the anxious eyes of the expectant family on their entrance into the ball-room, was the interesting Horatio, with his hair brushed off his forehead, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling, reclining in a contemplative attitude on one of the seats.

The first thing that caught the worried eyes of the eager family as they entered the ballroom was the intriguing Horatio, with his hair swept off his forehead and his gaze directed at the ceiling, lounging in a thoughtful pose on one of the chairs.

'There he is, my dear,' whispered Mrs. Malderton to Mr. Malderton.

'How like Lord Byron!' murmured Miss Teresa.

'How much like Lord Byron!' whispered Miss Teresa.

'Or Montgomery!' whispered Miss Marianne.

'Oh Montgomery!' whispered Miss Marianne.

'Or the portraits of Captain Cook!' suggested Tom.

'Or the pictures of Captain Cook!' suggested Tom.

'Tom-don't be an ass!' said his father, who checked him on all occasions, probably with a view to prevent his becoming 'sharp'-which was very unnecessary.

'Tom—don't be an idiot!' said his father, who corrected him at every opportunity, probably to keep him from becoming 'smart-alecky'—which was totally unnecessary.

The elegant Sparkins attitudinised with admirable effect, until the family had crossed the room. He then started up, with the most natural appearance of surprise and delight; accosted Mrs. Malderton with the utmost cordiality; saluted the young ladies in the most enchanting manner; bowed to, and shook hands with Mr. Malderton, with a degree of respect amounting almost to veneration; and returned the greetings of the two young men in a half-gratified, half-patronising manner, which fully convinced them that he must be an important, and, at the same time, condescending personage.

The stylish Sparkins put on a show with impressive finesse until the family made it across the room. He then jumped up, looking genuinely surprised and delighted; he greeted Mrs. Malderton with great warmth; welcomed the young ladies charmingly; bowed to and shook hands with Mr. Malderton in a way that showed almost reverence; and responded to the two young men in a way that was both pleased and slightly patronizing, making them completely believe that he was a significant and somewhat superior figure.

'Miss Malderton,' said Horatio, after the ordinary salutations, and bowing very low, 'may I be permitted to presume to hope that you will allow me to have the pleasure-'

'Miss Malderton,' said Horatio, after the usual greetings and bowing very low, 'may I hope that you will let me have the pleasure-'

'I don't think I am engaged,' said Miss Teresa, with a dreadful affectation of indifference-'but, really-so many-'

'I don't think I'm engaged,' said Miss Teresa, with a terrible attempt at acting indifferent—'but honestly—so many—'

Horatio looked handsomely miserable.

Horatio looked stylishly miserable.

'I shall be most happy,' simpered the interesting Teresa, at last. Horatio's countenance brightened up, like an old hat in a shower of rain.

'I would be really happy,' smiled the captivating Teresa, finally. Horatio's face lit up, like an old hat in a rain shower.

'A very genteel young man, certainly!' said the gratified Mr. Malderton, as the obsequious Sparkins and his partner joined the quadrille which was just forming.

'A very refined young man, for sure!' said the pleased Mr. Malderton, as the eager Sparkins and his partner joined the quadrille that was just forming.

'He has a remarkably good address,' said Mr. Frederick.

'He has a really impressive way of speaking,' said Mr. Frederick.

'Yes, he is a prime fellow,' interposed Tom, who always managed to put his foot in it-'he talks just like an auctioneer.'

'Yeah, he's a real character,' jumped in Tom, who always seemed to put his foot in his mouth—'he talks just like an auctioneer.'

'Tom!' said his father solemnly, 'I think I desired you, before, not to be a fool.' Tom looked as happy as a cock on a drizzly morning.

'Tom!' his father said seriously, 'I think I asked you earlier not to be an idiot.' Tom looked as happy as a rooster on a gloomy morning.

'How delightful!' said the interesting Horatio to his partner, as they promenaded the room at the conclusion of the set-'how delightful, how refreshing it is, to retire from the cloudy storms, the vicissitudes, and the troubles, of life, even if it be but for a few short fleeting moments: and to spend those moments, fading and evanescent though they be, in the delightful, the blessed society of one individual-whose frowns would be death, whose coldness would be madness, whose falsehood would be ruin, whose constancy would be bliss; the possession of whose affection would be the brightest and best reward that Heaven could bestow on man?'

'How delightful!' said the charming Horatio to his partner as they strolled around the room at the end of the set. 'How wonderful and refreshing it is to escape the stormy clouds, the ups and downs, and the troubles of life, even if it's just for a few brief moments. And to spend those moments, fleeting as they are, with someone whose frowns would feel like death, whose coldness would drive me to madness, whose dishonesty would lead to ruin, and whose loyalty would bring joy; having that person's love would be the greatest reward that heaven could give to anyone.'

'What feeling! what sentiment!' thought Miss Teresa, as she leaned more heavily on her companion's arm.

'What a feeling! What a sentiment!' thought Miss Teresa, as she leaned more heavily on her companion's arm.

'But enough-enough!' resumed the elegant Sparkins, with a theatrical air. 'What have I said? what have I-I-to do with sentiments like these! Miss Malderton'-here he stopped short-'may I hope to be permitted to offer the humble tribute of-'

'But enough—enough!' continued the stylish Sparkins, with a dramatic flair. 'What have I said? What do I—have to do with feelings like these! Miss Malderton'—here he paused abruptly—'may I hope to be allowed to offer the small gift of-'

'Really, Mr. Sparkins,' returned the enraptured Teresa, blushing in the sweetest confusion, 'I must refer you to papa. I never can, without his consent, venture to-'

'Honestly, Mr. Sparkins,' replied the delighted Teresa, blushing in the most charming way, 'I really have to refer you to Dad. I can never, without his permission, dare to-'

'Surely he cannot object-'

"Surely he can't object—"

'Oh, yes. Indeed, indeed, you know him not!' interrupted Miss Teresa, well knowing there was nothing to fear, but wishing to make the interview resemble a scene in some romantic novel.

'Oh, yes. Definitely, definitely, you don’t know him!' interrupted Miss Teresa, fully aware that there was nothing to be afraid of, but wanting to make the meeting feel like a moment from some romantic novel.

'He cannot object to my offering you a glass of negus,' returned the adorable Sparkins, with some surprise.

'He can't object to me offering you a glass of negus,' replied the charming Sparkins, a little surprised.

'Is that all?' thought the disappointed Teresa. 'What a fuss about nothing!'

'Is that it?' thought the disappointed Teresa. 'What a big deal over nothing!'

'It will give me the greatest pleasure, sir, to see you to dinner at Oak Lodge, Camberwell, on Sunday next at five o'clock, if you have no better engagement,' said Mr. Malderton, at the conclusion of the evening, as he and his sons were standing in conversation with Mr. Horatio Sparkins.

"It will give me great pleasure, sir, to invite you to dinner at Oak Lodge, Camberwell, this Sunday at five o'clock, if you have no other plans," said Mr. Malderton at the end of the evening, as he and his sons chatted with Mr. Horatio Sparkins.

Horatio bowed his acknowledgments, and accepted the flattering invitation.

Horatio nodded his thanks and accepted the flattering invitation.

'I must confess,' continued the father, offering his snuff-box to his new acquaintance, 'that I don't enjoy these assemblies half so much as the comfort-I had almost said the luxury-of Oak Lodge. They have no great charms for an elderly man.'

'I have to admit,' the father said, handing his snuff-box to his new acquaintance, 'that I don’t enjoy these gatherings nearly as much as the comfort—I almost said the luxury—of Oak Lodge. They don’t hold much appeal for an older man.'

'And after all, sir, what is man?' said the metaphysical Sparkins. 'I say, what is man?'

'And after all, sir, what is a person?' said the philosophical Sparkins. 'I mean, what is a person?'

'Ah! very true,' said Mr. Malderton; 'very true.'

'Oh! that's so true,' said Mr. Malderton; 'so true.'

'We know that we live and breathe,' continued Horatio; 'that we have wants and wishes, desires and appetites-'

'We know that we live and breathe,' Horatio continued; 'that we have needs and wants, desires and cravings-'

'Certainly,' said Mr. Frederick Malderton, looking profound.

'Of course,' said Mr. Frederick Malderton, looking thoughtful.

'I say, we know that we exist,' repeated Horatio, raising his voice, 'but there we stop; there, is an end to our knowledge; there, is the summit of our attainments; there, is the termination of our ends. What more do we know?'

'I say, we know that we exist,' repeated Horatio, raising his voice, 'but that’s where it ends; that's the limit of our knowledge; that's the peak of what we can achieve; that's where our goals come to a close. What else do we really know?'

'Nothing,' replied Mr. Frederick-than whom no one was more capable of answering for himself in that particular. Tom was about to hazard something, but, fortunately for his reputation, he caught his father's angry eye, and slunk off like a puppy convicted of petty larceny.

'Nothing,' replied Mr. Frederick—no one was better at speaking for himself in that situation. Tom was about to say something, but luckily for his reputation, he caught his father's angry glare and slipped away like a puppy caught stealing.

'Upon my word,' said Mr. Malderton the elder, as they were returning home in the fly, 'that Mr. Sparkins is a wonderful young man. Such surprising knowledge! such extraordinary information! and such a splendid mode of expressing himself!'

'Honestly,' said Mr. Malderton the elder, as they were heading home in the cab, 'that Mr. Sparkins is an impressive young man. Such incredible knowledge! Such amazing information! And such a great way of expressing himself!'

'I think he must be somebody in disguise,' said Miss Marianne. 'How charmingly romantic!'

"I think he must be someone in disguise," said Miss Marianne. "How charmingly romantic!"

'He talks very loud and nicely,' timidly observed Tom, 'but I don't exactly understand what he means.'

'He speaks really loudly and nicely,' Tom said shyly, 'but I don’t really get what he means.'

'I almost begin to despair of your understanding anything, Tom,' said his father, who, of course, had been much enlightened by Mr. Horatio Sparkins's conversation.

'I almost start to lose hope that you understand anything, Tom,' said his father, who, of course, had been greatly enlightened by Mr. Horatio Sparkins's conversation.

'It strikes me, Tom,' said Miss Teresa, 'that you have made yourself very ridiculous this evening.'

'It seems to me, Tom,' said Miss Teresa, 'that you've made yourself look quite silly this evening.'

'No doubt of it,' cried everybody-and the unfortunate Tom reduced himself into the least possible space. That night, Mr. and Mrs. Malderton had a long conversation respecting their daughter's prospects and future arrangements. Miss Teresa went to bed, considering whether, in the event of her marrying a title, she could conscientiously encourage the visits of her present associates; and dreamed, all night, of disguised noblemen, large routs, ostrich plumes, bridal favours, and Horatio Sparkins.

'No doubt about it,' everyone exclaimed—and the poor Tom shrank into the smallest space he could manage. That night, Mr. and Mrs. Malderton had an extended discussion about their daughter's prospects and future plans. Miss Teresa went to bed, pondering whether, if she married someone with a title, she could honestly support the visits of her current friends; and she dreamed all night about disguised noblemen, lavish parties, ostrich feathers, wedding favors, and Horatio Sparkins.

Various surmises were hazarded on the Sunday morning, as to the mode of conveyance which the anxiously-expected Horatio would adopt. Did he keep a gig?-was it possible he could come on horseback?-or would he patronize the stage? These, and other various conjectures of equal importance, engrossed the attention of Mrs. Malderton and her daughters during the whole morning after church.

Various guesses were made on Sunday morning about how the eagerly awaited Horatio would arrive. Did he have a carriage? Could he come on horseback? Or would he take the stagecoach? These and other equally significant speculations occupied the minds of Mrs. Malderton and her daughters the entire morning after church.

'Upon my word, my dear, it's a most annoying thing that that vulgar brother of yours should have invited himself to dine here to-day,' said Mr. Malderton to his wife. 'On account of Mr. Sparkins's coming down, I purposely abstained from asking any one but Flamwell. And then to think of your brother-a tradesman-it's insufferable! I declare I wouldn't have him mention his shop, before our new guest-no, not for a thousand pounds! I wouldn't care if he had the good sense to conceal the disgrace he is to the family; but he's so fond of his horrible business, that he will let people know what he is.'

"Honestly, my dear, it's so annoying that your tacky brother decided to invite himself to dinner today," Mr. Malderton said to his wife. "Since Mr. Sparkins is coming over, I intentionally didn't invite anyone else except Flamwell. And to think your brother—a tradesman—it’s just unbearable! I swear I wouldn’t want him mentioning his shop in front of our new guest—not for a thousand dollars! I wouldn’t mind if he had the good sense to hide the embarrassment he brings to the family; but he’s so proud of his awful business that he can’t help but let people know what he does."

Mr. Jacob Barton, the individual alluded to, was a large grocer; so vulgar, and so lost to all sense of feeling, that he actually never scrupled to avow that he wasn't above his business: 'he'd made his money by it, and he didn't care who know'd it.'

Mr. Jacob Barton, the person mentioned, was a big-time grocer; so crude and so devoid of any feeling that he openly admitted he wasn't ashamed of his profession: 'he'd made his fortune from it, and he didn't care who knew it.'

'Ah! Flamwell, my dear fellow, how d'ye do?' said Mr. Malderton, as a little spoffish man, with green spectacles, entered the room. 'You got my note?'

'Ah! Flamwell, my good man, how are you?' said Mr. Malderton, as a slightly pompous man with green glasses walked into the room. 'Did you get my note?'

'Yes, I did; and here I am in consequence.'

'Yes, I did; and here I am because of it.'

'You don't happen to know this Mr. Sparkins by name? You know everybody?'

'Do you happen to know this Mr. Sparkins by name? You know everyone, right?'

Mr. Flamwell was one of those gentlemen of remarkably extensive information whom one occasionally meets in society, who pretend to know everybody, but in reality know nobody. At Malderton's, where any stories about great people were received with a greedy ear, he was an especial favourite; and, knowing the kind of people he had to deal with, he carried his passion of claiming acquaintance with everybody, to the most immoderate length. He had rather a singular way of telling his greatest lies in a parenthesis, and with an air of self-denial, as if he feared being thought egotistical.

Mr. Flamwell was one of those guys with a ton of information that you occasionally meet in social settings, who act like they know everyone but actually know nobody. At Malderton's, where any stories about famous people were eagerly listened to, he was a particular favorite; and, knowing the type of crowd he was dealing with, he took his habit of claiming connections with everyone to an extreme. He had a rather unique way of sharing his biggest lies as a side note, almost apologetically, as if he was worried about coming off as self-centered.

'Why, no, I don't know him by that name,' returned Flamwell, in a low tone, and with an air of immense importance. 'I have no doubt I know him, though. Is he tall?'

'No, I don’t know him by that name,' Flamwell replied quietly, with a sense of great importance. 'I’m sure I recognize him, though. Is he tall?'

'Middle-sized,' said Miss Teresa.

"Medium-sized," said Miss Teresa.

'With black hair?' inquired Flamwell, hazarding a bold guess.

"With black hair?" Flamwell asked, taking a daring guess.

'Yes,' returned Miss Teresa, eagerly.

"Yes," replied Miss Teresa, eagerly.

'Rather a snub nose?'

'Is that a snub nose?'

'No,' said the disappointed Teresa, 'he has a Roman nose.'

'I said a Roman nose, didn't I?' inquired Flamwell. 'He's an elegant young man?'

"I mentioned a Roman nose, right?" Flamwell asked. "He's a classy young guy?"

'Oh, certainly.'

'Of course.'

'With remarkably prepossessing manners?'

"With impressively charming manners?"

'Oh, yes!' said all the family together. 'You must know him.'

'Oh, yes!' everyone in the family said at the same time. 'You have to know him.'

'Yes, I thought you knew him, if he was anybody,' triumphantly exclaimed Mr. Malderton. 'Who d'ye think he is?'

'Yes, I thought you knew him, if he was anyone,' Mr. Malderton exclaimed triumphantly. 'Who do you think he is?'

'Why, from your description,' said Flamwell, ruminating, and sinking his voice, almost to a whisper, 'he bears a strong resemblance to the Honourable Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne. He's a very talented young man, and rather eccentric. It's extremely probable he may have changed his name for some temporary purpose.'

"Based on your description," said Flamwell, thinking deeply and lowering his voice to almost a whisper, "he looks a lot like the Honorable Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne. He's quite a talented young man and a bit eccentric. It’s very likely he might have changed his name for some temporary reason."

Teresa's heart beat high. Could he be the Honourable Augustus Fitz- Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne! What a name to be elegantly engraved upon two glazed cards, tied together with a piece of white satin ribbon! 'The Honourable Mrs. Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne!' The thought was transport.

Teresa's heart raced. Could he be the Honorable Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne? What a name to have beautifully engraved on two glossy cards, tied together with a piece of white satin ribbon! 'The Honorable Mrs. Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne!' The idea was exhilarating.

'It's five minutes to five,' said Mr. Malderton, looking at his watch: 'I hope he's not going to disappoint us.'

'It's five minutes to five,' said Mr. Malderton, checking his watch. 'I hope he’s not going to let us down.'

'There he is!' exclaimed Miss Teresa, as a loud double-knock was heard at the door. Everybody endeavoured to look-as people when they particularly expect a visitor always do-as if they were perfectly unsuspicious of the approach of anybody.

'There he is!' exclaimed Miss Teresa, as a loud double-knock echoed at the door. Everyone tried to look casual—just like people do when they’re eagerly awaiting a visitor—acting completely unaware of anyone’s arrival.

The room-door opened-'Mr. Barton!' said the servant.

The door opened, and the servant said, "Mr. Barton!"

'Confound the man!' murmured Malderton. 'Ah! my dear sir, how d'ye do! Any news?'

'Curse the guy!' murmured Malderton. 'Oh! my dear sir, how are you! Any news?'

'Why no,' returned the grocer, in his usual bluff manner. 'No, none partickler. None that I am much aware of. How d'ye do, gals and boys? Mr. Flamwell, sir-glad to see you.'

'Nope,' replied the grocer, in his usual blunt way. 'No, not really. None that I know of. How are you doing, girls and boys? Mr. Flamwell, sir—good to see you.'

'Here's Mr. Sparkins!' said Tom, who had been looking out at the window, 'on such a black horse!' There was Horatio, sure enough, on a large black horse, curvetting and prancing along, like an Astley's supernumerary. After a great deal of reining in, and pulling up, with the accompaniments of snorting, rearing, and kicking, the animal consented to stop at about a hundred yards from the gate, where Mr. Sparkins dismounted, and confided him to the care of Mr. Malderton's groom. The ceremony of introduction was gone through, in all due form. Mr. Flamwell looked from behind his green spectacles at Horatio with an air of mysterious importance; and the gallant Horatio looked unutterable things at Teresa.

"Here’s Mr. Sparkins!" said Tom, who had been looking out the window, "on such a black horse!" There was Horatio, sure enough, on a large black horse, prancing around like a performer at Astley's. After a lot of reining in and pulling up, along with some snorting, rearing, and kicking, the horse finally agreed to stop about a hundred yards from the gate, where Mr. Sparkins got off and entrusted it to Mr. Malderton's groom. They went through the formal introductions. Mr. Flamwell peered at Horatio through his green spectacles with an air of mysterious importance, and the dashing Horatio exchanged meaningful glances with Teresa.

'Is he the Honourable Mr. Augustus What's-his-name?' whispered Mrs. Malderton to Flamwell, as he was escorting her to the dining-room.

'Is he the Honorable Mr. Augustus What's-his-name?' whispered Mrs. Malderton to Flamwell, as he was leading her to the dining room.

'Why, no-at least not exactly,' returned that great authority-'not exactly.'

'Well, no—not really,' replied that great authority—'not exactly.'

'Who is he then?'

'Who is he now?'

'Hush!' said Flamwell, nodding his head with a grave air, importing that he knew very well; but was prevented, by some grave reasons of state, from disclosing the important secret. It might be one of the ministers making himself acquainted with the views of the people.

'Hush!' said Flamwell, nodding his head seriously, implying that he knew exactly what was going on; however, he was held back by some serious political reasons from revealing the important secret. It could be one of the ministers trying to understand the people's opinions.

'Mr. Sparkins,' said the delighted Mrs. Malderton, 'pray divide the ladies. John, put a chair for the gentleman between Miss Teresa and Miss Marianne.' This was addressed to a man who, on ordinary occasions, acted as half-groom, half-gardener; but who, as it was important to make an impression on Mr. Sparkins, had been forced into a white neckerchief and shoes, and touched up, and brushed, to look like a second footman.

'Mr. Sparkins,' said the thrilled Mrs. Malderton, 'please separate the ladies. John, move a chair for the gentleman between Miss Teresa and Miss Marianne.' This was directed at a man who usually functioned as a mix between a stablehand and a gardener; but since it was crucial to make an impression on Mr. Sparkins, he had been put into a white neckerchief and shoes, and groomed and tidied up to resemble a second footman.

The dinner was excellent; Horatio was most attentive to Miss Teresa, and every one felt in high spirits, except Mr. Malderton, who, knowing the propensity of his brother-in-law, Mr. Barton, endured that sort of agony which the newspapers inform us is experienced by the surrounding neighbourhood when a pot-boy hangs himself in a hay-loft, and which is 'much easier to be imagined than described.'

The dinner was fantastic; Horatio was very attentive to Miss Teresa, and everyone seemed to be in great spirits, except for Mr. Malderton, who, knowing his brother-in-law Mr. Barton’s tendencies, felt a kind of agony similar to what the newspapers say the neighbors experience when a barmaid hangs herself in a hayloft, which is 'much easier to imagine than to describe.'

'Have you seen your friend, Sir Thomas Noland, lately, Flamwell?' inquired Mr. Malderton, casting a sidelong look at Horatio, to see what effect the mention of so great a man had upon him.

"Have you seen your friend, Sir Thomas Noland, recently, Flamwell?" Mr. Malderton asked, glancing sideways at Horatio to gauge his reaction to the mention of such an important person.

'Why, no-not very lately. I saw Lord Gubbleton the day before yesterday.'

'Well, not really recently. I saw Lord Gubbleton the day before yesterday.'

'All! I hope his lordship is very well?' said Malderton, in a tone of the greatest interest. It is scarcely necessary to say that, until that moment, he had been quite innocent of the existence of such a person.

'All! I hope his lordship is doing well?' said Malderton, in a tone of great interest. It's hardly necessary to mention that, until that moment, he had been completely unaware of such a person's existence.

'Why, yes; he was very well-very well indeed. He's a devilish good fellow. I met him in the City, and had a long chat with him. Indeed, I'm rather intimate with him. I couldn't stop to talk to him as long as I could wish, though, because I was on my way to a banker's, a very rich man, and a member of Parliament, with whom I am also rather, indeed I may say very, intimate.'

'Oh, absolutely; he’s doing really well—very well, in fact. He’s a great guy. I ran into him in the City and had a lengthy conversation with him. In fact, I know him quite well. I couldn’t chat with him as long as I wanted, though, because I was heading to see a banker, a very wealthy guy and a member of Parliament, with whom I’m also pretty close, I might say very close.'

'I know whom you mean,' returned the host, consequentially-in reality knowing as much about the matter as Flamwell himself.-'He has a capital business.'

'I know who you're talking about,' replied the host, acting important—though in truth, he knew just as little about it as Flamwell did. 'He has a great business.'

This was touching on a dangerous topic.

This was broaching a risky subject.

'Talking of business,' interposed Mr. Barton, from the centre of the table. 'A gentleman whom you knew very well, Malderton, before you made that first lucky spec of yours, called at our shop the other day, and-'

'Speaking of business,' interrupted Mr. Barton from the middle of the table. 'A guy you knew really well, Malderton, before you made that first lucky investment of yours, stopped by our shop the other day, and-'

'Barton, may I trouble you for a potato?' interrupted the wretched master of the house, hoping to nip the story in the bud.

'Barton, could I ask you for a potato?' interrupted the unhappy host, trying to stop the story before it got any further.

'Certainly,' returned the grocer, quite insensible of his brother-in- law's object-'and he said in a very plain manner-'

'Sure,' replied the grocer, completely unaware of his brother-in-law's intention—'and he said it very clearly-'

'Floury, if you please,' interrupted Malderton again; dreading the termination of the anecdote, and fearing a repetition of the word 'shop.'

'Floury, if you please,' interrupted Malderton again, worried about how the story would end and afraid of hearing the word 'shop' again.

'He said, says he,' continued the culprit, after despatching the potato; 'says he, how goes on your business? So I said, jokingly-you know my way-says I, I'm never above my business, and I hope my business will never be above me. Ha, ha!'

'He said, he says,' continued the culprit, after finishing the potato; 'he says, how's your business going? So I replied, jokingly—you know how I am—I said, I'm never too good for my business, and I hope my business will never be too good for me. Ha, ha!'

'Mr. Sparkins,' said the host, vainly endeavouring to conceal his dismay, 'a glass of wine?'

'Mr. Sparkins,' said the host, trying in vain to hide his shock, 'would you like a glass of wine?'

'With the utmost pleasure, sir.'

'With great pleasure, sir.'

'Happy to see you.'

'Glad to see you.'

'Thank you.'

Thanks.

'We were talking the other evening,' resumed the host, addressing Horatio, partly with the view of displaying the conversational powers of his new acquaintance, and partly in the hope of drowning the grocer's stories-'we were talking the other night about the nature of man. Your argument struck me very forcibly.'

'We were talking the other evening,' the host continued, addressing Horatio, partly to show off the conversational skills of his new friend and partly to drown out the grocer's stories—'we were discussing the nature of man the other night. Your argument really got me thinking.'

'And me,' said Mr. Frederick. Horatio made a graceful inclination of the head.

'And me,' said Mr. Frederick. Horatio gave a polite nod.

'Pray, what is your opinion of woman, Mr. Sparkins?' inquired Mrs. Malderton. The young ladies simpered.

"Hey, what do you think about women, Mr. Sparkins?" asked Mrs. Malderton. The young ladies giggled.

'Man,' replied Horatio, 'man, whether he ranged the bright, gay, flowery plains of a second Eden, or the more sterile, barren, and I may say, commonplace regions, to which we are compelled to accustom ourselves, in times such as these; man, under any circumstances, or in any place-whether he were bending beneath the withering blasts of the frigid zone, or scorching under the rays of a vertical sun-man, without woman, would be-alone.'

'Man,' replied Horatio, 'man, whether he roamed the bright, cheerful, flowery plains of a second Eden, or the more lifeless, barren, and I might say, ordinary areas that we have to get used to in times like these; man, in any situation, or anywhere—whether he was struggling against the harsh winds of the cold zone, or sweating under the harsh rays of a blazing sun—man, without woman, would be—alone.'

'I am very happy to find you entertain such honourable opinions, Mr. Sparkins,' said Mrs. Malderton.

'I’m really glad to see that you hold such admirable views, Mr. Sparkins,' said Mrs. Malderton.

'And I,' added Miss Teresa. Horatio looked his delight, and the young lady blushed.

'And I,' added Miss Teresa. Horatio beamed, and the young lady flushed.

'Now, it's my opinion-' said Mr. Barton.

'Well, I think-' said Mr. Barton.

'I know what you're going to say,' interposed Malderton, determined not to give his relation another opportunity, 'and I don't agree with you.'

'I know what you're about to say,' interrupted Malderton, determined not to give his relative another chance, 'and I don't agree with you.'

'What!' inquired the astonished grocer.

"Wait, what?" asked the surprised grocer.

'I am sorry to differ from you, Barton,' said the host, in as positive a manner as if he really were contradicting a position which the other had laid down, 'but I cannot give my assent to what I consider a very monstrous proposition.'

'I’m sorry to disagree with you, Barton,' said the host, in as firm a way as if he were truly opposing a point the other had made, 'but I can’t agree to what I see as a very outrageous idea.'

'But I meant to say-'

'But I meant to say—'

'You never can convince me,' said Malderton, with an air of obstinate determination. 'Never.'

'You’ll never convince me,' said Malderton, with a stubborn determination. 'Never.'

'And I,' said Mr. Frederick, following up his father's attack, 'cannot entirely agree in Mr. Sparkins's argument.'

'And I,' said Mr. Frederick, backing up his father's critique, 'can't completely agree with Mr. Sparkins's argument.'

'What!' said Horatio, who became more metaphysical, and more argumentative, as he saw the female part of the family listening in wondering delight-'what! Is effect the consequence of cause? Is cause the precursor of effect?'

'What!' said Horatio, becoming more philosophical and argumentative as he noticed the women in the family listening with intrigued delight—'what! Is effect the result of cause? Is cause the precursor of effect?'

'That's the point,' said Flamwell.

"That's the point," Flamwell said.

'To be sure,' said Mr. Malderton.

"Of course," said Mr. Malderton.

'Because, if effect is the consequence of cause, and if cause does precede effect, I apprehend you are wrong,' added Horatio.

'Because if the effect is the result of the cause, and if the cause comes before the effect, I think you’re mistaken,' added Horatio.

'Decidedly,' said the toad-eating Flamwell.

'Definitely,' said the toad-eating Flamwell.

'At least, I apprehend that to be the just and logical deduction?' said Sparkins, in a tone of interrogation.

'At least, I think that’s the fair and reasonable conclusion?' said Sparkins, with a questioning tone.

'No doubt of it,' chimed in Flamwell again. 'It settles the point.'

'No doubt about it,' Flamwell added again. 'It settles the issue.'

'Well, perhaps it does,' said Mr. Frederick; 'I didn't see it before.'

'Well, maybe it does,' Mr. Frederick said; 'I didn't notice it before.'

'I don't exactly see it now,' thought the grocer; 'but I suppose it's all right.'

'I can't see it right now,' thought the grocer; 'but I guess it's fine.'

'How wonderfully clever he is!' whispered Mrs. Malderton to her daughters, as they retired to the drawing-room.

'How incredibly smart he is!' whispered Mrs. Malderton to her daughters, as they headed to the living room.

'Oh, he's quite a love!' said both the young ladies together; 'he talks like an oracle. He must have seen a great deal of life.'

'Oh, he's such a sweetheart!' said both the young ladies at once; 'he speaks like a wise person. He must have experienced a lot of life.'

The gentlemen being left to themselves, a pause ensued, during which everybody looked very grave, as if they were quite overcome by the profound nature of the previous discussion. Flamwell, who had made up his mind to find out who and what Mr. Horatio Sparkins really was, first broke silence.

The gentlemen, left alone, fell silent for a moment, during which everyone looked very serious, as if they were deeply affected by the intense nature of the earlier conversation. Flamwell, determined to discover who Mr. Horatio Sparkins really was, was the first to speak up.

'Excuse me, sir,' said that distinguished personage, 'I presume you have studied for the bar? I thought of entering once, myself-indeed, I'm rather intimate with some of the highest ornaments of that distinguished profession.'

"Excuse me, sir," said that distinguished person, "I assume you’ve studied for the bar? I considered entering it once, myself—actually, I’m fairly close with some of the top figures in that esteemed profession."

'N-no!' said Horatio, with a little hesitation; 'not exactly.'

'No!' said Horatio, with a bit of hesitation; 'not exactly.'

'But you have been much among the silk gowns, or I mistake?' inquired Flamwell, deferentially.

'But you've been around the silk gowns quite a bit, or am I mistaken?' Flamwell asked politely.

'Nearly all my life,' returned Sparkins.

'Almost my entire life,' replied Sparkins.

The question was thus pretty well settled in the mind of Mr. Flamwell. He was a young gentleman 'about to be called.'

The question was pretty much settled in Mr. Flamwell's mind. He was a young man 'about to be called.'

'I shouldn't like to be a barrister,' said Tom, speaking for the first time, and looking round the table to find somebody who would notice the remark.

"I wouldn't want to be a lawyer," Tom said, speaking up for the first time and looking around the table to find someone who would acknowledge his comment.

No one made any reply.

No one responded.

'I shouldn't like to wear a wig,' said Tom, hazarding another observation.

"I wouldn't want to wear a wig," Tom said, making another comment.

'Tom, I beg you will not make yourself ridiculous,' said his father. 'Pray listen, and improve yourself by the conversation you hear, and don't be constantly making these absurd remarks.'

'Tom, I ask you not to make a fool of yourself,' said his father. 'Please listen, learn from the conversation around you, and stop constantly making these ridiculous comments.'

'Very well, father,' replied the unfortunate Tom, who had not spoken a word since he had asked for another slice of beef at a quarter-past five o'clock, p.m., and it was then eight.

'Alright, Dad,' replied the unfortunate Tom, who hadn't said a word since he had asked for another slice of beef at 5:15 p.m., and it was now 8 o'clock.

'Well, Tom,' observed his good-natured uncle, 'never mind! I think with you. I shouldn't like to wear a wig. I'd rather wear an apron.'

'Well, Tom,' said his good-natured uncle, 'don't worry! I agree with you. I wouldn't want to wear a wig either. I'd rather wear an apron.'

Mr. Malderton coughed violently. Mr. Barton resumed-'For if a man's above his business-'

Mr. Malderton coughed heavily. Mr. Barton continued, "Because if a guy is above his work—"

The cough returned with tenfold violence, and did not cease until the unfortunate cause of it, in his alarm, had quite forgotten what he intended to say.

The cough came back with a vengeance, and didn't stop until the poor person causing it, in his panic, completely forgot what he meant to say.

'Mr. Sparkins,' said Flamwell, returning to the charge, 'do you happen to know Mr. Delafontaine, of Bedford-square?'

'Mr. Sparkins,' Flamwell said, pressing on, 'do you happen to know Mr. Delafontaine from Bedford Square?'

'I have exchanged cards with him; since which, indeed, I have had an opportunity of serving him considerably,' replied Horatio, slightly colouring; no doubt, at having been betrayed into making the acknowledgment.

'I’ve swapped cards with him; since then, I’ve really had a chance to help him quite a bit,' replied Horatio, slightly flushed; no doubt, for having let slip that acknowledgment.

'You are very lucky, if you have had an opportunity of obliging that great man,' observed Flamwell, with an air of profound respect.

'You're really fortunate if you've had the chance to do a favor for that great man,' Flamwell remarked respectfully.

'I don't know who he is,' he whispered to Mr. Malderton, confidentially, as they followed Horatio up to the drawing-room. 'It's quite clear, however, that he belongs to the law, and that he is somebody of great importance, and very highly connected.'

'I don't know who he is,' he whispered to Mr. Malderton, quietly, as they followed Horatio up to the living room. 'It's pretty clear, though, that he works in the legal field, and that he's someone really important and very well connected.'

'No doubt, no doubt,' returned his companion.

'Without a doubt, without a doubt,' replied his companion.

The remainder of the evening passed away most delightfully. Mr. Malderton, relieved from his apprehensions by the circumstance of Mr. Barton's falling into a profound sleep, was as affable and gracious as possible. Miss Teresa played the 'Fall of Paris,' as Mr. Sparkins declared, in a most masterly manner, and both of them, assisted by Mr. Frederick, tried over glees and trios without number; they having made the pleasing discovery that their voices harmonised beautifully. To be sure, they all sang the first part; and Horatio, in addition to the slight drawback of having no ear, was perfectly innocent of knowing a note of music; still, they passed the time very agreeably, and it was past twelve o'clock before Mr. Sparkins ordered the mourning-coach- looking steed to be brought out-an order which was only complied with, on the distinct understanding that he was to repeat his visit on the following Sunday.

The rest of the evening went by incredibly well. Mr. Malderton, relieved of his worries since Mr. Barton had drifted into a deep sleep, was as friendly and charming as he could be. Miss Teresa played the 'Fall of Paris,' as Mr. Sparkins called it, with great skill, and they all, along with Mr. Frederick, went through countless duets and trios, having discovered that their voices blended beautifully. Of course, they all sang the melody, and Horatio, despite the small issue of having no musical ear and not knowing a single note, still enjoyed the time spent together. It was already past midnight when Mr. Sparkins instructed for the mourning-coach-looking horse to be brought out—this request was only fulfilled with the clear agreement that he would return for a visit the following Sunday.

'But, perhaps, Mr. Sparkins will form one of our party to-morrow evening?' suggested Mrs. M. 'Mr. Malderton intends taking the girls to see the pantomime.' Mr. Sparkins bowed, and promised to join the party in box 48, in the course of the evening.

'But maybe Mr. Sparkins will join our group tomorrow evening?' suggested Mrs. M. 'Mr. Malderton plans to take the girls to see the pantomime.' Mr. Sparkins nodded and agreed to meet the group in box 48 later that evening.

'We will not tax you for the morning,' said Miss Teresa, bewitchingly; 'for ma is going to take us to all sorts of places, shopping. I know that gentlemen have a great horror of that employment.' Mr. Sparkins bowed again, and declared that he should be delighted, but business of importance occupied him in the morning. Flamwell looked at Malderton significantly.-'It's term time!' he whispered.

'We won't charge you for the morning,' said Miss Teresa, charmingly; 'because mom is taking us shopping to all sorts of places. I know that guys really dislike that sort of thing.' Mr. Sparkins bowed again and said he would be happy to join, but he had important business to attend to in the morning. Flamwell glanced at Malderton with meaning. - 'It's term time!' he whispered.

At twelve o'clock on the following morning, the 'fly' was at the door of Oak Lodge, to convey Mrs. Malderton and her daughters on their expedition for the day. They were to dine and dress for the play at a friend's house. First, driving thither with their band-boxes, they departed on their first errand to make some purchases at Messrs. Jones, Spruggins, and Smith's, of Tottenham-court-road; after which, they were to go to Redmayne's in Bond-street; thence, to innumerable places that no one ever heard of. The young ladies beguiled the tediousness of the ride by eulogising Mr. Horatio Sparkins, scolding their mamma for taking them so far to save a shilling, and wondering whether they should ever reach their destination. At length, the vehicle stopped before a dirty- looking ticketed linen-draper's shop, with goods of all kinds, and labels of all sorts and sizes, in the window. There were dropsical figures of seven with a little three-farthings in the corner; 'perfectly invisible to the naked eye;' three hundred and fifty thousand ladies' boas, from one shilling and a penny halfpenny; real French kid shoes, at two and ninepence per pair; green parasols, at an equally cheap rate; and 'every description of goods,' as the proprietors said-and they must know best-'fifty per cent. under cost price.'

At noon the next day, the cab arrived at the door of Oak Lodge to take Mrs. Malderton and her daughters on their outing for the day. They planned to have dinner and get ready for a play at a friend's house. First, they left with their bags, heading to their first stop to shop at Messrs. Jones, Spruggins, and Smith's on Tottenham Court Road; after that, they were going to Redmayne's on Bond Street; and then to countless other places that no one had ever heard of. The young ladies kept themselves entertained during the dull ride by praising Mr. Horatio Sparkins, complaining to their mom about traveling so far just to save a shilling, and wondering if they'd ever reach their destination. Finally, the cab stopped in front of a shabby-looking linen shop with all sorts of items and various labels in the window. There were oversized figures marked at seven with a tiny three-farthings in the corner; ‘perfectly invisible to the naked eye;’ three hundred and fifty thousand ladies' boas starting at one shilling and a penny halfpenny; genuine French kid shoes for two and ninepence a pair; green parasols for the same low price; and 'every kind of goods,' as the owners claimed—and they should know best—'fifty percent below cost price.'

'Lor! ma, what a place you have brought us to!' said Miss Teresa; 'what would Mr. Sparkins say if he could see us!'

'Wow, Mom, what a place you've brought us to!' said Miss Teresa; 'what would Mr. Sparkins say if he could see us!'

'Ah! what, indeed!' said Miss Marianne, horrified at the idea.

'Oh! what, really!' said Miss Marianne, shocked at the thought.

'Pray be seated, ladies. What is the first article?' inquired the obsequious master of the ceremonies of the establishment, who, in his large white neckcloth and formal tie, looked like a bad 'portrait of a gentleman' in the Somerset-house exhibition.

'Please have a seat, ladies. What is the first item?' asked the eager master of ceremonies at the venue, who, in his big white necktie and formal bowtie, resembled a poorly done 'portrait of a gentleman' in the Somerset House exhibition.

'I want to see some silks,' answered Mrs. Malderton.

'I want to see some silk,' replied Mrs. Malderton.

'Directly, ma'am.-Mr. Smith! Where is Mr. Smith?'

'Right here, ma'am. -Mr. Smith! Where’s Mr. Smith?'

'Here, sir,' cried a voice at the back of the shop.

'Here, sir,' shouted a voice from the back of the shop.

'Pray make haste, Mr. Smith,' said the M.C. 'You never are to be found when you're wanted, sir.'

'Please hurry, Mr. Smith,' said the M.C. 'You’re never around when we need you, sir.'

Mr. Smith, thus enjoined to use all possible despatch, leaped over the counter with great agility, and placed himself before the newly-arrived customers. Mrs. Malderton uttered a faint scream; Miss Teresa, who had been stooping down to talk to her sister, raised her head, and beheld-Horatio Sparkins!

Mr. Smith, urged to act quickly, jumped over the counter with impressive agility and positioned himself in front of the new customers. Mrs. Malderton let out a soft scream; Miss Teresa, who had been leaning down to speak to her sister, lifted her head and saw—Horatio Sparkins!

'We will draw a veil,' as novel-writers say, over the scene that ensued. The mysterious, philosophical, romantic, metaphysical Sparkins-he who, to the interesting Teresa, seemed like the embodied idea of the young dukes and poetical exquisites in blue silk dressing-gowns, and ditto ditto slippers, of whom she had read and dreamed, but had never expected to behold, was suddenly converted into Mr. Samuel Smith, the assistant at a 'cheap shop;' the junior partner in a slippery firm of some three weeks' existence. The dignified evanishment of the hero of Oak Lodge, on this unexpected recognition, could only be equalled by that of a furtive dog with a considerable kettle at his tail. All the hopes of the Maldertons were destined at once to melt away, like the lemon ices at a Company's dinner; Almack's was still to them as distant as the North Pole; and Miss Teresa had as much chance of a husband as Captain Ross had of the north-west passage.

'We’ll put a stop,' as novelists say, to the scene that followed. The mysterious, philosophical, romantic, metaphysical Sparkins—who, to the intriguing Teresa, seemed like the living image of the young dukes and poetic elites in blue silk robes and matching slippers, whom she had read about and dreamed of, but never expected to see—was suddenly revealed to be Mr. Samuel Smith, the assistant at a 'bargain shop;' the junior partner in a slippery firm that had only been around for about three weeks. The dignified disappearance of the hero of Oak Lodge, at this unexpected revelation, could only be compared to that of a sneaky dog with a significant kettle on its tail. All the hopes of the Maldertons were destined to vanish at once, like lemon ices at a corporate dinner; Almack's was still to them as far away as the North Pole; and Miss Teresa had as much chance of finding a husband as Captain Ross had of discovering the north-west passage.

Years have elapsed since the occurrence of this dreadful morning. The daisies have thrice bloomed on Camberwell-green; the sparrows have thrice repeated their vernal chirps in Camberwell-grove; but the Miss Maldertons are still unmated. Miss Teresa's case is more desperate than ever; but Flamwell is yet in the zenith of his reputation; and the family have the same predilection for aristocratic personages, with an increased aversion to anything low.

Years have passed since that awful morning. The daisies have bloomed three times on Camberwell Green; the sparrows have chirped their spring songs three times in Camberwell Grove; but the Miss Maldertons are still single. Miss Teresa's situation is more desperate than ever; however, Flamwell is still at the height of his popularity, and the family continues to prefer aristocrats while becoming even more averse to anything lowly.

CHAPTER VI-THE BLACK VEIL

One winter's evening, towards the close of the year 1800, or within a year or two of that time, a young medical practitioner, recently established in business, was seated by a cheerful fire in his little parlour, listening to the wind which was beating the rain in pattering drops against the window, or rumbling dismally in the chimney. The night was wet and cold; he had been walking through mud and water the whole day, and was now comfortably reposing in his dressing-gown and slippers, more than half asleep and less than half awake, revolving a thousand matters in his wandering imagination. First, he thought how hard the wind was blowing, and how the cold, sharp rain would be at that moment beating in his face, if he were not comfortably housed at home. Then, his mind reverted to his annual Christmas visit to his native place and dearest friends; he thought how glad they would all be to see him, and how happy it would make Rose if he could only tell her that he had found a patient at last, and hoped to have more, and to come down again, in a few months' time, and marry her, and take her home to gladden his lonely fireside, and stimulate him to fresh exertions. Then, he began to wonder when his first patient would appear, or whether he was destined, by a special dispensation of Providence, never to have any patients at all; and then, he thought about Rose again, and dropped to sleep and dreamed about her, till the tones of her sweet merry voice sounded in his ears, and her soft tiny hand rested on his shoulder.

One winter evening, close to the end of the year 1800, or maybe a year or two later, a young doctor, who had just started his practice, was sitting by a cozy fire in his small living room, listening to the wind pounding the rain against the window in a steady rhythm or rumbling sadly in the chimney. The night was wet and cold; he had spent the whole day trudging through mud and water, and now he was comfortably lounging in his robe and slippers, more than half asleep and less than half awake, lost in a thousand thoughts. First, he reflected on how hard the wind was blowing and how the cold, sharp rain would be hitting his face right now if he weren’t snug at home. Then, his thoughts drifted to his annual Christmas visit to his hometown and his closest friends; he imagined how happy they would be to see him, and how thrilled Rose would be if he could tell her he finally had a patient and hoped to get more, planning to return in a few months and marry her, bringing her home to brighten his lonely life and motivate him to work harder. Then, he started to wonder when his first patient would show up, or if, by some twist of fate, he was meant to never have any patients at all; and then, he thought about Rose again, drifting off to sleep and dreaming about her, until he could hear the sound of her sweet, cheerful voice and feel her small, delicate hand resting on his shoulder.

There was a hand upon his shoulder, but it was neither soft nor tiny; its owner being a corpulent round-headed boy, who, in consideration of the sum of one shilling per week and his food, was let out by the parish to carry medicine and messages. As there was no demand for the medicine, however, and no necessity for the messages, he usually occupied his unemployed hours-averaging fourteen a day-in abstracting peppermint drops, taking animal nourishment, and going to sleep.

There was a hand on his shoulder, but it was neither soft nor small; its owner was a chubby, round-headed boy who, for a shilling a week and his meals, was hired by the parish to deliver medicine and messages. Since there was hardly any need for the medicine and no demand for the messages, he mostly spent his idle hours—about fourteen a day—sneaking peppermint drops, eating snacks, and dozing off.

'A lady, sir-a lady!' whispered the boy, rousing his master with a shake.

'A lady, sir—a lady!' whispered the boy, shaking his master awake.

'What lady?' cried our friend, starting up, not quite certain that his dream was an illusion, and half expecting that it might be Rose herself.-'What lady? Where?'

'What lady?' our friend exclaimed, sitting up, unsure if his dream was just a trick of the mind, and half hoping it could be Rose herself. - 'What lady? Where?'

'There, sir!' replied the boy, pointing to the glass door leading into the surgery, with an expression of alarm which the very unusual apparition of a customer might have tended to excite.

"There, sir!" replied the boy, pointing to the glass door leading into the surgery, with a look of alarm that the unusual appearance of a customer might have caused.

The surgeon looked towards the door, and started himself, for an instant, on beholding the appearance of his unlooked-for visitor.

The surgeon glanced at the door and was taken aback for a moment when he saw his unexpected visitor.

It was a singularly tall woman, dressed in deep mourning, and standing so close to the door that her face almost touched the glass. The upper part of her figure was carefully muffled in a black shawl, as if for the purpose of concealment; and her face was shrouded by a thick black veil. She stood perfectly erect, her figure was drawn up to its full height, and though the surgeon felt that the eyes beneath the veil were fixed on him, she stood perfectly motionless, and evinced, by no gesture whatever, the slightest consciousness of his having turned towards her.

It was a remarkably tall woman, dressed in deep mourning, standing so close to the door that her face nearly touched the glass. The upper part of her body was carefully wrapped in a black shawl, almost as if to hide herself; and her face was covered by a thick black veil. She stood perfectly straight, her frame stretched to its full height, and even though the surgeon sensed that the eyes behind the veil were on him, she remained totally still and showed no sign whatsoever of being aware that he had turned toward her.

'Do you wish to consult me?' he inquired, with some hesitation, holding open the door. It opened inwards, and therefore the action did not alter the position of the figure, which still remained motionless on the same spot.

'Do you want to talk to me?' he asked, a bit hesitant, holding the door open. It opened inward, so the action didn't change the position of the figure, which still stood still in the same spot.

She slightly inclined her head, in token of acquiescence.

She tilted her head a bit as a sign of agreement.

'Pray walk in,' said the surgeon.

'Please come in,' said the surgeon.

The figure moved a step forward; and then, turning its head in the direction of the boy-to his infinite horror-appeared to hesitate.

The figure took a step forward; then, turning its head toward the boy—to his absolute horror—seemed to hesitate.

'Leave the room, Tom,' said the young man, addressing the boy, whose large round eyes had been extended to their utmost width during this brief interview. 'Draw the curtain, and shut the door.'

'Leave the room, Tom,' said the young man, speaking to the boy, whose big round eyes were wide open during this brief conversation. 'Close the curtain and shut the door.'

The boy drew a green curtain across the glass part of the door, retired into the surgery, closed the door after him, and immediately applied one of his large eyes to the keyhole on the other side.

The boy pulled a green curtain across the glass section of the door, stepped into the surgery, closed the door behind him, and quickly pressed one of his large eyes to the keyhole on the other side.

The surgeon drew a chair to the fire, and motioned the visitor to a seat. The mysterious figure slowly moved towards it. As the blaze shone upon the black dress, the surgeon observed that the bottom of it was saturated with mud and rain.

The surgeon pulled a chair close to the fire and gestured for the visitor to take a seat. The mysterious figure gradually approached it. As the flames illuminated the black dress, the surgeon noticed that the hem was soaked with mud and rain.

'You are very wet,' be said.

'You're really soaked,' he said.

'I am,' said the stranger, in a low deep voice.

'I am,' said the stranger, in a low, deep voice.

'And you are ill?' added the surgeon, compassionately, for the tone was that of a person in pain.

'Are you unwell?' the surgeon asked, showings signs of empathy, as the tone suggested someone who was in pain.

'I am,' was the reply-'very ill; not bodily, but mentally. It is not for myself, or on my own behalf,' continued the stranger, 'that I come to you. If I laboured under bodily disease, I should not be out, alone, at such an hour, or on such a night as this; and if I were afflicted with it, twenty-four hours hence, God knows how gladly I would lie down and pray to die. It is for another that I beseech your aid, sir. I may be mad to ask it for him-I think I am; but, night after night, through the long dreary hours of watching and weeping, the thought has been ever present to my mind; and though even I see the hopelessness of human assistance availing him, the bare thought of laying him in his grave without it makes my blood run cold!' And a shudder, such as the surgeon well knew art could not produce, trembled through the speaker's frame.

"I'm very sick," the stranger replied, "not physically, but mentally. I'm not here for myself; I'm here on behalf of someone else." He continued, "If I were dealing with a physical illness, I wouldn’t be out alone at this hour or on a night like this. And if I were suffering from it, twenty-four hours from now, God knows how gladly I would lie down and pray to die. I beg for your help for another person. I might be crazy to ask for it for him—I think I am; but night after night, through the long, dreary hours of watching and weeping, the thought has haunted me. Even though I see how hopeless it is for human help to save him, just the idea of putting him in his grave without any assistance makes my blood run cold!" A shudder, one that the surgeon knew art couldn't replicate, shook the speaker's body.

There was a desperate earnestness in this woman's manner, that went to the young man's heart. He was young in his profession, and had not yet witnessed enough of the miseries which are daily presented before the eyes of its members, to have grown comparatively callous to human suffering.

There was a desperate sincerity in this woman's behavior that touched the young man's heart. He was new in his profession and hadn't experienced enough of the daily hardships that its members face to become somewhat numb to human suffering.

'If,' he said, rising hastily, 'the person of whom you speak, be in so hopeless a condition as you describe, not a moment is to be lost. I will go with you instantly. Why did you not obtain medical advice before?'

'If,' he said, getting up quickly, 'the person you're talking about is in the dire condition you say, we can't waste any time. I will go with you right away. Why didn't you get a doctor’s advice earlier?'

'Because it would have been useless before-because it is useless even now,' replied the woman, clasping her hands passionately.

'Because it would have been pointless before—because it is pointless even now,' replied the woman, clasping her hands passionately.

The surgeon gazed, for a moment, on the black veil, as if to ascertain the expression of the features beneath it: its thickness, however, rendered such a result impossible.

The surgeon looked for a moment at the black veil, trying to figure out the expression of the face underneath it; its thickness, however, made that impossible.

'You are ill,' he said, gently, 'although you do not know it. The fever which has enabled you to bear, without feeling it, the fatigue you have evidently undergone, is burning within you now. Put that to your lips,' he continued, pouring out a glass of water-'compose yourself for a few moments, and then tell me, as calmly as you can, what the disease of the patient is, and how long he has been ill. When I know what it is necessary I should know, to render my visit serviceable to him, I am ready to accompany you.'

'You’re not well,' he said gently, 'even if you don't realize it. The fever that has helped you endure the exhaustion you clearly feel is raging inside you right now. Take a sip of this,' he continued, pouring a glass of water. 'Calm yourself for a few moments, and then tell me, as calmly as possible, what the patient's illness is and how long he has been sick. Once I know what I need to know to make my visit helpful to him, I’m ready to go with you.'

The stranger lifted the glass of water to her mouth, without raising the veil; put it down again untasted; and burst into tears.

The stranger brought the glass of water to her lips but didn't lift the veil; she set it down untouched and started to cry.

'I know,' she said, sobbing aloud, 'that what I say to you now, seems like the ravings of fever. I have been told so before, less kindly than by you. I am not a young woman; and they do say, that as life steals on towards its final close, the last short remnant, worthless as it may seem to all beside, is dearer to its possessor than all the years that have gone before, connected though they be with the recollection of old friends long since dead, and young ones-children perhaps-who have fallen off from, and forgotten one as completely as if they had died too. My natural term of life cannot be many years longer, and should be dear on that account; but I would lay it down without a sigh-with cheerfulness-with joy-if what I tell you now, were only false, or imaginary. To-morrow morning he of whom I speak will be, I know, though I would fain think otherwise, beyond the reach of human aid; and yet, to-night, though he is in deadly peril, you must not see, and could not serve, him.'

"I know," she said, sobbing loudly, "that what I'm saying to you right now sounds like the delusions of a fever. I've been told that before, not as kindly as you have. I'm not a young woman, and people say that as life moves toward its end, the last, short stretch—no matter how worthless it may seem to everyone else—is more precious to the person experiencing it than all the years that have come before, even if they’re filled with memories of old friends long gone and young ones—perhaps children—who have drifted away and forgotten you just as completely as if they had died too. I don’t have many years left, and that should make my life precious; but I would gladly give it up without a sigh—cheerfully—joyfully—if what I'm telling you now were only false or imaginary. Tomorrow morning, the person I'm talking about will be, I know, even though I wish it weren't true, beyond the help of anyone; yet tonight, even though he is in deadly danger, you must not see him, and you couldn’t help him even if you did."

'I am unwilling to increase your distress,' said the surgeon, after a short pause, 'by making any comment on what you have just said, or appearing desirous to investigate a subject you are so anxious to conceal; but there is an inconsistency in your statement which I cannot reconcile with probability. This person is dying to-night, and I cannot see him when my assistance might possibly avail; you apprehend it will be useless to-morrow, and yet you would have me see him then! If he be, indeed, as dear to you, as your words and manner would imply, why not try to save his life before delay and the progress of his disease render it impracticable?'

"I don't want to add to your distress," the surgeon said after a brief pause, "by commenting on what you've just said or seeming eager to delve into a topic you clearly want to hide. However, there's a contradiction in your statement that I can't ignore. This person is dying tonight, and I can't see him when my help might actually make a difference; you think it will be useless tomorrow, yet you want me to see him then! If he truly means as much to you as your words and actions suggest, why not try to save his life now before delay and the progression of his illness make it impossible?"

'God help me!' exclaimed the woman, weeping bitterly, 'how can I hope strangers will believe what appears incredible, even to myself? You will not see him then, sir?' she added, rising suddenly.

'God help me!' the woman cried, tears streaming down her face, 'how can I expect strangers to believe something that seems unbelievable, even to me? You're not going to see him, then, sir?' she said, getting up abruptly.

'I did not say that I declined to see him,' replied the surgeon; 'but I warn you, that if you persist in this extraordinary procrastination, and the individual dies, a fearful responsibility rests with you.'

'I didn't say that I refused to see him,' replied the surgeon; 'but I warn you, if you keep up this unbelievable delay, and the person dies, you'll have a heavy responsibility on your hands.'

'The responsibility will rest heavily somewhere,' replied the stranger bitterly. 'Whatever responsibility rests with me, I am content to bear, and ready to answer.'

'The responsibility will weigh heavily somewhere,' the stranger replied bitterly. 'Whatever responsibility falls on me, I'm willing to take it on and ready to respond.'

'As I incur none,' continued the surgeon, 'by acceding to your request, I will see him in the morning, if you leave me the address. At what hour can he be seen?'

'Since I won’t be taking on any costs,' the surgeon continued, 'I'll meet with him in the morning if you give me the address. What time can I see him?'

'Nine,' replied the stranger.

'Nine,' said the stranger.

'You must excuse my pressing these inquiries,' said the surgeon. 'But is he in your charge now?'

'You have to forgive me for pushing these questions,' said the surgeon. 'But is he in your care now?'

'He is not,' was the rejoinder.

'He is not,' was the reply.

'Then, if I gave you instructions for his treatment through the night, you could not assist him?'

'So, if I gave you instructions for his care overnight, you wouldn't be able to help him?'

The woman wept bitterly, as she replied, 'I could not.'

The woman cried hard as she answered, 'I couldn't.'

Finding that there was but little prospect of obtaining more information by prolonging the interview; and anxious to spare the woman's feelings, which, subdued at first by a violent effort, were now irrepressible and most painful to witness; the surgeon repeated his promise of calling in the morning at the appointed hour. His visitor, after giving him a direction to an obscure part of Walworth, left the house in the same mysterious manner in which she had entered it.

Finding that there wasn’t much chance of getting more information by extending the conversation, and wanting to spare the woman's feelings, which had initially been held in check by a strong effort but were now overflowing and incredibly hard to watch, the surgeon reiterated his promise to come back in the morning at the scheduled time. His visitor, after giving him directions to a hidden spot in Walworth, left the house in the same mysterious way she had arrived.

It will be readily believed that so extraordinary a visit produced a considerable impression on the mind of the young surgeon; and that he speculated a great deal and to very little purpose on the possible circumstances of the case. In common with the generality of people, he had often heard and read of singular instances, in which a presentiment of death, at a particular day, or even minute, had been entertained and realised. At one moment he was inclined to think that the present might be such a case; but, then, it occurred to him that all the anecdotes of the kind he had ever heard, were of persons who had been troubled with a foreboding of their own death. This woman, however, spoke of another person-a man; and it was impossible to suppose that a mere dream or delusion of fancy would induce her to speak of his approaching dissolution with such terrible certainty as she had spoken. It could not be that the man was to be murdered in the morning, and that the woman, originally a consenting party, and bound to secrecy by an oath, had relented, and, though unable to prevent the commission of some outrage on the victim, had determined to prevent his death if possible, by the timely interposition of medical aid? The idea of such things happening within two miles of the metropolis appeared too wild and preposterous to be entertained beyond the instant. Then, his original impression that the woman's intellects were disordered, recurred; and, as it was the only mode of solving the difficulty with any degree of satisfaction, he obstinately made up his mind to believe that she was mad. Certain misgivings upon this point, however, stole upon his thoughts at the time, and presented themselves again and again through the long dull course of a sleepless night; during which, in spite of all his efforts to the contrary, he was unable to banish the black veil from his disturbed imagination.

It’s easy to believe that such an unusual visit had a strong impact on the young surgeon, leading him to ponder a lot without really getting anywhere regarding the possible circumstances of the case. Like most people, he had often heard and read about strange instances where someone had a feeling of impending death on a specific day or even at a certain minute, only for it to come true. At one moment he thought maybe this was one of those cases; but then he realized that all the stories he had ever heard were about people who had a premonition of their own death. This woman, however, was talking about someone else—a man; and it seemed impossible that a mere dream or figment of her imagination would make her speak about his impending death with such alarming certainty. It couldn’t be that the man was supposed to be murdered the next morning and that the woman, initially a willing participant and bound by an oath of secrecy, had changed her mind and, unable to stop some harm coming to the victim, had decided to try to save him with timely medical help? The idea of something like that happening just two miles from the city felt too outrageous to consider for long. Then, his initial thought that the woman might be mentally unstable came back to him; and since it was the only way he could find any peace in the situation, he stubbornly decided to believe that she was crazy. However, certain doubts about this crept into his mind at the time and kept resurfacing throughout the long, dull hours of a sleepless night; during which, despite all his efforts to think differently, he couldn’t shake the dark thoughts from his troubled mind.

The back part of Walworth, at its greatest distance from town, is a straggling miserable place enough, even in these days; but, five-and- thirty years ago, the greater portion of it was little better than a dreary waste, inhabited by a few scattered people of questionable character, whose poverty prevented their living in any better neighbourhood, or whose pursuits and mode of life rendered its solitude desirable. Very many of the houses which have since sprung up on all sides, were not built until some years afterwards; and the great majority even of those which were sprinkled about, at irregular intervals, were of the rudest and most miserable description.

The back part of Walworth, farthest from the town, is a pretty sad place even today; but thirty-five years ago, most of it was hardly better than a desolate wasteland, home to a few scattered people of questionable reputation. Their poverty kept them from living in better neighborhoods, or their lifestyle made the isolation appealing. Many of the houses that have since popped up all around weren't built until years later, and most of those that were spread out at irregular intervals were in the simplest and most rundown condition.

The appearance of the place through which he walked in the morning, was not calculated to raise the spirits of the young surgeon, or to dispel any feeling of anxiety or depression which the singular kind of visit he was about to make, had awakened. Striking off from the high road, his way lay across a marshy common, through irregular lanes, with here and there a ruinous and dismantled cottage fast falling to pieces with decay and neglect. A stunted tree, or pool of stagnant water, roused into a sluggish action by the heavy rain of the preceding night, skirted the path occasionally; and, now and then, a miserable patch of garden- ground, with a few old boards knocked together for a summer-house, and old palings imperfectly mended with stakes pilfered from the neighbouring hedges, bore testimony, at once to the poverty of the inhabitants, and the little scruple they entertained in appropriating the property of other people to their own use. Occasionally, a filthy- looking woman would make her appearance from the door of a dirty house, to empty the contents of some cooking utensil into the gutter in front, or to scream after a little slip-shod girl, who had contrived to stagger a few yards from the door under the weight of a sallow infant almost as big as herself; but, scarcely anything was stirring around: and so much of the prospect as could be faintly traced through the cold damp mist which hung heavily over it, presented a lonely and dreary appearance perfectly in keeping with the objects we have described.

The look of the place he walked through in the morning didn't exactly lift the spirits of the young surgeon or ease any anxiety or sadness that the unusual visit he was about to make had stirred up. Turning off the main road, he made his way across a muddy common, through uneven paths, with crumbling cottages here and there, falling apart from neglect. A scraggly tree or a pool of stagnant water, stirred slightly from the heavy rain the night before, lined the path now and then; and every so often, a sad little garden with some old boards haphazardly put together for a summer house and rickety fences patched with sticks stolen from nearby hedges showed both the residents' poverty and their lack of concern about taking others' property for their own. Occasionally, a grimy-looking woman would appear at the door of a filthy house to dump the contents of a cooking pot into the gutter or yell after a little girl in worn-out shoes who managed to stumble a few steps from the door, struggling with a sickly baby almost as big as she was. But hardly anything was moving around; and the view that could be faintly seen through the cold, damp mist hanging heavily over everything looked lonely and bleak, perfectly matching the surroundings we’ve described.

After plodding wearily through the mud and mire; making many inquiries for the place to which he had been directed; and receiving as many contradictory and unsatisfactory replies in return; the young man at length arrived before the house which had been pointed out to him as the object of his destination. It was a small low building, one story above the ground, with even a more desolate and unpromising exterior than any he had yet passed. An old yellow curtain was closely drawn across the window up-stairs, and the parlour shutters were closed, but not fastened. The house was detached from any other, and, as it stood at an angle of a narrow lane, there was no other habitation in sight.

After trudging tiredly through the mud and muck, asking many questions about the place he was supposed to find, and getting just as many confusing and unsatisfying answers in return, the young man finally arrived at the house that had been pointed out to him as his destination. It was a small, low building, only one story high, with an even more bleak and uninviting appearance than any he had encountered so far. An old yellow curtain was tightly drawn across the upstairs window, and the living room shutters were closed but not secured. The house was separated from any others, and since it was positioned at a bend in a narrow lane, there were no other homes in sight.

When we say that the surgeon hesitated, and walked a few paces beyond the house, before he could prevail upon himself to lift the knocker, we say nothing that need raise a smile upon the face of the boldest reader. The police of London were a very different body in that day; the isolated position of the suburbs, when the rage for building and the progress of improvement had not yet begun to connect them with the main body of the city and its environs, rendered many of them (and this in particular) a place of resort for the worst and most depraved characters. Even the streets in the gayest parts of London were imperfectly lighted, at that time; and such places as these, were left entirely to the mercy of the moon and stars. The chances of detecting desperate characters, or of tracing them to their haunts, were thus rendered very few, and their offences naturally increased in boldness, as the consciousness of comparative security became the more impressed upon them by daily experience. Added to these considerations, it must be remembered that the young man had spent some time in the public hospitals of the metropolis; and, although neither Burke nor Bishop had then gained a horrible notoriety, his own observation might have suggested to him how easily the atrocities to which the former has since given his name, might be committed. Be this as it may, whatever reflection made him hesitate, he did hesitate: but, being a young man of strong mind and great personal courage, it was only for an instant;-he stepped briskly back and knocked gently at the door.

When we say that the surgeon hesitated and took a few steps away from the house before he could bring himself to lift the knocker, we’re not saying anything that should make even the bravest reader smile. The police in London were very different back then; the isolated suburbs, before the building boom and improvements connected them to the main city, were known for attracting the worst and most depraved people. Even the streets in the liveliest parts of London were poorly lit at that time, leaving places like these completely at the mercy of the moon and stars. The chances of catching any dangerous individuals or tracking them to their hideouts were quite slim, and their crimes naturally became bolder as they felt increasingly secure over time. Additionally, we must remember that the young man had spent some time in the public hospitals in the city; and although neither Burke nor Bishop had yet become infamous, his own observations might have hinted to him how easily the horrors that Burke would later be known for could be carried out. Regardless, whatever thoughts made him hesitate, he did pause: but being a young man of strong will and considerable courage, it was only for a moment—he quickly stepped back and gently knocked on the door.

A low whispering was audible, immediately afterwards, as if some person at the end of the passage were conversing stealthily with another on the landing above. It was succeeded by the noise of a pair of heavy boots upon the bare floor. The door-chain was softly unfastened; the door opened; and a tall, ill-favoured man, with black hair, and a face, as the surgeon often declared afterwards, as pale and haggard, as the countenance of any dead man he ever saw, presented himself.

A low whisper was heard right after, as if someone at the end of the hallway was quietly talking to another person on the landing above. Then, the sound of heavy boots on the bare floor followed. The door chain was quietly unfastened; the door opened; and a tall, unattractive man with black hair and a face, as the surgeon often remarked later, as pale and worn out as any dead person he had ever seen, appeared.

'Walk in, sir,' he said in a low tone.

'Come in, sir,' he said quietly.

The surgeon did so, and the man having secured the door again, by the chain, led the way to a small back parlour at the extremity of the passage.

The surgeon did that, and the man, after securing the door again with the chain, led the way to a small back parlor at the end of the hallway.

'Am I in time?'

'Am I on time?'

'Too soon!' replied the man. The surgeon turned hastily round, with a gesture of astonishment not unmixed with alarm, which he found it impossible to repress.

'Too soon!' the man replied. The surgeon quickly turned around, displaying a look of surprise mixed with alarm that he couldn't hide.

'If you'll step in here, sir,' said the man, who had evidently noticed the action-'if you'll step in here, sir, you won't be detained five minutes, I assure you.'

'If you'll come in here, sir,' said the man, who had clearly observed the action, 'if you'll come in here, sir, you won't be held up for more than five minutes, I promise you.'

The surgeon at once walked into the room. The man closed the door, and left him alone.

The surgeon immediately walked into the room. The man closed the door and left him alone.

It was a little cold room, with no other furniture than two deal chairs, and a table of the same material. A handful of fire, unguarded by any fender, was burning in the grate, which brought out the damp if it served no more comfortable purpose, for the unwholesome moisture was stealing down the walls, in long slug-like tracks. The window, which was broken and patched in many places, looked into a small enclosed piece of ground, almost covered with water. Not a sound was to be heard, either within the house, or without. The young surgeon sat down by the fireplace, to await the result of his first professional visit.

It was a small, cold room, with only two wooden chairs and a table made of the same material. A small fire, without any screen, was burning in the grate, which made the dampness more noticeable, as the unhealthy moisture trickled down the walls in long, slimy streaks. The window, broken and patched in several places, looked out onto a small, enclosed area that was nearly flooded. There was complete silence, both inside the house and outside. The young surgeon sat by the fireplace, waiting for the outcome of his first professional visit.

He had not remained in this position many minutes, when the noise of some approaching vehicle struck his ear. It stopped; the street-door was opened; a low talking succeeded, accompanied with a shuffling noise of footsteps, along the passage and on the stairs, as if two or three men were engaged in carrying some heavy body to the room above. The creaking of the stairs, a few seconds afterwards, announced that the new-comers having completed their task, whatever it was, were leaving the house. The door was again closed, and the former silence was restored.

He hadn't been in this position for long when he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. It stopped; the front door opened; low voices followed, along with the sound of shuffling footsteps along the hallway and up the stairs, as if two or three men were transporting something heavy to the room above. A few seconds later, the creaking of the stairs signaled that the newcomers had finished their task, whatever it was, and were leaving the house. The door closed again, restoring the previous silence.

Another five minutes had elapsed, and the surgeon had resolved to explore the house, in search of some one to whom he might make his errand known, when the room-door opened, and his last night's visitor, dressed in exactly the same manner, with the veil lowered as before, motioned him to advance. The singular height of her form, coupled with the circumstance of her not speaking, caused the idea to pass across his brain for an instant, that it might be a man disguised in woman's attire. The hysteric sobs which issued from beneath the veil, and the convulsive attitude of grief of the whole figure, however, at once exposed the absurdity of the suspicion; and he hastily followed.

Another five minutes had passed, and the surgeon decided to search the house for someone he could inform about his errand, when the door opened. His visitor from last night appeared, dressed exactly as before, with her veil lowered, and signaled him to come closer. The unusual height of her figure, combined with her silence, briefly made him consider that it could be a man disguised in women's clothing. However, the emotional sobs coming from beneath the veil and her overall distressed posture immediately made that suspicion seem ridiculous, and he quickly followed her.

The woman led the way up-stairs to the front room, and paused at the door, to let him enter first. It was scantily furnished with an old deal box, a few chairs, and a tent bedstead, without hangings or cross- rails, which was covered with a patchwork counterpane. The dim light admitted through the curtain which he had noticed from the outside, rendered the objects in the room so indistinct, and communicated to all of them so uniform a hue, that he did not, at first, perceive the object on which his eye at once rested when the woman rushed frantically past him, and flung herself on her knees by the bedside.

The woman led the way upstairs to the front room and paused at the door to let him enter first. It was sparsely furnished with an old wooden box, a few chairs, and a simple bed frame without curtains or cross rails, which was covered with a patchwork quilt. The dim light coming through the curtain, which he had noticed from outside, made the objects in the room hard to distinguish and gave everything a uniform color, so he didn't immediately notice what caught his eye when the woman rushed past him and threw herself on her knees by the bedside.

Stretched upon the bed, closely enveloped in a linen wrapper, and covered with blankets, lay a human form, stiff and motionless. The head and face, which were those of a man, were uncovered, save by a bandage which passed over the head and under the chin. The eyes were closed. The left arm lay heavily across the bed, and the woman held the passive hand.

Stretched out on the bed, wrapped tightly in a linen covering and surrounded by blankets, lay a human figure, rigid and still. The head and face belonged to a man and were exposed, except for a bandage that went over his head and under his chin. His eyes were closed. The left arm lay heavily across the bed, and the woman held his limp hand.

The surgeon gently pushed the woman aside, and took the hand in his.

The surgeon carefully moved the woman aside and took her hand in his.

'My God!' he exclaimed, letting it fall involuntarily-'the man is dead!'

'Oh my God!' he exclaimed, dropping it without thinking—'the man is dead!'

The woman started to her feet and beat her hands together.

The woman got to her feet and clapped her hands.

'Oh! don't say so, sir,' she exclaimed, with a burst of passion, amounting almost to frenzy. 'Oh! don't say so, sir! I can't bear it! Men have been brought to life, before, when unskilful people have given them up for lost; and men have died, who might have been restored, if proper means had been resorted to. Don't let him lie here, sir, without one effort to save him! This very moment life may be passing away. Do try, sir,-do, for Heaven's sake!'-And while speaking, she hurriedly chafed, first the forehead, and then the breast, of the senseless form before her; and then, wildly beat the cold hands, which, when she ceased to hold them, fell listlessly and heavily back on the coverlet.

"Oh! Please don’t say that, sir," she exclaimed, her voice filled with intense emotion, nearly frantic. "Oh! Please don’t say that, sir! I can’t handle it! People have been brought back to life before when careless individuals have given up on them; and people have died who could have been saved if the right steps had been taken. Don’t let him lie here, sir, without even trying to save him! At this very moment, his life could be slipping away. Please try, sir—do it for Heaven’s sake!" As she spoke, she quickly rubbed the forehead, then the chest, of the lifeless form in front of her; then she desperately slapped his cold hands, which, once she stopped holding them, fell heavily and lifelessly back onto the blanket.

'It is of no use, my good woman,' said the surgeon, soothingly, as he withdrew his hand from the man's breast. 'Stay-undraw that curtain!'

'It's no use, my good woman,' the surgeon said gently as he pulled his hand away from the man's chest. 'Stay—open that curtain!'

'Why?' said the woman, starting up.

'Why?' said the woman, sitting up.

'Undraw that curtain!' repeated the surgeon in an agitated tone.

'Draw that curtain back!' the surgeon shouted, clearly upset.

'I darkened the room on purpose,' said the woman, throwing herself before him as he rose to undraw it.-'Oh! sir, have pity on me! If it can be of no use, and he is really dead, do not expose that form to other eyes than mine!'

'I purposely dimmed the room,' the woman said, throwing herself in front of him as he got up to pull back the curtain. 'Oh! Sir, please have mercy on me! If it's pointless and he's truly gone, don't let anyone else see that body except for me!'

'This man died no natural or easy death,' said the surgeon. 'I must see the body!' With a motion so sudden, that the woman hardly knew that he had slipped from beside her, he tore open the curtain, admitted the full light of day, and returned to the bedside.

'This man didn't die a natural or easy death,' said the surgeon. 'I need to see the body!' In a movement so quick that the woman barely noticed he had left her side, he whipped open the curtain, let in the bright daylight, and went back to the bedside.

'There has been violence here,' he said, pointing towards the body, and gazing intently on the face, from which the black veil was now, for the first time, removed. In the excitement of a minute before, the female had thrown off the bonnet and veil, and now stood with her eyes fixed upon him. Her features were those of a woman about fifty, who had once been handsome. Sorrow and weeping had left traces upon them which not time itself would ever have produced without their aid; her face was deadly pale; and there was a nervous contortion of the lip, and an unnatural fire in her eye, which showed too plainly that her bodily and mental powers had nearly sunk, beneath an accumulation of misery.

"There’s been violence here," he said, pointing to the body and staring intently at the face, which had now been uncovered for the first time. In the frenzy of a moment earlier, the woman had thrown off her bonnet and veil, now standing there with her eyes locked on him. Her features belonged to a woman in her fifties who had once been attractive. Grief and distress had left marks on her that not even time could have caused on its own; her face was ghostly pale, and there was a twitching of her lip and an unnatural spark in her eye that clearly indicated her physical and mental strength had nearly collapsed under the weight of her suffering.

'There has been violence here,' said the surgeon, preserving his searching glance.

'There's been violence here,' the surgeon said, maintaining his intense gaze.

'There has!' replied the woman.

"There has!" replied the woman.

'This man has been murdered.'

"This guy has been murdered."

'That I call God to witness he has,' said the woman, passionately; 'pitilessly, inhumanly murdered!'

'That I call God to witness he has,' said the woman, passionately; 'mercilessly, inhumanely killed!'

'By whom?' said the surgeon, seizing the woman by the arm.

'By whom?' said the surgeon, grabbing the woman by the arm.

'Look at the butchers' marks, and then ask me!' she replied.

'Look at the butchers' marks, and then ask me!' she said.

The surgeon turned his face towards the bed, and bent over the body which now lay full in the light of the window. The throat was swollen, and a livid mark encircled it. The truth flashed suddenly upon him.

The surgeon turned his face toward the bed and leaned over the body now in full view of the window. The throat was swollen, and a bruised mark surrounded it. The truth suddenly hit him.

'This is one of the men who were hanged this morning!' he exclaimed, turning away with a shudder.

'This is one of the guys who got hanged this morning!' he exclaimed, turning away with a shudder.

'It is,' replied the woman, with a cold, unmeaning stare.

'It is,' replied the woman, with a cold, blank stare.

'Who was he?' inquired the surgeon.

'Who was he?' asked the surgeon.

'My son,' rejoined the woman; and fell senseless at his feet.

'My son,' the woman replied, and then collapsed at his feet.

It was true. A companion, equally guilty with himself, had been acquitted for want of evidence; and this man had been left for death, and executed. To recount the circumstances of the case, at this distant period, must be unnecessary, and might give pain to some persons still alive. The history was an every-day one. The mother was a widow without friends or money, and had denied herself necessaries to bestow them on her orphan boy. That boy, unmindful of her prayers, and forgetful of the sufferings she had endured for him-incessant anxiety of mind, and voluntary starvation of body-had plunged into a career of dissipation and crime. And this was the result; his own death by the hangman's hands, and his mother's shame, and incurable insanity.

It was true. A companion, just as guilty as he was, had been cleared due to lack of evidence; and this man had been left to die and executed. Recounting the details of the case at this late date isn’t necessary and might upset some people still living. The story was an everyday one. The mother was a widow without friends or money, and she had gone without essentials to provide for her orphaned son. That boy, ignoring her pleas and forgetting the hardships she endured for him—constant worry and voluntary starvation—had thrown himself into a life of excess and crime. And this was the outcome: his own death at the hands of the hangman, and his mother’s shame and permanent insanity.

For many years after this occurrence, and when profitable and arduous avocations would have led many men to forget that such a miserable being existed, the young surgeon was a daily visitor at the side of the harmless mad woman; not only soothing her by his presence and kindness, but alleviating the rigour of her condition by pecuniary donations for her comfort and support, bestowed with no sparing hand. In the transient gleam of recollection and consciousness which preceded her death, a prayer for his welfare and protection, as fervent as mortal ever breathed, rose from the lips of this poor friendless creature. That prayer flew to Heaven, and was heard. The blessings he was instrumental in conferring, have been repaid to him a thousand-fold; but, amid all the honours of rank and station which have since been heaped upon him, and which he has so well earned, he can have no reminiscence more gratifying to his heart than that connected with The Black Veil.

For many years after this happened, even when busy and rewarding jobs could have made many people forget that such a miserable person existed, the young surgeon visited the harmless mad woman every day. He not only comforted her with his presence and kindness but also eased her situation by generously giving money for her comfort and support. In the brief moments of awareness she had before her death, she offered a prayer for his well-being and protection, as heartfelt as anyone has ever spoken. That prayer soared to Heaven and was heard. The blessings he helped bring to her have come back to him a thousand times over; yet, among all the honors and status that he has since received, which he has truly earned, he cannot have a more satisfying memory than that connected with The Black Veil.

CHAPTER VII-THE STEAM EXCURSION

Mr. Percy Noakes was a law student, inhabiting a set of chambers on the fourth floor, in one of those houses in Gray's-inn-square which command an extensive view of the gardens, and their usual adjuncts-flaunting nursery-maids, and town-made children, with parenthetical legs. Mr. Percy Noakes was what is generally termed-'a devilish good fellow.' He had a large circle of acquaintance, and seldom dined at his own expense. He used to talk politics to papas, flatter the vanity of mammas, do the amiable to their daughters, make pleasure engagements with their sons, and romp with the younger branches. Like those paragons of perfection, advertising footmen out of place, he was always 'willing to make himself generally useful.' If any old lady, whose son was in India, gave a ball, Mr. Percy Noakes was master of the ceremonies; if any young lady made a stolen match, Mr. Percy Noakes gave her away; if a juvenile wife presented her husband with a blooming cherub, Mr. Percy Noakes was either godfather, or deputy-godfather; and if any member of a friend's family died, Mr. Percy Noakes was invariably to be seen in the second mourning coach, with a white handkerchief to his eyes, sobbing-to use his own appropriate and expressive description-'like winkin'!'

Mr. Percy Noakes was a law student living in a set of chambers on the fourth floor of one of those houses in Gray's Inn Square that offered a great view of the gardens, complete with their usual features—showy nursery maids and city kids with awkward legs. Mr. Percy Noakes was what people generally call "a really good guy." He had a wide network of friends and rarely paid for his own meals. He would discuss politics with dads, flatter moms' egos, charm their daughters, make plans with their sons, and play around with the little ones. Like those perfect examples of excellence, out-of-work footmen in ads, he was always "happy to be generally helpful." If some old lady whose son was in India threw a ball, Mr. Percy Noakes was the master of ceremonies; if a young lady eloped, Mr. Percy Noakes played the role of giving her away; if a young wife had a beautiful baby, Mr. Percy Noakes was either the godfather or the stand-in godfather; and if someone in a friend's family passed away, Mr. Percy Noakes could always be found in the second mourning coach, with a white handkerchief at his eyes, sobbing—using his own favorite expression—"like winkin'!"

It may readily be imagined that these numerous avocations were rather calculated to interfere with Mr. Percy Noakes's professional studies. Mr. Percy Noakes was perfectly aware of the fact, and had, therefore, after mature reflection, made up his mind not to study at all-a laudable determination, to which he adhered in the most praiseworthy manner. His sitting-room presented a strange chaos of dress-gloves, boxing-gloves, caricatures, albums, invitation-cards, foils, cricket-bats, cardboard drawings, paste, gum, and fifty other miscellaneous articles, heaped together in the strangest confusion. He was always making something for somebody, or planning some party of pleasure, which was his great forte. He invariably spoke with astonishing rapidity; was smart, spoffish, and eight-and-twenty.

It’s easy to see how all these activities were likely to interfere with Mr. Percy Noakes’s professional studies. Mr. Percy Noakes was fully aware of this and, after careful thought, decided not to study at all—a commendable choice that he stuck to quite impressively. His sitting room was a bizarre mess of dress gloves, boxing gloves, cartoons, albums, invitations, foils, cricket bats, cardboard sketches, paste, glue, and countless other random items piled together in the oddest disarray. He was always making something for someone or planning some kind of fun gathering, which was his real talent. He spoke incredibly quickly; he was witty, cheeky, and twenty-eight.

'Splendid idea, 'pon my life!' soliloquised Mr. Percy Noakes, over his morning coffee, as his mind reverted to a suggestion which had been thrown out on the previous night, by a lady at whose house he had spent the evening. 'Glorious idea!-Mrs. Stubbs.'

'Splendid idea, upon my life!' Mr. Percy Noakes mused to himself, over his morning coffee, as he recalled a suggestion made the previous night by a lady whose house he had visited. 'What a brilliant idea!-Mrs. Stubbs.'

'Yes, sir,' replied a dirty old woman with an inflamed countenance, emerging from the bedroom, with a barrel of dirt and cinders.-This was the laundress. 'Did you call, sir?'

'Yes, sir,' replied a filthy old woman with a swollen face, coming out of the bedroom, carrying a barrel of dirt and ashes. This was the laundress. 'Did you call, sir?'

'Oh! Mrs. Stubbs, I'm going out. If that tailor should call again, you'd better say-you'd better say I'm out of town, and shan't be back for a fortnight; and if that bootmaker should come, tell him I've lost his address, or I'd have sent him that little amount. Mind he writes it down; and if Mr. Hardy should call-you know Mr. Hardy?'

'Oh! Mrs. Stubbs, I’m leaving. If that tailor comes by again, you’d better say—I’ll be out of town and won’t be back for two weeks; and if that bootmaker shows up, tell him I’ve lost his address, or I would’ve sent him that small payment. Make sure he writes it down; and if Mr. Hardy stops by—you know Mr. Hardy?'

'The funny gentleman, sir?'

'The funny guy, sir?'

'Ah! the funny gentleman. If Mr. Hardy should call, say I've gone to Mrs. Taunton's about that water-party.'

'Ah! the funny guy. If Mr. Hardy calls, let him know I’ve gone to Mrs. Taunton’s about that water party.'

'Yes, sir.'

"Yes, sir."

'And if any fellow calls, and says he's come about a steamer, tell him to be here at five o'clock this afternoon, Mrs. Stubbs.'

'And if anyone calls and says they're here about a steamer, tell them to come by at five o'clock this afternoon, Mrs. Stubbs.'

'Very well, sir.'

"Sure thing, sir."

Mr. Percy Noakes brushed his hat, whisked the crumbs off his inexpressibles with a silk handkerchief, gave the ends of his hair a persuasive roll round his forefinger, and sallied forth for Mrs. Taunton's domicile in Great Marlborough-street, where she and her daughters occupied the upper part of a house. She was a good-looking widow of fifty, with the form of a giantess and the mind of a child. The pursuit of pleasure, and some means of killing time, were the sole end of her existence. She doted on her daughters, who were as frivolous as herself.

Mr. Percy Noakes brushed off his hat, wiped the crumbs off his pants with a silk handkerchief, curled the ends of his hair around his finger, and headed out to Mrs. Taunton's place on Great Marlborough Street, where she and her daughters lived on the upper floor. She was an attractive fifty-year-old widow, with the build of a giantess and the mentality of a child. The only purpose of her life was seeking pleasure and finding ways to pass the time. She adored her daughters, who were just as superficial as she was.

A general exclamation of satisfaction hailed the arrival of Mr. Percy Noakes, who went through the ordinary salutations, and threw himself into an easy chair near the ladies' work-table, with the ease of a regularly established friend of the family. Mrs. Taunton was busily engaged in planting immense bright bows on every part of a smart cap on which it was possible to stick one; Miss Emily Taunton was making a watch-guard; Miss Sophia was at the piano, practising a new song-poetry by the young officer, or the police-officer, or the custom-house officer, or some other interesting amateur.

A general cheer of happiness welcomed Mr. Percy Noakes as he came in. He exchanged the usual greetings and settled into a comfortable chair near the ladies' work table, looking perfectly at home. Mrs. Taunton was busy attaching large, vibrant bows to every part of a stylish cap wherever she could. Miss Emily Taunton was making a watch-guard, while Miss Sophia was at the piano, practicing a new song written by the young officer, or maybe the police officer, or the customs officer, or some other intriguing amateur.

'You good creature!' said Mrs. Taunton, addressing the gallant Percy. 'You really are a good soul! You've come about the water-party, I know.'

'You good person!' said Mrs. Taunton, speaking to the brave Percy. 'You truly are a kind soul! I know you've come about the water party.'

'I should rather suspect I had,' replied Mr. Noakes, triumphantly. 'Now, come here, girls, and I'll tell you all about it.' Miss Emily and Miss Sophia advanced to the table.

"I think I probably did," replied Mr. Noakes, feeling triumphant. "Now, come over here, girls, and I'll fill you in on everything." Miss Emily and Miss Sophia stepped up to the table.

'Now,' continued Mr. Percy Noakes, 'it seems to me that the best way will be, to have a committee of ten, to make all the arrangements, and manage the whole set-out. Then, I propose that the expenses shall be paid by these ten fellows jointly.'

'Now,' continued Mr. Percy Noakes, 'I think the best approach is to form a committee of ten to handle all the arrangements and manage everything. Then, I suggest that these ten individuals will share the expenses equally.'

'Excellent, indeed!' said Mrs. Taunton, who highly approved of this part of the arrangements.

'Excellent, indeed!' said Mrs. Taunton, who really liked this part of the plans.

'Then, my plan is, that each of these ten fellows shall have the power of asking five people. There must be a meeting of the committee, at my chambers, to make all the arrangements, and these people shall be then named; every member of the committee shall have the power of black- balling any one who is proposed; and one black ball shall exclude that person. This will ensure our having a pleasant party, you know.'

'Then, my plan is that each of these ten guys will be able to ask five people. There needs to be a meeting of the committee at my place to sort everything out, and those people will be named then; every committee member can veto anyone who is nominated, and just one veto will exclude that person. This will make sure we have a fun party, you know.'

'What a manager you are!' interrupted Mrs. Taunton again.

'What a manager you are!' Mrs. Taunton interrupted again.

'Charming!' said the lovely Emily.

"Charming!" said the beautiful Emily.

'I never did!' ejaculated Sophia.

"I never did!" exclaimed Sophia.

'Yes, I think it'll do,' replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who was now quite in his element. 'I think it'll do. Then you know we shall go down to the Nore, and back, and have a regular capital cold dinner laid out in the cabin before we start, so that everything may be ready without any confusion; and we shall have the lunch laid out, on deck, in those little tea-garden-looking concerns by the paddle-boxes-I don't know what you call 'em. Then, we shall hire a steamer expressly for our party, and a band, and have the deck chalked, and we shall be able to dance quadrilles all day; and then, whoever we know that's musical, you know, why they'll make themselves useful and agreeable; and-and-upon the whole, I really hope we shall have a glorious day, you know!'

'Yeah, I think it'll work,' replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who was now completely in his element. 'I think it'll work. So, you know we're going to go down to the Nore and back, and have a fantastic cold dinner ready in the cabin before we set off, so everything can be organized without any chaos; and we'll have lunch set up on deck, in those little tea-garden-style setups by the paddle-boxes—I don’t know what you call them. Then, we’ll hire a steamer just for our group, and a band, and we’ll get the deck ready for dancing, so we can enjoy quadrilles all day; and then, anyone we know who’s musical, you know, they'll make themselves helpful and enjoyable; and—and—overall, I really hope we have an amazing day, you know!'

The announcement of these arrangements was received with the utmost enthusiasm. Mrs. Taunton, Emily, and Sophia, were loud in their praises.

The announcement of these plans was met with great enthusiasm. Mrs. Taunton, Emily, and Sophia were very vocal in their praise.

'Well, but tell me, Percy,' said Mrs. Taunton, 'who are the ten gentlemen to be?'

'Well, but tell me, Percy,' Mrs. Taunton said, 'who are the ten gentlemen going to be?'

'Oh! I know plenty of fellows who'll be delighted with the scheme,' replied Mr. Percy Noakes; 'of course we shall have-'

'Oh! I know a lot of guys who'll be thrilled with the idea,' replied Mr. Percy Noakes; 'of course, we will have-'

'Mr. Hardy!' interrupted the servant, announcing a visitor. Miss Sophia and Miss Emily hastily assumed the most interesting attitudes that could be adopted on so short a notice.

'Mr. Hardy!' the servant called out, announcing a visitor. Miss Sophia and Miss Emily quickly struck the most interesting poses they could manage on such short notice.

'How are you?' said a stout gentleman of about forty, pausing at the door in the attitude of an awkward harlequin. This was Mr. Hardy, whom we have before described, on the authority of Mrs. Stubbs, as 'the funny gentleman.' He was an Astley-Cooperish Joe Miller-a practical joker, immensely popular with married ladies, and a general favourite with young men. He was always engaged in some pleasure excursion or other, and delighted in getting somebody into a scrape on such occasions. He could sing comic songs, imitate hackney-coachmen and fowls, play airs on his chin, and execute concertos on the Jews'-harp. He always eat and drank most immoderately, and was the bosom friend of Mr. Percy Noakes. He had a red face, a somewhat husky voice, and a tremendous laugh.

"How’s it going?" said a stocky man around forty, stopping at the door in a clumsy pose. This was Mr. Hardy, whom we previously referred to, based on Mrs. Stubbs's description, as "the funny guy." He was a mix of Astley-Cooper and Joe Miller—a practical joker, hugely popular with married women, and a favorite among young men. He was always off on some fun outing and loved getting someone into a bind during these adventures. He could sing funny songs, mimic cab drivers and chickens, play tunes on his chin, and perform concertos on the Jew's harp. He always ate and drank quite a lot and was the close friend of Mr. Percy Noakes. He had a red face, a somewhat raspy voice, and a booming laugh.

'How are you?' said this worthy, laughing, as if it were the finest joke in the world to make a morning call, and shaking hands with the ladies with as much vehemence as if their arms had been so many pump-handles.

'How's it going?' said this guy, laughing like making a morning visit was the funniest joke in the world, shaking hands with the ladies as if their arms were pump handles.

'You're just the very man I wanted,' said Mr. Percy Noakes, who proceeded to explain the cause of his being in requisition.

"You're exactly the person I was looking for," said Mr. Percy Noakes, who then went on to explain why he needed him.

'Ha! ha! ha!' shouted Hardy, after hearing the statement, and receiving a detailed account of the proposed excursion. 'Oh, capital! glorious! What a day it will be! what fun!-But, I say, when are you going to begin making the arrangements?'

'Ha! ha! ha!' shouted Hardy after hearing the news and getting all the details about the planned trip. 'Oh, awesome! Amazing! What a day it’s going to be! So much fun! But, hey, when are you going to start making the arrangements?'

'No time like the present-at once, if you please.'

'There's no time like now—let's get to it, if you don't mind.'

'Oh, charming!' cried the ladies. 'Pray, do!'

'Oh, how lovely!' exclaimed the ladies. 'Please, go ahead!'

Writing materials were laid before Mr. Percy Noakes, and the names of the different members of the committee were agreed on, after as much discussion between him and Mr. Hardy as if the fate of nations had depended on their appointment. It was then agreed that a meeting should take place at Mr. Percy Noakes's chambers on the ensuing Wednesday evening at eight o'clock, and the visitors departed.

Writing materials were set in front of Mr. Percy Noakes, and the names of the different committee members were agreed upon after a lengthy discussion between him and Mr. Hardy, as if the fate of nations depended on their selection. They then agreed that a meeting would be held at Mr. Percy Noakes's chambers the following Wednesday evening at eight o'clock, and the visitors left.

Wednesday evening arrived; eight o'clock came, and eight members of the committee were punctual in their attendance. Mr. Loggins, the solicitor, of Boswell-court, sent an excuse, and Mr. Samuel Briggs, the ditto of Furnival's Inn, sent his brother: much to his (the brother's) satisfaction, and greatly to the discomfiture of Mr. Percy Noakes. Between the Briggses and the Tauntons there existed a degree of implacable hatred, quite unprecedented. The animosity between the Montagues and Capulets, was nothing to that which prevailed between these two illustrious houses. Mrs. Briggs was a widow, with three daughters and two sons; Mr. Samuel, the eldest, was an attorney, and Mr. Alexander, the youngest, was under articles to his brother. They resided in Portland-street, Oxford-street, and moved in the same orbit as the Tauntons-hence their mutual dislike. If the Miss Briggses appeared in smart bonnets, the Miss Tauntons eclipsed them with smarter. If Mrs. Taunton appeared in a cap of all the hues of the rainbow, Mrs. Briggs forthwith mounted a toque, with all the patterns of the kaleidoscope. If Miss Sophia Taunton learnt a new song, two of the Miss Briggses came out with a new duet. The Tauntons had once gained a temporary triumph with the assistance of a harp, but the Briggses brought three guitars into the field, and effectually routed the enemy. There was no end to the rivalry between them.

Wednesday evening arrived; eight o'clock came, and eight members of the committee showed up on time. Mr. Loggins, the lawyer from Boswell-court, sent an apology, and Mr. Samuel Briggs from Furnival's Inn sent his brother instead, much to the brother's delight and Mr. Percy Noakes's annoyance. There was an unyielding hatred between the Briggs family and the Tauntons, unlike anything else. The rivalry between the Montagues and Capulets was nothing compared to the animosity between these two prominent families. Mrs. Briggs was a widow with three daughters and two sons; Mr. Samuel, the oldest, was a lawyer, and Mr. Alexander, the youngest, was working as an apprentice under his brother. They lived on Portland Street, Oxford Street, and ran in the same social circles as the Tauntons, which fueled their mutual dislike. If the Miss Briggses showed up in stylish bonnets, the Miss Tauntons would outshine them with even fancier ones. If Mrs. Taunton wore a cap with all the colors of the rainbow, Mrs. Briggs would immediately wear a hat featuring every style of the kaleidoscope. If Miss Sophia Taunton learned a new song, two of the Miss Briggses would counter with a new duet. The Tauntons had once celebrated a temporary win with a harp, but the Briggses brought three guitars to the competition and soundly defeated the Tauntons. The rivalry between them was endless.

Now, as Mr. Samuel Briggs was a mere machine, a sort of self-acting legal walking-stick; and as the party was known to have originated, however remotely, with Mrs. Taunton, the female branches of the Briggs family had arranged that Mr. Alexander should attend, instead of his brother; and as the said Mr. Alexander was deservedly celebrated for possessing all the pertinacity of a bankruptcy-court attorney, combined with the obstinacy of that useful animal which browses on the thistle, he required but little tuition. He was especially enjoined to make himself as disagreeable as possible; and, above all, to black-ball the Tauntons at every hazard.

Now, since Mr. Samuel Briggs was just a machine, basically a self-operating legal walking stick; and because the situation was known to have started, even if just a little, with Mrs. Taunton, the female relatives of the Briggs family decided that Mr. Alexander should go instead of his brother. And since Mr. Alexander was justly famous for having all the stubbornness of a bankruptcy lawyer, combined with the obstinacy of that helpful animal that eats thistles, he needed very little instruction. He was specifically told to be as unpleasant as possible; and, above all, to do whatever it took to reject the Tauntons.

The proceedings of the evening were opened by Mr. Percy Noakes. After successfully urging on the gentlemen present the propriety of their mixing some brandy-and-water, he briefly stated the object of the meeting, and concluded by observing that the first step must be the selection of a chairman, necessarily possessing some arbitrary-he trusted not unconstitutional-powers, to whom the personal direction of the whole of the arrangements (subject to the approval of the committee) should be confided. A pale young gentleman, in a green stock and spectacles of the same, a member of the honourable society of the Inner Temple, immediately rose for the purpose of proposing Mr. Percy Noakes. He had known him long, and this he would say, that a more honourable, a more excellent, or a better-hearted fellow, never existed.-(Hear, hear!) The young gentleman, who was a member of a debating society, took this opportunity of entering into an examination of the state of the English law, from the days of William the Conqueror down to the present period; he briefly adverted to the code established by the ancient Druids; slightly glanced at the principles laid down by the Athenian law-givers; and concluded with a most glowing eulogium on pic-nics and constitutional rights.

The evening began with Mr. Percy Noakes. After successfully encouraging the gentlemen present to mix some brandy and water, he briefly explained the purpose of the meeting and concluded by stating that the first step should be to choose a chairman who would have some necessary—but hopefully not unconstitutional—authority, to oversee all the arrangements (subject to the committee's approval). A pale young man, dressed in a green necktie and matching spectacles, who was a member of the honorable society of the Inner Temple, immediately stood up to propose Mr. Percy Noakes. He had known him for a long time, and he would say that a more honorable, excellent, or kindhearted person never existed. (Hear, hear!) The young man, who was also part of a debating society, took this opportunity to discuss the state of English law from the time of William the Conqueror to the present day; he briefly mentioned the code established by the ancient Druids, lightly touched on the principles set by the Athenian lawgivers, and wrapped up with a strong praise for picnics and constitutional rights.

Mr. Alexander Briggs opposed the motion. He had the highest esteem for Mr. Percy Noakes as an individual, but he did consider that he ought not to be intrusted with these immense powers-(oh, oh!)-He believed that in the proposed capacity Mr. Percy Noakes would not act fairly, impartially, or honourably; but he begged it to be distinctly understood, that he said this, without the slightest personal disrespect. Mr. Hardy defended his honourable friend, in a voice rendered partially unintelligible by emotion and brandy-and-water. The proposition was put to the vote, and there appearing to be only one dissentient voice, Mr. Percy Noakes was declared duly elected, and took the chair accordingly.

Mr. Alexander Briggs opposed the motion. He held Mr. Percy Noakes in high regard as a person, but he believed he shouldn’t be given these vast powers—oh, oh! He felt that in the proposed role, Mr. Percy Noakes wouldn’t act fairly, impartially, or honorably; however, he wanted to make it clear that he was saying this with no personal disrespect. Mr. Hardy defended his honorable friend, his voice partially slurred by emotion and brandy-and-water. The proposal was put to a vote, and with only one dissenting voice, Mr. Percy Noakes was declared duly elected and took the chair accordingly.

The business of the meeting now proceeded with rapidity. The chairman delivered in his estimate of the probable expense of the excursion, and every one present subscribed his portion thereof. The question was put that 'The Endeavour' be hired for the occasion; Mr. Alexander Briggs moved as an amendment, that the word 'Fly' be substituted for the word 'Endeavour'; but after some debate consented to withdraw his opposition. The important ceremony of balloting then commenced. A tea-caddy was placed on a table in a dark corner of the apartment, and every one was provided with two backgammon men, one black and one white.

The meeting moved quickly. The chairman shared his estimate for the overall cost of the trip, and everyone present agreed to chip in their share. There was a proposal to hire 'The Endeavour' for the occasion; Mr. Alexander Briggs suggested an amendment to replace 'Endeavour' with 'Fly', but after some discussion, he agreed to drop his objection. The important voting process then started. A tea caddy was set on a table in a dark corner of the room, and everyone was given two backgammon pieces, one black and one white.

The chairman with great solemnity then read the following list of the guests whom he proposed to introduce:-Mrs. Taunton and two daughters, Mr. Wizzle, Mr. Simson. The names were respectively balloted for, and Mrs. Taunton and her daughters were declared to be black-balled. Mr. Percy Noakes and Mr. Hardy exchanged glances.

The chairman then read the list of guests he wanted to introduce with great seriousness: Mrs. Taunton and her two daughters, Mr. Wizzle, Mr. Simson. The names were voted on, and Mrs. Taunton and her daughters were rejected. Mr. Percy Noakes and Mr. Hardy exchanged glances.

'Is your list prepared, Mr. Briggs?' inquired the chairman.

"Is your list ready, Mr. Briggs?" asked the chairman.

'It is,' replied Alexander, delivering in the following:-'Mrs. Briggs and three daughters, Mr. Samuel Briggs.' The previous ceremony was repeated, and Mrs. Briggs and three daughters were declared to be black- balled. Mr. Alexander Briggs looked rather foolish, and the remainder of the company appeared somewhat overawed by the mysterious nature of the proceedings.

'It is,' replied Alexander, delivering the following: 'Mrs. Briggs and her three daughters, Mr. Samuel Briggs.' The previous ceremony was repeated, and Mrs. Briggs and her three daughters were declared to be blackballed. Mr. Alexander Briggs looked a bit foolish, and the rest of the group seemed somewhat intimidated by the mysterious nature of what was happening.

The balloting proceeded; but, one little circumstance which Mr. Percy Noakes had not originally foreseen, prevented the system from working quite as well as he had anticipated. Everybody was black-balled. Mr. Alexander Briggs, by way of retaliation, exercised his power of exclusion in every instance, and the result was, that after three hours had been consumed in hard balloting, the names of only three gentlemen were found to have been agreed to. In this dilemma what was to be done? either the whole plan must fall to the ground, or a compromise must be effected. The latter alternative was preferable; and Mr. Percy Noakes therefore proposed that the form of balloting should be dispensed with, and that every gentleman should merely be required to state whom he intended to bring. The proposal was acceded to; the Tauntons and the Briggses were reinstated; and the party was formed.

The voting went on, but there was one little thing Mr. Percy Noakes hadn’t originally expected that made the system not work as well as he had hoped. Everyone got black-balled. Mr. Alexander Briggs, out of spite, used his power to exclude everyone, and after three hours of intense voting, only three guys were agreed upon. In this situation, what could they do? Either the whole plan had to fall apart, or they needed to find a compromise. The second option was better, so Mr. Percy Noakes suggested skipping the voting process and just having each gentleman say who he was planning to bring. They all agreed to the proposal; the Tauntons and the Briggses were reinstated, and the party was formed.

The next Wednesday was fixed for the eventful day, and it was unanimously resolved that every member of the committee should wear a piece of blue sarsenet ribbon round his left arm. It appeared from the statement of Mr. Percy Noakes, that the boat belonged to the General Steam Navigation Company, and was then lying off the Custom-house; and, as he proposed that the dinner and wines should be provided by an eminent city purveyor, it was arranged that Mr. Percy Noakes should be on board by seven o'clock to superintend the arrangements, and that the remaining members of the committee, together with the company generally, should be expected to join her by nine o'clock. More brandy-and-water was despatched; several speeches were made by the different law students present; thanks were voted to the chairman; and the meeting separated.

The following Wednesday was set for the big day, and everyone agreed that each committee member should wear a blue sarsenet ribbon on their left arm. According to Mr. Percy Noakes, the boat belonged to the General Steam Navigation Company and was moored near the Custom House. Since he suggested that an esteemed city supplier handle the dinner and drinks, it was decided that Mr. Percy Noakes would be on board by seven o'clock to oversee the arrangements, and the other committee members, along with the rest of the guests, should arrive by nine o'clock. More brandy-and-water was served; several speeches were given by the law students present; thanks were extended to the chairman; and the meeting came to a close.

The weather had been beautiful up to this period, and beautiful it continued to be. Sunday passed over, and Mr. Percy Noakes became unusually fidgety-rushing, constantly, to and from the Steam Packet Wharf, to the astonishment of the clerks, and the great emolument of the Holborn cabmen. Tuesday arrived, and the anxiety of Mr. Percy Noakes knew no bounds. He was every instant running to the window, to look out for clouds; and Mr. Hardy astonished the whole square by practising a new comic song for the occasion, in the chairman's chambers.

The weather had been beautiful leading up to this time, and it stayed beautiful. Sunday came and went, and Mr. Percy Noakes became unusually restless—constantly running back and forth to the Steam Packet Wharf, much to the surprise of the clerks and the delight of the Holborn cab drivers. Tuesday arrived, and Mr. Percy Noakes's anxiety knew no limits. He was continually rushing to the window to check for clouds, while Mr. Hardy surprised everyone in the square by practicing a new comedic song for the event in the chairman's office.

Uneasy were the slumbers of Mr. Percy Noakes that night; he tossed and tumbled about, and had confused dreams of steamers starting off, and gigantic clocks with the hands pointing to a quarter-past nine, and the ugly face of Mr. Alexander Briggs looking over the boat's side, and grinning, as if in derision of his fruitless attempts to move. He made a violent effort to get on board, and awoke. The bright sun was shining cheerfully into the bedroom, and Mr. Percy Noakes started up for his watch, in the dreadful expectation of finding his worst dreams realised.

Mr. Percy Noakes had a restless night; he tossed and turned, having confusing dreams about ships setting sail, huge clocks with the hands at a quarter past nine, and the ugly face of Mr. Alexander Briggs peering over the boat's side, grinning as if mocking his unsuccessful attempts to move. He made a strong effort to get on board and then woke up. The bright sun was shining cheerfully into the bedroom, and Mr. Percy Noakes jumped up to check his watch, dreadfully expecting to find his worst dreams had come true.

It was just five o'clock. He calculated the time-he should be a good half-hour dressing himself; and as it was a lovely morning, and the tide would be then running down, he would walk leisurely to Strand-lane, and have a boat to the Custom-house.

It was just five o'clock. He figured he should take about half an hour to get ready; and since it was a beautiful morning, and the tide would be going down, he decided to stroll over to Strand-lane and catch a boat to the Custom-house.

He dressed himself, took a hasty apology for a breakfast, and sallied forth. The streets looked as lonely and deserted as if they had been crowded, overnight, for the last time. Here and there, an early apprentice, with quenched-looking sleepy eyes, was taking down the shutters of a shop; and a policeman or milkwoman might occasionally be seen pacing slowly along; but the servants had not yet begun to clean the doors, or light the kitchen fires, and London looked the picture of desolation. At the corner of a by-street, near Temple-bar, was stationed a 'street-breakfast.' The coffee was boiling over a charcoal fire, and large slices of bread and butter were piled one upon the other, like deals in a timber-yard. The company were seated on a form, which, with a view both to security and comfort, was placed against a neighbouring wall. Two young men, whose uproarious mirth and disordered dress bespoke the conviviality of the preceding evening, were treating three 'ladies' and an Irish labourer. A little sweep was standing at a short distance, casting a longing eye at the tempting delicacies; and a policeman was watching the group from the opposite side of the street. The wan looks and gaudy finery of the thinly-clad women contrasted as strangely with the gay sunlight, as did their forced merriment with the boisterous hilarity of the two young men, who, now and then, varied their amusements by 'bonneting' the proprietor of this itinerant coffee- house.

He got dressed, had a quick apology for breakfast, and headed out. The streets looked as empty and deserted as if they’d been crowded just last night for the last time. Here and there, an early worker with tired, sleepy eyes was taking down shop shutters; occasionally, a policeman or a milkwoman could be seen strolling by. The servants hadn’t started cleaning the doors or lighting the kitchen fires yet, and London seemed completely desolate. At the corner of a side street near Temple Bar, there was a 'street breakfast' stall. The coffee was boiling over a charcoal fire, and big slices of bread and butter were stacked like lumber in a timber yard. People were sitting on a bench placed against a nearby wall for security and comfort. Two young men, whose loud laughter and messy clothes showed they’d been out the night before, were treating three 'ladies' and an Irish laborer. A little street sweeper stood a short distance away, eyeing the tempting food, while a policeman watched the group from across the street. The pale faces and flashy clothing of the thinly dressed women contrasted oddly with the bright sunlight, just as their forced laughter clashed with the boisterous fun of the two young men, who occasionally amused themselves by playfully tipping the hat of the owner of this mobile coffee shop.

Mr. Percy Noakes walked briskly by, and when he turned down Strand-lane, and caught a glimpse of the glistening water, he thought he had never felt so important or so happy in his life.

Mr. Percy Noakes walked quickly by, and when he turned down Strand Lane and saw the shining water, he thought he had never felt so important or so happy in his life.

'Boat, sir?' cried one of the three watermen who were mopping out their boats, and all whistling. 'Boat, sir?'

'Boat, sir?' shouted one of the three watermen who were cleaning out their boats, all of them whistling. 'Boat, sir?'

'No,' replied Mr. Percy Noakes, rather sharply; for the inquiry was not made in a manner at all suitable to his dignity.

'No,' replied Mr. Percy Noakes, rather sharply; the question was not asked in a way that matched his dignity.

'Would you prefer a wessel, sir?' inquired another, to the infinite delight of the 'Jack-in-the-water.'

'Would you like a vessel, sir?' asked another, to the endless delight of the 'Jack-in-the-water.'

Mr. Percy Noakes replied with a look of supreme contempt.

Mr. Percy Noakes responded with an expression of complete disdain.

'Did you want to be put on board a steamer, sir?' inquired an old fireman-waterman, very confidentially. He was dressed in a faded red suit, just the colour of the cover of a very old Court-guide.

'Did you want to get on a steamer, sir?' asked an old fireman-waterman, very confidentially. He was wearing a faded red suit, the exact color of the cover of a very old Court-guide.

'Yes, make haste-the Endeavour-off the Custom-house.'

'Yes, hurry up—the Endeavour—by the Custom house.'

'Endeavour!' cried the man who had convulsed the 'Jack' before. 'Vy, I see the Endeavour go up half an hour ago.'

'Endeavour!' shouted the man who had caused the 'Jack' to shake before. 'Why, I saw the Endeavour go up half an hour ago.'

'So did I,' said another; 'and I should think she'd gone down by this time, for she's a precious sight too full of ladies and gen'lemen.'

'So did I,' said another; 'and I would think she’s probably gone down by now, because she’s way too packed with ladies and gentlemen.'

Mr. Percy Noakes affected to disregard these representations, and stepped into the boat, which the old man, by dint of scrambling, and shoving, and grating, had brought up to the causeway. 'Shove her off!' cried Mr. Percy Noakes, and away the boat glided down the river; Mr. Percy Noakes seated on the recently mopped seat, and the watermen at the stairs offering to bet him any reasonable sum that he'd never reach the 'Custum-us.'

Mr. Percy Noakes pretended to ignore these comments and got into the boat, which the old man had somehow managed to bring up to the pathway through scrambling, pushing, and grinding. "Push off!" shouted Mr. Percy Noakes, and the boat smoothly sailed down the river; Mr. Percy Noakes sat on the freshly cleaned seat, while the watermen at the stairs offered to bet him any reasonable amount that he would never reach the 'Custum-us.'

'Here she is, by Jove!' said the delighted Percy, as they ran alongside the Endeavour.

'Here she is, by gosh!' said the thrilled Percy, as they ran alongside the Endeavour.

'Hold hard!' cried the steward over the side, and Mr. Percy Noakes jumped on board.

'Hold on!' shouted the steward from the side, and Mr. Percy Noakes hopped on board.

'Hope you will find everything as you wished, sir. She looks uncommon well this morning.'

'Hope you find everything as you wanted, sir. She looks really good this morning.'

'She does, indeed,' replied the manager, in a state of ecstasy which it is impossible to describe. The deck was scrubbed, and the seats were scrubbed, and there was a bench for the band, and a place for dancing, and a pile of camp-stools, and an awning; and then Mr. Percy Noakes bustled down below, and there were the pastrycook's men, and the steward's wife, laying out the dinner on two tables the whole length of the cabin; and then Mr. Percy Noakes took off his coat and rushed backwards and forwards, doing nothing, but quite convinced he was assisting everybody; and the steward's wife laughed till she cried, and Mr. Percy Noakes panted with the violence of his exertions. And then the bell at London-bridge wharf rang; and a Margate boat was just starting; and a Gravesend boat was just starting, and people shouted, and porters ran down the steps with luggage that would crush any men but porters; and sloping boards, with bits of wood nailed on them, were placed between the outside boat and the inside boat; and the passengers ran along them, and looked like so many fowls coming out of an area; and then, the bell ceased, and the boards were taken away, and the boats started, and the whole scene was one of the most delightful bustle and confusion.

"She really does," replied the manager, in a state of excitement that's hard to describe. The deck was cleaned, the seats were polished, there was a bench for the band, a space for dancing, a stack of camp stools, and an awning; then Mr. Percy Noakes hurried below, where the pastry chef's staff and the steward's wife were setting up dinner on two tables that ran the entire length of the cabin; Mr. Percy Noakes then took off his coat and dashed around, seeming to help everyone but actually doing nothing, fully convinced he was being productive; the steward's wife laughed until she cried, and Mr. Percy Noakes was out of breath from his frantic activity. Then the bell at London Bridge wharf rang; a Margate boat was about to leave; a Gravesend boat was also just starting, and people were shouting while porters rushed down the steps with luggage heavy enough to crush anyone else; sloped boards with pieces of wood nailed to them were placed between the outer boat and the inner boat; passengers raced across them, resembling a flock of chickens coming out of a basement; then, the bell stopped, the boards were removed, the boats set off, and the whole scene was filled with delightful chaos and excitement.

The time wore on; half-past eight o'clock arrived; the pastry-cook's men went ashore; the dinner was completely laid out; and Mr. Percy Noakes locked the principal cabin, and put the key in his pocket, in order that it might be suddenly disclosed, in all its magnificence, to the eyes of the astonished company. The band came on board, and so did the wine.

The time passed; it was eight-thirty; the pastry chef's team went ashore; dinner was fully set up; and Mr. Percy Noakes locked the main cabin and put the key in his pocket, so it could be revealed in all its glory to the amazed guests. The band arrived, along with the wine.

Ten minutes to nine, and the committee embarked in a body. There was Mr. Hardy, in a blue jacket and waistcoat, white trousers, silk stockings, and pumps-in full aquatic costume, with a straw hat on his head, and an immense telescope under his arm; and there was the young gentleman with the green spectacles, in nankeen inexplicables, with a ditto waistcoat and bright buttons, like the pictures of Paul-not the saint, but he of Virginia notoriety. The remainder of the committee, dressed in white hats, light jackets, waistcoats, and trousers, looked something between waiters and West India planters.

Ten minutes to nine, and the committee set out together. There was Mr. Hardy, wearing a blue jacket and vest, white pants, silk stockings, and pumps—fully decked out for water activities, with a straw hat on his head and a huge telescope under his arm. Then there was the young guy with the green glasses, in light yellow pants, matching vest, and shiny buttons, like the famous Paul—not the saint, but the one known for Virginia. The rest of the committee, dressed in white hats, light jackets, vests, and trousers, looked like a mix between waiters and Caribbean plantation owners.

Nine o'clock struck, and the company arrived in shoals. Mr. Samuel Briggs, Mrs. Briggs, and the Misses Briggs, made their appearance in a smart private wherry. The three guitars, in their respective dark green cases, were carefully stowed away in the bottom of the boat, accompanied by two immense portfolios of music, which it would take at least a week's incessant playing to get through. The Tauntons arrived at the same moment with more music, and a lion-a gentleman with a bass voice and an incipient red moustache. The colours of the Taunton party were pink; those of the Briggses a light blue. The Tauntons had artificial flowers in their bonnets; here the Briggses gained a decided advantage-they wore feathers.

Nine o'clock struck, and the crowd started arriving. Mr. Samuel Briggs, Mrs. Briggs, and the Misses Briggs showed up in a stylish private boat. The three guitars, each in their dark green cases, were carefully placed in the bottom of the boat, along with two huge music portfolios that would take at least a week of nonstop playing to get through. The Tauntons arrived at the same time with more music and a guy—a gentleman with a deep voice and a budding red mustache. The Taunton group wore pink, while the Briggses were in light blue. The Tauntons had fake flowers in their hats; here, the Briggses had a clear advantage—they wore feathers.

'How d'ye do, dear?' said the Misses Briggs to the Misses Taunton. (The word 'dear' among girls is frequently synonymous with 'wretch.')

'How are you, dear?' said the Misses Briggs to the Misses Taunton. (The word 'dear' among girls often means 'wretch.')

'Quite well, thank you, dear,' replied the Misses Taunton to the Misses Briggs; and then, there was such a kissing, and congratulating, and shaking of hands, as might have induced one to suppose that the two families were the best friends in the world, instead of each wishing the other overboard, as they most sincerely did.

'Doing great, thanks, dear,' replied the Taunton sisters to the Briggs sisters; and then, there was so much hugging, congratulating, and shaking of hands that one might think the two families were the best of friends in the world, instead of each secretly hoping the other would just disappear, as they truly did.

Mr. Percy Noakes received the visitors, and bowed to the strange gentleman, as if he should like to know who he was. This was just what Mrs. Taunton wanted. Here was an opportunity to astonish the Briggses.

Mr. Percy Noakes welcomed the visitors and nodded to the unfamiliar gentleman, as if he wanted to know who he was. This was exactly what Mrs. Taunton needed. Here was a chance to impress the Briggses.

'Oh! I beg your pardon,' said the general of the Taunton party, with a careless air.-'Captain Helves-Mr. Percy Noakes-Mrs. Briggs-Captain Helves.'

'Oh! I’m sorry,' said the general of the Taunton party, sounding relaxed. - 'Captain Helves - Mr. Percy Noakes - Mrs. Briggs - Captain Helves.'

Mr. Percy Noakes bowed very low; the gallant captain did the same with all due ferocity, and the Briggses were clearly overcome.

Mr. Percy Noakes bowed deeply; the brave captain did the same with all the necessary intensity, and the Briggses were obviously taken aback.

'Our friend, Mr. Wizzle, being unfortunately prevented from coming,' resumed Mrs. Taunton, 'I did myself the pleasure of bringing the captain, whose musical talents I knew would be a great acquisition.'

'Our friend, Mr. Wizzle, unfortunately couldn’t make it,' resumed Mrs. Taunton, 'so I took the liberty of bringing the captain, whose musical talents I knew would be a great addition.'

'In the name of the committee I have to thank you for doing so, and to offer you welcome, sir,' replied Percy. (Here the scraping was renewed.) 'But pray be seated-won't you walk aft? Captain, will you conduct Miss Taunton?-Miss Briggs, will you allow me?'

'On behalf of the committee, I want to thank you for doing that and to extend a welcome, sir,' replied Percy. (Here the scraping started again.) 'But please take a seat—won't you walk to the back? Captain, could you please show Miss Taunton?—Miss Briggs, would you allow me?'

'Where could they have picked up that military man?' inquired Mrs. Briggs of Miss Kate Briggs, as they followed the little party.

'Where could they have picked up that soldier?' asked Mrs. Briggs of Miss Kate Briggs as they followed the small group.

'I can't imagine,' replied Miss Kate, bursting with vexation; for the very fierce air with which the gallant captain regarded the company, had impressed her with a high sense of his importance.

"I can't believe this," replied Miss Kate, overflowing with frustration; the intense way the brave captain looked at everyone made her feel he was really significant.

Boat after boat came alongside, and guest after guest arrived. The invites had been excellently arranged: Mr. Percy Noakes having considered it as important that the number of young men should exactly tally with that of the young ladies, as that the quantity of knives on board should be in precise proportion to the forks.

Boat after boat pulled up, and guest after guest showed up. The invitations had been planned perfectly: Mr. Percy Noakes thought it was crucial that the number of young men matched exactly with the number of young ladies, just as the count of knives on board needed to be in exact proportion to the forks.

'Now, is every one on board?' inquired Mr. Percy Noakes. The committee (who, with their bits of blue ribbon, looked as if they were all going to be bled) bustled about to ascertain the fact, and reported that they might safely start.

'Now, is everyone on board?' asked Mr. Percy Noakes. The committee (who, with their little blue ribbons, looked like they were all about to donate blood) hurried around to check and reported that they could safely start.

'Go on!' cried the master of the boat from the top of one of the paddle- boxes.

'Go on!' shouted the captain of the boat from the top of one of the paddle boxes.

'Go on!' echoed the boy, who was stationed over the hatchway to pass the directions down to the engineer; and away went the vessel with that agreeable noise which is peculiar to steamers, and which is composed of a mixture of creaking, gushing, clanging, and snorting.

'Go on!' shouted the boy, who was standing by the hatchway to relay the commands to the engineer; and off the vessel went with that familiar sound unique to steamers, made up of a blend of creaking, gushing, clanging, and snorting.

'Hoi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-o-i-i-i!' shouted half-a-dozen voices from a boat, a quarter of a mile astern.

'Hoi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-o-i-i-i!' shouted half a dozen voices from a boat a quarter mile behind.

'Ease her!' cried the captain: 'do these people belong to us, sir?'

"Ease her!" shouted the captain. "Do these people belong to us, sir?"

'Noakes,' exclaimed Hardy, who had been looking at every object far and near, through the large telescope, 'it's the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields-and two children with them, by Jove!'

'Noakes,' shouted Hardy, who had been scanning everything around with the big telescope, 'it's the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields—and two kids with them, wow!'

'What a shame to bring children!' said everybody; 'how very inconsiderate!'

"What a shame to bring kids!" everyone said; "how inconsiderate!"

'I say, it would be a good joke to pretend not to see 'em, wouldn't it?' suggested Hardy, to the immense delight of the company generally. A council of war was hastily held, and it was resolved that the newcomers should be taken on board, on Mr. Hardy solemnly pledging himself to tease the children during the whole of the day.

'I think it would be a funny joke to act like we don't see them, right?' suggested Hardy, to the great amusement of everyone. A quick meeting was held, and it was decided that the newcomers should be welcomed aboard, with Mr. Hardy seriously promising to tease the kids all day long.

'Stop her!' cried the captain.

"Stop her!" yelled the captain.

'Stop her!' repeated the boy; whizz went the steam, and all the young ladies, as in duty bound, screamed in concert. They were only appeased by the assurance of the martial Helves, that the escape of steam consequent on stopping a vessel was seldom attended with any great loss of human life.

'Stop her!' shouted the boy; whoosh went the steam, and all the young ladies, as they felt they should, screamed together. They were only calmed by the promise from the brave Helves that the release of steam when stopping a vessel rarely caused any significant loss of life.

Two men ran to the side; and after some shouting, and swearing, and angling for the wherry with a boat-hook, Mr. Fleetwood, and Mrs. Fleetwood, and Master Fleetwood, and Mr. Wakefield, and Mrs. Wakefield, and Miss Wakefield, were safely deposited on the deck. The girl was about six years old, the boy about four; the former was dressed in a white frock with a pink sash and dog's-eared-looking little spencer: a straw bonnet and green veil, six inches by three and a half; the latter, was attired for the occasion in a nankeen frock, between the bottom of which, and the top of his plaid socks, a considerable portion of two small mottled legs was discernible. He had a light blue cap with a gold band and tassel on his head, and a damp piece of gingerbread in his hand, with which he had slightly embossed his countenance.

Two men rushed over; after some yelling, swearing, and trying to snag the boat with a hook, Mr. Fleetwood, Mrs. Fleetwood, Master Fleetwood, Mr. Wakefield, Mrs. Wakefield, and Miss Wakefield were safely placed on the deck. The girl was around six years old, and the boy was about four. She wore a white dress with a pink sash and a little jacket that looked a bit worn; a straw hat with a green veil that measured six by three and a half inches. The boy was dressed for the occasion in a nankeen dress, and a noticeable portion of his two small spotted legs was visible between the hem of the dress and the top of his plaid socks. He had a light blue cap adorned with a gold band and tassel on his head, and a piece of damp gingerbread in his hand, which had left some crumbs on his face.

The boat once more started off; the band played 'Off she goes:' the major part of the company conversed cheerfully in groups; and the old gentlemen walked up and down the deck in pairs, as perseveringly and gravely as if they were doing a match against time for an immense stake. They ran briskly down the Pool; the gentlemen pointed out the Docks, the Thames Police-office, and other elegant public edifices; and the young ladies exhibited a proper display of horror at the appearance of the coal-whippers and ballast-heavers. Mr. Hardy told stories to the married ladies, at which they laughed very much in their pocket- handkerchiefs, and hit him on the knuckles with their fans, declaring him to be 'a naughty man-a shocking creature'-and so forth; and Captain Helves gave slight descriptions of battles and duels, with a most bloodthirsty air, which made him the admiration of the women, and the envy of the men. Quadrilling commenced; Captain Helves danced one set with Miss Emily Taunton, and another set with Miss Sophia Taunton. Mrs. Taunton was in ecstasies. The victory appeared to be complete; but alas! the inconstancy of man! Having performed this necessary duty, he attached himself solely to Miss Julia Briggs, with whom he danced no less than three sets consecutively, and from whose side he evinced no intention of stirring for the remainder of the day.

The boat set off again; the band played 'Off she goes:' most of the group chatted happily in clusters; and the older gentlemen strolled up and down the deck in pairs, as persistently and seriously as if they were competing against time for a huge prize. They sped down the Pool; the gentlemen pointed out the Docks, the Thames Police Office, and other impressive public buildings; and the young ladies expressed proper horror at the sight of the coal whippers and ballast haulers. Mr. Hardy entertained the married ladies with stories, making them laugh heartily into their handkerchiefs and playfully hit him on the knuckles with their fans, calling him 'a naughty man—a shocking creature'—and so on; while Captain Helves gave brief accounts of battles and duels with a vicious flair, which made him the admiration of the ladies and the envy of the men. Quadrilling started; Captain Helves danced one set with Miss Emily Taunton and another set with Miss Sophia Taunton. Mrs. Taunton was in ecstasy. The victory seemed complete; but alas! the fickleness of man! After fulfilling this expected duty, he devoted himself entirely to Miss Julia Briggs, with whom he danced no less than three consecutive sets, showing no desire to leave her side for the rest of the day.

Mr. Hardy, having played one or two very brilliant fantasias on the Jews'-harp, and having frequently repeated the exquisitely amusing joke of slily chalking a large cross on the back of some member of the committee, Mr. Percy Noakes expressed his hope that some of their musical friends would oblige the company by a display of their abilities.

Mr. Hardy, after playing a couple of really impressive tunes on the Jews'-harp and often sharing the hilariously clever joke of secretly drawing a large cross on the back of some committee member, Mr. Percy Noakes expressed his hope that some of their musical friends would entertain everyone with their talent.

'Perhaps,' he said in a very insinuating manner, 'Captain Helves will oblige us?' Mrs. Taunton's countenance lighted up, for the captain only sang duets, and couldn't sing them with anybody but one of her daughters.

'Maybe,' he said in a really suggestive way, 'Captain Helves will do us a favor?' Mrs. Taunton's face brightened, because the captain only sang duets, and he could only sing them with one of her daughters.

'Really,' said that warlike individual, 'I should be very happy, 'but-'

'Really,' said that aggressive person, 'I would be very happy, 'but-'

'Oh! pray do,' cried all the young ladies.

'Oh! please do,' exclaimed all the young ladies.

'Miss Emily, have you any objection to join in a duet?'

'Miss Emily, do you mind joining me for a duet?'

'Oh! not the slightest,' returned the young lady, in a tone which clearly showed she had the greatest possible objection.

'Oh! not at all,' replied the young lady, her tone clearly indicating that she strongly objected.

'Shall I accompany you, dear?' inquired one of the Miss Briggses, with the bland intention of spoiling the effect.

"Should I go with you, dear?" one of the Miss Briggses asked, with the friendly intention of ruining the moment.

'Very much obliged to you, Miss Briggs,' sharply retorted Mrs. Taunton, who saw through the manoeuvre; 'my daughters always sing without accompaniments.'

'Thanks a lot, Miss Briggs,' Mrs. Taunton shot back, clearly seeing through the trick; 'my daughters always sing unaccompanied.'

'And without voices,' tittered Mrs. Briggs, in a low tone.

'And without voices,' chuckled Mrs. Briggs, softly.

'Perhaps,' said Mrs. Taunton, reddening, for she guessed the tenor of the observation, though she had not heard it clearly-'Perhaps it would be as well for some people, if their voices were not quite so audible as they are to other people.'

'Maybe,' said Mrs. Taunton, blushing, since she suspected the meaning of the comment, even though she hadn’t heard it clearly. 'Maybe it would be better for some people if their voices weren’t quite so loud to others.'

'And, perhaps, if gentlemen who are kidnapped to pay attention to some persons' daughters, had not sufficient discernment to pay attention to other persons' daughters,' returned Mrs. Briggs, 'some persons would not be so ready to display that ill-temper which, thank God, distinguishes them from other persons.'

'And, maybe, if guys who are forced to pay attention to some people’s daughters had enough sense to pay attention to other people’s daughters,' replied Mrs. Briggs, 'some people wouldn’t be so quick to show that bad attitude which, thank God, sets them apart from others.'

'Persons!' ejaculated Mrs. Taunton.

"People!" exclaimed Mrs. Taunton.

'Persons,' replied Mrs. Briggs.

'People,' replied Mrs. Briggs.

'Insolence!'

'Disrespect!'

'Creature!'

'Being!'

'Hush! hush!' interrupted Mr. Percy Noakes, who was one of the very few by whom this dialogue had been overheard. 'Hush!-pray, silence for the duet.'

'Hush! hush!' interrupted Mr. Percy Noakes, one of the few people who had overheard the conversation. 'Hush! Please, quiet for the duet.'

After a great deal of preparatory crowing and humming, the captain began the following duet from the opera of 'Paul and Virginia,' in that grunting tone in which a man gets down, Heaven knows where, without the remotest chance of ever getting up again. This, in private circles, is frequently designated 'a bass voice.'

After a lot of loud bragging and humming, the captain started the following duet from the opera 'Paul and Virginia,' in that deep, grunting tone that a man uses when he’s down, God knows how, with no hope of ever getting back up. In social circles, this is often referred to as 'a bass voice.'

'See (sung the captain) from o-ce-an ri-sing Bright flames the or-b of d-ay. From yon gro-ove, the varied so-ongs-'

'See (sung the captain) from ocean rising Bright flames the orb of day. From that grove, the varied songs-'

Here, the singer was interrupted by varied cries of the most dreadful description, proceeding from some grove in the immediate vicinity of the starboard paddle-box.

Here, the singer was interrupted by different cries that were terrifying, coming from a grove near the starboard paddle-box.

'My child!' screamed Mrs. Fleetwood. 'My child! it is his voice-I know it.'

'My child!' screamed Mrs. Fleetwood. 'My child! I recognize his voice—I know it.'

Mr. Fleetwood, accompanied by several gentlemen, here rushed to the quarter from whence the noise proceeded, and an exclamation of horror burst from the company; the general impression being, that the little innocent had either got his head in the water, or his legs in the machinery.

Mr. Fleetwood, joined by a few gentlemen, hurried to the area where the noise was coming from, and a gasp of horror came from the group; the overall feeling was that the little child had either gotten his head in the water or his legs caught in the machinery.

'What is the matter?' shouted the agonised father, as he returned with the child in his arms.

'What's wrong?' shouted the distressed father as he came back with the child in his arms.

'Oh! oh! oh!' screamed the small sufferer again.

'Oh! oh! oh!' screamed the little one again.

'What is the matter, dear?' inquired the father once more-hastily stripping off the nankeen frock, for the purpose of ascertaining whether the child had one bone which was not smashed to pieces.

'What’s wrong, sweetheart?' the father asked again, quickly removing the tan dress to check if the child had even one unbroken bone.

'Oh! oh!-I'm so frightened!'

"Oh no! I'm so scared!"

'What at, dear?-what at?' said the mother, soothing the sweet infant.

'What is it, dear? What’s wrong?' said the mother, comforting the sweet baby.

'Oh! he's been making such dreadful faces at me,' cried the boy, relapsing into convulsions at the bare recollection.

'Oh! he's been making such awful faces at me,' the boy exclaimed, slipping back into fits at just the thought.

'He!-who?' cried everybody, crowding round him.

'He!-who?' everyone shouted, gathering around him.

'Oh!-him!' replied the child, pointing at Hardy, who affected to be the most concerned of the whole group.

"Oh! Him!" the child said, pointing at Hardy, who pretended to be the most worried of everyone there.

The real state of the case at once flashed upon the minds of all present, with the exception of the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields. The facetious Hardy, in fulfilment of his promise, had watched the child to a remote part of the vessel, and, suddenly appearing before him with the most awful contortions of visage, had produced his paroxysm of terror. Of course, he now observed that it was hardly necessary for him to deny the accusation; and the unfortunate little victim was accordingly led below, after receiving sundry thumps on the head from both his parents, for having the wickedness to tell a story.

The real situation suddenly became clear to everyone there, except for the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields. The joking Hardy, keeping his promise, had followed the child to a far corner of the ship and had suddenly appeared in front of him with a terrifying face, which caused the child to panic. Naturally, he noticed that there was really no need for him to deny the accusation; and the poor little victim was then taken below deck after getting smacked on the head a few times by both his parents for having the audacity to tell a lie.

This little interruption having been adjusted, the captain resumed, and Miss Emily chimed in, in due course. The duet was loudly applauded, and, certainly, the perfect independence of the parties deserved great commendation. Miss Emily sung her part, without the slightest reference to the captain; and the captain sang so loud, that he had not the slightest idea what was being done by his partner. After having gone through the last few eighteen or nineteen bars by himself, therefore, he acknowledged the plaudits of the circle with that air of self-denial which men usually assume when they think they have done something to astonish the company.

This little interruption sorted out, the captain continued, and Miss Emily joined in shortly after. The duet received loud applause, and indeed, the complete independence of both performers was worthy of high praise. Miss Emily sang her part without any reference to the captain, while the captain sang so loudly that he had no idea what his partner was doing. After getting through the last eighteen or nineteen bars all on his own, he accepted the applause of the crowd with that kind of humble demeanor men usually put on when they believe they've done something impressive for the audience.

'Now,' said Mr. Percy Noakes, who had just ascended from the fore-cabin, where he had been busily engaged in decanting the wine, 'if the Misses Briggs will oblige us with something before dinner, I am sure we shall be very much delighted.'

'Now,' said Mr. Percy Noakes, who had just come up from the fore-cabin, where he had been busy pouring the wine, 'if the Misses Briggs could treat us to something before dinner, I’m sure we would be very pleased.'

One of those hums of admiration followed the suggestion, which one frequently hears in society, when nobody has the most distant notion what he is expressing his approval of. The three Misses Briggs looked modestly at their mamma, and the mamma looked approvingly at her daughters, and Mrs. Taunton looked scornfully at all of them. The Misses Briggs asked for their guitars, and several gentlemen seriously damaged the cases in their anxiety to present them. Then, there was a very interesting production of three little keys for the aforesaid cases, and a melodramatic expression of horror at finding a string broken; and a vast deal of screwing and tightening, and winding, and tuning, during which Mrs. Briggs expatiated to those near her on the immense difficulty of playing a guitar, and hinted at the wondrous proficiency of her daughters in that mystic art. Mrs. Taunton whispered to a neighbour that it was 'quite sickening!' and the Misses Taunton looked as if they knew how to play, but disdained to do it.

One of those murmurs of admiration followed the suggestion, which you often hear in social settings, when no one has the faintest idea what they are praising. The three Misses Briggs glanced modestly at their mom, who looked approvingly at her daughters, while Mrs. Taunton cast a scornful gaze at all of them. The Misses Briggs requested their guitars, and several gentlemen accidentally damaged the cases in their eagerness to hand them over. Then came an entertaining show involving three tiny keys for the aforementioned cases, along with a dramatic display of horror at discovering a broken string; there was a lot of adjusting, tightening, winding, and tuning, during which Mrs. Briggs elaborated to those nearby on the tremendous difficulty of playing guitar and hinted at her daughters' remarkable skill in that mysterious craft. Mrs. Taunton whispered to a neighbor that it was 'simply sickening!' and the Misses Taunton looked like they knew how to play but chose not to.

At length, the Misses Briggs began in real earnest. It was a new Spanish composition, for three voices and three guitars. The effect was electrical. All eyes were turned upon the captain, who was reported to have once passed through Spain with his regiment, and who must be well acquainted with the national music. He was in raptures. This was sufficient; the trio was encored; the applause was universal; and never had the Tauntons suffered such a complete defeat.

At last, the Misses Briggs began in earnest. It was a new Spanish song for three voices and three guitars. The impact was amazing. Everyone’s attention was on the captain, who was said to have once been in Spain with his regiment and must be familiar with the local music. He was thrilled. That was enough; the trio was called back for an encore; the applause was overwhelming; and the Tauntons had never faced such a total defeat.

'Bravo! bravo!' ejaculated the captain;-'bravo!'

'Bravo! Bravo!' shouted the captain; 'Bravo!'

'Pretty! isn't it, sir?' inquired Mr. Samuel Briggs, with the air of a self-satisfied showman. By-the-bye, these were the first words he had been heard to utter since he left Boswell-court the evening before.

'Nice, isn't it, sir?' asked Mr. Samuel Briggs, acting like a pleased showman. By the way, these were the first words he had spoken since leaving Boswell-court the night before.

'De-lightful!' returned the captain, with a flourish, and a military cough;-'de-lightful!'

'Delightful!' said the captain with a flourish and a military cough; 'delightful!'

'Sweet instrument!' said an old gentleman with a bald head, who had been trying all the morning to look through a telescope, inside the glass of which Mr. Hardy had fixed a large black wafer.

'Sweet instrument!' said an old man with a bald head, who had been trying all morning to look through a telescope, inside the glass of which Mr. Hardy had placed a large black wafer.

'Did you ever hear a Portuguese tambourine?' inquired that jocular individual.

"Have you ever heard a Portuguese tambourine?" asked that funny guy.

'Did you ever hear a tom-tom, sir?' sternly inquired the captain, who lost no opportunity of showing off his travels, real or pretended.

"Have you ever heard a tom-tom, sir?" the captain asked sternly, never missing a chance to flaunt his travels, whether they were real or made up.

'A what?' asked Hardy, rather taken aback.

'A what?' asked Hardy, feeling a bit surprised.

'A tom-tom.'

'A drum.'

'Never!'

'No way!'

'Nor a gum-gum?'

'Not a gum-gum?'

'Never!'

'No way!'

'What is a gum-gum?' eagerly inquired several young ladies.

"What is a gum-gum?" several young ladies asked excitedly.

'When I was in the East Indies,' replied the captain-(here was a discovery-he had been in the East Indies!)-'when I was in the East Indies, I was once stopping a few thousand miles up the country, on a visit at the house of a very particular friend of mine, Ram Chowdar Doss Azuph Al Bowlar-a devilish pleasant fellow. As we were enjoying our hookahs, one evening, in the cool verandah in front of his villa, we were rather surprised by the sudden appearance of thirty-four of his Kit-ma-gars (for he had rather a large establishment there), accompanied by an equal number of Con-su-mars, approaching the house with a threatening aspect, and beating a tom-tom. The Ram started up-'

'When I was in the East Indies,' the captain replied—(this was quite a revelation—he had been in the East Indies!)—'when I was in the East Indies, I was once staying a few thousand miles inland, visiting a very close friend of mine, Ram Chowdar Doss Azuph Al Bowlar—a really great guy. One evening, as we were enjoying our hookahs on the cool veranda in front of his villa, we were quite surprised by the sudden arrival of thirty-four of his Kit-ma-gars (he had a pretty big household there), along with an equal number of Con-su-mars, coming to the house with a threatening look, and beating a tom-tom. Ram jumped up—'

'Who?' inquired the bald gentleman, intensely interested.

'Who?' asked the bald man, clearly intrigued.

'The Ram-Ram Chowdar-'

'The Ram-Ram Chowder'

'Oh!' said the old gentleman, 'beg your pardon; pray go on.'

'Oh!' said the old man, 'sorry about that; please continue.'

'-Started up and drew a pistol. "Helves," said he, "my boy,"-he always called me, my boy-"Helves," said he, "do you hear that tom-tom?" "I do," said I. His countenance, which before was pale, assumed a most frightful appearance; his whole visage was distorted, and his frame shaken by violent emotions. "Do you see that gum-gum?" said he. "No," said I, staring about me. "You don't?" said he. "No, I'll be damned if I do," said I; "and what's more, I don't know what a gum-gum is," said I. I really thought the Ram would have dropped. He drew me aside, and with an expression of agony I shall never forget, said in a low whisper-'

'-He got up and pulled out a gun. "Helves," he said, "my boy,"—he always called me that—"Helves," he said, "do you hear that drum?" "I do," I replied. His face, which had been pale, took on a terrifying look; his entire expression twisted, and his body shook with intense emotions. "Do you see that thing?" he asked. "No," I said, looking around. "You don't?" he pressed. "No, I swear I don't," I replied, "and honestly, I don't even know what that is," I said. I really thought the Ram was going to collapse. He pulled me aside and with an expression of agony I’ll never forget, whispered...'

'Dinner's on the table, ladies,' interrupted the steward's wife.

'Dinner's ready, ladies,' interrupted the steward's wife.

'Will you allow me?' said the captain, immediately suiting the action to the word, and escorting Miss Julia Briggs to the cabin, with as much ease as if he had finished the story.

'Will you let me?' said the captain, quickly taking action and guiding Miss Julia Briggs to the cabin, as smoothly as if he had just wrapped up the story.

'What an extraordinary circumstance!' ejaculated the same old gentleman, preserving his listening attitude.

'What an incredible situation!' exclaimed the same elderly gentleman, maintaining his attentive posture.

'What a traveller!' said the young ladies.

'What a traveler!' said the young women.

'What a singular name!' exclaimed the gentlemen, rather confused by the coolness of the whole affair.

'What a unique name!' exclaimed the men, feeling a bit puzzled by how casual the whole situation was.

'I wish he had finished the story,' said an old lady. 'I wonder what a gum-gum really is?'

'By Jove!' exclaimed Hardy, who until now had been lost in utter amazement, 'I don't know what it may be in India, but in England I think a gum-gum has very much the same meaning as a hum-bug.'

"Goodness!" exclaimed Hardy, who until now had been completely astonished, "I don't know what it means in India, but in England, I think a gum-gum is pretty much the same thing as a humbug."

'How illiberal! how envious!' cried everybody, as they made for the cabin, fully impressed with a belief in the captain's amazing adventures. Helves was the sole lion for the remainder of the day-impudence and the marvellous are pretty sure passports to any society.

'How ungrateful! How jealous!' everyone exclaimed as they headed towards the cabin, completely convinced of the captain's incredible stories. Helves was the only star for the rest of the day—boldness and the extraordinary are pretty reliable tickets to any social scene.

The party had by this time reached their destination, and put about on their return home. The wind, which had been with them the whole day, was now directly in their teeth; the weather had become gradually more and more overcast; and the sky, water, and shore, were all of that dull, heavy, uniform lead-colour, which house-painters daub in the first instance over a street-door which is gradually approaching a state of convalescence. It had been 'spitting' with rain for the last half-hour, and now began to pour in good earnest. The wind was freshening very fast, and the waterman at the wheel had unequivocally expressed his opinion that there would shortly be a squall. A slight emotion on the part of the vessel, now and then, seemed to suggest the possibility of its pitching to a very uncomfortable extent in the event of its blowing harder; and every timber began to creak, as if the boat were an overladen clothes-basket. Sea-sickness, however, is like a belief in ghosts-every one entertains some misgivings on the subject, but few will acknowledge any. The majority of the company, therefore, endeavoured to look peculiarly happy, feeling all the while especially miserable.

The party had now reached their destination and turned around to head back home. The wind, which had been with them all day, was now directly against them; the weather had gradually grown more overcast, and the sky, water, and shore were all a dull, heavy, uniform gray, like the color painters use when starting to repaint a street door that’s in the process of being fixed up. It had been drizzling for the last half hour, and now it started to rain heavily. The wind was picking up quickly, and the waterman at the helm had clearly stated that a squall would be coming soon. The vessel occasionally shifted slightly, hinting that it could rock uncomfortably if the wind got any stronger, and every beam began to creak, as if the boat were an overloaded laundry basket. However, seasickness is like believing in ghosts—everyone has their doubts about it, but few will admit it. So, most of the group tried to look particularly happy, even while feeling especially miserable.

'Don't it rain?' inquired the old gentleman before noticed, when, by dint of squeezing and jamming, they were all seated at table.

'Doesn't it rain?' asked the old gentleman before he noticed, when, by squeezing and jamming, they were all seated at the table.

'I think it does-a little,' replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who could hardly hear himself speak, in consequence of the pattering on the deck.

'I think it does—a little,' replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who could barely hear himself because of the pattering on the deck.

'Don't it blow?' inquired some one else.

"Doesn't it blow?" asked someone else.

'No, I don't think it does,' responded Hardy, sincerely wishing that he could persuade himself that it did not; for he sat near the door, and was almost blown off his seat.

'No, I don't think it does,' replied Hardy, genuinely hoping he could convince himself that it didn’t; he was sitting near the door and was nearly blown off his seat.

'It'll soon clear up,' said Mr. Percy Noakes, in a cheerful tone.

"It'll clear up soon," said Mr. Percy Noakes, sounding cheerful.

'Oh, certainly!' ejaculated the committee generally.

'Oh, definitely!' exclaimed the committee as a whole.

'No doubt of it!' said the remainder of the company, whose attention was now pretty well engrossed by the serious business of eating, carving, taking wine, and so forth.

'No doubt about it!' said the rest of the group, who were now truly focused on the important task of eating, cutting food, pouring wine, and so on.

The throbbing motion of the engine was but too perceptible. There was a large, substantial, cold boiled leg of mutton, at the bottom of the table, shaking like blancmange; a previously hearty sirloin of beef looked as if it had been suddenly seized with the palsy; and some tongues, which were placed on dishes rather too large for them, went through the most surprising evolutions; darting from side to side, and from end to end, like a fly in an inverted wine-glass. Then, the sweets shook and trembled, till it was quite impossible to help them, and people gave up the attempt in despair; and the pigeon-pies looked as if the birds, whose legs were stuck outside, were trying to get them in. The table vibrated and started like a feverish pulse, and the very legs were convulsed-everything was shaking and jarring. The beams in the roof of the cabin seemed as if they were put there for the sole purpose of giving people head-aches, and several elderly gentlemen became ill- tempered in consequence. As fast as the steward put the fire-irons up, they would fall down again; and the more the ladies and gentlemen tried to sit comfortably on their seats, the more the seats seemed to slide away from the ladies and gentlemen. Several ominous demands were made for small glasses of brandy; the countenances of the company gradually underwent most extraordinary changes; one gentleman was observed suddenly to rush from table without the slightest ostensible reason, and dart up the steps with incredible swiftness: thereby greatly damaging both himself and the steward, who happened to be coming down at the same moment.

The engine's vibrating motion was unmistakable. At the bottom of the table, a large, cold leg of mutton shook like jelly; a once hearty sirloin of beef seemed to have suddenly gone limp; and some tongues on plates that were too big for them moved in the most surprising ways, darting from side to side like a fly trapped in an upside-down wine glass. The desserts trembled uncontrollably, making it impossible to stop them, so people eventually gave up trying; the pigeon pies looked as if the birds, with their legs sticking out, were struggling to get back inside. The table shook like a rapid heartbeat, and even the legs seemed to be convulsing—everything was rattling and jolting. The beams in the cabin's ceiling seemed designed solely to give people headaches, and several older gentlemen became irritable as a result. As quickly as the steward would put the fire-irons back up, they would fall again, and the more the ladies and gentlemen tried to sit comfortably, the more their seats slid away from them. There were several uneasy requests for small glasses of brandy; the expressions of the guests changed dramatically; one gentleman was seen suddenly rushing from the table for no clear reason, bolting up the steps at an incredible speed, and in the process, he seriously bumped into the steward, who was coming down at the same time.

The cloth was removed; the dessert was laid on the table; and the glasses were filled. The motion of the boat increased; several members of the party began to feel rather vague and misty, and looked as if they had only just got up. The young gentleman with the spectacles, who had been in a fluctuating state for some time-at one moment bright, and at another dismal, like a revolving light on the sea-coast-rashly announced his wish to propose a toast. After several ineffectual attempts to preserve his perpendicular, the young gentleman, having managed to hook himself to the centre leg of the table with his left hand, proceeded as follows:

The cloth was taken off; the dessert was put on the table; and the glasses were filled. The movement of the boat picked up; several members of the group started to feel somewhat dazed and looked as if they had just woken up. The young man with the glasses, who had been in an uncertain state for a while—bright one moment and gloomy the next, like a flashing light on the coast—boldly declared his intention to make a toast. After several failed attempts to stay upright, the young man finally managed to hook himself to the center leg of the table with his left hand and began as follows:

'Ladies and gentlemen. A gentleman is among us-I may say a stranger-(here some painful thought seemed to strike the orator; he paused, and looked extremely odd)-whose talents, whose travels, whose cheerfulness-'

'Ladies and gentlemen. A gentleman is among us—I might even call him a stranger—(at this point, some troubling thought seemed to hit the speaker; he paused and looked quite strange)—whose talents, whose travels, whose cheerfulness—'

'I beg your pardon, Edkins,' hastily interrupted Mr. Percy Noakes,-'Hardy, what's the matter?'

'I’m sorry to interrupt, Edkins,' Mr. Percy Noakes said quickly. 'Hardy, what’s going on?'

'Nothing,' replied the 'funny gentleman,' who had just life enough left to utter two consecutive syllables.

'Nothing,' replied the 'funny guy,' who had just enough energy left to say two words in a row.

'Will you have some brandy?'

'No!' replied Hardy in a tone of great indignation, and looking as comfortable as Temple-bar in a Scotch mist; 'what should I want brandy for?'

'No!' Hardy replied with great indignation, looking as miserable as Temple Bar in a Scottish fog. 'Why would I want brandy?'

'Will you go on deck?'

"Are you going on deck?"

'No, I will not.' This was said with a most determined air, and in a voice which might have been taken for an imitation of anything; it was quite as much like a guinea-pig as a bassoon.

'No, I won't.' This was said with a very determined expression, and in a voice that could have been mistaken for an imitation of anything; it sounded just as much like a guinea pig as it did a bassoon.

'I beg your pardon, Edkins,' said the courteous Percy; 'I thought our friend was ill. Pray go on.'

"I’m sorry, Edkins," said the polite Percy; "I thought our friend was unwell. Please continue."

A pause.

A break.

'Pray go on.'

"Please continue."

'Mr. Edkins is gone,' cried somebody.

'Mr. Edkins is gone,' shouted someone.

'I beg your pardon, sir,' said the steward, running up to Mr. Percy Noakes, 'I beg your pardon, sir, but the gentleman as just went on deck-him with the green spectacles-is uncommon bad, to be sure; and the young man as played the wiolin says, that unless he has some brandy he can't answer for the consequences. He says he has a wife and two children, whose werry subsistence depends on his breaking a wessel, and he expects to do so every moment. The flageolet's been werry ill, but he's better, only he's in a dreadful prusperation.'

"I’m sorry to bother you, sir," the steward said as he hurried over to Mr. Percy Noakes, "but the guy who just went on deck—the one with the green sunglasses—he’s in really bad shape, for sure. And the young man who played the violin says that unless he gets some brandy, he can’t guarantee what will happen next. He says he has a wife and two kids who rely on him for their living, and he’s expecting to break down any moment now. The flageolet’s been really unwell, but he’s doing a bit better, although he’s in a terrible state."

All disguise was now useless; the company staggered on deck; the gentlemen tried to see nothing but the clouds; and the ladies, muffled up in such shawls and cloaks as they had brought with them, lay about on the seats, and under the seats, in the most wretched condition. Never was such a blowing, and raining, and pitching, and tossing, endured by any pleasure party before. Several remonstrances were sent down below, on the subject of Master Fleetwood, but they were totally unheeded in consequence of the indisposition of his natural protectors. That interesting child screamed at the top of his voice, until he had no voice left to scream with; and then, Miss Wakefield began, and screamed for the remainder of the passage.

All disguise was now pointless; the group staggered onto the deck; the men tried to ignore everything but the clouds; and the women, wrapped up in the shawls and cloaks they had brought, lay scattered on the seats and under them, in horrible condition. Never before had any pleasure trip endured such wind, rain, pitching, and tossing. Several complaints were sent below regarding Master Fleetwood, but they were completely ignored due to the illness of his usual protectors. That lively child screamed at the top of his lungs until he had no voice left to scream with; then, Miss Wakefield started, and kept screaming for the rest of the trip.

Mr. Hardy was observed, some hours afterwards, in an attitude which induced his friends to suppose that he was busily engaged in contemplating the beauties of the deep; they only regretted that his taste for the picturesque should lead him to remain so long in a position, very injurious at all times, but especially so, to an individual labouring under a tendency of blood to the head.

Mr. Hardy was seen a few hours later in a position that made his friends think he was lost in thought about the beauty of the ocean; they just wished his appreciation for the picturesque didn't keep him in such a harmful position for so long, especially considering someone with a tendency for blood to rush to the head.

The party arrived off the Custom-house at about two o'clock on the Thursday morning dispirited and worn out. The Tauntons were too ill to quarrel with the Briggses, and the Briggses were too wretched to annoy the Tauntons. One of the guitar-cases was lost on its passage to a hackney-coach, and Mrs. Briggs has not scrupled to state that the Tauntons bribed a porter to throw it down an area. Mr. Alexander Briggs opposes vote by ballot-he says from personal experience of its inefficacy; and Mr. Samuel Briggs, whenever he is asked to express his sentiments on the point, says he has no opinion on that or any other subject.

The group arrived at the Custom-house around two o'clock on Thursday morning, feeling defeated and exhausted. The Tauntons were too sick to argue with the Briggses, and the Briggses were too miserable to bother the Tauntons. One of the guitar cases got lost on its way to a taxi, and Mrs. Briggs hasn’t hesitated to claim that the Tauntons paid a porter to toss it down a staircase. Mr. Alexander Briggs is against voting by ballot—he cites personal experience of its uselessness; and Mr. Samuel Briggs, whenever asked for his thoughts on the matter, says he has no opinion on that or on any other topic.

Mr. Edkins-the young gentleman in the green spectacles-makes a speech on every occasion on which a speech can possibly be made: the eloquence of which can only be equalled by its length. In the event of his not being previously appointed to a judgeship, it is probable that he will practise as a barrister in the New Central Criminal Court.

Mr. Edkins—the young guy in the green glasses—gives a speech every time there's a chance to speak: his eloquence is only matched by how long he talks. If he isn't appointed as a judge beforehand, it's likely that he'll work as a lawyer in the New Central Criminal Court.

Captain Helves continued his attention to Miss Julia Briggs, whom he might possibly have espoused, if it had not unfortunately happened that Mr. Samuel arrested him, in the way of business, pursuant to instructions received from Messrs. Scroggins and Payne, whose town- debts the gallant captain had condescended to collect, but whose accounts, with the indiscretion sometimes peculiar to military minds, he had omitted to keep with that dull accuracy which custom has rendered necessary. Mrs. Taunton complains that she has been much deceived in him. He introduced himself to the family on board a Gravesend steam- packet, and certainly, therefore, ought to have proved respectable.

Captain Helves continued to focus on Miss Julia Briggs, whom he might have married if it hadn’t been for Mr. Samuel, who interrupted him on business, following orders from Messrs. Scroggins and Payne. The brave captain had taken it upon himself to collect their town debts, but, like many military types, he hadn’t kept the accounts with the meticulous detail that is normally expected. Mrs. Taunton complains that she feels misled by him. He first introduced himself to the family on a Gravesend steam packet, so he should have been considered respectable.

Mr. Percy Noakes is as light-hearted and careless as ever.

Mr. Percy Noakes is just as carefree and easygoing as always.

CHAPTER VIII-THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL

The little town of Great Winglebury is exactly forty-two miles and three-quarters from Hyde Park corner. It has a long, straggling, quiet High-street, with a great black and white clock at a small red Town- hall, half-way up-a market-place-a cage-an assembly-room-a church-a bridge-a chapel-a theatre-a library-an inn-a pump-and a Post-office. Tradition tells of a 'Little Winglebury,' down some cross-road about two miles off; and, as a square mass of dirty paper, supposed to have been originally intended for a letter, with certain tremulous characters inscribed thereon, in which a lively imagination might trace a remote resemblance to the word 'Little,' was once stuck up to be owned in the sunny window of the Great Winglebury Post-office, from which it only disappeared when it fell to pieces with dust and extreme old age, there would appear to be some foundation for the legend. Common belief is inclined to bestow the name upon a little hole at the end of a muddy lane about a couple of miles long, colonised by one wheelwright, four paupers, and a beer-shop; but, even this authority, slight as it is, must be regarded with extreme suspicion, inasmuch as the inhabitants of the hole aforesaid, concur in opining that it never had any name at all, from the earliest ages down to the present day.

The small town of Great Winglebury is exactly forty-two miles and three-quarters from Hyde Park corner. It has a long, winding, quiet High Street, with a great black and white clock at a small red Town Hall, halfway up—a market square—a cage—an assembly room—a church—a bridge—a chapel—a theater—a library—an inn—a pump—and a Post Office. Tradition says there’s a 'Little Winglebury' down a crossroad about two miles away; and, as a square mass of dirty paper, thought to have been originally meant for a letter, with some shaky writing on it that a creative imagination might link to the word 'Little,' was once displayed to be claimed in the sunny window of the Great Winglebury Post Office, from which it only vanished when it fell apart from dust and extreme old age, there does seem to be some basis for the legend. Common belief tends to give that name to a small spot at the end of a muddy lane about two miles long, inhabited by one wheelwright, four needy people, and a bar; but, even this claim, as minor as it is, must be viewed with considerable doubt, since the people living in that tiny spot agree that it never had a name at all from ancient times until now.

The Winglebury Arms, in the centre of the High-street, opposite the small building with the big clock, is the principal inn of Great Winglebury-the commercial-inn, posting-house, and excise-office; the 'Blue' house at every election, and the judges' house at every assizes. It is the head-quarters of the Gentlemen's Whist Club of Winglebury Blues (so called in opposition to the Gentlemen's Whist Club of Winglebury Buffs, held at the other house, a little further down): and whenever a juggler, or wax-work man, or concert-giver, takes Great Winglebury in his circuit, it is immediately placarded all over the town that Mr. So-and-so, 'trusting to that liberal support which the inhabitants of Great Winglebury have long been so liberal in bestowing, has at a great expense engaged the elegant and commodious assembly- rooms, attached to the Winglebury Arms.' The house is a large one, with a red brick and stone front; a pretty spacious hall, ornamented with evergreen plants, terminates in a perspective view of the bar, and a glass case, in which are displayed a choice variety of delicacies ready for dressing, to catch the eye of a new-comer the moment he enters, and excite his appetite to the highest possible pitch. Opposite doors lead to the 'coffee' and 'commercial' rooms; and a great wide, rambling staircase,-three stairs and a landing-four stairs and another landing-one step and another landing-half-a-dozen stairs and another landing-and so on-conducts to galleries of bedrooms, and labyrinths of sitting-rooms, denominated 'private,' where you may enjoy yourself, as privately as you can in any place where some bewildered being walks into your room every five minutes, by mistake, and then walks out again, to open all the doors along the gallery until he finds his own.

The Winglebury Arms, located in the middle of High Street, across from the small building with the big clock, is the main inn of Great Winglebury—it's the commercial inn, posting house, and excise office; the 'Blue' house at every election, and the judges' house during every assizes. It serves as the headquarters for the Gentlemen's Whist Club of Winglebury Blues (named in contrast to the Gentlemen's Whist Club of Winglebury Buffs, which meets at the other house a little further down). Whenever a juggler, waxwork performer, or concert organizer comes to Great Winglebury, it’s plastered all over town that Mr. So-and-so, 'counting on the generous support the residents of Great Winglebury have always shown,' has at a great cost booked the elegant and spacious assembly rooms attached to the Winglebury Arms. The inn is large, with a red brick and stone façade; a fairly spacious hall decorated with evergreen plants leads to a view of the bar, and a glass case displaying an appealing variety of delicacies ready for preparation, designed to catch the attention of newcomers the moment they walk in and stir their appetite to the maximum. Opposite doors lead to the 'coffee' and 'commercial' rooms; and a wide, winding staircase—three steps and a landing, four steps and another landing, one step and another landing, half a dozen steps and another landing—and so on—leads to galleries of bedrooms and a maze of sitting rooms labeled 'private,' where you can try to enjoy yourself as privately as possible in a place where a confused person walks into your room every five minutes by mistake and then walks out again, opening all the doors along the gallery until they find their own.

Such is the Winglebury Arms, at this day, and such was the Winglebury Arms some time since-no matter when-two or three minutes before the arrival of the London stage. Four horses with cloths on-change for a coach-were standing quietly at the corner of the yard surrounded by a listless group of post-boys in shiny hats and smock-frocks, engaged in discussing the merits of the cattle; half a dozen ragged boys were standing a little apart, listening with evident interest to the conversation of these worthies; and a few loungers were collected round the horse-trough, awaiting the arrival of the coach.

Such is the Winglebury Arms today, and such was the Winglebury Arms some time ago—no matter when—just two or three minutes before the London stage arrived. Four horses with their blankets on, preparing for a coach, were standing quietly at the corner of the yard, surrounded by a bored group of post-boys in shiny hats and smocks, engaged in discussing the merits of the horses; half a dozen ragged boys were standing a little way off, listening with clear interest to the conversation of these gentlemen; and a few onlookers had gathered around the horse trough, waiting for the coach to arrive.

The day was hot and sunny, the town in the zenith of its dulness, and with the exception of these few idlers, not a living creature was to be seen. Suddenly, the loud notes of a key-bugle broke the monotonous stillness of the street; in came the coach, rattling over the uneven paving with a noise startling enough to stop even the large-faced clock itself. Down got the outsides, up went the windows in all directions, out came the waiters, up started the ostlers, and the loungers, and the post-boys, and the ragged boys, as if they were electrified-unstrapping, and unchaining, and unbuckling, and dragging willing horses out, and forcing reluctant horses in, and making a most exhilarating bustle. 'Lady inside, here!' said the guard. 'Please to alight, ma'am,' said the waiter. 'Private sitting-room?' interrogated the lady. 'Certainly, ma'am,' responded the chamber-maid. 'Nothing but these 'ere trunks, ma'am?' inquired the guard. 'Nothing more,' replied the lady. Up got the outsides again, and the guard, and the coachman; off came the cloths, with a jerk; 'All right,' was the cry; and away they went. The loungers lingered a minute or two in the road, watching the coach until it turned the corner, and then loitered away one by one. The street was clear again, and the town, by contrast, quieter than ever.

The day was hot and sunny, and the town was as dull as ever. Besides a few idlers, there wasn't a single living creature in sight. Suddenly, the loud sound of a key-bugle shattered the monotonous quiet of the street; in came the coach, rattling over the uneven pavement with a noise loud enough to stop even the large-faced clock. People got down from the outside, windows flew open, waiters came out, ostlers and loungers sprang up, post-boys and ragged boys appeared as if electrified—unstrapping and unchaining horses, dragging willing ones out, forcing reluctant ones in, creating a lively hustle. 'Lady inside, here!' called the guard. 'Please step down, ma'am,' said the waiter. 'Private sitting room?' the lady asked. 'Of course, ma'am,' replied the chambermaid. 'Just these trunks, ma'am?' inquired the guard. 'Nothing more,' answered the lady. The people on the outside got back up, along with the guard and the coachman; the covers came off with a snap; 'All set,' was the shout; and away they went. The loungers hung around for a minute or two in the road, watching the coach until it turned the corner, and then they drifted away one by one. The street was clear again, and the town, in contrast, was quieter than ever.

'Lady in number twenty-five,' screamed the landlady.-'Thomas!'

'Lady in number twenty-five,' shouted the landlady. - 'Thomas!'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Letter just been left for the gentleman in number nineteen. Boots at the Lion left it. No answer.'

'Letter just dropped off for the guy in apartment nineteen. Boots at the Lion delivered it. No reply.'

'Letter for you, sir,' said Thomas, depositing the letter on number nineteen's table.

'Here’s a letter for you, sir,' said Thomas, placing the letter on the table of number nineteen.

'For me?' said number nineteen, turning from the window, out of which he had been surveying the scene just described.

'For me?' said number nineteen, turning away from the window, where he had been watching the scene just described.

'Yes, sir,'-(waiters always speak in hints, and never utter complete sentences,)-'yes, sir,-Boots at the Lion, sir,-Bar, sir,-Missis said number nineteen, sir-Alexander Trott, Esq., sir?-Your card at the bar, sir, I think, sir?'

'Yes, sir,'—(waiters always talk in hints and never say complete sentences)—'yes, sir—Boots at the Lion, sir—Bar, sir—Missis said number nineteen, sir—Alexander Trott, Esq., sir?—Your card at the bar, sir, I believe, sir?'

'My name is Trott,' replied number nineteen, breaking the seal. 'You may go, waiter.' The waiter pulled down the window-blind, and then pulled it up again-for a regular waiter must do something before he leaves the room-adjusted the glasses on the side-board, brushed a place that was not dusty, rubbed his hands very hard, walked stealthily to the door, and evaporated.

'My name is Trott,' said number nineteen, breaking the seal. 'You can leave now, waiter.' The waiter lowered the window blind, then pulled it back up—because a proper waiter has to do something before leaving the room—adjusted the glasses on the sideboard, dusted a spot that wasn’t actually dusty, rubbed his hands vigorously, walked quietly to the door, and disappeared.

There was, evidently, something in the contents of the letter, of a nature, if not wholly unexpected, certainly extremely disagreeable. Mr. Alexander Trott laid it down, and took it up again, and walked about the room on particular squares of the carpet, and even attempted, though unsuccessfully, to whistle an air. It wouldn't do. He threw himself into a chair, and read the following epistle aloud:-

There was clearly something in the letter that, while not entirely surprising, was definitely very unpleasant. Mr. Alexander Trott set it down, picked it up again, paced around the room on specific spots on the carpet, and even tried, without success, to whistle a tune. It just wasn’t working. He collapsed into a chair and read the following letter out loud:-

'Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer, 'Great Winglebury. 'Wednesday Morning.

'Sir. Immediately on discovering your intentions, I left our counting- house, and followed you. I know the purport of your journey;-that journey shall never be completed.

'Sir. As soon as I found out what you were planning, I left our office and followed you. I know why you're traveling; that journey will never happen.

'I have no friend here, just now, on whose secrecy I can rely. This shall be no obstacle to my revenge. Neither shall Emily Brown be exposed to the mercenary solicitations of a scoundrel, odious in her eyes, and contemptible in everybody else's: nor will I tamely submit to the clandestine attacks of a base umbrella-maker.

'I have no friend here right now that I can trust to keep secrets. This won't stop me from getting my revenge. Emily Brown won't be subjected to the greedy advances of a creep, someone she finds repulsive and everyone else does too; I also won't passively accept the sneaky attacks of a lowlife umbrella-maker.'

'Sir. From Great Winglebury church, a footpath leads through four meadows to a retired spot known to the townspeople as Stiffun's Acre.' [Mr. Trott shuddered.] 'I shall be waiting there alone, at twenty minutes before six o'clock to-morrow morning. Should I be disappointed in seeing you there, I will do myself the pleasure of calling with a horsewhip.

'Sir. From Great Winglebury church, a footpath leads through four meadows to a quiet place known to the locals as Stiffun's Acre.' [Mr. Trott shuddered.] 'I’ll be waiting there alone at 5:40 tomorrow morning. If I’m disappointed not to see you there, I’ll take the pleasure of visiting you with a whip.'

'Horace Hunter.

Horace Hunter.

'PS. There is a gunsmiths in the High-street; and they won't sell gunpowder after dark-you understand me.

'PS. There's a gunsmith on High Street, and they won't sell gunpowder after dark—you get what I mean.'

'PPS. You had better not order your breakfast in the morning until you have met me. It may be an unnecessary expense.'

'Desperate-minded villain! I knew how it would be!' ejaculated the terrified Trott. 'I always told father, that once start me on this expedition, and Hunter would pursue me like the Wandering Jew. It's bad enough as it is, to marry with the old people's commands, and without the girl's consent; but what will Emily think of me, if I go down there breathless with running away from this infernal salamander? What shall I do? What can I do? If I go back to the city, I'm disgraced for ever-lose the girl-and, what's more, lose the money too. Even if I did go on to the Browns' by the coach, Hunter would be after me in a post- chaise; and if I go to this place, this Stiffun's Acre (another shudder), I'm as good as dead. I've seen him hit the man at the Pall- mall shooting-gallery, in the second button-hole of the waistcoat, five times out of every six, and when he didn't hit him there, he hit him in the head.' With this consolatory reminiscence Mr. Alexander Trott again ejaculated, 'What shall I do?'

"Desperate villain! I knew it would come to this!" shouted the terrified Trott. "I always told my dad that once I started this adventure, Hunter would chase me like the Wandering Jew. It's tough enough as it is, marrying against my parents' wishes and without the girl's consent; but what will Emily think of me if I show up down there, gasping after running away from this terrible creature? What should I do? What can I do? If I go back to the city, I'm ruined forever—I’ll lose the girl and, what's worse, lose the money too. Even if I do take the coach to the Browns’, Hunter will be right behind me in a hired carriage; and if I go to this place, Stiffun's Acre (ugh), I might as well be dead. I've seen him hit the target at the Pall-mall shooting gallery in the second button-hole of the waistcoat five times out of six, and when he misses there, he hits him in the head." With this comforting thought, Mr. Alexander Trott exclaimed again, "What should I do?"

Long and weary were his reflections, as, burying his face in his hand, he sat, ruminating on the best course to be pursued. His mental direction-post pointed to London. He thought of the 'governor's' anger, and the loss of the fortune which the paternal Brown had promised the paternal Trott his daughter should contribute to the coffers of his son. Then the words 'To Brown's' were legibly inscribed on the said direction-post, but Horace Hunter's denunciation rung in his ears;-last of all it bore, in red letters, the words, 'To Stiffun's Acre;' and then Mr. Alexander Trott decided on adopting a plan which he presently matured.

He spent a long time lost in thought, burying his face in his hands as he tried to figure out the best way forward. His mind was set on London. He considered the governor's anger and the lost fortune that Mr. Brown had promised would help his daughter contribute to the wellbeing of his son. Then the words 'To Brown's' stood out clearly in his mind, but Horace Hunter's warnings echoed in his ears; last of all, in bold red letters, were the words, 'To Stiffun's Acre;' and then Mr. Alexander Trott decided to come up with a plan that he would soon develop.

First and foremost, he despatched the under-boots to the Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer, with a gentlemanly note to Mr. Horace Hunter, intimating that he thirsted for his destruction and would do himself the pleasure of slaughtering him next morning, without fail. He then wrote another letter, and requested the attendance of the other boots-for they kept a pair. A modest knock at the room door was heard. 'Come in,' said Mr. Trott. A man thrust in a red head with one eye in it, and being again desired to 'come in,' brought in the body and the legs to which the head belonged, and a fur cap which belonged to the head.

First of all, he sent the under-boots to the Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer, along with a gentlemanly note to Mr. Horace Hunter, letting him know that he was eager for his downfall and would take delight in taking him out the next morning, without fail. He then wrote another letter and asked the other boots to join, since they had a pair. A soft knock was heard at the room door. "Come in," said Mr. Trott. A man with a red head and one eye peeked in, and when he was invited to "come in" again, he came in with the body and legs that belonged to that head, along with a fur cap that went with it.

'You are the upper-boots, I think?' inquired Mr. Trott.

'Are you the upper-boots, I think?' asked Mr. Trott.

'Yes, I am the upper-boots,' replied a voice from inside a velveteen case, with mother-of-pearl buttons-'that is, I'm the boots as b'longs to the house; the other man's my man, as goes errands and does odd jobs. Top-boots and half-boots, I calls us.'

'Yeah, I'm the upper-boots,' replied a voice from inside a velvet case, with mother-of-pearl buttons—'I mean, I'm the boots that belong to the house; the other guy is my guy who runs errands and does odd jobs. I call us top-boots and half-boots.'

'You're from London?' inquired Mr. Trott.

"Are you from London?" Mr. Trott asked.

'Driv a cab once,' was the laconic reply.

'Drive a cab once,' was the brief reply.

'Why don't you drive it now?' asked Mr. Trott.

'Why don't you take it for a spin now?' asked Mr. Trott.

'Over-driv the cab, and driv over a 'ooman,' replied the top-boots, with brevity.

'Drive the cab too fast and run over a woman,' replied the top-boots, tersely.

'Do you know the mayor's house?' inquired Mr. Trott.

"Do you know where the mayor's house is?" Mr. Trott asked.

'Rather,' replied the boots, significantly, as if he had some good reason to remember it.

'Actually,' replied the boots, meaningfully, as if he had a good reason to remember it.

'Do you think you could manage to leave a letter there?' interrogated Trott.

'Do you think you could drop off a letter there?' asked Trott.

'Shouldn't wonder,' responded boots.

"Shouldn't be surprised," responded boots.

'But this letter,' said Trott, holding a deformed note with a paralytic direction in one hand, and five shillings in the other-'this letter is anonymous.'

'But this letter,' said Trott, holding a misshapen note with an awkward address in one hand, and five shillings in the other—'this letter is anonymous.'

'A-what?' interrupted the boots.

'A-what?' interrupted the shoes.

'Anonymous-he's not to know who it comes from.'

'Anonymous—he's not supposed to know who it's from.'

'Oh! I see,' responded the reg'lar, with a knowing wink, but without evincing the slightest disinclination to undertake the charge-'I see-bit o' Sving, eh?' and his one eye wandered round the room, as if in quest of a dark lantern and phosphorus-box. 'But, I say!' he continued, recalling the eye from its search, and bringing it to bear on Mr. Trott. 'I say, he's a lawyer, our mayor, and insured in the County. If you've a spite agen him, you'd better not burn his house down-blessed if I don't think it would be the greatest favour you could do him.' And he chuckled inwardly.

'Oh! I get it,' replied the regular, with a knowing wink, but without showing any reluctance to take on the task. 'I see—a bit of Sving, huh?' His one eye scanned the room, as if searching for a dark lantern and phosphorus box. 'But, listen!' he continued, bringing the eye back to focus on Mr. Trott. 'I mean, our mayor is a lawyer and has insurance in the County. If you have a grudge against him, you might want to think twice about burning his house down—I'm pretty sure that would actually be the best favor you could do him.' And he chuckled to himself.

If Mr. Alexander Trott had been in any other situation, his first act would have been to kick the man down-stairs by deputy; or, in other words, to ring the bell, and desire the landlord to take his boots off. He contented himself, however, with doubling the fee and explaining that the letter merely related to a breach of the peace. The top-boots retired, solemnly pledged to secrecy; and Mr. Alexander Trott sat down to a fried sole, maintenon cutlet, Madeira, and sundries, with greater composure than he had experienced since the receipt of Horace Hunter's letter of defiance.

If Mr. Alexander Trott had been in any other situation, his first move would have been to kick the guy downstairs through someone else; in other words, to ring the bell and tell the landlord to take his boots off. However, he settled for doubling the fee and clarifying that the letter was just about a disturbance. The booted man left, solemnly promising to keep quiet; and Mr. Alexander Trott sat down to enjoy a fried sole, Maintenon cutlet, Madeira, and some other items, feeling more relaxed than he had since receiving Horace Hunter's challenge.

The lady who alighted from the London coach had no sooner been installed in number twenty-five, and made some alteration in her travelling-dress, than she indited a note to Joseph Overton, esquire, solicitor, and mayor of Great Winglebury, requesting his immediate attendance on private business of paramount importance-a summons which that worthy functionary lost no time in obeying; for after sundry openings of his eyes, divers ejaculations of 'Bless me!' and other manifestations of surprise, he took his broad-brimmed hat from its accustomed peg in his little front office, and walked briskly down the High-street to the Winglebury Arms; through the hall and up the staircase of which establishment he was ushered by the landlady, and a crowd of officious waiters, to the door of number twenty-five.

The woman who got off the London coach had barely settled into room twenty-five and made a few adjustments to her travel outfit before she wrote a note to Joseph Overton, Esq., solicitor and mayor of Great Winglebury, asking for his immediate presence regarding some private matters of great importance—a request that the respected official didn’t hesitate to fulfill. After a few wide-eyed looks, several exclamations of “Goodness!” and other signs of surprise, he took his wide-brimmed hat from its usual spot in his small front office and walked briskly down the High Street to the Winglebury Arms. The landlady and a group of eager waiters ushered him through the hall and up the stairs to the door of room twenty-five.

'Show the gentleman in,' said the stranger lady, in reply to the foremost waiter's announcement. The gentleman was shown in accordingly.

'Show the man in,' said the mysterious woman, responding to the lead waiter's announcement. The man was let in as requested.

The lady rose from the sofa; the mayor advanced a step from the door; and there they both paused, for a minute or two, looking at one another as if by mutual consent. The mayor saw before him a buxom, richly- dressed female of about forty; the lady looked upon a sleek man, about ten years older, in drab shorts and continuations, black coat, neckcloth, and gloves.

The woman stood up from the couch; the mayor took a step closer from the door; and they both stopped for a moment, looking at each other as if agreed. The mayor saw in front of him a curvy, elegantly dressed woman around forty; the woman saw a well-groomed man, about ten years her senior, in gray shorts and trousers, a black coat, necktie, and gloves.

'Miss Julia Manners!' exclaimed the mayor at length, 'you astonish me.'

'Miss Julia Manners!' the mayor exclaimed finally, 'you amaze me.'

'That's very unfair of you, Overton,' replied Miss Julia, 'for I have known you, long enough, not to be surprised at anything you do, and you might extend equal courtesy to me.'

'That's really unfair of you, Overton,' replied Miss Julia, 'because I've known you long enough not to be surprised by anything you do, and you could at least show me the same courtesy.'

'But to run away-actually run away-with a young man!' remonstrated the mayor.

"But to actually run away—with a young man!" protested the mayor.

'You wouldn't have me actually run away with an old one, I presume?' was the cool rejoinder.

"You wouldn't actually want me to run away with an old guy, would you?" was the cool reply.

'And then to ask me-me-of all people in the world-a man of my age and appearance-mayor of the town-to promote such a scheme!' pettishly ejaculated Joseph Overton; throwing himself into an arm-chair, and producing Miss Julia's letter from his pocket, as if to corroborate the assertion that he had been asked.

"And to ask me—of all people in the world—a man my age and with my looks—the mayor of the town—to support such a plan!" Joseph Overton exclaimed irritably, throwing himself into an armchair and pulling Miss Julia's letter from his pocket, as if to prove that he had indeed been asked.

'Now, Overton,' replied the lady, 'I want your assistance in this matter, and I must have it. In the lifetime of that poor old dear, Mr. Cornberry, who-who-'

'Now, Overton,' replied the lady, 'I need your help with this, and I have to have it. During the life of that poor old dear, Mr. Cornberry, who—who—'

'Who was to have married you, and didn't, because he died first; and who left you his property unencumbered with the addition of himself,' suggested the mayor.

'Who was supposed to marry you, but didn’t, because he died first; and who left you his property free and clear of any claims on himself,' suggested the mayor.

'Well,' replied Miss Julia, reddening slightly, 'in the lifetime of the poor old dear, the property had the incumbrance of your management; and all I will say of that, is, that I only wonder it didn't die of consumption instead of its master. You helped yourself then:-help me now.'

'Well,' replied Miss Julia, blushing a bit, 'during the poor old dear's lifetime, the property had to deal with your management; and all I’ll say about that is, I’m just surprised it didn't fall apart from neglect instead of its owner. You helped yourself back then—so help me now.'

Mr. Joseph Overton was a man of the world, and an attorney; and as certain indistinct recollections of an odd thousand pounds or two, appropriated by mistake, passed across his mind he hemmed deprecatingly, smiled blandly, remained silent for a few seconds; and finally inquired, 'What do you wish me to do?'

Mr. Joseph Overton was a worldly man and a lawyer. As vague memories of an accidentally misappropriated thousand pounds or so crossed his mind, he cleared his throat awkwardly, smiled softly, stayed quiet for a few seconds, and finally asked, "What do you want me to do?"

'I'll tell you,' replied Miss Julia-'I'll tell you in three words. Dear Lord Peter-'

"I'll tell you," replied Miss Julia, "I'll tell you in three words. Dear Lord Peter-"

'That's the young man, I suppose-' interrupted the mayor.

'That's the young man, I guess-' interrupted the mayor.

'That's the young Nobleman,' replied the lady, with a great stress on the last word. 'Dear Lord Peter is considerably afraid of the resentment of his family; and we have therefore thought it better to make the match a stolen one. He left town, to avoid suspicion, on a visit to his friend, the Honourable Augustus Flair, whose seat, as you know, is about thirty miles from this, accompanied only by his favourite tiger. We arranged that I should come here alone in the London coach; and that he, leaving his tiger and cab behind him, should come on, and arrive here as soon as possible this afternoon.'

'That's the young nobleman,' the lady replied, emphasizing the last word. 'Dear Lord Peter is quite worried about how his family will react, so we thought it would be best to make this a secret engagement. He left town to avoid suspicion, visiting his friend, the Honorable Augustus Flair, whose place is about thirty miles from here, and he took only his favorite servant with him. We planned for me to come here alone on the London coach, while he would leave his servant and cab behind and arrive here as soon as possible this afternoon.'

'Very well,' observed Joseph Overton, 'and then he can order the chaise, and you can go on to Gretna Green together, without requiring the presence or interference of a third party, can't you?'

'Very well,' noted Joseph Overton, 'and then he can get the carriage, and you two can head to Gretna Green together, without needing a third party's presence or involvement, right?'

'No,' replied Miss Julia. 'We have every reason to believe-dear Lord Peter not being considered very prudent or sagacious by his friends, and they having discovered his attachment to me-that, immediately on his absence being observed, pursuit will be made in this direction:-to elude which, and to prevent our being traced, I wish it to be understood in this house, that dear Lord Peter is slightly deranged, though perfectly harmless; and that I am, unknown to him, awaiting his arrival to convey him in a post-chaise to a private asylum-at Berwick, say. If I don't show myself much, I dare say I can manage to pass for his mother.'

'No,' Miss Julia replied. 'We have every reason to believe—since his friends don't see dear Lord Peter as very sensible or wise and they’ve noticed his feelings for me—that as soon as he goes missing, they will start looking for him in this direction. To avoid that and to keep us from being tracked, I want it to be clear in this house that dear Lord Peter is a bit unbalanced, although completely harmless; and that I am, without him knowing, waiting for him to arrive so I can take him in a carriage to a private asylum—maybe in Berwick. If I keep a low profile, I’m sure I can manage to pass for his mother.'

The thought occurred to the mayor's mind that the lady might show herself a good deal without fear of detection; seeing that she was about double the age of her intended husband. He said nothing, however, and the lady proceeded.

The idea crossed the mayor's mind that the woman might be able to appear quite often without worrying about being noticed, considering she was nearly twice the age of her future husband. He didn’t say anything, though, and the woman continued.

'With the whole of this arrangement dear Lord Peter is acquainted; and all I want you to do, is, to make the delusion more complete by giving it the sanction of your influence in this place, and assigning this as a reason to the people of the house for my taking the young gentleman away. As it would not be consistent with the story that I should see him until after he has entered the chaise, I also wish you to communicate with him, and inform him that it is all going on well.'

'Lord Peter knows all about this arrangement, and all I need you to do is to make the deception even more convincing by lending your influence here and using that as the reason for me to take the young man away. Since it wouldn’t fit the story for me to see him until after he gets into the carriage, I also want you to talk to him and let him know that everything is going smoothly.'

'Has he arrived?' inquired Overton.

"Is he here?" asked Overton.

'I don't know,' replied the lady.

'I don't know,' replied the woman.

'Then how am I to know!' inquired the mayor. 'Of course he will not give his own name at the bar.'

'So how am I supposed to know!' asked the mayor. 'Obviously, he isn't going to share his own name at the bar.'

'I begged him, immediately on his arrival, to write you a note,' replied Miss Manners; 'and to prevent the possibility of our project being discovered through its means, I desired him to write anonymously, and in mysterious terms, to acquaint you with the number of his room.'

"I asked him, as soon as he got here, to send you a note," replied Miss Manners. "And to make sure our plan wouldn't be discovered because of it, I told him to write it anonymously and in a cryptic way to let you know his room number."

'Bless me!' exclaimed the mayor, rising from his seat, and searching his pockets-'most extraordinary circumstance-he has arrived-mysterious note left at my house in a most mysterious manner, just before yours-didn't know what to make of it before, and certainly shouldn't have attended to it.-Oh! here it is.' And Joseph Overton pulled out of an inner coat- pocket the identical letter penned by Alexander Trott. 'Is this his lordship's hand?'

"Bless me!" exclaimed the mayor, standing up and searching his pockets. "What an extraordinary situation—he's arrived! A mysterious note was left at my house in a very strange way, just before yours. I didn't know what to make of it before, and I definitely shouldn't have paid it any attention. Oh! Here it is." And Joseph Overton pulled out from an inner coat pocket the exact letter written by Alexander Trott. "Is this his lordship's handwriting?"

'Oh yes,' replied Julia; 'good, punctual creature! I have not seen it more than once or twice, but I know he writes very badly and very large. These dear, wild young noblemen, you know, Overton-'

'Oh yes,' replied Julia; 'good, timely person! I have only seen it once or twice, but I know he writes really poorly and very large. These beloved, wild young nobles, you know, Overton-'

'Ay, ay, I see,' replied the mayor.-'Horses and dogs, play and wine-grooms, actresses, and cigars-the stable, the green-room, the saloon, and the tavern; and the legislative assembly at last.'

'Ay, ay, I get it,' replied the mayor. 'Horses and dogs, games and wine, grooms, actresses, and cigars—the stable, the green room, the bar, and the pub; and finally, the legislative assembly.'

'Here's what he says,' pursued the mayor; '"Sir,-A young gentleman in number nineteen at the Winglebury Arms, is bent on committing a rash act to-morrow morning at an early hour." (That's good-he means marrying.) "If you have any regard for the peace of this town, or the preservation of one-it may be two-human lives"-What the deuce does he mean by that?'

'Here's what he says,' continued the mayor; '"Sir,-A young man in number nineteen at the Winglebury Arms is determined to do something reckless tomorrow morning at an early hour." (That's good—he means getting married.) "If you care about the peace of this town, or the safety of one—it might be two—human lives"—What on earth does he mean by that?'

'That he's so anxious for the ceremony, he will expire if it's put off, and that I may possibly do the same,' replied the lady with great complacency.

'He's so nervous about the ceremony that he'll lose it if it's delayed, and I might end up feeling the same way,' the lady replied with a relaxed smile.

'Oh! I see-not much fear of that;-well-"two human lives, you will cause him to be removed to-night." (He wants to start at once.) "Fear not to do this on your responsibility: for to-morrow the absolute necessity of the proceeding will be but too apparent. Remember: number nineteen. The name is Trott. No delay; for life and death depend upon your promptitude." Passionate language, certainly. Shall I see him?'

'Oh! I see—not much chance of that; well—"You will have him moved tonight, two lives are at stake." (He wants to start right away.) "Don't hesitate to take this on your own authority: by tomorrow, it will be all too clear how urgent this is. Remember: number nineteen. The name is Trott. Don't waste any time; lives depend on your quick action." Passionate words, for sure. Should I see him?'

'Do,' replied Miss Julia; 'and entreat him to act his part well. I am half afraid of him. Tell him to be cautious.'

'Do,' replied Miss Julia; 'and please ask him to do his job right. I'm a little scared of him. Tell him to be careful.'

'I will,' said the mayor.

"I will," said the mayor.

'Settle all the arrangements.'

'Finalize all the arrangements.'

'I will,' said the mayor again.

'I will,' the mayor said again.

'And say I think the chaise had better be ordered for one o'clock.'

'And I think we should order the carriage for one o'clock.'

'Very well,' said the mayor once more; and, ruminating on the absurdity of the situation in which fate and old acquaintance had placed him, he desired a waiter to herald his approach to the temporary representative of number nineteen.

'Alright,' the mayor said again; and, thinking about the ridiculousness of the situation fate and an old acquaintance had put him in, he asked a waiter to announce his arrival to the temporary representative of number nineteen.

The announcement, 'Gentleman to speak with you, sir,' induced Mr. Trott to pause half-way in the glass of port, the contents of which he was in the act of imbibing at the moment; to rise from his chair; and retreat a few paces towards the window, as if to secure a retreat, in the event of the visitor assuming the form and appearance of Horace Hunter. One glance at Joseph Overton, however, quieted his apprehensions. He courteously motioned the stranger to a seat. The waiter, after a little jingling with the decanter and glasses, consented to leave the room; and Joseph Overton, placing the broad-brimmed hat on the chair next him, and bending his body gently forward, opened the business by saying in a very low and cautious tone,

The announcement, "A gentleman wants to speak with you, sir," made Mr. Trott pause halfway through the glass of port he was drinking; he stood up from his chair and stepped back a few paces toward the window, as if preparing to escape in case the visitor turned out to be Horace Hunter. However, one look at Joseph Overton eased his fears. He politely gestured for the stranger to take a seat. The waiter, after tinkering with the decanter and glasses for a moment, agreed to leave the room; and Joseph Overton, placing his broad-brimmed hat on the chair next to him and leaning slightly forward, began the conversation in a very soft and cautious tone,

'My lord-'

'Eh?' said Mr. Alexander Trott, in a loud key, with the vacant and mystified stare of a chilly somnambulist.

'Eh?' said Mr. Alexander Trott, in a loud voice, with the vacant and confused look of a cold sleepwalker.

'Hush-hush!' said the cautious attorney: 'to be sure-quite right-no titles here-my name is Overton, sir.'

'Hush-hush!' said the careful lawyer: 'of course—totally correct—no titles here—my name is Overton, sir.'

'Overton?'

'Yes: the mayor of this place-you sent me a letter with anonymous information, this afternoon.'

'Yes, the mayor of this town—you sent me a letter with anonymous information this afternoon.'

'I, sir?' exclaimed Trott with ill-dissembled surprise; for, coward as he was, he would willingly have repudiated the authorship of the letter in question. 'I, sir?'

'I, sir?' exclaimed Trott, trying to hide his surprise; because, as cowardly as he was, he would have happily denied writing the letter in question. 'I, sir?'

'Yes, you, sir; did you not?' responded Overton, annoyed with what he supposed to be an extreme degree of unnecessary suspicion. 'Either this letter is yours, or it is not. If it be, we can converse securely upon the subject at once. If it be not, of course I have no more to say.'

'Yes, you, sir; did you not?' Overton replied, annoyed by what he thought was an unnecessary level of suspicion. 'Either this letter is yours, or it isn’t. If it is, we can talk about this securely right away. If it’s not, then I have nothing more to say.'

'Stay, stay,' said Trott, 'it is mine; I did write it. What could I do, sir? I had no friend here.'

'Wait, wait,' said Trott, 'it's mine; I wrote it. What else could I do, sir? I had no one to turn to here.'

'To be sure, to be sure,' said the mayor, encouragingly, 'you could not have managed it better. Well, sir; it will be necessary for you to leave here to-night in a post-chaise and four. And the harder the boys drive, the better. You are not safe from pursuit.'

'Absolutely, absolutely,' said the mayor, reassuringly, 'you couldn't have handled it any better. So, you'll need to leave here tonight in a carriage with four horses. And the faster the boys drive, the better. You're not safe from being followed.'

'Bless me!' exclaimed Trott, in an agony of apprehension, 'can such things happen in a country like this? Such unrelenting and cold-blooded hostility!' He wiped off the concentrated essence of cowardice that was oozing fast down his forehead, and looked aghast at Joseph Overton.

'Bless me!' exclaimed Trott, in a burst of fear, 'can things like this really happen in a country like this? Such relentless and cold-blooded hostility!' He wiped off the sheer panic that was quickly trickling down his forehead and stared in shock at Joseph Overton.

'It certainly is a very hard case,' replied the mayor with a smile, 'that, in a free country, people can't marry whom they like, without being hunted down as if they were criminals. However, in the present instance the lady is willing, you know, and that's the main point, after all.'

"It definitely is a tough situation," the mayor said with a smile, "that in a free country, people can't marry who they want without being chased down like criminals. But in this case, the woman is willing, and that’s what really matters."

'Lady willing,' repeated Trott, mechanically. 'How do you know the lady's willing?'

'Lady willing,' Trott repeated absently. 'How do you know the lady's on board?'

'Come, that's a good one,' said the mayor, benevolently tapping Mr. Trott on the arm with his broad-brimmed hat; 'I have known her, well, for a long time; and if anybody could entertain the remotest doubt on the subject, I assure you I have none, nor need you have.'

'Come on, that's a good one,' said the mayor, kindly tapping Mr. Trott on the arm with his wide-brimmed hat. 'I've known her for a long time, and if anyone could have the slightest doubt about it, I can assure you that I don’t, and you shouldn’t either.'

'Dear me!' said Mr. Trott, ruminating. 'This is very extraordinary!'

"Wow!" said Mr. Trott, thinking. "This is really unusual!"

'Well, Lord Peter,' said the mayor, rising.

'Well, Lord Peter,' said the mayor, getting up.

'Lord Peter?' repeated Mr. Trott.

'Lord Peter?' Mr. Trott repeated.

'Oh-ah, I forgot. Mr. Trott, then-Trott-very good, ha! ha!-Well, sir, the chaise shall be ready at half-past twelve.'

'Oh, I forgot. Mr. Trott, then-Trott-very good, ha! ha!-Well, sir, the carriage will be ready at 12:30.'

'And what is to become of me until then?' inquired Mr. Trott, anxiously. 'Wouldn't it save appearances, if I were placed under some restraint?'

'And what will happen to me until then?' Mr. Trott asked anxiously. 'Wouldn't it look better if I were kept under some control?'

'Ah!' replied Overton, 'very good thought-capital idea indeed. I'll send somebody up directly. And if you make a little resistance when we put you in the chaise it wouldn't be amiss-look as if you didn't want to be taken away, you know.'

'Ah!' replied Overton, 'that's a really good idea. I'll send someone up right away. And if you kind of resist when we put you in the carriage, that wouldn't hurt—just act like you don't want to be taken away, you know.'

'To be sure,' said Trott-'to be sure.'

"Definitely," said Trott - "definitely."

'Well, my lord,' said Overton, in a low tone, 'until then, I wish your lordship a good evening.'

'Well, my lord,' Overton said quietly, 'until then, I wish you a good evening.'

'Lord-lordship?' ejaculated Trott again, falling back a step or two, and gazing, in unutterable wonder, on the countenance of the mayor.

'Lord-lordship?' Trott exclaimed again, stepping back a couple of steps and staring in utter amazement at the mayor's face.

'Ha-ha! I see, my lord-practising the madman?-very good indeed-very vacant look-capital, my lord, capital-good evening, Mr.-Trott-ha! ha! ha!'

'Ha-ha! I see, my lord—playing the crazy person?—very good indeed—very blank expression—excellent, my lord, excellent—good evening, Mr.—Trott—ha! ha! ha!'

'That mayor's decidedly drunk,' soliloquised Mr. Trott, throwing himself back in his chair, in an attitude of reflection.

'That mayor's definitely drunk,' Mr. Trott thought to himself, leaning back in his chair, lost in thought.

'He is a much cleverer fellow than I thought him, that young nobleman-he carries it off uncommonly well,' thought Overton, as he went his way to the bar, there to complete his arrangements. This was soon done. Every word of the story was implicitly believed, and the one-eyed boots was immediately instructed to repair to number nineteen, to act as custodian of the person of the supposed lunatic until half-past twelve o'clock. In pursuance of this direction, that somewhat eccentric gentleman armed himself with a walking-stick of gigantic dimensions, and repaired, with his usual equanimity of manner, to Mr. Trott's apartment, which he entered without any ceremony, and mounted guard in, by quietly depositing himself on a chair near the door, where he proceeded to beguile the time by whistling a popular air with great apparent satisfaction.

'He’s a lot smarter than I thought he was, that young nobleman—he pulls it off incredibly well,' Overton thought as he headed to the bar to finalize his plans. This was quickly sorted out. Every detail of the story was completely accepted, and the one-eyed boots was immediately instructed to go to number nineteen to keep an eye on the supposed lunatic until half-past twelve. Following this instruction, the somewhat eccentric gentleman grabbed a huge walking stick and calmly made his way to Mr. Trott's room, where he entered without any fuss and took up his position by quietly sitting on a chair near the door, whistling a popular tune with great enjoyment to pass the time.

'What do you want here, you scoundrel?' exclaimed Mr. Alexander Trott, with a proper appearance of indignation at his detention.

'What do you want here, you scoundrel?' shouted Mr. Alexander Trott, feigning indignation at being held up.

The boots beat time with his head, as he looked gently round at Mr. Trott with a smile of pity, and whistled an adagio movement.

The boots kept rhythm with his head as he gently turned to Mr. Trott with a sympathetic smile and whistled a slow tune.

'Do you attend in this room by Mr. Overton's desire?' inquired Trott, rather astonished at the man's demeanour.

"Are you here in this room because Mr. Overton wanted you to be?" Trott asked, somewhat surprised by the man's behavior.

'Keep yourself to yourself, young feller,' calmly responded the boots, 'and don't say nothing to nobody.' And he whistled again.

'Mind your own business, kid,' the boots said calmly, 'and don't talk to anyone.' Then he whistled again.

'Now mind!' ejaculated Mr. Trott, anxious to keep up the farce of wishing with great earnestness to fight a duel if they'd let him. 'I protest against being kept here. I deny that I have any intention of fighting with anybody. But as it's useless contending with superior numbers, I shall sit quietly down.'

'Now listen!' shouted Mr. Trott, eager to maintain the joke of genuinely wanting to duel if he were allowed. 'I refuse to be held here. I deny that I want to fight anyone. But since it's pointless to argue against more people, I’ll just sit down quietly.'

'You'd better,' observed the placid boots, shaking the large stick expressively.

'You'd better,' said the calm boots, shaking the big stick dramatically.

'Under protest, however,' added Alexander Trott, seating himself with indignation in his face, but great content in his heart. 'Under protest.'

'But I have to say,' added Alexander Trott, sitting down with anger showing on his face, but a lot of pleasure in his heart. 'But I have to say.'

'Oh, certainly!' responded the boots; 'anything you please. If you're happy, I'm transported; only don't talk too much-it'll make you worse.'

"Oh, absolutely!" replied the boots. "Whatever you want. If you're happy, I'm over the moon; just don't talk too much—it'll make you feel worse."

'Make me worse?' exclaimed Trott, in unfeigned astonishment: 'the man's drunk!'

"Make me worse?" Trott exclaimed, genuinely shocked. "The guy's drunk!"

'You'd better be quiet, young feller,' remarked the boots, going through a threatening piece of pantomime with the stick.

'You'd better be quiet, kid,' the boots said, making a threatening gesture with the stick.

'Or mad!' said Mr. Trott, rather alarmed. 'Leave the room, sir, and tell them to send somebody else.'

'Or mad!' said Mr. Trott, feeling quite uneasy. 'Get out of the room, sir, and ask them to send someone else.'

'Won't do!' replied the boots.

'No way!' replied the boots.

'Leave the room!' shouted Trott, ringing the bell violently: for he began to be alarmed on a new score.

"Get out of the room!" shouted Trott, ringing the bell aggressively, as he started to feel worried for a different reason.

'Leave that 'ere bell alone, you wretched loo-nattic!' said the boots, suddenly forcing the unfortunate Trott back into his chair, and brandishing the stick aloft. 'Be quiet, you miserable object, and don't let everybody know there's a madman in the house.'

'Leave that bell alone, you crazy lunatic!' said the boots, suddenly forcing the unfortunate Trott back into his chair and waving the stick in the air. 'Be quiet, you miserable thing, and don't let everyone know there's a madman in the house.'

'He is a madman! He is a madman!' exclaimed the terrified Mr. Trott, gazing on the one eye of the red-headed boots with a look of abject horror.

'He's a madman! He's a madman!' shouted the terrified Mr. Trott, staring at the one eye of the red-headed boots with a look of sheer horror.

'Madman!' replied the boots, 'dam'me, I think he is a madman with a vengeance! Listen to me, you unfortunate. Ah! would you?' [a slight tap on the head with the large stick, as Mr. Trott made another move towards the bell-handle] 'I caught you there! did I?'

'Crazy person!' replied the boots, 'damn it, I really think he’s a crazy person for sure! Listen to me, you poor guy. Ah! Would you?' [a light tap on the head with the big stick, as Mr. Trott made another move towards the bell-handle] 'Gotcha there! Didn’t I?'

'Spare my life!' exclaimed Trott, raising his hands imploringly.

"Spare my life!" Trott shouted, raising his hands in desperation.

'I don't want your life,' replied the boots, disdainfully, 'though I think it 'ud be a charity if somebody took it.'

'I don't want your life,' the boots replied with contempt, 'though I think it would be a kindness if someone took it.'

'No, no, it wouldn't,' interrupted poor Mr. Trott, hurriedly, 'no, no, it wouldn't! I-I-'d rather keep it!'

'No, no, it wouldn't,' interrupted poor Mr. Trott quickly, 'no, no, it wouldn't! I-I-'d rather keep it!'

'O werry well,' said the boots: 'that's a mere matter of taste-ev'ry one to his liking. Hows'ever, all I've got to say is this here: You sit quietly down in that chair, and I'll sit hoppersite you here, and if you keep quiet and don't stir, I won't damage you; but, if you move hand or foot till half-past twelve o'clock, I shall alter the expression of your countenance so completely, that the next time you look in the glass you'll ask vether you're gone out of town, and ven you're likely to come back again. So sit down.'

"Oh, very well," said the boots. "That's just a matter of taste—everyone has their own preference. However, all I have to say is this: You sit quietly in that chair, and I'll sit across from you here, and if you stay still and don’t move, I won’t hurt you; but if you move a hand or a foot before half-past twelve, I will change your face so completely that the next time you look in the mirror, you’ll wonder if you’ve gone out of town and when you might come back again. So sit down."

'I will-I will,' responded the victim of mistakes; and down sat Mr. Trott and down sat the boots too, exactly opposite him, with the stick ready for immediate action in case of emergency.

'I will—I will,' said the person who had made mistakes; and down sat Mr. Trott, and down sat the boots too, directly across from him, with the stick prepared for immediate use if needed.

Long and dreary were the hours that followed. The bell of Great Winglebury church had just struck ten, and two hours and a half would probably elapse before succour arrived.

The hours that followed were long and dull. The bell of Great Winglebury church had just struck ten, and it would probably be two and a half hours before help arrived.

For half an hour, the noise occasioned by shutting up the shops in the street beneath, betokened something like life in the town, and rendered Mr. Trott's situation a little less insupportable; but, when even these ceased, and nothing was heard beyond the occasional rattling of a post- chaise as it drove up the yard to change horses, and then drove away again, or the clattering of horses' hoofs in the stables behind, it became almost unbearable. The boots occasionally moved an inch or two, to knock superfluous bits of wax off the candles, which were burning low, but instantaneously resumed his former position; and as he remembered to have heard, somewhere or other, that the human eye had an unfailing effect in controlling mad people, he kept his solitary organ of vision constantly fixed on Mr. Alexander Trott. That unfortunate individual stared at his companion in his turn, until his features grew more and more indistinct-his hair gradually less red-and the room more misty and obscure. Mr. Alexander Trott fell into a sound sleep, from which he was awakened by a rumbling in the street, and a cry of 'Chaise- and-four for number twenty-five!' A bustle on the stairs succeeded; the room door was hastily thrown open; and Mr. Joseph Overton entered, followed by four stout waiters, and Mrs. Williamson, the stout landlady of the Winglebury Arms.

For half an hour, the noise from closing up the shops in the street below brought some semblance of life to the town and made Mr. Trott's situation a little less unbearable. But when that noise stopped, and all that could be heard was the occasional clatter of a post-chaise as it drove in to change horses and then drove away again, or the sound of horses' hooves in the stables behind, it became almost intolerable. The boots moved a bit now and then to knock off excess wax from the candles that were burning low but quickly returned to their previous position. Remembering that he had heard somewhere that making eye contact had a calming effect on crazy people, he kept his gaze fixed on Mr. Alexander Trott. That unfortunate man stared back at his companion until his features became more and more blurry—his hair appearing less red—and the room growing foggier. Mr. Alexander Trott fell into a deep sleep, from which he was awakened by a rumbling in the street and a shout of 'Chaise-and-four for number twenty-five!' A commotion on the stairs followed; the room door was suddenly flung open, and Mr. Joseph Overton walked in, followed by four hefty waiters and Mrs. Williamson, the robust landlady of the Winglebury Arms.

'Mr. Overton!' exclaimed Mr. Alexander Trott, jumping up in a frenzy. 'Look at this man, sir; consider the situation in which I have been placed for three hours past-the person you sent to guard me, sir, was a madman-a madman-a raging, ravaging, furious madman.'

'Mr. Overton!' shouted Mr. Alexander Trott, jumping up in a fit. 'Look at this guy, sir; think about the situation I've been in for the last three hours—the person you sent to watch over me, sir, was a madman—a madman—a raging, destructive, furious madman.'

'Bravo!' whispered Mr. Overton.

'Awesome!' whispered Mr. Overton.

'Poor dear!' said the compassionate Mrs. Williamson, 'mad people always thinks other people's mad.'

'Poor thing!' said the caring Mrs. Williamson, 'crazy people always think everyone else is crazy.'

'Poor dear!' ejaculated Mr. Alexander Trott. 'What the devil do you mean by poor dear! Are you the landlady of this house?'

'Poor thing!' exclaimed Mr. Alexander Trott. 'What on earth do you mean by poor thing! Are you the landlady of this place?'

'Yes, yes,' replied the stout old lady, 'don't exert yourself, there's a dear! Consider your health, now; do.'

'Yes, yes,' replied the plump old lady, 'don’t push yourself, sweetheart! Think about your health, okay?'

'Exert myself!' shouted Mr. Alexander Trott; 'it's a mercy, ma'am, that I have any breath to exert myself with! I might have been assassinated three hours ago by that one-eyed monster with the oakum head. How dare you have a madman, ma'am-how dare you have a madman, to assault and terrify the visitors to your house?'

'Exert myself!' shouted Mr. Alexander Trott; 'it’s a miracle, ma'am, that I have any breath left to exert myself with! I could have been attacked three hours ago by that one-eyed monster with the messy hair. How dare you have a madman, ma'am—how dare you allow a madman to assault and scare the visitors to your home?'

'I'll never have another,' said Mrs. Williamson, casting a look of reproach at the mayor.

"I'll never have another," said Mrs. Williamson, giving the mayor a disapproving glance.

'Capital, capital,' whispered Overton again, as he enveloped Mr. Alexander Trott in a thick travelling-cloak.

'Money, money,' whispered Overton again, as he wrapped Mr. Alexander Trott in a heavy travel cloak.

'Capital, sir!' exclaimed Trott, aloud; 'it's horrible. The very recollection makes me shudder. I'd rather fight four duels in three hours, if I survived the first three, than I'd sit for that time face to face with a madman.'

'Money, sir!' exclaimed Trott, out loud; 'it's awful. Just the thought makes me shudder. I'd rather fight four duels in three hours, if I made it through the first three, than sit for that long face to face with a crazy person.'

'Keep it up, my lord, as you go down-stairs,' whispered Overton, 'your bill is paid, and your portmanteau in the chaise.' And then he added aloud, 'Now, waiters, the gentleman's ready.'

'Keep it up, my lord, as you head downstairs,' whispered Overton, 'your bill is settled, and your suitcase is in the carriage.' Then he called out, 'Now, waiters, the gentleman is ready.'

At this signal, the waiters crowded round Mr. Alexander Trott. One took one arm; another, the other; a third, walked before with a candle; the fourth, behind with another candle; the boots and Mrs. Williamson brought up the rear; and down-stairs they went: Mr. Alexander Trott expressing alternately at the very top of his voice either his feigned reluctance to go, or his unfeigned indignation at being shut up with a madman.

At this signal, the waiters gathered around Mr. Alexander Trott. One took one arm; another took the other; a third walked ahead with a candle; the fourth followed behind with another candle; the boots and Mrs. Williamson brought up the rear; and they went downstairs: Mr. Alexander Trott alternately shouting at the top of his lungs either his fake reluctance to leave or his genuine anger at being stuck with a crazy person.

Mr. Overton was waiting at the chaise-door, the boys were ready mounted, and a few ostlers and stable nondescripts were standing round to witness the departure of 'the mad gentleman.' Mr. Alexander Trott's foot was on the step, when he observed (which the dim light had prevented his doing before) a figure seated in the chaise, closely muffled up in a cloak like his own.

Mr. Overton was waiting by the carriage door, the boys were already on their horses, and a few stablehands and random bystanders were gathered to see 'the mad gentleman' off. Mr. Alexander Trott had his foot on the step when he noticed (which the low light had kept him from seeing earlier) a figure sitting inside the carriage, wrapped up in a cloak just like his own.

'Who's that?' he inquired of Overton, in a whisper.

"Who's that?" he asked Overton quietly.

'Hush, hush,' replied the mayor: 'the other party of course.'

'Hush, hush,' replied the mayor, 'the other side, of course.'

'The other party!' exclaimed Trott, with an effort to retreat.

'The other party!' Trott exclaimed, trying to back away.

'Yes, yes; you'll soon find that out, before you go far, I should think-but make a noise, you'll excite suspicion if you whisper to me so much.'

'Yeah, yeah; you’ll realize that soon enough, I believe—but if you make a sound, you’ll raise suspicion if you keep whispering to me like that.'

'I won't go in this chaise!' shouted Mr. Alexander Trott, all his original fears recurring with tenfold violence. 'I shall be assassinated-I shall be-'

'I’m not getting in this carriage!' shouted Mr. Alexander Trott, all his original fears coming back with even more intensity. 'I’m going to be assassinated—I’m going to be—'

'Bravo, bravo,' whispered Overton. 'I'll push you in.'

'Great job, great job,' whispered Overton. 'I'll shove you in.'

'But I won't go,' exclaimed Mr. Trott. 'Help here, help! They're carrying me away against my will. This is a plot to murder me.'

'But I'm not going,' shouted Mr. Trott. 'Help! Help! They're taking me away against my will. This is a plot to kill me.'

'Poor dear!' said Mrs. Williamson again.

'Poor thing!' Mrs. Williamson said again.

'Now, boys, put 'em along,' cried the mayor, pushing Trott in and slamming the door. 'Off with you, as quick as you can, and stop for nothing till you come to the next stage-all right!'

'Now, boys, get going,' shouted the mayor, pushing Trott inside and slamming the door. 'Leave as fast as you can, and don’t stop for anything until you reach the next stage—got it!'

'Horses are paid, Tom,' screamed Mrs. Williamson; and away went the chaise, at the rate of fourteen miles an hour, with Mr. Alexander Trott and Miss Julia Manners carefully shut up in the inside.

'Horses are paid, Tom,' shouted Mrs. Williamson; and off sped the carriage, at a speed of fourteen miles an hour, with Mr. Alexander Trott and Miss Julia Manners safely enclosed inside.

Mr. Alexander Trott remained coiled up in one corner of the chaise, and his mysterious companion in the other, for the first two or three miles; Mr. Trott edging more and more into his corner, as he felt his companion gradually edging more and more from hers; and vainly endeavouring in the darkness to catch a glimpse of the furious face of the supposed Horace Hunter.

Mr. Alexander Trott stayed curled up in one corner of the couch, while his mysterious companion occupied the other side for the first two or three miles. Mr. Trott inched further into his corner as he sensed his companion slowly moving away from hers, desperately trying in the darkness to catch a glimpse of the angry face of the suspected Horace Hunter.

'We may speak now,' said his fellow-traveller, at length; 'the post-boys can neither see nor hear us.'

'We can talk now,' said his travel companion after a while; 'the post-boys can't see or hear us.'

'That's not Hunter's voice!'-thought Alexander, astonished.

"That's not Hunter's voice!" Alexander thought, astonished.

'Dear Lord Peter!' said Miss Julia, most winningly: putting her arm on Mr. Trott's shoulder. 'Dear Lord Peter. Not a word?'

'Dear Lord Peter!' said Miss Julia, sweetly, putting her arm on Mr. Trott's shoulder. 'Dear Lord Peter. Not a word?'

'Why, it's a woman!' exclaimed Mr. Trott, in a low tone of excessive wonder.

"Wow, it’s a woman!" Mr. Trott exclaimed quietly, his tone filled with amazement.

'Ah! Whose voice is that?' said Julia; ''tis not Lord Peter's.'

'Ah! Whose voice is that?' Julia said. 'It’s not Lord Peter's.'

'No,-it's mine,' replied Mr. Trott.

'No, it's mine,' replied Mr. Trott.

'Yours!' ejaculated Miss Julia Manners; 'a strange man! Gracious heaven! How came you here!'

"Yours!" exclaimed Miss Julia Manners. "A strange man! Goodness! How did you get here!"

'Whoever you are, you might have known that I came against my will, ma'am,' replied Alexander, 'for I made noise enough when I got in.'

'Whoever you are, you might have known that I came here against my will, ma'am,' Alexander replied, 'because I made plenty of noise when I arrived.'

'Do you come from Lord Peter?' inquired Miss Manners.

'Are you from Lord Peter?' asked Miss Manners.

'Confound Lord Peter,' replied Trott pettishly. 'I don't know any Lord Peter. I never heard of him before to-night, when I've been Lord Peter'd by one and Lord Peter'd by another, till I verily believe I'm mad, or dreaming-'

'Curse Lord Peter,' Trott replied irritably. 'I don't know any Lord Peter. I never heard of him until tonight, when I've been called Lord Peter by one person and then another, until I honestly think I'm going mad or dreaming—'

'Whither are we going?' inquired the lady tragically.

'Where are we going?' the lady asked dramatically.

'How should I know, ma'am?' replied Trott with singular coolness; for the events of the evening had completely hardened him.

'How should I know, ma'am?' Trott replied calmly, as the events of the evening had completely toughened him up.

'Stop stop!' cried the lady, letting down the front glasses of the chaise.

'Stop stop!' shouted the lady, lowering the front windows of the carriage.

'Stay, my dear ma'am!' said Mr. Trott, pulling the glasses up again with one hand, and gently squeezing Miss Julia's waist with the other. 'There is some mistake here; give me till the end of this stage to explain my share of it. We must go so far; you cannot be set down here alone, at this hour of the night.'

'Wait, my dear!' said Mr. Trott, adjusting his glasses with one hand and gently wrapping his other arm around Miss Julia's waist. 'There's been a mistake; let me explain my side of it by the end of this stage. We can't leave just yet; you can't be dropped off here alone at this time of night.'

The lady consented; the mistake was mutually explained. Mr. Trott was a young man, had highly promising whiskers, an undeniable tailor, and an insinuating address-he wanted nothing but valour, and who wants that with three thousand a-year? The lady had this, and more; she wanted a young husband, and the only course open to Mr. Trott to retrieve his disgrace was a rich wife. So, they came to the conclusion that it would be a pity to have all this trouble and expense for nothing; and that as they were so far on the road already, they had better go to Gretna Green, and marry each other; and they did so. And the very next preceding entry in the Blacksmith's book, was an entry of the marriage of Emily Brown with Horace Hunter. Mr. Hunter took his wife home, and begged pardon, and was pardoned; and Mr. Trott took his wife home, begged pardon too, and was pardoned also. And Lord Peter, who had been detained beyond his time by drinking champagne and riding a steeple- chase, went back to the Honourable Augustus Flair's, and drank more champagne, and rode another steeple-chase, and was thrown and killed. And Horace Hunter took great credit to himself for practising on the cowardice of Alexander Trott; and all these circumstances were discovered in time, and carefully noted down; and if you ever stop a week at the Winglebury Arms, they will give you just this account of The Great Winglebury Duel.

The lady agreed; they both cleared up the misunderstanding. Mr. Trott was a young man with promising facial hair, a skilled tailor, and a smooth manner—he lacked only courage, but who needs that with an income of three thousand a year? The lady had this and more; she was looking for a young husband, and the only way for Mr. Trott to redeem himself was to find a wealthy wife. So they decided it would be a shame to go through all this trouble and expense for nothing, and since they were already on the way, they might as well head to Gretna Green and marry each other; and they did. The very next entry in the Blacksmith's book was the marriage of Emily Brown to Horace Hunter. Mr. Hunter took his wife home, asked for forgiveness, and was forgiven; Mr. Trott did the same with his wife and was also forgiven. Meanwhile, Lord Peter had stayed longer than he intended because he was drinking champagne and participating in a steeplechase; he returned to the Honourable Augustus Flair's, had more champagne, rode in another steeplechase, and ended up thrown and killed. Horace Hunter took pride in manipulating the cowardice of Alexander Trott; all these events were documented over time. If you ever spend a week at the Winglebury Arms, they will tell you this exact story about The Great Winglebury Duel.

CHAPTER IX-MRS. JOSEPH PORTER

Most extensive were the preparations at Rose Villa, Clapham Rise, in the occupation of Mr. Gattleton (a stock-broker in especially comfortable circumstances), and great was the anxiety of Mr. Gattleton's interesting family, as the day fixed for the representation of the Private Play which had been 'many months in preparation,' approached. The whole family was infected with the mania for Private Theatricals; the house, usually so clean and tidy, was, to use Mr. Gattleton's expressive description, 'regularly turned out o' windows;' the large dining-room, dismantled of its furniture, and ornaments, presented a strange jumble of flats, flies, wings, lamps, bridges, clouds, thunder and lightning, festoons and flowers, daggers and foil, and various other messes in theatrical slang included under the comprehensive name of 'properties.' The bedrooms were crowded with scenery, the kitchen was occupied by carpenters. Rehearsals took place every other night in the drawing- room, and every sofa in the house was more or less damaged by the perseverance and spirit with which Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, and Miss Lucina, rehearsed the smothering scene in 'Othello'-it having been determined that that tragedy should form the first portion of the evening's entertainments.

The preparations at Rose Villa in Clapham Rise, home to Mr. Gattleton (a well-off stockbroker), were extensive, and the anxiety of Mr. Gattleton’s lively family grew as the day for their Private Play, which had been in the works for months, approached. The whole family had caught the Private Theatricals bug; the house, usually neat and tidy, was, in Mr. Gattleton’s colorful words, “thrown upside down.” The large dining room, stripped of its furniture and decor, looked like a chaotic mix of flats, lights, wings, lamps, bridges, clouds, thunder and lightning, garlands and blooms, daggers and swords, and various other bits and pieces known in theater lingo as “properties.” The bedrooms were stuffed with scenery, and carpenters took over the kitchen. Rehearsals happened every other night in the drawing room, and every sofa in the house was somewhat damaged due to the dedication and energy of Mr. Sempronius Gattleton and Miss Lucina as they practiced the smothering scene in “Othello,” since it was decided that this tragedy would be the first part of the evening’s entertainment.

'When we're a leetle more perfect, I think it will go admirably,' said Mr. Sempronius, addressing his corps dramatique, at the conclusion of the hundred and fiftieth rehearsal. In consideration of his sustaining the trifling inconvenience of bearing all the expenses of the play, Mr. Sempronius had been, in the most handsome manner, unanimously elected stage-manager. 'Evans,' continued Mr. Gattleton, the younger, addressing a tall, thin, pale young gentleman, with extensive whiskers-'Evans, you play Roderigo beautifully.'

'When we're a little more perfect, I think it will go great,' said Mr. Sempronius, speaking to his drama team at the end of the one hundred and fiftieth rehearsal. Considering that he was covering all the costs of the play, Mr. Sempronius had been very generously elected stage manager by unanimous vote. 'Evans,' continued Mr. Gattleton, the younger, addressing a tall, thin, pale young man with big sideburns, 'Evans, you play Roderigo wonderfully.'

'Beautifully,' echoed the three Miss Gattletons; for Mr. Evans was pronounced by all his lady friends to be 'quite a dear.' He looked so interesting, and had such lovely whiskers: to say nothing of his talent for writing verses in albums and playing the flute! Roderigo simpered and bowed.

'Beautifully,' echoed the three Miss Gattletons; for Mr. Evans was pronounced by all his lady friends to be 'such a sweetheart.' He looked so interesting and had such nice whiskers: not to mention his talent for writing poetry in albums and playing the flute! Roderigo smiled and bowed.

'But I think,' added the manager, 'you are hardly perfect in the-fall-in the fencing-scene, where you are-you understand?'

'But I think,' added the manager, 'you aren't quite perfect in the fencing scene, where you are—you understand?'

'It's very difficult,' said Mr. Evans, thoughtfully; 'I've fallen about, a good deal, in our counting-house lately, for practice, only I find it hurts one so. Being obliged to fall backward you see, it bruises one's head a good deal.'

'It’s really tough,' Mr. Evans said thoughtfully. 'I’ve been practicing by falling around in our office quite a bit lately, but I find it really hurts. Having to fall backward, you know, it bruises your head quite a lot.'

'But you must take care you don't knock a wing down,' said Mr. Gattleton, the elder, who had been appointed prompter, and who took as much interest in the play as the youngest of the company. 'The stage is very narrow, you know.'

'But you need to be careful not to knock a wing down,' said Mr. Gattleton, the elder, who had been made the prompter and was just as interested in the play as the youngest member of the group. 'The stage is really narrow, you know.'

'Oh! don't be afraid,' said Mr. Evans, with a very self-satisfied air; 'I shall fall with my head "off," and then I can't do any harm.'

'Oh! don't worry,' said Mr. Evans, with a very pleased expression; 'I'll just fall with my head "off," and then I won't be able to do any harm.'

'But, egad,' said the manager, rubbing his hands, 'we shall make a decided hit in "Masaniello." Harleigh sings that music admirably.'

'But, wow,' said the manager, rubbing his hands, 'we're definitely going to make a big impression with "Masaniello." Harleigh sings that music amazingly.'

Everybody echoed the sentiment. Mr. Harleigh smiled, and looked foolish-not an unusual thing with him-hummed' Behold how brightly breaks the morning,' and blushed as red as the fisherman's nightcap he was trying on.

Everybody agreed with the sentiment. Mr. Harleigh smiled and looked silly—not that this was unusual for him—hummed, "Behold how brightly breaks the morning," and blushed as red as the fisherman’s nightcap he was trying on.

'Let's see,' resumed the manager, telling the number on his fingers, 'we shall have three dancing female peasants, besides Fenella, and four fishermen. Then, there's our man Tom; he can have a pair of ducks of mine, and a check shirt of Bob's, and a red nightcap, and he'll do for another-that's five. In the choruses, of course, we can sing at the sides; and in the market-scene we can walk about in cloaks and things. When the revolt takes place, Tom must keep rushing in on one side and out on the other, with a pickaxe, as fast as he can. The effect will be electrical; it will look exactly as if there were an immense number of 'em. And in the eruption-scene we must burn the red fire, and upset the tea-trays, and make all sorts of noises-and it's sure to do.'

"Let's see," the manager continued, counting on his fingers, "we'll have three dancing female peasants, plus Fenella, and four fishermen. Then there's Tom; he can use a pair of my ducks, borrow Bob's check shirt, and wear a red nightcap, and that'll make five. In the choruses, we can sing from the sides; and during the market scene, we can walk around in cloaks and stuff. When the revolt happens, Tom needs to keep rushing in from one side and out the other with a pickaxe, as fast as possible. It will create an amazing effect; it'll look like there's an enormous crowd. And in the eruption scene, we need to set off the red fire, knock over the tea trays, and make all kinds of noise—and it's bound to work."

'Sure! sure!' cried all the performers unAc voce-and away hurried Mr. Sempronius Gattleton to wash the burnt cork off his face, and superintend the 'setting up' of some of the amateur-painted, but never- sufficiently-to-be-admired, scenery.

'Sure! Sure!' cried all the performers in unison, and off rushed Mr. Sempronius Gattleton to wash the burnt cork off his face and oversee the 'setting up' of some of the amateur-painted, but never sufficiently admired, scenery.

Mrs. Gattleton was a kind, good-tempered, vulgar soul, exceedingly fond of her husband and children, and entertaining only three dislikes. In the first place, she had a natural antipathy to anybody else's unmarried daughters; in the second, she was in bodily fear of anything in the shape of ridicule; lastly-almost a necessary consequence of this feeling-she regarded, with feelings of the utmost horror, one Mrs. Joseph Porter over the way. However, the good folks of Clapham and its vicinity stood very much in awe of scandal and sarcasm; and thus Mrs. Joseph Porter was courted, and flattered, and caressed, and invited, for much the same reason that induces a poor author, without a farthing in his pocket, to behave with extraordinary civility to a twopenny postman.

Mrs. Gattleton was a kind-hearted, easygoing, and rather unrefined person who loved her husband and children deeply, but had only three dislikes. First, she instinctively disliked anyone else's unmarried daughters; second, she was genuinely afraid of being ridiculed; and lastly—almost a direct result of this feeling—she looked upon one Mrs. Joseph Porter across the street with utter horror. However, the good people of Clapham and the surrounding area were quite wary of gossip and sarcasm; therefore, Mrs. Joseph Porter was courted, flattered, pampered, and invited out of the same need that drives a struggling writer, broke and desperate, to treat a two-penny postman with extra politeness.

'Never mind, ma,' said Miss Emma Porter, in colloquy with her respected relative, and trying to look unconcerned; 'if they had invited me, you know that neither you nor pa would have allowed me to take part in such an exhibition.'

'Never mind, Mom,' said Miss Emma Porter, talking to her respected relative and trying to look casual; 'if they had invited me, you know that neither you nor Dad would have let me participate in such an event.'

'Just what I should have thought from your high sense of propriety,' returned the mother. 'I am glad to see, Emma, you know how to designate the proceeding.' Miss P., by-the-bye, had only the week before made 'an exhibition' of herself for four days, behind a counter at a fancy fair, to all and every of her Majesty's liege subjects who were disposed to pay a shilling each for the privilege of seeing some four dozen girls flirting with strangers, and playing at shop.

'Just what I expected from your strong sense of propriety,' replied the mother. 'I'm glad to see, Emma, you know how to call it.' By the way, Miss P. had only the week before put on 'a show' for four days, behind a counter at a fancy fair, for all of Her Majesty's loyal subjects willing to pay a shilling each for the chance to watch about four dozen girls flirting with strangers and playing at being shopkeepers.

'There!' said Mrs. Porter, looking out of window; 'there are two rounds of beef and a ham going in-clearly for sandwiches; and Thomas, the pastry-cook, says, there have been twelve dozen tarts ordered, besides blancmange and jellies. Upon my word! think of the Miss Gattletons in fancy dresses, too!'

'Look!' said Mrs. Porter, gazing out the window. 'There are two slabs of beef and a ham going in—definitely for sandwiches; and Thomas, the pastry chef, says twelve dozen tarts have been ordered, along with blancmange and jellies. Honestly! Just imagine the Miss Gattletons in their fancy dresses, too!'

'Oh, it's too ridiculous!' said Miss Porter, hysterically.

'Oh, this is just too ridiculous!' said Miss Porter, panicking.

'I'll manage to put them a little out of conceit with the business, however,' said Mrs. Porter; and out she went on her charitable errand.

"I'll find a way to humble them a bit about the situation, though," said Mrs. Porter; and she went out on her charitable mission.

'Well, my dear Mrs. Gattleton,' said Mrs. Joseph Porter, after they had been closeted for some time, and when, by dint of indefatigable pumping, she had managed to extract all the news about the play, 'well, my dear, people may say what they please; indeed we know they will, for some folks are so ill-natured. Ah, my dear Miss Lucina, how d'ye do? I was just telling your mamma that I have heard it said, that-'

'Well, my dear Mrs. Gattleton,' said Mrs. Joseph Porter after they had been chatting for a while, and after she had managed to get all the news about the play thanks to her relentless questioning, 'well, my dear, people can say whatever they want; we know they will, because some people are just so unpleasant. Ah, my dear Miss Lucina, how are you? I was just telling your mom that I've heard it said that-'

'What?'

'Mrs. Porter is alluding to the play, my dear,' said Mrs. Gattleton; 'she was, I am sorry to say, just informing me that-'

'Mrs. Porter is referring to the play, my dear,' said Mrs. Gattleton; 'she was, I’m sorry to say, just telling me that-'

'Oh, now pray don't mention it,' interrupted Mrs. Porter; 'it's most absurd-quite as absurd as young What's-his-name saying he wondered how Miss Caroline, with such a foot and ankle, could have the vanity to play Fenella.'

'Oh, please don’t mention it,' interrupted Mrs. Porter; 'it’s completely ridiculous—just as ridiculous as that guy saying he wondered how Miss Caroline, with feet and ankles like that, could be vain enough to play Fenella.'

'Highly impertinent, whoever said it,' said Mrs. Gattleton, bridling up.

'That's really rude, whoever said that,' said Mrs. Gattleton, getting upset.

'Certainly, my dear,' chimed in the delighted Mrs. Porter; 'most undoubtedly! Because, as I said, if Miss Caroline does play Fenella, it doesn't follow, as a matter of course, that she should think she has a pretty foot;-and then-such puppies as these young men are-he had the impudence to say, that-'

'Absolutely, my dear,' chimed in the thrilled Mrs. Porter; 'most definitely! Because, as I mentioned, if Miss Caroline is playing Fenella, it doesn't mean that she automatically thinks she has a pretty foot; - and then - what a bunch of fools these young men are - he had the nerve to say that -'

How far the amiable Mrs. Porter might have succeeded in her pleasant purpose, it is impossible to say, had not the entrance of Mr. Thomas Balderstone, Mrs. Gattleton's brother, familiarly called in the family 'Uncle Tom,' changed the course of conversation, and suggested to her mind an excellent plan of operation on the evening of the play.

How successful the friendly Mrs. Porter might have been in her nice intentions is hard to say, but the arrival of Mr. Thomas Balderstone, Mrs. Gattleton's brother, known in the family as 'Uncle Tom,' changed the topic of conversation and sparked a great idea for her to carry out on the night of the play.

Uncle Tom was very rich, and exceedingly fond of his nephews and nieces: as a matter of course, therefore, he was an object of great importance in his own family. He was one of the best-hearted men in existence: always in a good temper, and always talking. It was his boast that he wore top-boots on all occasions, and had never worn a black silk neckerchief; and it was his pride that he remembered all the principal plays of Shakspeare from beginning to end-and so he did. The result of this parrot-like accomplishment was, that he was not only perpetually quoting himself, but that he could never sit by, and hear a misquotation from the 'Swan of Avon' without setting the unfortunate delinquent right. He was also something of a wag; never missed an opportunity of saying what he considered a good thing, and invariably laughed until he cried at anything that appeared to him mirth-moving or ridiculous.

Uncle Tom was very wealthy and extremely fond of his nephews and nieces; naturally, this made him a significant figure in his family. He was one of the kindest men around: always in a good mood and always talking. He proudly claimed that he wore top boots at all times and had never worn a black silk neckerchief; and he took pride in the fact that he remembered all the main plays by Shakespeare from start to finish—and he truly did. Because of this parrot-like talent, he was always quoting himself, and he couldn't help but correct anyone who misquoted the 'Swan of Avon.' He also had a playful side; he never missed a chance to share what he thought was clever, and he would laugh until he cried at anything he found funny or absurd.

'Well, girls!' said Uncle Tom, after the preparatory ceremony of kissing and how-d'ye-do-ing had been gone through-'how d'ye get on? Know your parts, eh?-Lucina, my dear, act II., scene I-place, left-cue-"Unknown fate,"-What's next, eh?-Go on-"The Heavens-"'

'Well, girls!' said Uncle Tom, after the usual ritual of greetings and kisses had taken place—'how are you doing? Do you know your lines? Lucina, my dear, act II, scene I—position, left—cue—"Unknown fate,"—What’s next?—Go on—"The Heavens—"'

'Oh, yes,' said Miss Lucina, 'I recollect-

'Oh, yes,' said Miss Lucina, 'I remember-

"The heavens forbid But that our loves and comforts should increase Even as our days do grow!"'

"The heavens forbid that our love and happiness shouldn’t grow just like our days do!"

'Make a pause here and there,' said the old gentleman, who was a great critic. '"But that our loves and comforts should increase"-emphasis on the last syllable, "crease,"-loud "even,"-one, two, three, four; then loud again, "as our days do grow;" emphasis on days. That's the way, my dear; trust to your uncle for emphasis. Ah! Sem, my boy, how are you?'

'Take a break here and there,' said the old gentleman, who was quite the critic. '"But that our loves and comforts should increase"—put emphasis on the last syllable, "crease"—loud "even," one, two, three, four; then loud again, "as our days do grow;" emphasis on "days." That's how it goes, my dear; rely on your uncle for emphasis. Ah! Sem, my boy, how are you?'

'Very well, thankee, uncle,' returned Mr. Sempronius, who had just appeared, looking something like a ringdove, with a small circle round each eye: the result of his constant corking. 'Of course we see you on Thursday.'

'Alright, thank you, uncle,' replied Mr. Sempronius, who had just shown up, looking a bit like a ringdove, with a small circle around each eye: the effect of his constant use of cork. 'We'll definitely see you on Thursday.'

'Of course, of course, my dear boy.'

'What a pity it is your nephew didn't think of making you prompter, Mr. Balderstone!' whispered Mrs. Joseph Porter; 'you would have been invaluable.'

"What a shame your nephew didn't consider making you the prompter, Mr. Balderstone!" whispered Mrs. Joseph Porter; "you would have been an asset."

'Well, I flatter myself, I should have been tolerably up to the thing,' responded Uncle Tom.

'Well, I think I would have been pretty good at it,' replied Uncle Tom.

'I must bespeak sitting next you on the night,' resumed Mrs. Porter; 'and then, if our dear young friends here, should be at all wrong, you will be able to enlighten me. I shall be so interested.'

'I need to ask if I can sit next to you tonight,' Mrs. Porter continued; 'and then, if our dear young friends here are at all mistaken, you'll be able to help me understand. I’ll be so interested.'

'I am sure I shall be most happy to give you any assistance in my power'

'I’m sure I’ll be more than happy to help you in any way I can.'

'Mind, it's a bargain.'

'Keep in mind, it's a deal.'

'Certainly.'

'Of course.'

'I don't know how it is,' said Mrs. Gattleton to her daughters, as they were sitting round the fire in the evening, looking over their parts, 'but I really very much wish Mrs. Joseph Porter wasn't coming on Thursday. I am sure she's scheming something.'

'I don't know what it is,' said Mrs. Gattleton to her daughters, as they sat around the fire in the evening, reviewing their parts, 'but I really wish Mrs. Joseph Porter wasn't coming on Thursday. I'm sure she's up to something.'

'She can't make us ridiculous, however,' observed Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, haughtily.

'She can't make us look ridiculous, though,' Mr. Sempronius Gattleton commented, arrogantly.

The long-looked-for Thursday arrived in due course, and brought with it, as Mr. Gattleton, senior, philosophically observed, 'no disappointments, to speak of.' True, it was yet a matter of doubt whether Cassio would be enabled to get into the dress which had been sent for him from the masquerade warehouse. It was equally uncertain whether the principal female singer would be sufficiently recovered from the influenza to make her appearance; Mr. Harleigh, the Masaniello of the night, was hoarse, and rather unwell, in consequence of the great quantity of lemon and sugar-candy he had eaten to improve his voice; and two flutes and a violoncello had pleaded severe colds. What of that? the audience were all coming. Everybody knew his part: the dresses were covered with tinsel and spangles; the white plumes looked beautiful; Mr. Evans had practised falling until he was bruised from head to foot and quite perfect; Iago was sure that, in the stabbing-scene, he should make 'a decided hit.' A self-taught deaf gentleman, who had kindly offered to bring his flute, would be a most valuable addition to the orchestra; Miss Jenkins's talent for the piano was too well known to be doubted for an instant; Mr. Cape had practised the violin accompaniment with her frequently; and Mr. Brown, who had kindly undertaken, at a few hours' notice, to bring his violoncello, would, no doubt, manage extremely well.

The long-anticipated Thursday finally arrived and, as Mr. Gattleton, senior, wisely noted, 'no real disappointments to mention.' It was still unclear if Cassio would be able to fit into the costume sent from the masquerade warehouse. Equally uncertain was whether the main female singer would be well enough to perform after her bout with influenza; Mr. Harleigh, the Masaniello of the evening, was hoarse and feeling unwell due to the excessive amount of lemon and sugar candy he had consumed to enhance his voice; and two flutes and a cello had claimed to have severe colds. But so what? The audience was on their way. Everyone knew their part: the costumes were glittering with tinsel and sequins; the white feathers looked stunning; Mr. Evans had practiced falling so much that he was bruised all over and completely mastered it; Iago was confident that he would 'make a big impression' during the stabbing scene. A self-taught deaf gentleman had generously offered to bring his flute, making him a valuable addition to the orchestra; Miss Jenkins's piano skills were well known and beyond doubt; Mr. Cape had practiced the violin accompaniment with her frequently; and Mr. Brown, who had kindly agreed on short notice to bring his cello, would undoubtedly do extremely well.

Seven o'clock came, and so did the audience; all the rank and fashion of Clapham and its vicinity was fast filling the theatre. There were the Smiths, the Gubbinses, the Nixons, the Dixons, the Hicksons, people with all sorts of names, two aldermen, a sheriff in perspective, Sir Thomas Glumper (who had been knighted in the last reign for carrying up an address on somebody's escaping from nothing); and last, not least, there were Mrs. Joseph Porter and Uncle Tom, seated in the centre of the third row from the stage; Mrs. P. amusing Uncle Tom with all sorts of stories, and Uncle Tom amusing every one else by laughing most immoderately.

Seven o'clock arrived, and so did the audience; all the well-to-do folks from Clapham and the surrounding area were quickly filling the theater. There were the Smiths, the Gubbinses, the Nixons, the Dixons, the Hicksons, and people with all kinds of names, two aldermen, a prospective sheriff, Sir Thomas Glumper (who had been knighted in the last reign for delivering an address about someone escaping from nothing); and last but not least, there were Mrs. Joseph Porter and Uncle Tom, sitting in the center of the third row from the stage; Mrs. P. was entertaining Uncle Tom with all sorts of stories, while Uncle Tom was amusing everyone else by laughing uncontrollably.

Ting, ting, ting! went the prompter's bell at eight o'clock precisely, and dash went the orchestra into the overture to 'The Men of Prometheus.' The pianoforte player hammered away with laudable perseverance; and the violoncello, which struck in at intervals, 'sounded very well, considering.' The unfortunate individual, however, who had undertaken to play the flute accompaniment 'at sight,' found, from fatal experience, the perfect truth of the old adage, 'ought of sight, out of mind;' for being very near-sighted, and being placed at a considerable distance from his music-book, all he had an opportunity of doing was to play a bar now and then in the wrong place, and put the other performers out. It is, however, but justice to Mr. Brown to say that he did this to admiration. The overture, in fact, was not unlike a race between the different instruments; the piano came in first by several bars, and the violoncello next, quite distancing the poor flute; for the deaf gentleman too-too'd away, quite unconscious that he was at all wrong, until apprised, by the applause of the audience, that the overture was concluded. A considerable bustle and shuffling of feet was then heard upon the stage, accompanied by whispers of 'Here's a pretty go!-what's to be done?' &c. The audience applauded again, by way of raising the spirits of the performers; and then Mr. Sempronius desired the prompter, in a very audible voice, to 'clear the stage, and ring up.'

Ting, ting, ting! went the prompter's bell at exactly eight o'clock, and the orchestra launched into the overture to 'The Men of Prometheus.' The pianist played with impressive determination, and the cello, which joined in at intervals, 'sounded pretty good, all things considered.' Unfortunately, the person assigned to play the flute part 'at sight' quickly learned, from painful experience, the truth of the old saying, 'out of sight, out of mind;' because he was quite nearsighted and positioned far from his sheet music, all he could manage was to occasionally play a measure in the wrong spot, throwing off the other musicians. However, it's only fair to give Mr. Brown credit for doing this with great flair. The overture, in fact, resembled a competition among the different instruments; the piano came in well ahead, followed by the cello, leaving the poor flute far behind; the hard-of-hearing gentleman played away, blissfully unaware he was offbeat until the audience applauded, signaling that the overture was over. A lot of commotion and shuffling were then heard on stage, accompanied by whispers of 'What a situation! What are we going to do?' The audience applauded again to boost the performers' morale; then Mr. Sempronius called out to the prompter, in a clear voice, to 'clear the stage, and ring up.'

Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again. Everybody sat down; the curtain shook; rose sufficiently high to display several pair of yellow boots paddling about; and there remained.

Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again. Everyone sat down; the curtain shook; rose high enough to show several pairs of yellow boots paddling around; and there they stayed.

Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again. The curtain was violently convulsed, but rose no higher; the audience tittered; Mrs. Porter looked at Uncle Tom; Uncle Tom looked at everybody, rubbing his hands, and laughing with perfect rapture. After as much ringing with the little bell as a muffin-boy would make in going down a tolerably long street, and a vast deal of whispering, hammering, and calling for nails and cord, the curtain at length rose, and discovered Mr. Sempronius Gattleton solus, and decked for Othello. After three distinct rounds of applause, during which Mr. Sempronius applied his right hand to his left breast, and bowed in the most approved manner, the manager advanced and said:

Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again. The curtain shook violently but didn’t go any higher; the audience giggled; Mrs. Porter looked at Uncle Tom; Uncle Tom looked around at everyone, rubbing his hands and laughing with pure delight. After ringing the little bell as much as a muffin vendor would down a fairly long street, and a lot of whispering, hammering, and calls for nails and twine, the curtain finally rose to reveal Mr. Sempronius Gattleton alone, dressed for Othello. After three rounds of applause, during which Mr. Sempronius placed his right hand over his heart and bowed in the most traditional way, the manager stepped forward and said:

'Ladies and Gentlemen-I assure you it is with sincere regret, that I regret to be compelled to inform you, that Iago who was to have played Mr. Wilson-I beg your pardon, Ladies and Gentlemen, but I am naturally somewhat agitated (applause)-I mean, Mr. Wilson, who was to have played Iago, is-that is, has been-or, in other words, Ladies and Gentlemen, the fact is, that I have just received a note, in which I am informed that Iago is unavoidably detained at the Post-office this evening. Under these circumstances, I trust-a-a-amateur performance-a-another gentleman undertaken to read the part-request indulgence for a short time-courtesy and kindness of a British audience.' Overwhelming applause. Exit Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, and curtain falls.

'Ladies and gentlemen, I sincerely regret to inform you that Iago, who was supposed to play Mr. Wilson—excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I'm a bit flustered (applause)—I mean, Mr. Wilson, who was supposed to play Iago, is—well, has been—or, in other words, ladies and gentlemen, the truth is, I just received a note informing me that Iago is unavoidably held up at the post office this evening. Given these circumstances, I hope—this is an amateur performance—another gentleman has stepped in to read the part—please bear with us for a moment, a courtesy and kindness of a British audience.' Overwhelming applause. Exit Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, and curtain falls.

The audience were, of course, exceedingly good-humoured; the whole business was a joke; and accordingly they waited for an hour with the utmost patience, being enlivened by an interlude of rout-cakes and lemonade. It appeared by Mr. Sempronius's subsequent explanation, that the delay would not have been so great, had it not so happened that when the substitute Iago had finished dressing, and just as the play was on the point of commencing, the original Iago unexpectedly arrived. The former was therefore compelled to undress, and the latter to dress for his part; which, as he found some difficulty in getting into his clothes, occupied no inconsiderable time. At last, the tragedy began in real earnest. It went off well enough, until the third scene of the first act, in which Othello addresses the Senate: the only remarkable circumstance being, that as Iago could not get on any of the stage boots, in consequence of his feet being violently swelled with the heat and excitement, he was under the necessity of playing the part in a pair of Wellingtons, which contrasted rather oddly with his richly embroidered pantaloons. When Othello started with his address to the Senate (whose dignity was represented by, the Duke, a carpenter, two men engaged on the recommendation of the gardener, and a boy), Mrs. Porter found the opportunity she so anxiously sought.

The audience was, of course, in a great mood; it was all a joke, really. They waited for an hour with remarkable patience, entertained by some snacks and lemonade. Mr. Sempronius later explained that the delay wouldn't have been so long if it hadn't been for the fact that when the substitute Iago had just finished getting ready, the original Iago unexpectedly showed up just as the play was about to start. The first Iago had to change back out of his costume, and the original had to hurry into his, which took quite a bit of time since he struggled to fit into his clothes. Finally, the tragedy began for real. It started off fine until the third scene of the first act when Othello speaks to the Senate. The only notable thing was that Iago couldn’t put on any of the stage boots because his feet were swollen from the heat and excitement, so he had to perform in a pair of Wellingtons, which looked pretty odd with his fancy embroidered pants. When Othello began his speech to the Senate (which was represented by the Duke, a carpenter, two guys chosen by the gardener, and a boy), Mrs. Porter seized the opportunity she’d been eagerly waiting for.

Mr. Sempronius proceeded:

Mr. Sempronius continued:

'"Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approv'd good masters, That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true;-rude am I in my speech-"'

'"Most important, serious, and respected gentlemen, My very noble and respected masters, I have indeed taken this old man's daughter, and that is completely true; I may be rough in my words-"`

'Is that right?' whispered Mrs. Porter to Uncle Tom.

'Is that true?' whispered Mrs. Porter to Uncle Tom.

'No.'

'Tell him so, then.'

'Let him know, then.'

'I will. Sem!' called out Uncle Tom, 'that's wrong, my boy.'

'I will. Sem!' called out Uncle Tom, 'that's not right, my boy.'

'What's wrong, uncle?' demanded Othello, quite forgetting the dignity of his situation.

"What's wrong, uncle?" Othello asked, completely forgetting the seriousness of his situation.

'You've left out something. "True I have married-"'

'You've missed something. "It's true that I've gotten married-"'

'Oh, ah!' said Mr. Sempronius, endeavouring to hide his confusion as much and as ineffectually as the audience attempted to conceal their half-suppressed tittering, by coughing with extraordinary violence-

'Oh, ah!' said Mr. Sempronius, trying to hide his embarrassment as much and as unsuccessfully as the audience tried to mask their half-hidden laughter by coughing violently.

-'"true I have married her;- The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent; no more."

-'"It's true I've married her; the very core of my wrongdoing has this limit; nothing more."

(Aside) Why don't you prompt, father?'

(Aside) Why don't you say something, Dad?

'Because I've mislaid my spectacles,' said poor Mr. Gattleton, almost dead with the heat and bustle.

'I've misplaced my glasses,' said poor Mr. Gattleton, nearly faint from the heat and chaos.

'There, now it's "rude am I,"' said Uncle Tom.

'Yes, I know it is,' returned the unfortunate manager, proceeding with his part.

'Yes, I know it is,' replied the unfortunate manager, continuing with his role.

It would be useless and tiresome to quote the number of instances in which Uncle Tom, now completely in his element, and instigated by the mischievous Mrs. Porter, corrected the mistakes of the performers; suffice it to say, that having mounted his hobby, nothing could induce him to dismount; so, during the whole remainder of the play, he performed a kind of running accompaniment, by muttering everybody's part as it was being delivered, in an under-tone. The audience were highly amused, Mrs. Porter delighted, the performers embarrassed; Uncle Tom never was better pleased in all his life; and Uncle Tom's nephews and nieces had never, although the declared heirs to his large property, so heartily wished him gathered to his fathers as on that memorable occasion.

It would be pointless and annoying to list all the times Uncle Tom, completely in his element and encouraged by the playful Mrs. Porter, corrected the performers' mistakes; it’s enough to say that once he got started, nothing could make him stop. So, for the rest of the play, he muttered everyone’s lines in a low voice as they were being delivered. The audience found it very funny, Mrs. Porter was thrilled, the performers were awkward; Uncle Tom couldn’t have been happier in his life; and his nephews and nieces, despite being the heirs to his large fortune, had never more sincerely wished for him to join his ancestors than on that unforgettable occasion.

Several other minor causes, too, united to damp the ardour of the dramatis personae. None of the performers could walk in their tights, or move their arms in their jackets; the pantaloons were too small, the boots too large, and the swords of all shapes and sizes. Mr. Evans, naturally too tall for the scenery, wore a black velvet hat with immense white plumes, the glory of which was lost in 'the flies;' and the only other inconvenience of which was, that when it was off his head he could not put it on, and when it was on he could not take it off. Notwithstanding all his practice, too, he fell with his head and shoulders as neatly through one of the side scenes, as a harlequin would jump through a panel in a Christmas pantomime. The pianoforte player, overpowered by the extreme heat of the room, fainted away at the commencement of the entertainments, leaving the music of 'Masaniello' to the flute and violoncello. The orchestra complained that Mr. Harleigh put them out, and Mr. Harleigh declared that the orchestra prevented his singing a note. The fishermen, who were hired for the occasion, revolted to the very life, positively refusing to play without an increased allowance of spirits; and, their demand being complied with, getting drunk in the eruption-scene as naturally as possible. The red fire, which was burnt at the conclusion of the second act, not only nearly suffocated the audience, but nearly set the house on fire into the bargain; and, as it was, the remainder of the piece was acted in a thick fog.

Several other minor issues also contributed to dampening the enthusiasm of the cast. None of the performers could walk properly in their tights or move their arms in their jackets; the pantaloons were too small, the boots too large, and the swords were all different shapes and sizes. Mr. Evans, who was naturally too tall for the set, wore a black velvet hat with huge white plumes, which lost its glory in the rigging above; the only other problem was that when the hat was off his head, he couldn’t put it back on, and when it was on, he couldn’t take it off. Despite all his practice, he fell through one of the side scenes as neatly as a clown would jump through a panel in a Christmas pantomime. The pianist, overwhelmed by the intense heat of the room, fainted at the start of the show, leaving the music of 'Masaniello' to the flute and cello. The orchestra complained that Mr. Harleigh distracted them, while Mr. Harleigh claimed that the orchestra was preventing him from singing a note. The fishermen, hired for the event, revolted completely, refusing to perform without more drinks; once their demand was met, they got drunk during the eruption scene as if it were completely normal. The red fire used at the end of the second act nearly suffocated the audience and almost set the building on fire as well; as it was, the rest of the performance took place in a thick fog.

In short, the whole affair was, as Mrs. Joseph Porter triumphantly told everybody, 'a complete failure.' The audience went home at four o'clock in the morning, exhausted with laughter, suffering from severe headaches, and smelling terribly of brimstone and gunpowder. The Messrs. Gattleton, senior and junior, retired to rest, with the vague idea of emigrating to Swan River early in the ensuing week.

In short, the whole event was, as Mrs. Joseph Porter proudly told everyone, 'a complete failure.' The audience left at four o'clock in the morning, exhausted from laughing, dealing with bad headaches, and smelling strongly of sulfur and gunpowder. The Gattleton brothers, senior and junior, went to bed with the vague thought of moving to Swan River early the next week.

Rose Villa has once again resumed its wonted appearance; the dining-room furniture has been replaced; the tables are as nicely polished as formerly; the horsehair chairs are ranged against the wall, as regularly as ever; Venetian blinds have been fitted to every window in the house to intercept the prying gaze of Mrs. Joseph Porter. The subject of theatricals is never mentioned in the Gattleton family, unless, indeed, by Uncle Tom, who cannot refrain from sometimes expressing his surprise and regret at finding that his nephews and nieces appear to have lost the relish they once possessed for the beauties of Shakspeare, and quotations from the works of that immortal bard.

Rose Villa has once again taken on its familiar look; the dining room furniture has been replaced; the tables are as beautifully polished as they used to be; the horsehair chairs are neatly arranged against the wall, just like before; Venetian blinds have been installed on every window in the house to block the curious gaze of Mrs. Joseph Porter. The topic of theater is never brought up in the Gattleton family, unless, of course, by Uncle Tom, who can’t help but occasionally express his surprise and disappointment at finding that his nephews and nieces seem to have lost their appreciation for the beauty of Shakespeare and quotes from that timeless playwright.

CHAPTER X-A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF MR. WATKINS TOTTLE

CHAPTER THE FIRST

Matrimony is proverbially a serious undertaking. Like an over-weening predilection for brandy-and-water, it is a misfortune into which a man easily falls, and from which he finds it remarkably difficult to extricate himself. It is of no use telling a man who is timorous on these points, that it is but one plunge, and all is over. They say the same thing at the Old Bailey, and the unfortunate victims derive as much comfort from the assurance in the one case as in the other.

Matrimony is famously a serious commitment. Much like an excessive fondness for brandy and water, it's a misfortune that a man can easily get into, and he finds it surprisingly hard to get out of. Telling a man who's anxious about these issues that it's just one leap and it's all done doesn’t help at all. People say the same thing at the Old Bailey, and the unfortunate souls find just as little comfort from the reassurance in one situation as in the other.

Mr. Watkins Tottle was a rather uncommon compound of strong uxorious inclinations, and an unparalleled degree of anti-connubial timidity. He was about fifty years of age; stood four feet six inches and three- quarters in his socks-for he never stood in stockings at all-plump, clean, and rosy. He looked something like a vignette to one of Richardson's novels, and had a clean-cravatish formality of manner, and kitchen-pokerness of carriage, which Sir Charles Grandison himself might have envied. He lived on an annuity, which was well adapted to the individual who received it, in one respect-it was rather small. He received it in periodical payments on every alternate Monday; but he ran himself out, about a day after the expiration of the first week, as regularly as an eight-day clock; and then, to make the comparison complete, his landlady wound him up, and he went on with a regular tick.

Mr. Watkins Tottle was a rather unusual mix of being very devoted to his wife and extremely nervous about marriage. He was around fifty years old, stood four feet six and three-quarters inches in his socks—since he never wore stockings—plump, clean, and rosy. He resembled a character from one of Richardson's novels and had a formal demeanor with a slightly stiff way of carrying himself that even Sir Charles Grandison might have envied. He lived on an annuity that suited him well in one way—it was quite small. He received it in periodic payments every other Monday, but he would run out of money about a day after the first week ended, just like a clock that ticks for eight days; then, to complete the comparison, his landlady would wind him up, and he would go on ticking regularly.

Mr. Watkins Tottle had long lived in a state of single blessedness, as bachelors say, or single cursedness, as spinsters think; but the idea of matrimony had never ceased to haunt him. Wrapt in profound reveries on this never-failing theme, fancy transformed his small parlour in Cecil- street, Strand, into a neat house in the suburbs; the half-hundredweight of coals under the kitchen-stairs suddenly sprang up into three tons of the best Walls-end; his small French bedstead was converted into a regular matrimonial four-poster; and in the empty chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, imagination seated a beautiful young lady, with a very little independence or will of her own, and a very large independence under a will of her father's.

Mr. Watkins Tottle had long lived a single life, as bachelors would say, or a lonely life, as single women might think; but the thought of marriage never left him. Lost in deep daydreams about this constant idea, his imagination turned his small living room on Cecil Street, Strand, into a charming house in the suburbs; the bag of coal under the kitchen stairs suddenly transformed into three tons of top-quality coal; his tiny French bed became a full-size four-poster bed; and in the empty chair across from the fireplace, his imagination placed a beautiful young woman with little independence or will of her own, but a significant inheritance from her father.

'Who's there?' inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle, as a gentle tap at his room- door disturbed these meditations one evening.

'Who's there?' asked Mr. Watkins Tottle, as a soft knock at his door interrupted his thoughts one evening.

'Tottle, my dear fellow, how do you do?' said a short elderly gentleman with a gruffish voice, bursting into the room, and replying to the question by asking another.

'Tottle, my friend, how's it going?' said a short older man with a rough voice, barging into the room and answering the question by asking another.

'Told you I should drop in some evening,' said the short gentleman, as he delivered his hat into Tottle's hand, after a little struggling and dodging.

"Told you I should stop by some evening," said the short guy, as he handed his hat to Tottle after a bit of struggling and dodging.

'Delighted to see you, I'm sure,' said Mr. Watkins Tottle, wishing internally that his visitor had 'dropped in' to the Thames at the bottom of the street, instead of dropping into his parlour. The fortnight was nearly up, and Watkins was hard up.

"Nice to see you, I'm sure," said Mr. Watkins Tottle, secretly wishing his visitor had just 'dropped in' to the Thames at the end of the street instead of coming into his living room. The two weeks were almost over, and Watkins was in a tight spot financially.

'How is Mrs. Gabriel Parsons?' inquired Tottle.

'How is Mrs. Gabriel Parsons?' Tottle asked.

'Quite well, thank you,' replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, for that was the name the short gentleman revelled in. Here there was a pause; the short gentleman looked at the left hob of the fireplace; Mr. Watkins Tottle stared vacancy out of countenance.

'I'm doing quite well, thank you,' replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, which was the name the short gentleman took pride in. There was a pause; the short gentleman glanced at the left hob of the fireplace; Mr. Watkins Tottle stared blankly into space.

'Quite well,' repeated the short gentleman, when five minutes had expired. 'I may say remarkably well.' And he rubbed the palms of his hands as hard as if he were going to strike a light by friction.

'Pretty good,' the short man said again after five minutes had passed. 'I can honestly say really well.' And he rubbed his hands together vigorously as if he were trying to start a fire by friction.

'What will you take?' inquired Tottle, with the desperate suddenness of a man who knew that unless the visitor took his leave, he stood very little chance of taking anything else.

'What will you take?' Tottle asked, with the urgent intensity of someone who realized that unless the visitor decided to leave, he had very little chance of getting anything else.

'Oh, I don't know-have you any whiskey?'

'Oh, I don't know—do you have any whiskey?'

'Why,' replied Tottle, very slowly, for all this was gaining time, 'I had some capital, and remarkably strong whiskey last week; but it's all gone-and therefore its strength-'

'Why,' replied Tottle, very slowly, as this was buying time, 'I had some cash and really strong whiskey last week; but it's all gone—and so is its strength—'

'Is much beyond proof; or, in other words, impossible to be proved,' said the short gentleman; and he laughed very heartily, and seemed quite glad the whiskey had been drunk. Mr. Tottle smiled-but it was the smile of despair. When Mr. Gabriel Parsons had done laughing, he delicately insinuated that, in the absence of whiskey, he would not be averse to brandy. And Mr. Watkins Tottle, lighting a flat candle very ostentatiously; and displaying an immense key, which belonged to the street-door, but which, for the sake of appearances, occasionally did duty in an imaginary wine-cellar; left the room to entreat his landlady to charge their glasses, and charge them in the bill. The application was successful; the spirits were speedily called-not from the vasty deep, but the adjacent wine-vaults. The two short gentlemen mixed their grog; and then sat cosily down before the fire-a pair of shorts, airing themselves.

'It's pretty much impossible to prove,' said the short guy, laughing heartily and looking pleased that the whiskey was finished. Mr. Tottle smiled, but it was a smile of despair. When Mr. Gabriel Parsons stopped laughing, he subtly suggested that, without whiskey, he wouldn't mind some brandy. Mr. Watkins Tottle, lighting a flat candle in a showy manner and brandishing a huge key that belonged to the street door but occasionally served as a prop for an imaginary wine cellar, left the room to ask his landlady to refill their glasses and add it to the bill. The request was successful; the drinks were quickly brought—not from some vast abyss, but from the nearby wine vaults. The two short gentlemen mixed their drinks and then settled cozily down in front of the fire—a couple of short guys enjoying the warmth.

'Tottle,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, 'you know my way-off-hand, open, say what I mean, mean what I say, hate reserve, and can't bear affectation. One, is a bad domino which only hides what good people have about 'em, without making the bad look better; and the other is much about the same thing as pinking a white cotton stocking to make it look like a silk one. Now listen to what I'm going to say.'

'Tottle,' Mr. Gabriel Parsons said, 'you know I'm straightforward— I say what I mean and mean what I say. I dislike being reserved and can't stand pretentiousness. One is like a bad mask that only conceals the good in people without improving the bad; the other is just like trying to make a white cotton stocking look like a silk one by adding color. Now pay attention to what I'm about to say.'

Here, the little gentleman paused, and took a long pull at his brandy- and-water. Mr. Watkins Tottle took a sip of his, stirred the fire, and assumed an air of profound attention.

Here, the little gentleman paused and took a long drink of his brandy and water. Mr. Watkins Tottle took a sip of his, stirred the fire, and put on a face of deep concentration.

'It's of no use humming and ha'ing about the matter,' resumed the short gentleman.-'You want to get married.'

"There's no point in hesitating about it," the short man continued. "You want to get married."

'Why,' replied Mr. Watkins Tottle evasively; for he trembled violently, and felt a sudden tingling throughout his whole frame; 'why-I should certainly-at least, I think I should like-'

'Why,' replied Mr. Watkins Tottle evasively; for he trembled violently, and felt a sudden tingling throughout his whole body; 'why—I should definitely—at least, I think I would like—'

'Won't do,' said the short gentleman.-'Plain and free-or there's an end of the matter. Do you want money?'

"Not happening," said the short man. "Simple and straightforward—or that's that. Do you want money?"

'You know I do.'

"I know I do."

'You admire the sex?'

'I do.'

"I do."

'And you'd like to be married?'

'So, you want to get married?'

'Certainly.'

"Of course."

'Then you shall be. There's an end of that.' Thus saying, Mr. Gabriel Parsons took a pinch of snuff, and mixed another glass.

'Then you will be. That settles it.' With that, Mr. Gabriel Parsons took a pinch of snuff and poured another glass.

'Let me entreat you to be more explanatory,' said Tottle. 'Really, as the party principally interested, I cannot consent to be disposed of, in this way.'

"Please, can you explain things more clearly?" said Tottle. "Honestly, as the main person involved, I can't just be brushed aside like this."

'I'll tell you,' replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, warming with the subject, and the brandy-and-water-'I know a lady-she's stopping with my wife now-who is just the thing for you. Well educated; talks French; plays the piano; knows a good deal about flowers, and shells, and all that sort of thing; and has five hundred a year, with an uncontrolled power of disposing of it, by her last will and testament.'

"I'll tell you," said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, getting more into the subject along with the brandy and water. "I know a lady—she's staying with my wife right now—who would be perfect for you. She's well-educated, speaks French, plays the piano, and knows a lot about flowers, shells, and all that kind of thing. Plus, she has an income of five hundred a year, with complete freedom to decide how it's handled in her will."

'I'll pay my addresses to her,' said Mr. Watkins Tottle. 'She isn't very young-is she?'

'I’ll make my intentions clear to her,' said Mr. Watkins Tottle. 'She isn’t very young, is she?'

'Not very; just the thing for you. I've said that already.'

'Not really; it's just the thing for you. I've already said that.'

'What coloured hair has the lady?' inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle.

'What color hair does the lady have?' asked Mr. Watkins Tottle.

'Egad, I hardly recollect,' replied Gabriel, with coolness. 'Perhaps I ought to have observed, at first, she wears a front.'

"Egad, I barely remember," Gabriel replied coolly. "Maybe I should have noticed right away that she wears a front."

'A what?' ejaculated Tottle.

"A what?" exclaimed Tottle.

'One of those things with curls, along here,' said Parsons, drawing a straight line across his forehead, just over his eyes, in illustration of his meaning. 'I know the front's black; I can't speak quite positively about her own hair; because, unless one walks behind her, and catches a glimpse of it under her bonnet, one seldom sees it; but I should say that it was rather lighter than the front-a shade of a greyish tinge, perhaps.'

"One of those things with curls, right here," said Parsons, drawing a straight line across his forehead, just above his eyes to illustrate his point. "I know the front's black; I can't say for sure about her actual hair color because you rarely see it unless you walk behind her and catch a glimpse under her bonnet. But I would guess it's a bit lighter than the front—maybe a shade of grayish tint."

Mr. Watkins Tottle looked as if he had certain misgivings of mind. Mr. Gabriel Parsons perceived it, and thought it would be safe to begin the next attack without delay.

Mr. Watkins Tottle looked like he had some doubts. Mr. Gabriel Parsons noticed this and figured it was smart to start the next move right away.

'Now, were you ever in love, Tottle?' he inquired.

'So, have you ever been in love, Tottle?' he asked.

Mr. Watkins Tottle blushed up to the eyes, and down to the chin, and exhibited a most extensive combination of colours as he confessed the soft impeachment.

Mr. Watkins Tottle blushed brightly, his face going from his eyes down to his chin, showing a wide range of colors as he admitted to the mild accusation.

'I suppose you popped the question, more than once, when you were a young-I beg your pardon-a younger-man,' said Parsons.

"I guess you proposed, more than once, when you were a young—I mean, younger—man," said Parsons.

'Never in my life!' replied his friend, apparently indignant at being suspected of such an act. 'Never! The fact is, that I entertain, as you know, peculiar opinions on these subjects. I am not afraid of ladies, young or old-far from it; but, I think, that in compliance with the custom of the present day, they allow too much freedom of speech and manner to marriageable men. Now, the fact is, that anything like this easy freedom I never could acquire; and as I am always afraid of going too far, I am generally, I dare say, considered formal and cold.'

"Never in my life!" his friend replied, seeming outraged at being suspected of such a thing. "Never! The truth is, I have, as you know, unique views on these topics. I'm not afraid of women, whether they're young or old—far from it; but I think that in line with modern customs, they give too much freedom in speech and behavior to eligible men. The reality is, I've never been able to adopt this kind of casual freedom, and since I'm always worried about going too far, I'm usually, I suppose, seen as stiff and distant."

'I shouldn't wonder if you were,' replied Parsons, gravely; 'I shouldn't wonder. However, you'll be all right in this case; for the strictness and delicacy of this lady's ideas greatly exceed your own. Lord bless you, why, when she came to our house, there was an old portrait of some man or other, with two large, black, staring eyes, hanging up in her bedroom; she positively refused to go to bed there, till it was taken down, considering it decidedly wrong.'

"I wouldn't be surprised if you were," Parsons replied seriously. "I really wouldn't. However, you'll be fine in this situation because this lady’s standards and sensitivities are way higher than yours. Goodness, when she visited our home, there was an old portrait of some man or another with two big, black, staring eyes hanging in her bedroom; she absolutely refused to go to bed until it was taken down, finding it totally unacceptable."

'I think so, too,' said Mr. Watkins Tottle; 'certainly.'

'I think so, too,' said Mr. Watkins Tottle; 'definitely.'

'And then, the other night-I never laughed so much in my life'-resumed Mr. Gabriel Parsons; 'I had driven home in an easterly wind, and caught a devil of a face-ache. Well; as Fanny-that's Mrs. Parsons, you know-and this friend of hers, and I, and Frank Ross, were playing a rubber, I said, jokingly, that when I went to bed I should wrap my head in Fanny's flannel petticoat. She instantly threw up her cards, and left the room.'

'And then, the other night—I’ve never laughed so much in my life—Mr. Gabriel Parsons continued; 'I had driven home in an east wind and ended up with a terrible toothache. Well, as Fanny—that's Mrs. Parsons, by the way—and her friend, Frank Ross, and I were playing a card game, I joked that when I went to bed, I would wrap my head in Fanny's flannel petticoat. She immediately threw down her cards and left the room.'

'Quite right!' said Mr. Watkins Tottle; 'she could not possibly have behaved in a more dignified manner. What did you do?'

"Absolutely!" said Mr. Watkins Tottle; "she couldn't have acted more gracefully. What did you do?"

'Do?-Frank took dummy; and I won sixpence.'

'Do? - Frank took the dummy; and I won six pence.'

'But, didn't you apologise for hurting her feelings?'

'But didn't you apologize for hurting her feelings?'

'Devil a bit. Next morning at breakfast, we talked it over. She contended that any reference to a flannel petticoat was improper;-men ought not to be supposed to know that such things were. I pleaded my coverture; being a married man.'

'Not at all. The next morning at breakfast, we discussed it. She insisted that any mention of a flannel petticoat was inappropriate; men shouldn’t be expected to know about such things. I defended myself by saying I was married.'

'And what did the lady say to that?' inquired Tottle, deeply interested.

"And what did the lady say to that?" Tottle asked, clearly intrigued.

'Changed her ground, and said that Frank being a single man, its impropriety was obvious.'

'She changed her stance and said that since Frank was single, it was clearly inappropriate.'

'Noble-minded creature!' exclaimed the enraptured Tottle.

'Noble-minded creature!' exclaimed the thrilled Tottle.

'Oh! both Fanny and I said, at once, that she was regularly cut out for you.'

'Oh! both Fanny and I said at the same time that she was definitely made for you.'

A gleam of placid satisfaction shone on the circular face of Mr. Watkins Tottle, as he heard the prophecy.

A look of calm satisfaction appeared on the round face of Mr. Watkins Tottle as he listened to the prophecy.

'There's one thing I can't understand,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he rose to depart; 'I cannot, for the life and soul of me, imagine how the deuce you'll ever contrive to come together. The lady would certainly go into convulsions if the subject were mentioned.' Mr. Gabriel Parsons sat down again, and laughed until he was weak. Tottle owed him money, so he had a perfect right to laugh at Tottle's expense.

"There's one thing I just can't get," said Mr. Gabriel Parsons as he stood up to leave. "I honestly can't imagine how on Earth you two will ever meet up. The lady would definitely have a fit if you brought it up." Mr. Gabriel Parsons sat back down and laughed until he felt weak. Tottle owed him money, so he had every right to laugh at Tottle's expense.

Mr. Watkins Tottle feared, in his own mind, that this was another characteristic which he had in common with this modern Lucretia. He, however, accepted the invitation to dine with the Parsonses on the next day but one, with great firmness: and looked forward to the introduction, when again left alone, with tolerable composure.

Mr. Watkins Tottle was afraid, in his own mind, that this was another trait he shared with this modern Lucretia. He did, however, accept the invitation to dinner with the Parsonses the day after next, with great determination, and he looked forward to the introduction, when left alone again, with reasonable calm.

The sun that rose on the next day but one, had never beheld a sprucer personage on the outside of the Norwood stage, than Mr. Watkins Tottle; and when the coach drew up before a cardboard-looking house with disguised chimneys, and a lawn like a large sheet of green letter-paper, he certainly had never lighted to his place of destination a gentleman who felt more uncomfortable.

The sun that rose two days later had never seen a sharper-dressed person outside the Norwood stage than Mr. Watkins Tottle. And when the coach stopped in front of a house that looked like it was made of cardboard, with hidden chimneys and a lawn that resembled a giant sheet of green paper, he definitely had never delivered a gentleman to his destination who felt more uneasy.

The coach stopped, and Mr. Watkins Tottle jumped-we beg his pardon-alighted, with great dignity. 'All right!' said he, and away went the coach up the hill with that beautiful equanimity of pace for which 'short' stages are generally remarkable.

The coach came to a stop, and Mr. Watkins Tottle got off—pardon us for interrupting—with great dignity. "All right!" he said, and the coach continued up the hill at that smooth, steady pace that short journeys are known for.

Mr. Watkins Tottle gave a faltering jerk to the handle of the garden- gate bell. He essayed a more energetic tug, and his previous nervousness was not at all diminished by hearing the bell ringing like a fire alarum.

Mr. Watkins Tottle pulled the garden gate bell handle uneasily. He tried a more forceful tug, and his previous nervousness only increased when he heard the bell ringing like a fire alarm.

'Is Mr. Parsons at home?' inquired Tottle of the man who opened the gate. He could hardly hear himself speak, for the bell had not yet done tolling.

'Is Mr. Parsons home?' Tottle asked the man who opened the gate. He could barely hear himself talk because the bell was still ringing.

'Here I am,' shouted a voice on the lawn,-and there was Mr. Gabriel Parsons in a flannel jacket, running backwards and forwards, from a wicket to two hats piled on each other, and from the two hats to the wicket, in the most violent manner, while another gentleman with his coat off was getting down the area of the house, after a ball. When the gentleman without the coat had found it-which he did in less than ten minutes-he ran back to the hats, and Gabriel Parsons pulled up. Then, the gentleman without the coat called out 'play,' very loudly, and bowled. Then Mr. Gabriel Parsons knocked the ball several yards, and took another run. Then, the other gentleman aimed at the wicket, and didn't hit it; and Mr. Gabriel Parsons, having finished running on his own account, laid down the bat and ran after the ball, which went into a neighbouring field. They called this cricket.

'Here I am,' shouted a voice on the lawn, and there was Mr. Gabriel Parsons in a flannel jacket, running back and forth from a wicket to two hats stacked on top of each other, and from the two hats to the wicket, very energetically, while another guy without a coat was retrieving a ball from the house's area. When the guy without the coat found it— which he did in under ten minutes—he ran back to the hats, and Gabriel Parsons paused. Then, the guy without the coat shouted 'play' very loudly and bowled. Then Mr. Gabriel Parsons hit the ball several yards and took off running again. The other guy aimed at the wicket and missed; and once Mr. Gabriel Parsons finished running for himself, he dropped the bat and chased after the ball, which had gone into a nearby field. They called this cricket.

'Tottle, will you "go in?"' inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he approached him, wiping the perspiration off his face.

'Tottle, will you "go in?"' Mr. Gabriel Parsons asked as he came up to him, wiping the sweat off his face.

Mr. Watkins Tottle declined the offer, the bare idea of accepting which made him even warmer than his friend.

Mr. Watkins Tottle declined the offer, just the thought of accepting it made him feel even warmer than his friend.

'Then we'll go into the house, as it's past four, and I shall have to wash my hands before dinner,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons. 'Here, I hate ceremony, you know! Timson, that's Tottle-Tottle, that's Timson; bred for the church, which I fear will never be bread for him;' and he chuckled at the old joke. Mr. Timson bowed carelessly. Mr. Watkins Tottle bowed stiffly. Mr. Gabriel Parsons led the way to the house. He was a rich sugar-baker, who mistook rudeness for honesty, and abrupt bluntness for an open and candid manner; many besides Gabriel mistake bluntness for sincerity.

'Then we'll head into the house since it's past four, and I need to wash my hands before dinner,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons. 'Honestly, I can't stand fuss, you know! Timson, this is Tottle-Tottle, that's Timson; he was meant for the church, which I doubt will ever suit him,' and he laughed at the old joke. Mr. Timson gave a casual bow. Mr. Watkins Tottle bowed awkwardly. Mr. Gabriel Parsons led the way to the house. He was a wealthy sugar-maker who confused rudeness with honesty and bluntness with openness; many others besides Gabriel also mistake bluntness for sincerity.

Mrs. Gabriel Parsons received the visitors most graciously on the steps, and preceded them to the drawing-room. On the sofa, was seated a lady of very prim appearance, and remarkably inanimate. She was one of those persons at whose age it is impossible to make any reasonable guess; her features might have been remarkably pretty when she was younger, and they might always have presented the same appearance. Her complexion-with a slight trace of powder here and there-was as clear as that of a well-made wax doll, and her face as expressive. She was handsomely dressed, and was winding up a gold watch.

Mrs. Gabriel Parsons welcomed the visitors warmly on the steps and led them to the living room. On the sofa sat a lady with a very formal demeanor, and she seemed quite lifeless. She was one of those people whose age it’s impossible to guess; her features may have been quite pretty when she was younger, and they might have always looked the same. Her complexion—slightly powdered here and there—was as clear as that of a finely made wax doll, and her face was just as expressive. She was elegantly dressed and was winding up a gold watch.

'Miss Lillerton, my dear, this is our friend Mr. Watkins Tottle; a very old acquaintance I assure you,' said Mrs. Parsons, presenting the Strephon of Cecil-street, Strand. The lady rose, and made a deep courtesy; Mr. Watkins Tottle made a bow.

'Miss Lillerton, my dear, this is our friend Mr. Watkins Tottle; a very old acquaintance, I promise you,' said Mrs. Parsons, introducing the Strephon of Cecil Street, Strand. The lady stood up and curtsied deeply; Mr. Watkins Tottle bowed.

'Splendid, majestic creature!' thought Tottle.

"Awesome, majestic creature!" thought Tottle.

Mr. Timson advanced, and Mr. Watkins Tottle began to hate him. Men generally discover a rival, instinctively, and Mr. Watkins Tottle felt that his hate was deserved.

Mr. Timson moved forward, and Mr. Watkins Tottle started to dislike him. Men usually sense a rival instinctively, and Mr. Watkins Tottle believed that his dislike was justified.

'May I beg,' said the reverend gentleman,-'May I beg to call upon you, Miss Lillerton, for some trifling donation to my soup, coals, and blanket distribution society?'

'May I ask,' said the reverend gentleman, 'May I ask you, Miss Lillerton, for a small donation to my soup, coal, and blanket distribution charity?'

'Put my name down, for two sovereigns, if you please,' responded Miss Lillerton.

'Please put my name down for two sovereigns,' replied Miss Lillerton.

'You are truly charitable, madam,' said the Reverend Mr. Timson, 'and we know that charity will cover a multitude of sins. Let me beg you to understand that I do not say this from the supposition that you have many sins which require palliation; believe me when I say that I never yet met any one who had fewer to atone for, than Miss Lillerton.'

'You are incredibly generous, ma'am,' said Reverend Mr. Timson, 'and we all know that kindness can cover a lot of wrongs. Please understand that I’m not saying this because I think you have many wrongs to make up for; trust me when I say that I've never met anyone with fewer to apologize for than Miss Lillerton.'

Something like a bad imitation of animation lighted up the lady's face, as she acknowledged the compliment. Watkins Tottle incurred the sin of wishing that the ashes of the Reverend Charles Timson were quietly deposited in the churchyard of his curacy, wherever it might be.

Something like a poor imitation of animation lit up the woman's face as she accepted the compliment. Watkins Tottle committed the sin of wishing that the ashes of Reverend Charles Timson were peacefully laid to rest in the churchyard of his parish, wherever that might be.

'I'll tell you what,' interrupted Parsons, who had just appeared with clean hands, and a black coat, 'it's my private opinion, Timson, that your "distribution society" is rather a humbug.'

"I'll tell you what," interrupted Parsons, who had just come in with clean hands and a black coat, "it's my personal opinion, Timson, that your 'distribution society' is pretty much a fraud."

'You are so severe,' replied Timson, with a Christian smile: he disliked Parsons, but liked his dinners.

'You're so strict,' Timson replied with a friendly smile: he didn’t really like Parsons, but he enjoyed his dinners.

'So positively unjust!' said Miss Lillerton.

'So clearly unfair!' said Miss Lillerton.

'Certainly,' observed Tottle. The lady looked up; her eyes met those of Mr. Watkins Tottle. She withdrew them in a sweet confusion, and Watkins Tottle did the same-the confusion was mutual.

'Sure,' Tottle said. The lady looked up; her eyes connected with Mr. Watkins Tottle's. She quickly looked away in sweet embarrassment, and Watkins Tottle did the same—the embarrassment was shared.

'Why,' urged Mr. Parsons, pursuing his objections, 'what on earth is the use of giving a man coals who has nothing to cook, or giving him blankets when he hasn't a bed, or giving him soup when he requires substantial food?-"like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt." Why not give 'em a trifle of money, as I do, when I think they deserve it, and let them purchase what they think best? Why?-because your subscribers wouldn't see their names flourishing in print on the church- door-that's the reason.'

"Why," Mr. Parsons insisted, continuing his objections, "what's the point of giving a man coal when he has nothing to cook, or giving him blankets when he doesn't have a bed, or giving him soup when he needs real food? It's like sending them fancy cuffs when they need a shirt. Why not just give them a little bit of cash, like I do when I think they deserve it, and let them buy what they need? Why? Because your donors wouldn't want to see their names displayed on the church door—that’s the reason."

'Really, Mr. Parsons, I hope you don't mean to insinuate that I wish to see my name in print, on the church-door,' interrupted Miss Lillerton.

'Honestly, Mr. Parsons, I hope you're not suggesting that I want to see my name in print on the church door,' interrupted Miss Lillerton.

'I hope not,' said Mr. Watkins Tottle, putting in another word, and getting another glance.

"I hope not," said Mr. Watkins Tottle, interjecting again and receiving another look.

'Certainly not,' replied Parsons. 'I dare say you wouldn't mind seeing it in writing, though, in the church register-eh?'

'Of course not,' replied Parsons. 'I bet you wouldn't mind seeing it in writing, though, in the church register—right?'

'Register! What register?' inquired the lady gravely.

'Register! What register?' the lady asked seriously.

'Why, the register of marriages, to be sure,' replied Parsons, chuckling at the sally, and glancing at Tottle. Mr. Watkins Tottle thought he should have fainted for shame, and it is quite impossible to imagine what effect the joke would have had upon the lady, if dinner had not been, at that moment, announced. Mr. Watkins Tottle, with an unprecedented effort of gallantry, offered the tip of his little finger; Miss Lillerton accepted it gracefully, with maiden modesty; and they proceeded in due state to the dinner-table, where they were soon deposited side by side. The room was very snug, the dinner very good, and the little party in spirits. The conversation became pretty general, and when Mr. Watkins Tottle had extracted one or two cold observations from his neighbour, and had taken wine with her, he began to acquire confidence rapidly. The cloth was removed; Mrs. Gabriel Parsons drank four glasses of port on the plea of being a nurse just then; and Miss Lillerton took about the same number of sips, on the plea of not wanting any at all. At length, the ladies retired, to the great gratification of Mr. Gabriel Parsons, who had been coughing and frowning at his wife, for half-an-hour previously-signals which Mrs. Parsons never happened to observe, until she had been pressed to take her ordinary quantum, which, to avoid giving trouble, she generally did at once.

"Of course, the marriage record," Parsons replied, chuckling at the joke and glancing at Tottle. Mr. Watkins Tottle felt like he might faint from embarrassment, and it’s hard to imagine how the lady would have reacted if dinner hadn’t just been announced. Mr. Watkins Tottle, with an unusual show of gallantry, offered the tip of his pinky finger; Miss Lillerton took it gracefully, with shyness; and they made their way to the dinner table, where they soon sat side by side. The room was cozy, the dinner was delicious, and the small group was in good spirits. The conversation flowed, and after Mr. Watkins Tottle managed to draw out a few cool remarks from his neighbor and shared a toast with her, he started to feel more confident quickly. The tablecloth was removed; Mrs. Gabriel Parsons drank four glasses of port, claiming she was a nurse at that moment; and Miss Lillerton took about the same number of sips, insisting she didn’t want any at all. Eventually, the ladies left, much to Mr. Gabriel Parsons’s delight, as he had been coughing and frowning at his wife for half an hour—signals that Mrs. Parsons never noticed until she was urged to take her usual amount, which she typically did right away to avoid causing any inconvenience.

'What do you think of her?' inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons of Mr. Watkins Tottle, in an under-tone.

"What do you think of her?" Mr. Gabriel Parsons asked Mr. Watkins Tottle in a low voice.

'I dote on her with enthusiasm already!' replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.

"I already adore her so much!" replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.

'Gentlemen, pray let us drink "the ladies,"' said the Reverend Mr. Timson.

"Guys, let’s raise a glass to 'the ladies,'" said Reverend Mr. Timson.

'The ladies!' said Mr. Watkins Tottle, emptying his glass. In the fulness of his confidence, he felt as if he could make love to a dozen ladies, off-hand.

'The ladies!' said Mr. Watkins Tottle, finishing his drink. Feeling very confident, he thought he could charm a dozen women, just like that.

'Ah!' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, 'I remember when I was a young man-fill your glass, Timson.'

'Ah!' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, 'I remember when I was a young man—fill your glass, Timson.'

'I have this moment emptied it.'

"I just emptied it."

'Then fill again.'

'Then refill.'

'I will,' said Timson, suiting the action to the word.

"I will," said Timson, following through on his promise.

'I remember,' resumed Mr. Gabriel Parsons, 'when I was a younger man, with what a strange compound of feelings I used to drink that toast, and how I used to think every woman was an angel.'

'I remember,' continued Mr. Gabriel Parsons, 'when I was younger, how I used to feel a mix of emotions when I raised that toast, and how I believed every woman was an angel.'

'Was that before you were married?' mildly inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle.

"Was that before you got married?" Mr. Watkins Tottle asked lightly.

'Oh! certainly,' replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons. 'I have never thought so since; and a precious milksop I must have been, ever to have thought so at all. But, you know, I married Fanny under the oddest, and most ridiculous circumstances possible.'

'Oh! definitely,' replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons. 'I haven't thought that way since; and I must have been such a pushover to have ever thought it in the first place. But, you know, I married Fanny under the strangest and most ridiculous circumstances imaginable.'

'What were they, if one may inquire?' asked Timson, who had heard the story, on an average, twice a week for the last six months. Mr. Watkins Tottle listened attentively, in the hope of picking up some suggestion that might be useful to him in his new undertaking.

'What were they, if I can ask?' Timson inquired, having heard the story about twice a week for the past six months. Mr. Watkins Tottle listened closely, hoping to catch some useful insight for his new endeavor.

'I spent my wedding-night in a back-kitchen chimney,' said Parsons, by way of a beginning.

'I spent my wedding night in a back-kitchen chimney,' said Parsons, to start off.

'In a back-kitchen chimney!' ejaculated Watkins Tottle. 'How dreadful!'

'In a back-kitchen chimney!' exclaimed Watkins Tottle. 'How awful!'

'Yes, it wasn't very pleasant,' replied the small host. 'The fact is, Fanny's father and mother liked me well enough as an individual, but had a decided objection to my becoming a husband. You see, I hadn't any money in those days, and they had; and so they wanted Fanny to pick up somebody else. However, we managed to discover the state of each other's affections somehow. I used to meet her, at some mutual friends' parties; at first we danced together, and talked, and flirted, and all that sort of thing; then, I used to like nothing so well as sitting by her side-we didn't talk so much then, but I remember I used to have a great notion of looking at her out of the extreme corner of my left eye-and then I got very miserable and sentimental, and began to write verses, and use Macassar oil. At last I couldn't bear it any longer, and after I had walked up and down the sunny side of Oxford-street in tight boots for a week-and a devilish hot summer it was too-in the hope of meeting her, I sat down and wrote a letter, and begged her to manage to see me clandestinely, for I wanted to hear her decision from her own mouth. I said I had discovered, to my perfect satisfaction, that I couldn't live without her, and that if she didn't have me, I had made up my mind to take prussic acid, or take to drinking, or emigrate, so as to take myself off in some way or other. Well, I borrowed a pound, and bribed the housemaid to give her the note, which she did.'

'Yeah, it wasn't very nice,' replied the small host. 'The thing is, Fanny's parents liked me fine as a person, but they were totally against me becoming her husband. You see, I didn't have any money back then, and they did; so they wanted Fanny to find someone else. Anyway, we somehow figured out how we felt about each other. I used to see her at parties of some mutual friends; at first we danced, talked, and flirted, you know, all that stuff; then I loved nothing more than sitting by her side—we didn't talk much then, but I remember trying to sneak glances at her out of the corner of my left eye—and then I became really miserable and sentimental, started writing poems, and using Macassar oil. Eventually, I just couldn't take it anymore. After walking up and down the sunny side of Oxford Street in tight shoes for a week—and it was an incredibly hot summer too—hoping to bump into her, I finally sat down and wrote a letter, begging her to find a way to meet me secretly because I wanted to hear her decision straight from her. I told her I had figured out, to my absolute satisfaction, that I couldn't live without her, and that if she didn't want me, I was seriously considering taking prussic acid, starting to drink, or emigrating to disappear somehow. Well, I borrowed a pound and bribed the housemaid to deliver the note to her, which she did.'

'And what was the reply?' inquired Timson, who had found, before, that to encourage the repetition of old stories is to get a general invitation.

'And what was the reply?' Timson asked, knowing from experience that encouraging someone to repeat old stories usually opens the door for everyone to chime in.

'Oh, the usual one! Fanny expressed herself very miserable; hinted at the possibility of an early grave; said that nothing should induce her to swerve from the duty she owed her parents; implored me to forget her, and find out somebody more deserving, and all that sort of thing. She said she could, on no account, think of meeting me unknown to her pa and ma; and entreated me, as she should be in a particular part of Kensington Gardens at eleven o'clock next morning, not to attempt to meet her there.'

'Oh, the usual stuff! Fanny said she was really unhappy; suggested she might end up in an early grave; insisted that nothing would make her stray from the responsibility she had to her parents; begged me to forget about her and find someone better, and all that sort of thing. She said she absolutely couldn't think of meeting me without her parents knowing; and asked me, because she'd be in a specific area of Kensington Gardens at eleven o'clock the next morning, not to try to meet her there.'

'You didn't go, of course?' said Watkins Tottle.

'You didn't go, right?' said Watkins Tottle.

'Didn't I?-Of course I did. There she was, with the identical housemaid in perspective, in order that there might be no interruption. We walked about, for a couple of hours; made ourselves delightfully miserable; and were regularly engaged. Then, we began to "correspond"-that is to say, we used to exchange about four letters a day; what we used to say in 'em I can't imagine. And I used to have an interview, in the kitchen, or the cellar, or some such place, every evening. Well, things went on in this way for some time; and we got fonder of each other every day. At last, as our love was raised to such a pitch, and as my salary had been raised too, shortly before, we determined on a secret marriage. Fanny arranged to sleep at a friend's, on the previous night; we were to be married early in the morning; and then we were to return to her home and be pathetic. She was to fall at the old gentleman's feet, and bathe his boots with her tears; and I was to hug the old lady and call her "mother," and use my pocket-handkerchief as much as possible. Married we were, the next morning; two girls-friends of Fanny's-acting as bridesmaids; and a man, who was hired for five shillings and a pint of porter, officiating as father. Now, the old lady unfortunately put off her return from Ramsgate, where she had been paying a visit, until the next morning; and as we placed great reliance on her, we agreed to postpone our confession for four-and-twenty hours. My newly-made wife returned home, and I spent my wedding-day in strolling about Hampstead- heath, and execrating my father-in-law. Of course, I went to comfort my dear little wife at night, as much as I could, with the assurance that our troubles would soon be over. I opened the garden-gate, of which I had a key, and was shown by the servant to our old place of meeting-a back kitchen, with a stone-floor and a dresser: upon which, in the absence of chairs, we used to sit and make love.'

'Didn't I? Of course I did. There she was, with the same housemaid around, so there wouldn’t be any interruptions. We walked around for a couple of hours, making ourselves happily miserable, and we were officially engaged. Then, we started to "correspond"—that is, we exchanged about four letters a day; I can’t remember what we talked about in them. I would have a meeting in the kitchen, or the cellar, or some other spot every evening. Well, things went on like this for a while, and we grew fonder of each other every day. Finally, as our love reached an all-time high, and since my salary had also gone up not too long ago, we decided on a secret wedding. Fanny planned to stay overnight at a friend's house the night before; we were to get married early in the morning; then we would go back to her home and act all emotional. She was going to fall at the old gentleman’s feet, crying over his boots, and I would hug the old lady and call her "mother," using my handkerchief as much as possible. We got married the next morning, with two girls—Fanny’s friends—acting as bridesmaids, and a guy we hired for five shillings and a pint of beer officiating as the father. Unfortunately, the old lady delayed her return from Ramsgate, where she had been visiting, until the next morning; since we relied on her a lot, we decided to hold off on our confession for twenty-four hours. My new wife went home, and I spent my wedding day wandering around Hampstead Heath, cursing my father-in-law. Of course, I went to comfort my dear little wife that night as best as I could, assuring her that our troubles would soon be over. I opened the garden gate with my key, and the servant showed me to our usual meeting place—a back kitchen with a stone floor and a dresser—where, lacking chairs, we would sit and be romantic.'

'Make love upon a kitchen-dresser!' interrupted Mr. Watkins Tottle, whose ideas of decorum were greatly outraged.

'Make love on a kitchen counter!' interrupted Mr. Watkins Tottle, whose sense of propriety was severely offended.

'Ah! On a kitchen-dresser!' replied Parsons. 'And let me tell you, old fellow, that, if you were really over head-and-ears in love, and had no other place to make love in, you'd be devilish glad to avail yourself of such an opportunity. However, let me see;-where was I?'

'Ah! On a kitchen counter!' replied Parsons. 'And let me tell you, my friend, that if you were truly head over heels in love and had nowhere else to be romantic, you'd be really happy to take advantage of that chance. Now, where was I?'

'On the dresser,' suggested Timson.

"On the dresser," suggested Timson.

'Oh-ah! Well, here I found poor Fanny, quite disconsolate and uncomfortable. The old boy had been very cross all day, which made her feel still more lonely; and she was quite out of spirits. So, I put a good face on the matter, and laughed it off, and said we should enjoy the pleasures of a matrimonial life more by contrast; and, at length, poor Fanny brightened up a little. I stopped there, till about eleven o'clock, and, just as I was taking my leave for the fourteenth time, the girl came running down the stairs, without her shoes, in a great fright, to tell us that the old villain-Heaven forgive me for calling him so, for he is dead and gone now!-prompted I suppose by the prince of darkness, was coming down, to draw his own beer for supper-a thing he had not done before, for six months, to my certain knowledge; for the cask stood in that very back kitchen. If he discovered me there, explanation would have been out of the question; for he was so outrageously violent, when at all excited, that he never would have listened to me. There was only one thing to be done. The chimney was a very wide one; it had been originally built for an oven; went up perpendicularly for a few feet, and then shot backward and formed a sort of small cavern. My hopes and fortune-the means of our joint existence almost-were at stake. I scrambled in like a squirrel; coiled myself up in this recess; and, as Fanny and the girl replaced the deal chimney- board, I could see the light of the candle which my unconscious father- in-law carried in his hand. I heard him draw the beer; and I never heard beer run so slowly. He was just leaving the kitchen, and I was preparing to descend, when down came the infernal chimney-board with a tremendous crash. He stopped and put down the candle and the jug of beer on the dresser; he was a nervous old fellow, and any unexpected noise annoyed him. He coolly observed that the fire-place was never used, and sending the frightened servant into the next kitchen for a hammer and nails, actually nailed up the board, and locked the door on the outside. So, there was I, on my wedding-night, in the light kerseymere trousers, fancy waistcoat, and blue coat, that I had been married in in the morning, in a back-kitchen chimney, the bottom of which was nailed up, and the top of which had been formerly raised some fifteen feet, to prevent the smoke from annoying the neighbours. And there,' added Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he passed the bottle, 'there I remained till half-past seven the next morning, when the housemaid's sweetheart, who was a carpenter, unshelled me. The old dog had nailed me up so securely, that, to this very hour, I firmly believe that no one but a carpenter could ever have got me out.'

'Oh wow! Well, I found poor Fanny completely down and uncomfortable. The old guy had been really grumpy all day, which made her feel even lonelier; she was pretty down in the dumps. So, I tried to lighten the mood, laughed it off, and said we would appreciate the joys of married life even more by contrast. Eventually, poor Fanny cheered up a bit. I stayed there until about eleven o'clock, and just as I was about to leave for the fourteenth time, the girl came rushing down the stairs without her shoes, looking really scared, to tell us that the old creep—may heaven forgive me for calling him that since he's dead and gone now!—was coming down to draw his own beer for supper. He hadn’t done that in six months, to my knowledge, because the cask was in that very back kitchen. If he had found me there, there was no way I could have explained myself; he was so outrageously volatile that he would never have listened to me. There was only one thing to do. The chimney was really wide; it had originally been built for an oven, went straight up for a few feet, and then angled back to form a sort of small cave. My hopes and fortunes—our survival—were at stake. I scrambled in like a squirrel, curled up in that recess, and as Fanny and the girl replaced the deal chimney-board, I could see the light of the candle that my oblivious father-in-law was holding. I heard him draw the beer, and it was the slowest beer pour I’d ever heard. He was just leaving the kitchen, and I was getting ready to come down when that blasted chimney-board crashed down. He stopped, put the candle and the jug of beer on the dresser; being a nervous old guy, any sudden noise bothered him. He calmly remarked that the fireplace was never used and sent the terrified servant into the next kitchen for a hammer and nails. He actually nailed up the board and locked the door from the outside. So there I was, on my wedding night, in those light kerseymere trousers, fancy waistcoat, and blue coat that I had worn that morning, stuck in a back-kitchen chimney, the bottom of which was nailed shut while the top had been raised about fifteen feet to keep the smoke from annoying the neighbors. And there," added Mr. Gabriel Parsons as he passed the bottle, "I stayed until half-past seven the next morning when the housemaid's boyfriend, who was a carpenter, rescued me. The old dog had nailed me up so securely that, to this day, I firmly believe that only a carpenter could have gotten me out.'

'And what did Mrs. Parsons's father say, when he found you were married?' inquired Watkins Tottle, who, although he never saw a joke, was not satisfied until he heard a story to the very end.

'And what did Mrs. Parsons's dad say when he found out you were married?' inquired Watkins Tottle, who, even though he never got a joke, wasn't satisfied until he heard a story all the way through.

'Why, the affair of the chimney so tickled his fancy, that he pardoned us off-hand, and allowed us something to live on till he went the way of all flesh. I spent the next night in his second-floor front, much more comfortably than I had spent the preceding one; for, as you will probably guess-'

'Why, the whole chimney thing amused him so much that he forgave us right away and let us have something to get by on until he passed away. I spent the next night in his second-floor front room, much more comfortably than the previous night; because, as you can probably imagine-'

'Please, sir, missis has made tea,' said a middle-aged female servant, bobbing into the room.

"Excuse me, sir, the missus has made tea," said a middle-aged female servant, popping into the room.

'That's the very housemaid that figures in my story,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons. 'She went into Fanny's service when we were first married, and has been with us ever since; but I don't think she has felt one atom of respect for me since the morning she saw me released, when she went into violent hysterics, to which she has been subject ever since. Now, shall we join the ladies?'

'That's the exact housemaid in my story,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons. 'She started working for Fanny when we first got married and has been with us ever since; but I don't think she's had any respect for me since the morning she saw me set free, which caused her to go into a fit of hysterics, something she’s struggled with ever since. So, should we join the ladies?'

'If you please,' said Mr. Watkins Tottle.

'If you don’t mind,' said Mr. Watkins Tottle.

'By all means,' added the obsequious Mr. Timson; and the trio made for the drawing-room accordingly.

'Of course,' added the ingratiating Mr. Timson; and the three of them headed to the drawing-room accordingly.

Tea being concluded, and the toast and cups having been duly handed, and occasionally upset, by Mr. Watkins Tottle, a rubber was proposed. They cut for partners-Mr. and Mrs. Parsons; and Mr. Watkins Tottle and Miss Lillerton. Mr. Timson having conscientious scruples on the subject of card-playing, drank brandy-and-water, and kept up a running spar with Mr. Watkins Tottle. The evening went off well; Mr. Watkins Tottle was in high spirits, having some reason to be gratified with his reception by Miss Lillerton; and before he left, a small party was made up to visit the Beulah Spa on the following Saturday.

After tea was finished, and the toast and cups had been properly passed around, sometimes knocked over by Mr. Watkins Tottle, a game of cards was suggested. They drew for partners—Mr. and Mrs. Parsons; and Mr. Watkins Tottle with Miss Lillerton. Mr. Timson, who had strong feelings against playing cards, sipped brandy-and-water and engaged in light banter with Mr. Watkins Tottle. The evening went well; Mr. Watkins Tottle was in great spirits, pleased with the way Miss Lillerton had received him; and before he left, a small group was formed to visit the Beulah Spa the following Saturday.

'It's all right, I think,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons to Mr. Watkins Tottle as he opened the garden gate for him.

"It's all good, I think," said Mr. Gabriel Parsons to Mr. Watkins Tottle as he opened the garden gate for him.

'I hope so,' he replied, squeezing his friend's hand.

"I hope so," he said, giving his friend's hand a squeeze.

'You'll be down by the first coach on Saturday,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons.

'Certainly,' replied Mr. Watkins Tottle. 'Undoubtedly.'

'Definitely,' replied Mr. Watkins Tottle. 'For sure.'

But fortune had decreed that Mr. Watkins Tottle should not be down by the first coach on Saturday. His adventures on that day, however, and the success of his wooing, are subjects for another chapter.

But fate had decided that Mr. Watkins Tottle wouldn’t be on the first coach on Saturday. His adventures on that day, however, and the success of his romantic pursuits, are topics for another chapter.

CHAPTER THE SECOND

'The first coach has not come in yet, has it, Tom?' inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he very complacently paced up and down the fourteen feet of gravel which bordered the 'lawn,' on the Saturday morning which had been fixed upon for the Beulah Spa jaunt.

'The first coach hasn’t arrived yet, has it, Tom?' asked Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he calmly walked back and forth along the fourteen feet of gravel that lined the 'lawn,' on the Saturday morning that had been chosen for the Beulah Spa trip.

'No, sir; I haven't seen it,' replied a gardener in a blue apron, who let himself out to do the ornamental for half-a-crown a day and his 'keep.'

'No, sir; I haven't seen it,' replied a gardener in a blue apron, who went out to do the decorative work for two shillings and sixpence a day and his meals.

'Time Tottle was down,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ruminating-'Oh, here he is, no doubt,' added Gabriel, as a cab drove rapidly up the hill; and he buttoned his dressing-gown, and opened the gate to receive the expected visitor. The cab stopped, and out jumped a man in a coarse Petersham great-coat, whity-brown neckerchief, faded black suit, gamboge-coloured top-boots, and one of those large-crowned hats, formerly seldom met with, but now very generally patronised by gentlemen and costermongers.

'Time Tottle was down,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, thinking—'Oh, here he is, for sure,' added Gabriel as a cab sped up the hill; and he buttoned his bathrobe and opened the gate to welcome the anticipated visitor. The cab came to a stop, and a man jumped out wearing a rough Petersham coat, a light brown scarf, a faded black suit, bright yellow top boots, and one of those large-crowned hats that used to be rare but are now commonly worn by gentlemen and street vendors.

'Mr. Parsons?' said the man, looking at the superscription of a note he held in his hand, and addressing Gabriel with an inquiring air.

'Mr. Parsons?' the man said, glancing at the heading of a note he was holding, and looking at Gabriel with a questioning expression.

'My name is Parsons,' responded the sugar-baker.

'My name is Parsons,' replied the sugar-baker.

'I've brought this here note,' replied the individual in the painted tops, in a hoarse whisper: 'I've brought this here note from a gen'lm'n as come to our house this mornin'.'

'I brought this note,' replied the person in the painted tops, in a hoarse whisper. 'I brought this note from a gentleman who came to our house this morning.'

'I expected the gentleman at my house,' said Parsons, as he broke the seal, which bore the impression of her Majesty's profile as it is seen on a sixpence.

'I expected the guy at my house,' said Parsons as he broke the seal, which had the image of her Majesty's profile like it appears on a sixpence.

'I've no doubt the gen'lm'n would ha' been here, replied the stranger, 'if he hadn't happened to call at our house first; but we never trusts no gen'lm'n furder nor we can see him-no mistake about that there'-added the unknown, with a facetious grin; 'beg your pardon, sir, no offence meant, only-once in, and I wish you may-catch the idea, sir?'

"I’m sure the gentleman would have been here," the stranger replied, "if he hadn’t happened to stop by our place first; but we never trust any gentleman further than we can see him—no doubt about that," added the unknown with a cheeky grin. "I apologize, sir, no offense intended—it's just that once they’re in, I hope you understand what I mean, sir?"

Mr. Gabriel Parsons was not remarkable for catching anything suddenly, but a cold. He therefore only bestowed a glance of profound astonishment on his mysterious companion, and proceeded to unfold the note of which he had been the bearer. Once opened and the idea was caught with very little difficulty. Mr. Watkins Tottle had been suddenly arrested for 33l. 10s. 4d., and dated his communication from a lock-up house in the vicinity of Chancery-lane.

Mr. Gabriel Parsons wasn’t known for being quick about anything, except catching a cold. So, he just gave his mysterious companion a look of complete surprise and then started to unfold the note he had been carrying. Once it was open, the message was easy to understand. Mr. Watkins Tottle had been suddenly arrested for £33.10.4, and he sent his message from a holding cell near Chancery Lane.

'Unfortunate affair this!' said Parsons, refolding the note.

'What a unfortunate situation this is!' said Parsons, refolding the note.

'Oh! nothin' ven you're used to it,' coolly observed the man in the Petersham.

'Oh! nothing when you're used to it,' the man in the Petersham said casually.

'Tom!' exclaimed Parsons, after a few minutes' consideration, 'just put the horse in, will you?-Tell the gentleman that I shall be there almost as soon as you are,' he continued, addressing the sheriff-officer's Mercury.

'Tom!' Parsons exclaimed after thinking for a few minutes, 'just put the horse in, will you? - Tell the gentleman that I’ll be there almost as soon as you are,' he continued, addressing the sheriff-officer’s Mercury.

'Werry well,' replied that important functionary; adding, in a confidential manner, 'I'd adwise the gen'lm'n's friends to settle. You see it's a mere trifle; and, unless the gen'lm'n means to go up afore the court, it's hardly worth while waiting for detainers, you know. Our governor's wide awake, he is. I'll never say nothin' agin him, nor no man; but he knows what's o'clock, he does, uncommon.' Having delivered this eloquent, and, to Parsons, particularly intelligible harangue, the meaning of which was eked out by divers nods and winks, the gentleman in the boots reseated himself in the cab, which went rapidly off, and was soon out of sight. Mr. Gabriel Parsons continued to pace up and down the pathway for some minutes, apparently absorbed in deep meditation. The result of his cogitations seemed to be perfectly satisfactory to himself, for he ran briskly into the house; said that business had suddenly summoned him to town; that he had desired the messenger to inform Mr. Watkins Tottle of the fact; and that they would return together to dinner. He then hastily equipped himself for a drive, and mounting his gig, was soon on his way to the establishment of Mr. Solomon Jacobs, situate (as Mr. Watkins Tottle had informed him) in Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane.

“Alright,” replied the important official, adding in a confidential tone, “I’d recommend the gentleman's friends to settle. It’s just a small matter; and unless the gentleman plans to go before the court, it’s really not worth waiting for detainers, you know. Our boss is sharp, he really is. I won't say anything against him, or anyone else; but he knows what’s up, he really does.” After giving this eloquent speech, which was particularly clear to Parsons thanks to various nods and winks, the gentleman in the boots got back into the cab, which quickly drove off and was soon out of sight. Mr. Gabriel Parsons continued to pace the pathway for a few minutes, seemingly lost in thought. The outcome of his reflections seemed to be completely satisfactory to him, as he hurried into the house, saying that business had abruptly called him to town, that he had asked the messenger to inform Mr. Watkins Tottle of this, and that they would return together for dinner. He then quickly prepared for a drive, jumped into his gig, and was soon on his way to Mr. Solomon Jacobs' establishment, located (as Mr. Watkins Tottle had told him) on Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane.

When a man is in a violent hurry to get on, and has a specific object in view, the attainment of which depends on the completion of his journey, the difficulties which interpose themselves in his way appear not only to be innumerable, but to have been called into existence especially for the occasion. The remark is by no means a new one, and Mr. Gabriel Parsons had practical and painful experience of its justice in the course of his drive. There are three classes of animated objects which prevent your driving with any degree of comfort or celerity through streets which are but little frequented-they are pigs, children, and old women. On the occasion we are describing, the pigs were luxuriating on cabbage-stalks, and the shuttlecocks fluttered from the little deal battledores, and the children played in the road; and women, with a basket in one hand, and the street-door key in the other, would cross just before the horse's head, until Mr. Gabriel Parsons was perfectly savage with vexation, and quite hoarse with hoi-ing and imprecating. Then, when he got into Fleet-street, there was 'a stoppage,' in which people in vehicles have the satisfaction of remaining stationary for half an hour, and envying the slowest pedestrians; and where policemen rush about, and seize hold of horses' bridles, and back them into shop- windows, by way of clearing the road and preventing confusion. At length Mr. Gabriel Parsons turned into Chancery-lane, and having inquired for, and been directed to Cursitor-street (for it was a locality of which he was quite ignorant), he soon found himself opposite the house of Mr. Solomon Jacobs. Confiding his horse and gig to the care of one of the fourteen boys who had followed him from the other side of Blackfriars-bridge on the chance of his requiring their services, Mr. Gabriel Parsons crossed the road and knocked at an inner door, the upper part of which was of glass, grated like the windows of this inviting mansion with iron bars-painted white to look comfortable.

When a man is in a rush to get somewhere specific, which he can only reach by completing his journey, the obstacles in his path seem endless and like they were created just for him. This isn't a new observation, and Mr. Gabriel Parsons felt the truth of it painfully during his drive. There are three types of lively distractions that make it hard to drive comfortably or quickly through less-traveled streets: pigs, kids, and old women. On this particular occasion, pigs were enjoying cabbage leaves, kids were playing with shuttlecocks using little wooden paddles in the road, and women carrying baskets and keys would cross right in front of the horse, driving Mr. Gabriel Parsons to a state of furious annoyance, yelling and swearing. Then, when he entered Fleet Street, there was a traffic jam that forced drivers to sit still for half an hour while watching even the slowest pedestrians go by. Policemen rushed around, grabbing horses' reins and backing them into shop windows to clear the roadway and avoid chaos. Finally, Mr. Gabriel Parsons turned into Chancery Lane, asked for directions to Cursitor Street (a place he knew nothing about), and soon found himself in front of Mr. Solomon Jacobs' house. He entrusted his horse and gig to one of the fourteen boys who had followed him from Blackfriars Bridge, hoping to earn some money, and crossed the street to knock on an inner door, the upper part of which was made of glass and barred like the windows of this inviting house, painted white to look appealing.

The knock was answered by a sallow-faced, red-haired, sulky boy, who, after surveying Mr. Gabriel Parsons through the glass, applied a large key to an immense wooden excrescence, which was in reality a lock, but which, taken in conjunction with the iron nails with which the panels were studded, gave the door the appearance of being subject to warts.

The knock was answered by a pale-faced, red-haired, grumpy boy, who, after checking out Mr. Gabriel Parsons through the glass, used a big key on a huge wooden growth that was actually a lock. However, along with the iron nails studding the panels, it made the door look like it had warts.

'I want to see Mr. Watkins Tottle,' said Parsons.

'I want to see Mr. Watkins Tottle,' Parsons said.

'It's the gentleman that come in this morning, Jem,' screamed a voice from the top of the kitchen-stairs, which belonged to a dirty woman who had just brought her chin to a level with the passage-floor. 'The gentleman's in the coffee-room.'

'It's the guy who came in this morning, Jem,' yelled a voice from the top of the kitchen stairs, belonging to a messy woman who had just lowered her chin to the level of the hallway floor. 'The guy's in the coffee room.'

'Up-stairs, sir,' said the boy, just opening the door wide enough to let Parsons in without squeezing him, and double-locking it the moment he had made his way through the aperture-'First floor-door on the left.'

'Upstairs, sir,' said the boy, just opening the door wide enough to let Parsons in without squeezing him, and double-locking it the moment he had made his way through the opening—'First floor, door on the left.'

Mr. Gabriel Parsons thus instructed, ascended the uncarpeted and ill- lighted staircase, and after giving several subdued taps at the before- mentioned 'door on the left,' which were rendered inaudible by the hum of voices within the room, and the hissing noise attendant on some frying operations which were carrying on below stairs, turned the handle, and entered the apartment. Being informed that the unfortunate object of his visit had just gone up-stairs to write a letter, he had leisure to sit down and observe the scene before him.

Mr. Gabriel Parsons followed the instructions and climbed the dark, bare staircase. After knocking softly on the previously mentioned 'door on the left,' his knocks were drowned out by the chatter inside the room and the sizzling sounds of cooking coming from downstairs. He turned the handle and walked into the room. When he learned that the person he was visiting had just gone upstairs to write a letter, he had a moment to sit down and take in the scene around him.

The room-which was a small, confined den-was partitioned off into boxes, like the common-room of some inferior eating-house. The dirty floor had evidently been as long a stranger to the scrubbing-brush as to carpet or floor-cloth: and the ceiling was completely blackened by the flare of the oil-lamp by which the room was lighted at night. The gray ashes on the edges of the tables, and the cigar ends which were plentifully scattered about the dusty grate, fully accounted for the intolerable smell of tobacco which pervaded the place; and the empty glasses and half-saturated slices of lemon on the tables, together with the porter pots beneath them, bore testimony to the frequent libations in which the individuals who honoured Mr. Solomon Jacobs by a temporary residence in his house indulged. Over the mantel-shelf was a paltry looking-glass, extending about half the width of the chimney-piece; but by way of counterpoise, the ashes were confined by a rusty fender about twice as long as the hearth.

The room— which was a small, cramped den— was divided into sections, like the common area of some cheap diner. The filthy floor clearly hadn't seen a scrubbing brush in ages, nor did it have a carpet or floor cloth. The ceiling was completely blackened from the flame of the oil lamp that lit the room at night. The gray ashes on the edges of the tables and the cigar butts scattered around the dusty fireplace explained the awful smell of tobacco that filled the space; the empty glasses and half-eaten lemon slices on the tables, along with the beer glasses underneath, showed how often the guests who graced Mr. Solomon Jacobs with their temporary presence enjoyed drinks. Above the mantel was a shabby mirror that stretched about half the width of the fireplace; to balance it out, the ashes were contained by a rusty fender that was about twice as long as the hearth.

From this cheerful room itself, the attention of Mr. Gabriel Parsons was naturally directed to its inmates. In one of the boxes two men were playing at cribbage with a very dirty pack of cards, some with blue, some with green, and some with red backs-selections from decayed packs. The cribbage board had been long ago formed on the table by some ingenious visitor with the assistance of a pocket-knife and a two- pronged fork, with which the necessary number of holes had been made in the table at proper distances for the reception of the wooden pegs. In another box a stout, hearty-looking man, of about forty, was eating some dinner which his wife-an equally comfortable-looking personage-had brought him in a basket: and in a third, a genteel-looking young man was talking earnestly, and in a low tone, to a young female, whose face was concealed by a thick veil, but whom Mr. Gabriel Parsons immediately set down in his own mind as the debtor's wife. A young fellow of vulgar manners, dressed in the very extreme of the prevailing fashion, was pacing up and down the room, with a lighted cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, ever and anon puffing forth volumes of smoke, and occasionally applying, with much apparent relish, to a pint pot, the contents of which were 'chilling' on the hob.

From this cheerful room itself, Mr. Gabriel Parsons's attention was naturally drawn to its occupants. In one of the booths, two men were playing cribbage with a very dirty pack of cards, some with blue backs, some with green, and some with red — remnants from worn-out decks. The cribbage board had long ago been created on the table by some resourceful visitor using a pocket knife and a two-pronged fork, which had made the necessary holes in the table at the right distances for the wooden pegs. In another booth, a stout, hearty-looking man around forty was eating dinner that his wife — an equally comfortable-looking woman — had brought him in a basket. In a third booth, a stylish young man was talking earnestly and quietly to a young woman whose face was hidden by a thick veil, but whom Mr. Gabriel Parsons immediately concluded in his mind was the debtor's wife. A young man with crude manners, dressed in the latest fashion, was pacing back and forth in the room with a lit cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, occasionally puffing out clouds of smoke and at times taking a long drink from a pint pot, the contents of which were 'chilling' on the hob.

'Fourpence more, by gum!' exclaimed one of the cribbage-players, lighting a pipe, and addressing his adversary at the close of the game; 'one 'ud think you'd got luck in a pepper-cruet, and shook it out when you wanted it.'

'Fourpence more, for crying out loud!' exclaimed one of the cribbage players, lighting a pipe and speaking to his opponent at the end of the game; 'you'd think you had luck in a pepper shaker and just grabbed it when you needed it.'

'Well, that a'n't a bad un,' replied the other, who was a horse-dealer from Islington.

'Well, that isn't a bad one,' replied the other, who was a horse dealer from Islington.

'No; I'm blessed if it is,' interposed the jolly-looking fellow, who, having finished his dinner, was drinking out of the same glass as his wife, in truly conjugal harmony, some hot gin-and-water. The faithful partner of his cares had brought a plentiful supply of the anti- temperance fluid in a large flat stone bottle, which looked like a half- gallon jar that had been successfully tapped for the dropsy. 'You're a rum chap, you are, Mr. Walker-will you dip your beak into this, sir?'

'No way; I'm serious if it is,' chimed in the cheerful-looking guy, who, having finished his dinner, was sharing a drink with his wife—some hot gin and water—in a perfect show of marital harmony. His devoted partner had brought a good supply of the not-so-temperance drink in a large flat stone bottle that looked like a half-gallon jar that had been successfully drained for the dropsy. 'You're a funny guy, Mr. Walker—will you take a sip of this, sir?'

'Thank'ee, sir,' replied Mr. Walker, leaving his box, and advancing to the other to accept the proffered glass. 'Here's your health, sir, and your good 'ooman's here. Gentlemen all-yours, and better luck still. Well, Mr. Willis,' continued the facetious prisoner, addressing the young man with the cigar, 'you seem rather down to-day-floored, as one may say. What's the matter, sir? Never say die, you know.'

'Thank you, sir,' replied Mr. Walker, getting up from his seat and stepping over to take the offered glass. 'Here's to your health, sir, and to your lovely lady here. Gentlemen, all to you, and even better luck ahead. Well, Mr. Willis,' continued the joking prisoner, looking at the young man with the cigar, 'you seem a bit low today—bummed out, so to speak. What's going on, sir? Never give up, you know.'

'Oh! I'm all right,' replied the smoker. 'I shall be bailed out to- morrow.'

'Oh! I'm fine,' replied the smoker. 'I'll be bailed out tomorrow.'

'Shall you, though?' inquired the other. 'Damme, I wish I could say the same. I am as regularly over head and ears as the Royal George, and stand about as much chance of being bailed out. Ha! ha! ha!'

"Are you really going to?" the other asked. "Damn, I wish I could say the same. I'm as deeply in it as the Royal George and have about as much chance of getting out. Ha! ha! ha!"

'Why,' said the young man, stopping short, and speaking in a very loud key, 'look at me. What d'ye think I've stopped here two days for?'

'Why,' the young man said, halting abruptly and speaking very loudly, 'look at me. What do you think I've been hanging around here for two days?'

''Cause you couldn't get out, I suppose,' interrupted Mr. Walker, winking to the company. 'Not that you're exactly obliged to stop here, only you can't help it. No compulsion, you know, only you must-eh?'

''Because you couldn't leave, I guess,'' interrupted Mr. Walker, winking at the group. ''It's not like you're required to stay here, but you really can't help it. No pressure, you know, but you have to—right?''

'A'n't he a rum un?' inquired the delighted individual, who had offered the gin-and-water, of his wife.

"Ain't he a strange one?" asked the pleased person, who had offered the gin and water, to his wife.

'Oh, he just is!' replied the lady, who was quite overcome by these flashes of imagination.

'Oh, he totally is!' replied the lady, who was completely swept away by these bursts of imagination.

'Why, my case,' frowned the victim, throwing the end of his cigar into the fire, and illustrating his argument by knocking the bottom of the pot on the table, at intervals,-'my case is a very singular one. My father's a man of large property, and I am his son.'

'Why, my situation,' frowned the victim, tossing the end of his cigar into the fire and emphasizing his point by thumping the bottom of the pot on the table every so often, 'my situation is quite unique. My father is a wealthy man, and I am his son.'

'That's a very strange circumstance!' interrupted the jocose Mr. Walker, en passant.

"That's a really weird situation!" interrupted the funny Mr. Walker, casually.

'-I am his son, and have received a liberal education. I don't owe no man nothing-not the value of a farthing, but I was induced, you see, to put my name to some bills for a friend-bills to a large amount, I may say a very large amount, for which I didn't receive no consideration. What's the consequence?'

'-I am his son, and I've had a good education. I don't owe anyone anything—not even a penny—but I was persuaded, you see, to sign some loans for a friend—loans for a significant amount, I might add a very large amount, for which I didn't get anything in return. What's the result?'

'Why, I suppose the bills went out, and you came in. The acceptances weren't taken up, and you were, eh?' inquired Walker.

'Well, I guess the bills were sent out, and you showed up. The acceptances weren't processed, and you were, right?' asked Walker.

'To be sure,' replied the liberally educated young gentleman. 'To be sure; and so here I am, locked up for a matter of twelve hundred pound.'

'Of course,' replied the well-educated young man. 'Of course; and here I am, locked up for about twelve hundred pounds.'

'Why don't you ask your old governor to stump up?' inquired Walker, with a somewhat sceptical air.

"Why don't you ask your old governor to pitch in?" Walker asked, sounding a bit skeptical.

'Oh! bless you, he'd never do it,' replied the other, in a tone of expostulation-'Never!'

'Oh! bless you, he would never do that,' replied the other, in a tone of disbelief—'Never!'

'Well, it is very odd to-be-sure,' interposed the owner of the flat bottle, mixing another glass, 'but I've been in difficulties, as one may say, now for thirty year. I went to pieces when I was in a milk-walk, thirty year ago; arterwards, when I was a fruiterer, and kept a spring wan; and arter that again in the coal and 'tatur line-but all that time I never see a youngish chap come into a place of this kind, who wasn't going out again directly, and who hadn't been arrested on bills which he'd given a friend and for which he'd received nothing whatsomever-not a fraction.'

"Well, it's definitely strange," interrupted the owner of the flat bottle while mixing another glass, "but I've been struggling, you could say, for thirty years. I fell apart when I was working a milk route thirty years ago; then, later, when I was a fruit seller and had a spring wagon; and again after that in the coal and potato business—but all that time, I never saw a young guy come into a place like this who didn't leave right away and who hadn't been arrested for debts he had given to a friend and for which he hadn’t received a single thing—not even a penny."

'Oh! it's always the cry,' said Walker. 'I can't see the use on it; that's what makes me so wild. Why, I should have a much better opinion of an individual, if he'd say at once in an honourable and gentlemanly manner as he'd done everybody he possibly could.'

'Oh! it's always the same complaint,' said Walker. 'I can't see the point of it; that's what drives me crazy. Honestly, I would have a much better opinion of someone if they just admitted upfront, in an honorable and gentlemanly way, that they did everything they could.'

'Ay, to be sure,' interposed the horse-dealer, with whose notions of bargain and sale the axiom perfectly coincided, 'so should I.' The young gentleman, who had given rise to these observations, was on the point of offering a rather angry reply to these sneers, but the rising of the young man before noticed, and of the female who had been sitting by him, to leave the room, interrupted the conversation. She had been weeping bitterly, and the noxious atmosphere of the room acting upon her excited feelings and delicate frame, rendered the support of her companion necessary as they quitted it together.

"Yeah, for sure," chimed in the horse dealer, whose ideas about deal-making aligned perfectly with that statement, "I would too." The young man, who had sparked these comments, was just about to respond angrily to their jabs when the young man previously mentioned, along with the woman sitting beside him, stood up to leave the room, cutting off the conversation. She had been crying hard, and the unpleasant atmosphere of the room affected her heightened emotions and fragile condition, making it essential for her companion to support her as they exited together.

There was an air of superiority about them both, and something in their appearance so unusual in such a place, that a respectful silence was observed until the whirr-r-bang of the spring door announced that they were out of hearing. It was broken by the wife of the ex-fruiterer.

There was an air of superiority around both of them, and something about their appearance, so unusual for that place, caused a respectful silence until the whirr-r-bang of the spring door signaled that they were out of earshot. The silence was shattered by the wife of the former fruit seller.

'Poor creetur!' said she, quenching a sigh in a rivulet of gin-and- water. 'She's very young.'

'Poor creature!' she said, suppressing a sigh in a stream of gin and water. 'She's really young.'

'She's a nice-looking 'ooman too,' added the horse-dealer.

'She's a good-looking woman too,' added the horse-dealer.

'What's he in for, Ikey?' inquired Walker, of an individual who was spreading a cloth with numerous blotches of mustard upon it, on one of the tables, and whom Mr. Gabriel Parsons had no difficulty in recognising as the man who had called upon him in the morning.

"What's he in for, Ikey?" asked Walker, looking at a guy who was laying out a cloth covered in mustard stains on one of the tables. Mr. Gabriel Parsons easily recognized him as the man who had visited him earlier in the morning.

'Vy,' responded the factotum, 'it's one of the rummiest rigs you ever heard on. He come in here last Vensday, which by-the-bye he's a-going over the water to-night-hows'ever that's neither here nor there. You see I've been a going back'ards and for'ards about his business, and ha' managed to pick up some of his story from the servants and them; and so far as I can make it out, it seems to be summat to this here effect-'

'Vy,' replied the assistant, 'it's one of the weirdest setups you've ever heard of. He came in here last Wednesday, and by the way, he’s going across the water tonight—though that’s besides the point. You see, I've been going back and forth about his business, and I've managed to pick up some of his story from the servants and others; and as far as I can tell, it seems to be something like this—'

'Cut it short, old fellow,' interrupted Walker, who knew from former experience that he of the top-boots was neither very concise nor intelligible in his narratives.

"Cut it short, buddy," interrupted Walker, who from past experience knew that the guy in the top boots was neither very brief nor clear in his stories.

'Let me alone,' replied Ikey, 'and I'll ha' wound up, and made my lucky in five seconds. This here young gen'lm'n's father-so I'm told, mind ye-and the father o' the young voman, have always been on very bad, out- and-out, rig'lar knock-me-down sort o' terms; but somehow or another, when he was a wisitin' at some gentlefolk's house, as he knowed at college, he came into contract with the young lady. He seed her several times, and then he up and said he'd keep company with her, if so be as she vos agreeable. Vell, she vos as sweet upon him as he vos upon her, and so I s'pose they made it all right; for they got married 'bout six months arterwards, unbeknown, mind ye, to the two fathers-leastways so I'm told. When they heard on it-my eyes, there was such a combustion! Starvation vos the very least that vos to be done to 'em. The young gen'lm'n's father cut him off vith a bob, 'cos he'd cut himself off vith a wife; and the young lady's father he behaved even worser and more unnat'ral, for he not only blow'd her up dreadful, and swore he'd never see her again, but he employed a chap as I knows-and as you knows, Mr. Valker, a precious sight too well-to go about and buy up the bills and them things on which the young husband, thinking his governor 'ud come round agin, had raised the vind just to blow himself on vith for a time; besides vich, he made all the interest he could to set other people agin him. Consequence vos, that he paid as long as he could; but things he never expected to have to meet till he'd had time to turn himself round, come fast upon him, and he vos nabbed. He vos brought here, as I said afore, last Vensday, and I think there's about-ah, half-a-dozen detainers agin him down-stairs now. I have been,' added Ikey, 'in the purfession these fifteen year, and I never met vith such windictiveness afore!'

"Leave me alone," Ikey replied, "and I'll wrap this up and make my fortune in five seconds. This young gentleman's father—so I've heard, mind you—and the father of the young woman have always been on very bad terms, outright hostile, you know; but somehow, when he was visiting some folks he knew from college, he met the young lady. He saw her several times, and then he declared that he would date her, if she was okay with it. Well, she was as into him as he was into her, so I guess they figured it out; they got married about six months later, without either father knowing—at least, that's what I hear. When they found out—oh my, there was such an uproar! Starvation was the least they considered for them. The young gentleman's father cut him off completely because he had cut himself off by marrying; and the young lady's father acted even worse and more unreasonably, as he not only gave her a terrible telling-off and swore he’d never see her again, but he hired a guy that I know—and you know him too well, Mr. Valker—to go around buying up the debts and things that the young husband, thinking his father would come around, had raised just to keep himself afloat for a while; on top of that, he made as much effort as he could to turn others against him. As a result, he paid for as long as he could; but debts he never expected to face until he had time to sort himself out came crashing down on him, and he got caught. He was brought here, as I mentioned before, last Wednesday, and I think there are about—oh, half a dozen claims against him downstairs now. I've been in this profession for fifteen years, and I've never encountered such vindictiveness before!"

'Poor creeturs!' exclaimed the coal-dealer's wife once more: again resorting to the same excellent prescription for nipping a sigh in the bud. 'Ah! when they've seen as much trouble as I and my old man here have, they'll be as comfortable under it as we are.'

'Poor creatures!' exclaimed the coal dealer's wife again, using the same effective method to suppress a sigh. 'Ah! when they've been through as much trouble as my husband and I have, they'll be as at ease with it as we are.'

'The young lady's a pretty creature,' said Walker, 'only she's a little too delicate for my taste-there ain't enough of her. As to the young cove, he may be very respectable and what not, but he's too down in the mouth for me-he ain't game.'

'The young lady's quite pretty,' said Walker, 'but she's a little too delicate for my liking—there's just not enough to her. As for the young guy, he might be very respectable and all, but he seems too gloomy for me—he's not much of a fighter.'

'Game!' exclaimed Ikey, who had been altering the position of a green- handled knife and fork at least a dozen times, in order that he might remain in the room under the pretext of having something to do. 'He's game enough ven there's anything to be fierce about; but who could be game as you call it, Mr. Walker, with a pale young creetur like that, hanging about him?-It's enough to drive any man's heart into his boots to see 'em together-and no mistake at all about it. I never shall forget her first comin' here; he wrote to her on the Thursday to come-I know he did, 'cos I took the letter. Uncommon fidgety he was all day to be sure, and in the evening he goes down into the office, and he says to Jacobs, says he, "Sir, can I have the loan of a private room for a few minutes this evening, without incurring any additional expense-just to see my wife in?" says he. Jacobs looked as much as to say-"Strike me bountiful if you ain't one of the modest sort!" but as the gen'lm'n who had been in the back parlour had just gone out, and had paid for it for that day, he says-werry grave-"Sir," says he, "it's agin our rules to let private rooms to our lodgers on gratis terms, but," says he, "for a gentleman, I don't mind breaking through them for once." So then he turns round to me, and says, "Ikey, put two mould candles in the back parlour, and charge 'em to this gen'lm'n's account," vich I did. Vell, by-and-by a hackney-coach comes up to the door, and there, sure enough, was the young lady, wrapped up in a hopera-cloak, as it might be, and all alone. I opened the gate that night, so I went up when the coach come, and he vos a waitin' at the parlour door-and wasn't he a trembling, neither? The poor creetur see him, and could hardly walk to meet him. "Oh, Harry!" she says, "that it should have come to this; and all for my sake," says she, putting her hand upon his shoulder. So he puts his arm round her pretty little waist, and leading her gently a little way into the room, so that he might be able to shut the door, he says, so kind and soft-like-"Why, Kate," says he-'

'Game!' exclaimed Ikey, who had been adjusting the position of a green-handled knife and fork at least a dozen times so he could stay in the room under the pretense of being busy. 'He’s brave enough when there’s something to be fierce about, but who could act brave, as you say, Mr. Walker, with a pale young thing like that hanging around him? It’s enough to make any man’s heart race to see them together—and that’s no lie. I’ll never forget her first coming here; he wrote to her on Thursday inviting her—I know he did, because I took the letter. He was incredibly anxious all day, and in the evening, he went down to the office and said to Jacobs, “Sir, can I borrow a private room for a few minutes this evening without any extra charge—just to see my wife?” Jacobs looked like he was thinking, “Wow, you’re quite the modest one!” but since the gentleman who had been in the back parlor had just left and paid for it for that day, he said, very seriously, “Sir, it’s against our rules to rent private rooms to our lodgers for free, but,” he said, “for a gentleman, I don’t mind bending the rules this once.” Then he turned to me and said, “Ikey, put two mold candles in the back parlor, and charge them to this gentleman’s account,” which I did. Well, later on, a hackney coach pulled up to the door, and sure enough, there was the young lady, bundled up in a opera cloak and all alone. I opened the gate that night, so I went up when the coach arrived, and he was waiting at the parlor door—and wasn’t he trembling, either? The poor creature saw him and could hardly walk towards him. “Oh, Harry!” she said, “that it should have come to this; and all for my sake,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. So he put his arm around her tiny waist, leading her gently a little way into the room so he could close the door, and he said, very kindly and softly, “Why, Kate,” he said—

'Here's the gentleman you want,' said Ikey, abruptly breaking off in his story, and introducing Mr. Gabriel Parsons to the crest-fallen Watkins Tottle, who at that moment entered the room. Watkins advanced with a wooden expression of passive endurance, and accepted the hand which Mr. Gabriel Parsons held out.

'Here's the guy you need,' Ikey said, suddenly stopping his story and introducing Mr. Gabriel Parsons to the disappointed Watkins Tottle, who had just walked into the room. Watkins approached with a blank look of resigned acceptance and shook the hand that Mr. Gabriel Parsons offered.

'I want to speak to you,' said Gabriel, with a look strongly expressive of his dislike of the company.

"I want to talk to you," Gabriel said, his expression clearly showing his dislike for the company.

'This way,' replied the imprisoned one, leading the way to the front drawing-room, where rich debtors did the luxurious at the rate of a couple of guineas a day.

'This way,' replied the person in captivity, guiding them to the main drawing-room, where wealthy debtors enjoyed luxury at a cost of a couple of guineas a day.

'Well, here I am,' said Mr. Watkins, as he sat down on the sofa; and placing the palms of his hands on his knees, anxiously glanced at his friend's countenance.

'Well, here I am,' Mr. Watkins said as he sat down on the sofa, resting the palms of his hands on his knees while anxiously looking at his friend's face.

'Yes; and here you're likely to be,' said Gabriel, coolly, as he rattled the money in his unmentionable pockets, and looked out of the window.

'Yeah; and here you’re probably going to be,' said Gabriel, casually, as he shook the money in his unmentionable pockets and glanced out the window.

'What's the amount with the costs?' inquired Parsons, after an awkward pause.

"What's the total with the costs?" Parsons asked after an awkward pause.

'Have you any money?'

'Do you have any money?'

'Nine and sixpence halfpenny.'

'Nine shillings and sixpence halfpenny.'

Mr. Gabriel Parsons walked up and down the room for a few seconds, before he could make up his mind to disclose the plan he had formed; he was accustomed to drive hard bargains, but was always most anxious to conceal his avarice. At length he stopped short, and said, 'Tottle, you owe me fifty pounds.'

Mr. Gabriel Parsons paced the room for a moment, trying to decide whether to reveal the plan he had come up with; he was used to making tough deals but was always eager to hide his greed. Finally, he halted and said, 'Tottle, you owe me fifty pounds.'

'I do.'

"I do."

'And from all I see, I infer that you are likely to owe it to me.'

'And from everything I see, I conclude that you probably owe it to me.'

'I fear I am.'

"I'm afraid I am."

'Though you have every disposition to pay me if you could?'

'Even though you're fully willing to pay me if you could?'

'Certainly.'

Sure.

'Then,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, 'listen: here's my proposition. You know my way of old. Accept it-yes or no-I will or I won't. I'll pay the debt and costs, and I'll lend you 10l. more (which, added to your annuity, will enable you to carry on the war well) if you'll give me your note of hand to pay me one hundred and fifty pounds within six months after you are married to Miss Lillerton.'

'Then,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, 'listen: here’s my offer. You know my style. Accept it—yes or no—I’ll do it or I won’t. I’ll cover the debt and costs, and I’ll lend you £10 more (which, added to your annuity, will help you continue the fight effectively) if you give me your promise to pay me one hundred and fifty pounds within six months after you marry Miss Lillerton.'

'My dear-'

'Stop a minute-on one condition; and that is, that you propose to Miss Lillerton at once.'

'Hold on for a minute—on one condition: that you propose to Miss Lillerton right away.'

'At once! My dear Parsons, consider.'

'Right away! My dear Parsons, think about it.'

'It's for you to consider, not me. She knows you well from reputation, though she did not know you personally until lately. Notwithstanding all her maiden modesty, I think she'd be devilish glad to get married out of hand with as little delay as possible. My wife has sounded her on the subject, and she has confessed.'

'It's up to you to think about, not me. She knows you well by reputation, although she didn't know you personally until recently. Despite all her shyness, I think she'd be really happy to get married as quickly as possible. My wife has asked her about it, and she admitted it.'

'What-what?' eagerly interrupted the enamoured Watkins.

'What-what?' eagerly interrupted the love-struck Watkins.

'Why,' replied Parsons, 'to say exactly what she has confessed, would be rather difficult, because they only spoke in hints, and so forth; but my wife, who is no bad judge in these cases, declared to me that what she had confessed was as good as to say that she was not insensible of your merits-in fact, that no other man should have her.'

'Why,' replied Parsons, 'to put it exactly as she confessed would be pretty tough, since they only hinted at things, and so on; but my wife, who has a good sense in these matters, told me that what she confessed basically meant she was aware of your qualities—in fact, that no other man should have her.'

Mr. Watkins Tottle rose hastily from his seat, and rang the bell.

Mr. Watkins Tottle quickly got up from his seat and rang the bell.

'What's that for?' inquired Parsons.

"What's that for?" asked Parsons.

'I want to send the man for the bill stamp,' replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.

'I want to send the guy for the bill stamp,' replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.

'Then you've made up your mind?'

'So, you've made your choice?'

'I have,'-and they shook hands most cordially. The note of hand was given-the debt and costs were paid-Ikey was satisfied for his trouble, and the two friends soon found themselves on that side of Mr. Solomon Jacobs's establishment, on which most of his visitors were very happy when they found themselves once again-to wit, the outside.

'I have,'—and they shook hands warmly. The agreement was made—the debt and expenses were settled—Ikey was happy for his efforts, and the two friends soon found themselves on the side of Mr. Solomon Jacobs's business that most of his visitors were always glad to reach again—namely, the outside.

'Now,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as they drove to Norwood together-'you shall have an opportunity to make the disclosure to-night, and mind you speak out, Tottle.'

'Now,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as they drove to Norwood together, 'you'll have the chance to make your announcement tonight, and make sure you speak up, Tottle.'

'I will-I will!' replied Watkins, valorously.

"I will—I will!" replied Watkins, bravely.

'How I should like to see you together,' ejaculated Mr. Gabriel Parsons.-'What fun!' and he laughed so long and so loudly, that he disconcerted Mr. Watkins Tottle, and frightened the horse.

'How I would love to see you two together,' exclaimed Mr. Gabriel Parsons. 'What a blast!' He laughed so hard and for so long that he unsettled Mr. Watkins Tottle and scared the horse.

'There's Fanny and your intended walking about on the lawn,' said Gabriel, as they approached the house. 'Mind your eye, Tottle.'

'Look, Fanny and your fiancé are walking around on the lawn,' Gabriel said as they got closer to the house. 'Watch out, Tottle.'

'Never fear,' replied Watkins, resolutely, as he made his way to the spot where the ladies were walking.

'Don't worry,' replied Watkins confidently, as he headed over to where the ladies were walking.

'Here's Mr. Tottle, my dear,' said Mrs. Parsons, addressing Miss Lillerton. The lady turned quickly round, and acknowledged his courteous salute with the same sort of confusion that Watkins had noticed on their first interview, but with something like a slight expression of disappointment or carelessness.

'Here’s Mr. Tottle, my dear,' Mrs. Parsons said, speaking to Miss Lillerton. The lady turned around quickly and responded to his polite greeting with a mix of the same confusion Watkins had seen during their first meeting, but there was also a hint of disappointment or indifference.

'Did you see how glad she was to see you?' whispered Parsons to his friend.

'Did you see how happy she was to see you?' whispered Parsons to his friend.

'Why, I really thought she looked as if she would rather have seen somebody else,' replied Tottle.

"Honestly, I thought she seemed like she'd prefer to see someone else," Tottle replied.

'Pooh, nonsense!' whispered Parsons again-'it's always the way with the women, young or old. They never show how delighted they are to see those whose presence makes their hearts beat. It's the way with the whole sex, and no man should have lived to your time of life without knowing it. Fanny confessed it to me, when we were first married, over and over again-see what it is to have a wife.'

'Pooh, nonsense!' whispered Parsons again, 'it's always like this with women, no matter their age. They never really show how happy they are to see the people who make their hearts race. It's just how the whole gender is, and no man should reach your age without realizing it. Fanny admitted it to me when we were first married, time and time again—just see what it’s like to have a wife.'

'Certainly,' whispered Tottle, whose courage was vanishing fast.

'Of course,' whispered Tottle, whose courage was fading quickly.

'Well, now, you'd better begin to pave the way,' said Parsons, who, having invested some money in the speculation, assumed the office of director.

'Well, now, you'd better start clearing the path,' said Parsons, who, having put some money into the venture, took on the role of director.

'Yes, yes, I will-presently,' replied Tottle, greatly flurried.

'Yes, yes, I will—right away,' replied Tottle, feeling really flustered.

'Say something to her, man,' urged Parsons again. 'Confound it! pay her a compliment, can't you?'

'Say something to her, dude,' Parsons insisted again. 'Come on! Give her a compliment, can you?'

'No! not till after dinner,' replied the bashful Tottle, anxious to postpone the evil moment.

'No! not until after dinner,' replied the shy Tottle, eager to delay the dreaded moment.

'Well, gentlemen,' said Mrs. Parsons, 'you are really very polite; you stay away the whole morning, after promising to take us out, and when you do come home, you stand whispering together and take no notice of us.'

'Well, gentlemen,' said Mrs. Parsons, 'you’re really very polite; you disappear all morning after promising to take us out, and when you finally come home, you just stand whispering to each other and completely ignore us.'

'We were talking of the business, my dear, which detained us this morning,' replied Parsons, looking significantly at Tottle.

'We were discussing the business, my dear, that kept us busy this morning,' replied Parsons, glancing meaningfully at Tottle.

'Dear me! how very quickly the morning has gone,' said Miss Lillerton, referring to the gold watch, which was wound up on state occasions, whether it required it or not.

'Oh my! The morning has flown by,' said Miss Lillerton, looking at the gold watch, which was only wound up for special occasions, whether it needed it or not.

'I think it has passed very slowly,' mildly suggested Tottle.

'I think it has gone by really slowly,' Tottle suggested gently.

('That's right-bravo!') whispered Parsons.

"That's right, bravo!" whispered Parsons.

'Indeed!' said Miss Lillerton, with an air of majestic surprise.

'Definitely!' said Miss Lillerton, with a look of grand surprise.

'I can only impute it to my unavoidable absence from your society, madam,' said Watkins, 'and that of Mrs. Parsons.'

'I can only attribute it to my unavoidable absence from your company, ma'am,' said Watkins, 'and that of Mrs. Parsons.'

During this short dialogue, the ladies had been leading the way to the house.

During this brief conversation, the ladies had been guiding the way to the house.

'What the deuce did you stick Fanny into that last compliment for?' inquired Parsons, as they followed together; 'it quite spoilt the effect.'

'What on earth did you throw Fanny into that last compliment for?' inquired Parsons as they walked together; 'it totally ruined the effect.'

'Oh! it really would have been too broad without,' replied Watkins Tottle, 'much too broad!'

'Oh! it really would have been too much without,' replied Watkins Tottle, 'way too much!'

'He's mad!' Parsons whispered his wife, as they entered the drawing- room, 'mad from modesty.'

'He's crazy!' Parsons whispered to his wife as they entered the drawing room, 'crazy from modesty.'

'Dear me!' ejaculated the lady, 'I never heard of such a thing.'

"Goodness!" the lady exclaimed, "I've never heard of anything like that."

'You'll find we have quite a family dinner, Mr. Tottle,' said Mrs. Parsons, when they sat down to table: 'Miss Lillerton is one of us, and, of course, we make no stranger of you.'

'You'll see we have quite a family dinner, Mr. Tottle,' said Mrs. Parsons as they sat down at the table. 'Miss Lillerton is one of us, and, of course, we don't consider you a stranger.'

Mr. Watkins Tottle expressed a hope that the Parsons family never would make a stranger of him; and wished internally that his bashfulness would allow him to feel a little less like a stranger himself.

Mr. Watkins Tottle hoped that the Parsons family would always include him and secretly wished that his shyness would let him feel a bit less like a stranger himself.

'Take off the covers, Martha,' said Mrs. Parsons, directing the shifting of the scenery with great anxiety. The order was obeyed, and a pair of boiled fowls, with tongue and et ceteras, were displayed at the top, and a fillet of veal at the bottom. On one side of the table two green sauce-tureens, with ladles of the same, were setting to each other in a green dish; and on the other was a curried rabbit, in a brown suit, turned up with lemon.

"Take off the covers, Martha," Mrs. Parsons said, anxiously directing the scene change. The order was followed, revealing a pair of boiled chickens, along with tongue and other side dishes, at the top, and a fillet of veal at the bottom. On one side of the table, two green sauce-tureens, with ladles that matched, were arranged in a green dish; on the other side, there was a curried rabbit, dressed in brown and garnished with lemon.

'Miss Lillerton, my dear,' said Mrs. Parsons, 'shall I assist you?'

'Miss Lillerton, my dear,' Mrs. Parsons said, 'can I help you?'

'Thank you, no; I think I'll trouble Mr. Tottle.'

'No, thank you; I think I'll bother Mr. Tottle.'

Watkins started-trembled-helped the rabbit-and broke a tumbler. The countenance of the lady of the house, which had been all smiles previously, underwent an awful change.

Watkins freaked out, helped the rabbit, and broke a glass. The expression of the lady of the house, which had been all smiles before, changed drastically.

'Extremely sorry,' stammered Watkins, assisting himself to currie and parsley and butter, in the extremity of his confusion.

"Really sorry," stammered Watkins, helping himself to curry with parsley and butter, clearly flustered.

'Not the least consequence,' replied Mrs. Parsons, in a tone which implied that it was of the greatest consequence possible,-directing aside the researches of the boy, who was groping under the table for the bits of broken glass.

'Not at all,' replied Mrs. Parsons, in a tone that suggested it was extremely important, as she redirected the boy, who was searching under the table for the pieces of broken glass.

'I presume,' said Miss Lillerton, 'that Mr. Tottle is aware of the interest which bachelors usually pay in such cases; a dozen glasses for one is the lowest penalty.'

"I assume," said Miss Lillerton, "that Mr. Tottle knows about the interest that bachelors typically pay in situations like this; a dozen glasses for one is the minimum penalty."

Mr. Gabriel Parsons gave his friend an admonitory tread on the toe. Here was a clear hint that the sooner he ceased to be a bachelor and emancipated himself from such penalties, the better. Mr. Watkins Tottle viewed the observation in the same light, and challenged Mrs. Parsons to take wine, with a degree of presence of mind, which, under all the circumstances, was really extraordinary.

Mr. Gabriel Parsons stepped on his friend's toe as a warning. This was a clear signal that the sooner he stopped being a bachelor and freed himself from such consequences, the better. Mr. Watkins Tottle saw the comment the same way and confidently invited Mrs. Parsons to have some wine, showing a level of composure that was quite remarkable given the situation.

'Miss Lillerton,' said Gabriel, 'may I have the pleasure?'

'Miss Lillerton,' Gabriel said, 'can I have the pleasure?'

'I shall be most happy.'

'I will be very happy.'

'Tottle, will you assist Miss Lillerton, and pass the decanter. Thank you.' (The usual pantomimic ceremony of nodding and sipping gone through)-

'Tottle, could you help Miss Lillerton and hand her the decanter? Thanks.' (The usual pantomime of nodding and sipping was carried out)

'Tottle, were you ever in Suffolk?' inquired the master of the house, who was burning to tell one of his seven stock stories.

'Tottle, have you ever been to Suffolk?' asked the homeowner, eager to share one of his seven go-to stories.

'No,' responded Watkins, adding, by way of a saving clause, 'but I've been in Devonshire.'

'No,' Watkins replied, adding, as a kind of disclaimer, 'but I've been in Devonshire.'

'Ah!' replied Gabriel, 'it was in Suffolk that a rather singular circumstance happened to me many years ago. Did you ever happen to hear me mention it?'

'Ah!' replied Gabriel, 'it was in Suffolk that a rather unique situation occurred to me many years ago. Did you ever hear me talk about it?'

Mr. Watkins Tottle had happened to hear his friend mention it some four hundred times. Of course he expressed great curiosity, and evinced the utmost impatience to hear the story again. Mr. Gabriel Parsons forthwith attempted to proceed, in spite of the interruptions to which, as our readers must frequently have observed, the master of the house is often exposed in such cases. We will attempt to give them an idea of our meaning.

Mr. Watkins Tottle had heard his friend bring it up about four hundred times. Naturally, he showed a lot of curiosity and was really eager to hear the story again. Mr. Gabriel Parsons immediately tried to continue, despite the interruptions that, as our readers may have noticed, the host often faces in such situations. We'll try to give them an idea of what we mean.

'When I was in Suffolk-' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons.

'Take off the fowls first, Martha,' said Mrs. Parsons. 'I beg your pardon, my dear.'

'Take off the birds first, Martha,' said Mrs. Parsons. 'I’m sorry, my dear.'

'When I was in Suffolk,' resumed Mr. Parsons, with an impatient glance at his wife, who pretended not to observe it, 'which is now years ago, business led me to the town of Bury St. Edmund's. I had to stop at the principal places in my way, and therefore, for the sake of convenience, I travelled in a gig. I left Sudbury one dark night-it was winter time-about nine o'clock; the rain poured in torrents, the wind howled among the trees that skirted the roadside, and I was obliged to proceed at a foot-pace, for I could hardly see my hand before me, it was so dark-'

'When I was in Suffolk,' Mr. Parsons continued, glancing impatiently at his wife, who pretended not to notice, 'which was years ago, I had to go to Bury St. Edmund's for business. I made stops at the main places along the way, so to keep things easy, I traveled in a gig. I left Sudbury one dark winter night around nine o'clock; the rain was pouring down, the wind was howling through the trees lining the road, and I had to move at a crawl because it was so dark I could barely see my hand in front of me-'

'John,' interrupted Mrs. Parsons, in a low, hollow voice, 'don't spill that gravy.'

'John,' interrupted Mrs. Parsons in a soft, empty voice, 'don't spill that gravy.'

'Fanny,' said Parsons impatiently, 'I wish you'd defer these domestic reproofs to some more suitable time. Really, my dear, these constant interruptions are very annoying.'

'Fanny,' Parsons said impatiently, 'I wish you'd save these domestic criticisms for a better time. Honestly, my dear, these constant interruptions are really frustrating.'

'My dear, I didn't interrupt you,' said Mrs. Parsons.

'My dear, I didn't cut you off,' Mrs. Parsons said.

'But, my dear, you did interrupt me,' remonstrated Mr. Parsons.

'But, my dear, you did interrupt me,' Mr. Parsons pointed out.

'How very absurd you are, my love! I must give directions to the servants; I am quite sure that if I sat here and allowed John to spill the gravy over the new carpet, you'd be the first to find fault when you saw the stain to-morrow morning.'

'How absurd you are, my love! I need to give instructions to the staff; I’m pretty sure that if I just sat here and let John spill the gravy on the new carpet, you’d be the first to complain when you saw the stain tomorrow morning.'

'Well,' continued Gabriel with a resigned air, as if he knew there was no getting over the point about the carpet, 'I was just saying, it was so dark that I could hardly see my hand before me. The road was very lonely, and I assure you, Tottle (this was a device to arrest the wandering attention of that individual, which was distracted by a confidential communication between Mrs. Parsons and Martha, accompanied by the delivery of a large bunch of keys), I assure you, Tottle, I became somehow impressed with a sense of the loneliness of my situation-'

'Well,' Gabriel said with a resigned tone, as if he knew there was no way around the issue with the carpet, 'I was just saying, it was so dark that I could barely see my hand in front of me. The road was extremely lonely, and I assure you, Tottle (this was a tactic to grab the attention of that individual, who was distracted by a private conversation between Mrs. Parsons and Martha, along with the handing over of a large bunch of keys), I assure you, Tottle, I started to feel a sense of the loneliness of my situation-'

'Pie to your master,' interrupted Mrs. Parsons, again directing the servant.

'Pie for your master,' interrupted Mrs. Parsons, again directing the servant.

'Now, pray, my dear,' remonstrated Parsons once more, very pettishly. Mrs. P. turned up her hands and eyebrows, and appealed in dumb show to Miss Lillerton. 'As I turned a corner of the road,' resumed Gabriel, 'the horse stopped short, and reared tremendously. I pulled up, jumped out, ran to his head, and found a man lying on his back in the middle of the road, with his eyes fixed on the sky. I thought he was dead; but no, he was alive, and there appeared to be nothing the matter with him. He jumped up, and putting his hand to his chest, and fixing upon me the most earnest gaze you can imagine, exclaimed-'

'Now, come on, my dear,' Parsons said again, quite petulantly. Mrs. P. threw up her hands and eyebrows, silently appealing to Miss Lillerton. 'As I turned a corner of the road,' Gabriel continued, 'the horse suddenly stopped and reared up. I pulled up, jumped out, ran to his head, and found a man lying on his back in the middle of the road, staring up at the sky. I thought he was dead, but no, he was alive, and he didn't seem to have any injuries. He jumped up, put his hand to his chest, and looked at me with the most earnest expression you can imagine, and shouted-'

'Pudding here,' said Mrs. Parsons.

'Pudding's here,' said Mrs. Parsons.

'Oh! it's no use,' exclaimed the host, now rendered desperate. 'Here, Tottle; a glass of wine. It's useless to attempt relating anything when Mrs. Parsons is present.'

'Oh! it's pointless,' exclaimed the host, now feeling desperate. 'Here, Tottle; a glass of wine. It's pointless to try to say anything when Mrs. Parsons is here.'

This attack was received in the usual way. Mrs. Parsons talked to Miss Lillerton and at her better half; expatiated on the impatience of men generally; hinted that her husband was peculiarly vicious in this respect, and wound up by insinuating that she must be one of the best tempers that ever existed, or she never could put up with it. Really what she had to endure sometimes, was more than any one who saw her in every-day life could by possibility suppose.-The story was now a painful subject, and therefore Mr. Parsons declined to enter into any details, and contented himself by stating that the man was a maniac, who had escaped from a neighbouring mad-house.

This attack was handled in the usual way. Mrs. Parsons talked to Miss Lillerton and her partner; she went on about how impatient men are in general; suggested that her husband was especially bad in this regard, and wrapped up by implying that she must have one of the best tempers ever, or she wouldn’t be able to deal with it. Honestly, what she had to endure sometimes was more than anyone who saw her in everyday life could possibly imagine. The story was now a painful topic, so Mr. Parsons chose not to go into any details and simply stated that the man was a maniac who had escaped from a nearby asylum.

The cloth was removed; the ladies soon afterwards retired, and Miss Lillerton played the piano in the drawing-room overhead, very loudly, for the edification of the visitor. Mr. Watkins Tottle and Mr. Gabriel Parsons sat chatting comfortably enough, until the conclusion of the second bottle, when the latter, in proposing an adjournment to the drawing-room, informed Watkins that he had concerted a plan with his wife, for leaving him and Miss Lillerton alone, soon after tea.

The cloth was taken away; the ladies soon left, and Miss Lillerton played the piano loudly in the drawing-room above, for the entertainment of the guest. Mr. Watkins Tottle and Mr. Gabriel Parsons sat chatting comfortably until they finished the second bottle, when the latter, suggesting they move to the drawing-room, told Watkins that he had made a plan with his wife to leave him and Miss Lillerton alone shortly after tea.

'I say,' said Tottle, as they went up-stairs, 'don't you think it would be better if we put it off till-till-to-morrow?'

'I say,' Tottle said as they went upstairs, 'don't you think it would be better if we postponed it until tomorrow?'

'Don't you think it would have been much better if I had left you in that wretched hole I found you in this morning?' retorted Parsons bluntly.

"Don't you think it would have been a lot better if I had left you in that awful hole I found you in this morning?" Parsons shot back bluntly.

'Well-well-I only made a suggestion,' said poor Watkins Tottle, with a deep sigh.

'Well, well, I just made a suggestion,' said poor Watkins Tottle with a deep sigh.

Tea was soon concluded, and Miss Lillerton, drawing a small work-table on one side of the fire, and placing a little wooden frame upon it, something like a miniature clay-mill without the horse, was soon busily engaged in making a watch-guard with brown silk.

Tea wrapped up quickly, and Miss Lillerton, pulling a small work table to one side of the fire and setting a small wooden frame on it that looked like a tiny clay mill without the horse, soon got busy making a watch guard with brown silk.

'God bless me!' exclaimed Parsons, starting up with well-feigned surprise, 'I've forgotten those confounded letters. Tottle, I know you'll excuse me.'

'God bless me!' exclaimed Parsons, jumping up with fake surprise, 'I've forgotten those annoying letters. Tottle, I know you'll forgive me.'

If Tottle had been a free agent, he would have allowed no one to leave the room on any pretence, except himself. As it was, however, he was obliged to look cheerful when Parsons quitted the apartment.

If Tottle had been a free agent, he wouldn't have let anyone leave the room for any reason, except himself. However, he had to put on a cheerful face when Parsons left the apartment.

He had scarcely left, when Martha put her head into the room, with-'Please, ma'am, you're wanted.'

He had barely left when Martha peeked into the room and said, "Please, ma'am, they need you."

Mrs. Parsons left the room, shut the door carefully after her, and Mr. Watkins Tottle was left alone with Miss Lillerton.

Mrs. Parsons left the room, closed the door gently behind her, and Mr. Watkins Tottle was left alone with Miss Lillerton.

For the first five minutes there was a dead silence.-Mr. Watkins Tottle was thinking how he should begin, and Miss Lillerton appeared to be thinking of nothing. The fire was burning low; Mr. Watkins Tottle stirred it, and put some coals on.

For the first five minutes, there was complete silence. Mr. Watkins Tottle was figuring out how to start, and Miss Lillerton seemed to be thinking of nothing at all. The fire was dying down; Mr. Watkins Tottle poked it and added some coals.

'Hem!' coughed Miss Lillerton; Mr. Watkins Tottle thought the fair creature had spoken. 'I beg your pardon,' said he.

'Hem!' coughed Miss Lillerton; Mr. Watkins Tottle thought the lovely lady had said something. 'I’m sorry,' he said.

'Eh?'

'What?'

'I thought you spoke.'

"I thought you talked."

'No.'

'Oh!'

'There are some books on the sofa, Mr. Tottle, if you would like to look at them,' said Miss Lillerton, after the lapse of another five minutes.

"There are some books on the sofa, Mr. Tottle, if you’d like to check them out," said Miss Lillerton after another five minutes had passed.

'No, thank you,' returned Watkins; and then he added, with a courage which was perfectly astonishing, even to himself, 'Madam, that is Miss Lillerton, I wish to speak to you.'

'No, thank you,' replied Watkins; and then he added, with a courage that was truly surprising, even to himself, 'Ma'am, that’s Miss Lillerton, and I’d like to talk to you.'

'To me!' said Miss Lillerton, letting the silk drop from her hands, and sliding her chair back a few paces.-'Speak-to me!'

'To me!' said Miss Lillerton, letting the silk drop from her hands and pushing her chair back a little. 'Speak to me!'

'To you, madam-and on the subject of the state of your affections.' The lady hastily rose and would have left the room; but Mr. Watkins Tottle gently detained her by the hand, and holding it as far from him as the joint length of their arms would permit, he thus proceeded: 'Pray do not misunderstand me, or suppose that I am led to address you, after so short an acquaintance, by any feeling of my own merits-for merits I have none which could give me a claim to your hand. I hope you will acquit me of any presumption when I explain that I have been acquainted through Mrs. Parsons, with the state-that is, that Mrs. Parsons has told me-at least, not Mrs. Parsons, but-' here Watkins began to wander, but Miss Lillerton relieved him.

'To you, ma'am—regarding your feelings.' The lady quickly stood up and would have left the room; but Mr. Watkins Tottle gently held her hand, keeping it at a distance as far apart as their arms would allow, and then he continued: 'Please don’t misunderstand me, or think that I’m approaching you after such a brief acquaintance because of any qualities of my own—because I have no qualities that would give me a chance with you. I hope you won’t see me as presumptuous when I explain that I've learned about your situation through Mrs. Parsons—at least, not directly from Mrs. Parsons, but—' here Watkins started to lose his train of thought, but Miss Lillerton helped him out.

'Am I to understand, Mr. Tottle, that Mrs. Parsons has acquainted you with my feeling-my affection-I mean my respect, for an individual of the opposite sex?'

"Am I to understand, Mr. Tottle, that Mrs. Parsons has informed you of my feelings—my affection—I mean my respect, for someone of the opposite sex?"

'She has.'

She does.

'Then, what?' inquired Miss Lillerton, averting her face, with a girlish air, 'what could induce you to seek such an interview as this? What can your object be? How can I promote your happiness, Mr. Tottle?'

'So, what now?' asked Miss Lillerton, turning her face away with a playful attitude. 'What made you want to have a meeting like this? What do you want from me? How can I help make you happy, Mr. Tottle?'

Here was the time for a flourish-'By allowing me,' replied Watkins, falling bump on his knees, and breaking two brace-buttons and a waistcoat-string, in the act-'By allowing me to be your slave, your servant-in short, by unreservedly making me the confidant of your heart's feelings-may I say for the promotion of your own happiness-may I say, in order that you may become the wife of a kind and affectionate husband?'

Here was the moment for a flourish—“If you let me,” replied Watkins, falling hard to his knees and breaking two buttons and a waistcoat string in the process, “If you let me be your slave, your servant—in short, by fully letting me in on your true feelings—can I say it’s for your own happiness—can I say, so you can become the wife of a kind and loving husband?”

'Disinterested creature!' exclaimed Miss Lillerton, hiding her face in a white pocket-handkerchief with an eyelet-hole border.

'Selfless creature!' exclaimed Miss Lillerton, hiding her face in a white handkerchief with an eyelet-hole border.

Mr. Watkins Tottle thought that if the lady knew all, she might possibly alter her opinion on this last point. He raised the tip of her middle finger ceremoniously to his lips, and got off his knees, as gracefully as he could. 'My information was correct?' he tremulously inquired, when he was once more on his feet.

Mr. Watkins Tottle thought that if the lady knew everything, she might change her mind about this last issue. He ceremoniously kissed the tip of her middle finger and got off his knees as elegantly as he could. "Was my information right?" he asked nervously when he was back on his feet.

'It was.' Watkins elevated his hands, and looked up to the ornament in the centre of the ceiling, which had been made for a lamp, by way of expressing his rapture.

'It was.' Watkins raised his hands and looked up at the decoration in the center of the ceiling, which had been designed for a lamp, to show his excitement.

'Our situation, Mr. Tottle,' resumed the lady, glancing at him through one of the eyelet-holes, 'is a most peculiar and delicate one.'

'Our situation, Mr. Tottle,' the lady continued, looking at him through one of the eyelet holes, 'is quite peculiar and delicate.'

'It is,' said Mr. Tottle.

"It is," Mr. Tottle said.

'Our acquaintance has been of so short duration,' said Miss Lillerton.

'We've known each other for such a short time,' said Miss Lillerton.

'Only a week,' assented Watkins Tottle.

'It's only been a week,' agreed Watkins Tottle.

'Oh! more than that,' exclaimed the lady, in a tone of surprise.

'Oh! more than that,' exclaimed the woman, in a tone of surprise.

'Indeed!' said Tottle.

"Definitely!" said Tottle.

'More than a month-more than two months!' said Miss Lillerton.

'More than a month—more than two months!' said Miss Lillerton.

'Rather odd, this,' thought Watkins.

"Pretty strange, this," thought Watkins.

'Oh!' he said, recollecting Parsons's assurance that she had known him from report, 'I understand. But, my dear madam, pray, consider. The longer this acquaintance has existed, the less reason is there for delay now. Why not at once fix a period for gratifying the hopes of your devoted admirer?'

'Oh!' he said, remembering Parsons's assurance that she had known him by reputation, 'I get it. But, dear madam, please think about it. The longer this acquaintance has lasted, the less reason there is to wait now. Why not just set a date to fulfill the hopes of your devoted admirer?'

'It has been represented to me again and again that this is the course I ought to pursue,' replied Miss Lillerton, 'but pardon my feelings of delicacy, Mr. Tottle-pray excuse this embarrassment-I have peculiar ideas on such subjects, and I am quite sure that I never could summon up fortitude enough to name the day to my future husband.'

"It’s been suggested to me over and over that this is the path I should take," replied Miss Lillerton, "but please forgive my sensitivity, Mr. Tottle—I'm really sorry for this awkwardness—I have some unique views on these matters, and I’m absolutely certain I could never find the courage to pick a date to tell my future husband."

'Then allow me to name it,' said Tottle eagerly.

"Then let me name it," Tottle said excitedly.

'I should like to fix it myself,' replied Miss Lillerton, bashfully, 'but I cannot do so without at once resorting to a third party.'

"I would like to fix it myself," replied Miss Lillerton shyly, "but I can't do that without immediately involving a third party."

'A third party!' thought Watkins Tottle; 'who the deuce is that to be, I wonder!'

'A third party!' thought Watkins Tottle; 'who on earth could that be, I wonder!'

'Mr. Tottle,' continued Miss Lillerton, 'you have made me a most disinterested and kind offer-that offer I accept. Will you at once be the bearer of a note from me to-to Mr. Timson?'

'Mr. Tottle,' Miss Lillerton continued, 'you've made me a really generous and kind offer, and I accept it. Will you take a note from me to Mr. Timson right away?'

'Mr. Timson!' said Watkins.

"Mr. Timson!" said Watkins.

'After what has passed between us,' responded Miss Lillerton, still averting her head, 'you must understand whom I mean; Mr. Timson, the-the-clergyman.'

'After what’s happened between us,' replied Miss Lillerton, still turning her head away, 'you must know who I mean; Mr. Timson, the—the—clergyman.'

'Mr. Timson, the clergyman!' ejaculated Watkins Tottle, in a state of inexpressible beatitude, and positive wonder at his own success. 'Angel! Certainly-this moment!'

'Mr. Timson, the clergyman!' exclaimed Watkins Tottle, in a state of unparalleled joy and sheer amazement at his own achievement. 'Angel! Absolutely—right this moment!'

'I'll prepare it immediately,' said Miss Lillerton, making for the door; 'the events of this day have flurried me so much, Mr. Tottle, that I shall not leave my room again this evening; I will send you the note by the servant.'

"I'll get it ready right away," said Miss Lillerton, heading for the door; "today's events have really shaken me, Mr. Tottle, so I won't be leaving my room again tonight; I'll have the servant bring you the note."

'Stay,-stay,' cried Watkins Tottle, still keeping a most respectful distance from the lady; 'when shall we meet again?'

'Wait, wait,' cried Watkins Tottle, still keeping a very respectful distance from the lady; 'when will we see each other again?'

'Oh! Mr. Tottle,' replied Miss Lillerton, coquettishly, 'when we are married, I can never see you too often, nor thank you too much;' and she left the room.

'Oh! Mr. Tottle,' replied Miss Lillerton playfully, 'once we're married, I could never see you too often or thank you enough;' and she left the room.

Mr. Watkins Tottle flung himself into an arm-chair, and indulged in the most delicious reveries of future bliss, in which the idea of 'Five hundred pounds per annum, with an uncontrolled power of disposing of it by her last will and testament,' was somehow or other the foremost. He had gone through the interview so well, and it had terminated so admirably, that he almost began to wish he had expressly stipulated for the settlement of the annual five hundred on himself.

Mr. Watkins Tottle plopped down into an armchair and got lost in the most delightful daydreams of future happiness, where the thought of "five hundred pounds a year, with complete control to distribute it in her will," was somehow the main focus. He had handled the meeting so well, and it had ended so perfectly, that he almost started wishing he had specifically asked for that annual five hundred to be settled on himself.

'May I come in?' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, peeping in at the door.

'Can I come in?' asked Mr. Gabriel Parsons, looking through the door.

'You may,' replied Watkins.

"You might," replied Watkins.

'Well, have you done it?' anxiously inquired Gabriel.

'Well, have you done it?' Gabriel asked anxiously.

'Have I done it!' said Watkins Tottle. 'Hush-I'm going to the clergyman.'

'Did I really do it!' said Watkins Tottle. 'Shh—I’m heading to the clergyman.'

'No!' said Parsons. 'How well you have managed it!'

'No!' said Parsons. 'You handled that really well!'

'Where does Timson live?' inquired Watkins.

"Where does Timson live?" asked Watkins.

'At his uncle's,' replied Gabriel, 'just round the lane. He's waiting for a living, and has been assisting his uncle here for the last two or three months. But how well you have done it-I didn't think you could have carried it off so!'

'At his uncle's,' Gabriel replied, 'just down the lane. He's waiting for a job and has been helping his uncle here for the last couple of months. But you did such a great job—I didn’t think you’d pull it off like this!'

Mr. Watkins Tottle was proceeding to demonstrate that the Richardsonian principle was the best on which love could possibly be made, when he was interrupted by the entrance of Martha, with a little pink note folded like a fancy cocked-hat.

Mr. Watkins Tottle was about to show that the Richardsonian principle was the best foundation for love, when he was interrupted by Martha, who came in holding a small pink note folded like a fancy hat.

'Miss Lillerton's compliments,' said Martha, as she delivered it into Tottle's hands, and vanished.

'Miss Lillerton sends her regards,' said Martha, as she placed it in Tottle's hands and disappeared.

'Do you observe the delicacy?' said Tottle, appealing to Mr. Gabriel Parsons. 'Compliments, not love, by the servant, eh?'

'Do you see the finesse?' Tottle asked, turning to Mr. Gabriel Parsons. 'Compliments, not love, from the servant, right?'

Mr. Gabriel Parsons didn't exactly know what reply to make, so he poked the forefinger of his right hand between the third and fourth ribs of Mr. Watkins Tottle.

Mr. Gabriel Parsons wasn't really sure how to respond, so he poked the forefinger of his right hand between the third and fourth ribs of Mr. Watkins Tottle.

'Come,' said Watkins, when the explosion of mirth, consequent on this practical jest, had subsided, 'we'll be off at once-let's lose no time.'

'Come on,' said Watkins, when the burst of laughter from this practical joke had calmed down, 'let's get going right away—no time to waste.'

'Capital!' echoed Gabriel Parsons; and in five minutes they were at the garden-gate of the villa tenanted by the uncle of Mr. Timson.

'Capital!' shouted Gabriel Parsons; and in five minutes they arrived at the garden gate of the villa rented by Mr. Timson's uncle.

'Is Mr. Charles Timson at home?' inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle of Mr. Charles Timson's uncle's man.

'Is Mr. Charles Timson home?' asked Mr. Watkins Tottle of Mr. Charles Timson's uncle's servant.

'Mr. Charles is at home,' replied the man, stammering; 'but he desired me to say he couldn't be interrupted, sir, by any of the parishioners.'

'Mr. Charles is at home,' the man replied, stammering; 'but he asked me to say he can't be interrupted, sir, by any of the parishioners.'

'I am not a parishioner,' replied Watkins.

'I’m not a member of the congregation,' replied Watkins.

'Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom?' inquired Parsons, thrusting himself forward.

"Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom?" asked Parsons, stepping forward.

'No, Mr. Parsons, sir; he's not exactly writing a sermon, but he is practising the violoncello in his own bedroom, and gave strict orders not to be disturbed.'

'No, Mr. Parsons, sir; he's not exactly writing a sermon, but he is practicing the cello in his own bedroom, and he gave strict orders not to be disturbed.'

'Say I'm here,' replied Gabriel, leading the way across the garden; 'Mr. Parsons and Mr. Tottle, on private and particular business.'

'Say I'm here,' Gabriel replied as he led the way across the garden. 'Mr. Parsons and Mr. Tottle are here for private and specific business.'

They were shown into the parlour, and the servant departed to deliver his message. The distant groaning of the violoncello ceased; footsteps were heard on the stairs; and Mr. Timson presented himself, and shook hands with Parsons with the utmost cordiality.

They were led into the living room, and the servant left to deliver his message. The distant sound of the cello stopped; footsteps could be heard on the stairs; and Mr. Timson came in and greeted Parsons warmly.

'Game!' exclaimed Ikey, who had been altering the position of a green- handled knife and fork at least a dozen times, in order that he might remain in the room under the pretext of having something to do. 'He's game enough ven there's anything to be fierce about; but who could be game as you call it, Mr. Walker, with a pale young creetur like that, hanging about him?-It's enough to drive any man's heart into his boots to see 'em together-and no mistake at all about it. I never shall forget her first comin' here; he wrote to her on the Thursday to come-I know he did, 'cos I took the letter. Uncommon fidgety he was all day to be sure, and in the evening he goes down into the office, and he says to Jacobs, says he, "Sir, can I have the loan of a private room for a few minutes this evening, without incurring any additional expense-just to see my wife in?" says he. Jacobs looked as much as to say-"Strike me bountiful if you ain't one of the modest sort!" but as the gen'lm'n who had been in the back parlour had just gone out, and had paid for it for that day, he says-werry grave-"Sir," says he, "it's agin our rules to let private rooms to our lodgers on gratis terms, but," says he, "for a gentleman, I don't mind breaking through them for once." So then he turns found to me, and says, "Ikey, put two mould candles in the back parlour, and charge 'em to this gen'lm'n's account," vich I did. Vell, by-and-by a hackney-coach comes up to the door, and there, sure enough, was the young lady, wrapped up in a hopera-cloak, as it might be, and all alone. I opened the gate that night, so I went up when the coach come, and he vos a waitin' at the parlour door-and wasn't he a trembling, neither? The poor creetur see him, and could hardly walk to meet him. "Oh, Harry!" she says, "that it should have come to this; and all for my sake," says she, putting her hand upon his shoulder. So he puts his arm round her pretty little waist, and leading her gently a little way into the room, so that he might be able to shut the door, he says, so kind and soft-like-"Why, Kate," says he-'

"Game!" Ikey exclaimed, having moved the green-handled knife and fork at least a dozen times to make it look like he was busy in the room. "He's got enough spirit when there's something to fight about, but who could be brave, as you say, Mr. Walker, with a pale young creature like that hanging around him? It’s enough to give any man a heart attack to see them together—no doubt about it. I'll never forget her first visit here; he wrote to her on Thursday to come—I know he did because I took the letter. He was unusually anxious all day, and in the evening he went down to the office and asked Jacobs, saying, 'Sir, can I borrow a private room for a few minutes tonight without any extra cost—just to see my wife?' Jacobs seemed to think, 'I can’t believe you’re so modest!' but since the gentleman who had been in the back parlor had just left and paid for that day, he said very seriously, 'Sir, it's against our rules to let private rooms to our lodgers for free, but,' he added, 'for a gentleman, I don’t mind bending the rules just this once.' Then he turned to me and said, 'Ikey, put two molded candles in the back parlor and charge them to this gentleman's account,' which I did. Well, after a bit, a cab pulled up in front, and sure enough, there was the young lady, wrapped in a opera cloak and all alone. I opened the gate that night, so I went to the door when the cab arrived, and there he was waiting by the parlor door—wasn’t he shaking? The poor girl saw him and could barely walk to meet him. 'Oh, Harry!' she said, 'that it should come to this; all for my sake,' she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her delicate waist and gently led her a little way into the room to close the door, saying, so kindly and softly, 'Why, Kate,' he said—"

"Here’s the guy you’re looking for," Ikey said, suddenly stopping his story and introducing Mr. Gabriel Parsons to the downcast Watkins Tottle, who entered the room at that moment. Watkins stepped forward with a stiff look of resignation and shook the hand that Mr. Gabriel Parsons offered.

'I want to speak to you,' said Gabriel, with a look strongly expressive of his dislike of the company.

"I want to talk to you," Gabriel said, clearly showing his dislike for the company.

'This way,' replied the imprisoned one, leading the way to the front drawing-room, where rich debtors did the luxurious at the rate of a couple of guineas a day.

'This way,' replied the imprisoned one, leading the way to the front drawing-room, where wealthy debtors lived it up at the rate of a couple of guineas a day.

'Well, here I am,' said Mr. Watkins, as he sat down on the sofa; and placing the palms of his hands on his knees, anxiously glanced at his friend's countenance.

'Well, here I am,' said Mr. Watkins, as he sat down on the sofa; and placing his palms on his knees, he anxiously glanced at his friend's face.

'Yes; and here you're likely to be,' said Gabriel, coolly, as he rattled the money in his unmentionable pockets, and looked out of the window.

'Yeah; and you’re probably going to be here,' said Gabriel, casually, as he shook the money in his hidden pockets and looked out the window.

'What's the amount with the costs?' inquired Parsons, after an awkward pause.

"What's the total including the fees?" Parsons asked, after an uncomfortable pause.

'Have you any money?'

'Do you have any cash?'

'Nine and sixpence halfpenny.'

Mr. Gabriel Parsons paced the room for a few seconds, trying to decide whether to share the plan he had developed; he was used to negotiating tough deals but always tried to hide his greed. Finally, he stopped and said, 'Tottle, you owe me fifty pounds.'

'I do.'

"I do."

'And from all I see, I infer that you are likely to owe it to me.'

'And from everything I see, I conclude that you probably owe it to me.'

'I fear I am.'

"I think I am."

'Though you have every disposition to pay me if you could?'

'Although you would pay me if you were able to?'

'Certainly.'

'Of course.'

'Then,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, 'listen up: here’s my offer. You know how I do things. Just say yes or no—I will or I won’t. I’ll cover the debt and costs, and I’ll lend you another £10 (which, when added to your annuity, will help you continue the fight well) if you give me your promise to pay me one hundred and fifty pounds within six months after you marry Miss Lillerton.'

'My dear-'

'Stop a minute-on one condition; and that is, that you propose to Miss Lillerton at once.'

'Just hold on for a second—on one condition: that you ask Miss Lillerton right away.'

'At once! My dear Parsons, consider.'

'Right now! My dear Parsons, think about it.'

'It's up to you to think about, not me. She knows you by your reputation, even though she didn't know you in person until recently. Despite her bashful demeanor, I believe she would be quite eager to get married quickly and without fuss. My wife has talked to her about it, and she has admitted as much.'

'What-what?' eagerly interrupted the enamoured Watkins.

'What-what?' eagerly interrupted the smitten Watkins.

'Why,' replied Parsons, 'to say exactly what she confessed would be a bit tricky, since they only spoke in hints and so on; but my wife, who knows a thing or two about these matters, told me that what she admitted basically means that she is aware of your qualities—in fact, that no other man should have her.'

Mr. Watkins Tottle rose hastily from his seat, and rang the bell.

Mr. Watkins Tottle quickly got up from his seat and rang the bell.

'What's that for?' inquired Parsons.

'What's that for?' asked Parsons.

'I want to send the man for the bill stamp,' replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.

'I want to send the guy for the bill stamp,' replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.

'Then you've made up your mind?'

"So, you’ve made your choice?"

'I have,' - and they shook hands warmly. The note of hand was given - the debt and costs were settled - Ikey was happy for his effort, and the two friends soon found themselves on the side of Mr. Solomon Jacobs's establishment where most visitors were very glad to be again - that is, outside.

'Now,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as they drove to Norwood together-'you shall have an opportunity to make the disclosure to-night, and mind you speak out, Tottle.'

'Now,' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as they drove to Norwood together, 'you’ll have a chance to speak up tonight, and make sure you say everything, Tottle.'

'I will-I will!' replied Watkins, valorously.

'I will—I will!' replied Watkins, bravely.

'How I should like to see you together,' ejaculated Mr. Gabriel Parsons.-'What fun!' and he laughed so long and so loudly, that he disconcerted Mr. Watkins Tottle, and frightened the horse.

"How I would love to see you two together!" exclaimed Mr. Gabriel Parsons. "What a blast!" He laughed so hard and for so long that he unsettled Mr. Watkins Tottle and scared the horse.

'There's Fanny and your intended walking about on the lawn,' said Gabriel, as they approached the house. 'Mind your eye, Tottle.'

"Look, Fanny and your fiancée are walking around on the lawn," Gabriel said as they got closer to the house. "Watch yourself, Tottle."

'Never fear,' replied Watkins, resolutely, as he made his way to the spot where the ladies were walking.

'Don't worry,' replied Watkins confidently, as he headed over to where the ladies were walking.

"Here’s Mr. Tottle, my dear," Mrs. Parsons said, directing her attention to Miss Lillerton. The lady turned around quickly and responded to his polite greeting with a bit of the same confusion that Watkins had observed during their first meeting, but there was also a hint of disappointment or indifference in her expression.

'Did you see how glad she was to see you?' whispered Parsons to his friend.

'Did you see how happy she was to see you?' whispered Parsons to his friend.

'Why, I really thought she looked as if she would rather have seen somebody else,' replied Tottle.

'Honestly, I really thought she looked like she would have preferred to see someone else,' replied Tottle.

'Pooh, nonsense!' whispered Parsons again. 'It's always the same with women, young or old. They never show how happy they are to see those whose presence makes their hearts race. That's just how it is with women, and no man should have lived to your age without figuring that out. Fanny admitted it to me multiple times when we first got married—this is what it means to have a wife.'

'Certainly,' whispered Tottle, whose courage was vanishing fast.

'Of course,' whispered Tottle, whose courage was fading quickly.

'Well, now, you'd better begin to pave the way,' said Parsons, who, having invested some money in the speculation, assumed the office of director.

'Well, now, you’d better start making arrangements,' said Parsons, who, having invested some money in the venture, took on the role of director.

'Yes, yes, I will-presently,' replied Tottle, greatly flurried.

'Yeah, yeah, I'll do it soon,' replied Tottle, feeling quite flustered.

'Say something to her, man,' urged Parsons again. 'Confound it! pay her a compliment, can't you?'

'Say something to her, man,' Parsons insisted again. 'Come on! Just give her a compliment, can’t you?'

'No! not till after dinner,' replied the bashful Tottle, anxious to postpone the evil moment.

'No! Not until after dinner,' replied the shy Tottle, eager to delay the painful moment.

'Well, gentlemen,' Mrs. Parsons said, 'you’re really very polite; you’ve stayed away the whole morning after promising to take us out, and when you finally come home, you just stand there whispering to each other and ignore us.'

'We were talking of the business, my dear, which detained us this morning,' replied Parsons, looking significantly at Tottle.

'We were discussing the matter, my dear, that kept us here this morning,' replied Parsons, glancing meaningfully at Tottle.

'Dear me! how very quickly the morning has gone,' said Miss Lillerton, referring to the gold watch, which was wound up on state occasions, whether it required it or not.

'Oh dear! the morning has gone by so fast,' said Miss Lillerton, looking at the gold watch that was only wound on special occasions, whether it needed it or not.

'I think it has passed very slowly,' mildly suggested Tottle.

'I think it's gone by really slowly,' Tottle suggested lightly.

('That's right-bravo!') whispered Parsons.

"That's right—bravo!" whispered Parsons.

'Indeed!' said Miss Lillerton, with an air of majestic surprise.

'Absolutely!' said Miss Lillerton, with an air of grand surprise.

'I can only impute it to my unavoidable absence from your society, madam,' said Watkins, 'and that of Mrs. Parsons.'

'I can only attribute it to my unavoidable absence from your company, ma'am,' said Watkins, 'and that of Mrs. Parsons.'

During this short dialogue, the ladies had been leading the way to the house.

During this brief conversation, the women had been guiding the way to the house.

'What the deuce did you stick Fanny into that last compliment for?' inquired Parsons, as they followed together; 'it quite spoilt the effect.'

'What on earth did you include Fanny in that last compliment for?' asked Parsons as they walked together; 'it totally ruined the effect.'

'Oh! it really would have been too broad without,' replied Watkins Tottle, 'much too broad!'

'Oh! it really would have been too much without,' replied Watkins Tottle, 'way too much!'

'He's mad!' Parsons whispered his wife, as they entered the drawing- room, 'mad from modesty.'

"He's crazy!" Parsons whispered to his wife as they entered the living room, "crazy from being so modest."

'Dear me!' ejaculated the lady, 'I never heard of such a thing.'

'Oh my!' exclaimed the lady, 'I've never heard of such a thing.'

'You'll find we have quite a family dinner, Mr. Tottle,' said Mrs. Parsons, when they sat down to table: 'Miss Lillerton is one of us, and, of course, we make no stranger of you.'

'You'll see we have quite a family dinner, Mr. Tottle,' said Mrs. Parsons, when they sat down at the table. 'Miss Lillerton is one of us, and of course, we consider you one of us too.'

Mr. Watkins Tottle hoped that the Parsons family would never treat him like a stranger; and he secretly wished that his shyness would let him feel a bit less like one himself.

'Take off the covers, Martha,' Mrs. Parsons said, nervously directing the shift in the scenery. The order was followed, revealing a couple of boiled chickens, with tongue and other sides at the top, and a fillet of veal at the bottom. On one side of the table, two green sauce bowls with matching ladles were set next to each other on a green dish; on the other side, there was a curried rabbit dressed in brown, garnished with lemon.

'Miss Lillerton, my dear,' said Mrs. Parsons, 'shall I assist you?'

'Miss Lillerton, my dear,' said Mrs. Parsons, 'can I help you?'

'Thank you, no; I think I'll trouble Mr. Tottle.'

'No, thank you; I think I'll bother Mr. Tottle instead.'

Watkins started-trembled-helped the rabbit-and broke a tumbler. The countenance of the lady of the house, which had been all smiles previously, underwent an awful change.

Watkins started, shook, helped the rabbit, and broke a tumbler. The expression of the lady of the house, which had been all smiles before, changed dramatically.

'Extremely sorry,' stammered Watkins, assisting himself to currie and parsley and butter, in the extremity of his confusion.

"Really sorry," stammered Watkins, helping himself to curry and parsley and butter, completely flustered.

'Not the least consequence,' replied Mrs. Parsons, in a tone that suggested it was of the utmost importance,-redirecting the boy's attention, who was searching under the table for the pieces of broken glass.

'I presume,' said Miss Lillerton, 'that Mr. Tottle is aware of the interest which bachelors usually pay in such cases; a dozen glasses for one is the lowest penalty.'

'I assume,' said Miss Lillerton, 'that Mr. Tottle knows about the interest that bachelors typically pay in situations like this; a dozen glasses for one is the minimum penalty.'

Mr. Gabriel Parsons gave his friend a warning stamp on the toe. This was a clear hint that the sooner he stopped being a bachelor and freed himself from such consequences, the better. Mr. Watkins Tottle saw the comment in the same way and dared Mrs. Parsons to have a drink, showing a level of composure that was really impressive given the circumstances.

'Miss Lillerton,' said Gabriel, 'may I have the pleasure?'

'Miss Lillerton,' Gabriel said, 'may I have the pleasure?'

'I shall be most happy.'

'I will be very happy.'

'Tottle, will you assist Miss Lillerton, and pass the decanter. Thank you.' (The usual pantomimic ceremony of nodding and sipping gone through)-

'Tottle, could you help Miss Lillerton and pass the decanter? Thanks.' (The usual routine of nodding and sipping was performed)

'Tottle, were you ever in Suffolk?' inquired the master of the house, who was burning to tell one of his seven stock stories.

'Tottle, have you ever been to Suffolk?' asked the host, eager to share one of his seven go-to stories.

'No,' responded Watkins, adding, by way of a saving clause, 'but I've been in Devonshire.'

'No,' replied Watkins, adding, as a sort of clarification, 'but I've been in Devonshire.'

'Ah!' replied Gabriel, 'it was in Suffolk that a rather singular circumstance happened to me many years ago. Did you ever happen to hear me mention it?'

'Oh!' replied Gabriel, 'it was in Suffolk that something quite unusual happened to me many years ago. Have you ever heard me talk about it?'

Mr. Watkins Tottle had heard his friend mention it about four hundred times. Naturally, he showed a lot of curiosity and was really eager to hear the story again. Mr. Gabriel Parsons immediately tried to continue, despite the interruptions that, as our readers may have noticed, the host often faces in these situations. We will try to clarify our point.

'When I was in Suffolk-' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons.

'Take off the fowls first, Martha,' said Mrs. Parsons. 'I beg your pardon, my dear.'

'Take off the birds first, Martha,' said Mrs. Parsons. 'I'm sorry, my dear.'

'When I was in Suffolk,' Mr. Parsons continued, shooting an impatient look at his wife, who acted like she didn't notice, 'which was years ago now, work took me to the town of Bury St. Edmund's. I had to stop at the main places along my route, so for convenience, I traveled in a carriage. I left Sudbury one dark night—it was winter—around nine o'clock; the rain was pouring down, the wind was howling through the trees lining the road, and I had to move at a crawl, because I could barely see my hand in front of me, it was so dark—'

'John,' interrupted Mrs. Parsons, in a low, hollow voice, 'don't spill that gravy.'

'John,' interrupted Mrs. Parsons in a quiet, hollow voice, 'don't spill that gravy.'

'Fanny,' said Parsons impatiently, 'I wish you'd defer these domestic reproofs to some more suitable time. Really, my dear, these constant interruptions are very annoying.'

'Fanny,' Parsons said impatiently, 'I wish you'd save these home lectures for a better time. Seriously, my dear, these constant interruptions are really annoying.'

'My dear, I didn't interrupt you,' said Mrs. Parsons.

"My dear, I didn't interrupt you," Mrs. Parsons said.

'But, my dear, you did interrupt me,' remonstrated Mr. Parsons.

'But, my dear, you did interrupt me,' Mr. Parsons said.

'How ridiculously silly you are, my love! I need to instruct the staff; I’m sure that if I just stayed here and let John spill gravy on the new carpet, you’d be the first to complain when you see the stain tomorrow morning.'

'Well,' Gabriel said with a defeated tone, as if he realized there was no escaping the issue about the carpet, 'I was just saying that it was so dark I could barely see my hand in front of me. The road was really quiet, and I promise you, Tottle (this was a tactic to get the attention of that person, who was distracted by a private conversation between Mrs. Parsons and Martha while handing over a big bunch of keys), I promise you, Tottle, I ended up feeling somehow overwhelmed by the loneliness of my situation-'

'Pie to your master,' interrupted Mrs. Parsons, again directing the servant.

'Pie for your master,' interrupted Mrs. Parsons, once more directing the servant.

'Now, pray, my dear,' remonstrated Parsons once more, very pettishly. Mrs. P. turned up her hands and eyebrows, and appealed in dumb show to Miss Lillerton. 'As I turned a corner of the road,' resumed Gabriel, 'the horse stopped short, and reared tremendously. I pulled up, jumped out, ran to his head, and found a man lying on his back in the middle of the road, with his eyes fixed on the sky. I thought he was dead; but no, he was alive, and there appeared to be nothing the matter with him. He jumped up, and potting his hand to his chest, and fixing upon me the most earnest gaze you can imagine, exclaimed-'Pudding here,' said Mrs. Parsons.

'Please, my dear,' urged Parsons again, quite peevishly. Mrs. P. raised her hands and eyebrows, appealing silently to Miss Lillerton. 'As I turned a corner of the road,' Gabriel continued, 'the horse stopped suddenly and reared up dramatically. I pulled up, jumped out, ran to its head, and found a man lying on his back in the middle of the road, staring up at the sky. I thought he was dead; but no, he was alive, and there seemed to be nothing wrong with him. He jumped up, put his hand to his chest, and fixed me with the most intense gaze you can imagine, shouting—'Pudding here,' said Mrs. Parsons.

'Oh! it's no use,' exclaimed the host, now rendered desperate. 'Here, Tottle; a glass of wine. It's useless to attempt relating anything when Mrs. Parsons is present.'

'Oh! it's no use,' the host exclaimed, now feeling desperate. 'Here, Tottle; a glass of wine. It's pointless to try to say anything with Mrs. Parsons here.'

This attack was met in the usual way. Mrs. Parsons talked to Miss Lillerton and her husband; she went on about how impatient men generally are; suggested that her husband was particularly bad about this, and finished by implying that she must have one of the best tempers ever or she wouldn’t be able to tolerate it. What she had to deal with sometimes was more than anyone who saw her in everyday life could possibly imagine. The situation was now a painful topic, so Mr. Parsons chose not to go into any details and simply stated that the man was a maniac who had escaped from a nearby mental hospital.

The cloth was taken away; the ladies soon left, and Miss Lillerton played the piano loudly in the drawing room above, entertaining their guest. Mr. Watkins Tottle and Mr. Gabriel Parsons sat chatting comfortably until the end of the second bottle, when Parsons, in suggesting they move to the drawing room, told Watkins that he had arranged a plan with his wife to leave him and Miss Lillerton alone shortly after tea.

'I say,' said Tottle, as they went up-stairs, 'don't you think it would be better if we put it off till-till-to-morrow?'

'I say,' said Tottle as they went upstairs, 'don't you think it would be better if we put it off until tomorrow?'

'Don't you think it would have been much better if I had left you in that wretched hole I found you in this morning?' retorted Parsons bluntly.

"Don't you think it would have been a lot better if I had just left you in that miserable hole I found you in this morning?" Parsons shot back honestly.

'Well-well-I only made a suggestion,' said poor Watkins Tottle, with a deep sigh.

'Well, I only made a suggestion,' said poor Watkins Tottle, with a deep sigh.

Tea wrapped up quickly, and Miss Lillerton, pulling a small work-table over to one side of the fire and setting down a tiny wooden frame that resembled a mini clay-mill without the horse, soon got busy making a watch-guard out of brown silk.

'God bless me!' exclaimed Parsons, starting up with well-feigned surprise, 'I've forgotten those confounded letters. Tottle, I know you'll excuse me.'

'God bless me!' exclaimed Parsons, jumping up with acting surprise, 'I've completely forgotten those annoying letters. Tottle, I know you'll forgive me.'

If Tottle had been independent, he wouldn't have let anyone leave the room for any reason, except himself. However, he had to pretend to be cheerful when Parsons left the room.

He had scarcely left, when Martha put her head into the room, with-'Please, ma'am, you're wanted.'

He had barely left when Martha peeked into the room and said, "Excuse me, ma'am, you're needed."

Mrs. Parsons left the room, shut the door carefully after her, and Mr. Watkins Tottle was left alone with Miss Lillerton.

Mrs. Parsons left the room and closed the door gently behind her, leaving Mr. Watkins Tottle alone with Miss Lillerton.

For the first five minutes, there was complete silence. Mr. Watkins Tottle was trying to figure out how to start, while Miss Lillerton seemed to be thinking about nothing at all. The fire was dying down, so Mr. Watkins Tottle poked it and added some coals.

'Hem!' coughed Miss Lillerton; Mr. Watkins Tottle thought the fair creature had spoken. 'I beg your pardon,' said he.

'Hem!' coughed Miss Lillerton; Mr. Watkins Tottle thought the lovely woman had spoken. 'I’m sorry,' he said.

'Eh?'

'Huh?'

'I thought you spoke.'

"I thought you were talking."

'No.'

'Oh!'

'There are some books on the sofa, Mr. Tottle, if you would like to look at them,' said Miss Lillerton, after the lapse of another five minutes.

"There are some books on the sofa, Mr. Tottle, if you'd like to check them out," said Miss Lillerton, after another five minutes had passed.

'No, thank you,' returned Watkins; and then he added, with a courage which was perfectly astonishing, even to himself, 'Madam, that is Miss Lillerton, I wish to speak to you.'

'No, thank you,' Watkins replied; then he added, with a courage that was truly surprising, even to himself, 'Ma'am, that’s Miss Lillerton, and I’d like to speak to you.'

'To me!' said Miss Lillerton, letting the silk drop from her hands, and sliding her chair back a few paces.-'Speak-to me!'

'To me!' said Miss Lillerton, letting the silk drop from her hands and sliding her chair back a bit. 'Talk to me!'

'To you, ma'am—regarding your feelings.' The lady quickly stood up and almost left the room; however, Mr. Watkins Tottle gently held her back by the hand, keeping it as far from him as their arm length allowed, and continued: 'Please don’t misunderstand me, or think that I’m speaking to you due to any merits of my own—because I don’t have any that would entitle me to your hand. I hope you won't see me as presumptuous when I say that I've learned about your situation through Mrs. Parsons—well, actually, it wasn’t Mrs. Parsons directly, but—' Here, Watkins started to lose his train of thought, but Miss Lillerton came to his aid.

'Am I to understand, Mr. Tottle, that Mrs. Parsons has acquainted you with my feeling-my affection-I mean my respect, for an individual of the opposite sex?'

"Am I to understand, Mr. Tottle, that Mrs. Parsons has informed you of my feelings—my affection, I mean my respect—for someone of the opposite sex?"

'She has.'

She has.

'So, what now?' asked Miss Lillerton, turning her face away with a playful look. 'What would make you want to have an interview like this? What do you want? How can I help you be happy, Mr. Tottle?'

Here was the moment for a flourish—"By letting me," replied Watkins, falling hard to his knees and breaking two buttons and a waistcoat string in the process, "By allowing me to be your slave, your servant—in short, by fully making me the confidant of your heart's feelings—can I say this is for your own happiness—can I say this is so that you can become the wife of a kind and caring husband?"

'Disinterested creature!' exclaimed Miss Lillerton, hiding her face in a white pocket-handkerchief with an eyelet-hole border.

"Selfish creature!" exclaimed Miss Lillerton, hiding her face in a white handkerchief with an eyelet border.

Mr. Watkins Tottle thought that if the lady knew everything, she might change her mind about this last point. He gently brought the tip of her middle finger to his lips and got off his knees as gracefully as he could. "Was my information correct?" he asked nervously when he was back on his feet.

'It was.' Watkins elevated his hands, and looked up to the ornament in the centre of the ceiling, which had been made for a lamp, by way of expressing his rapture.

'It was.' Watkins raised his hands and looked up at the ornament in the center of the ceiling, which had been designed for a lamp, to show his excitement.

'Our situation, Mr. Tottle,' resumed the lady, glancing at him through one of the eyelet-holes, 'is a most peculiar. and delicate one.'

'Our situation, Mr. Tottle,' the lady continued, looking at him through one of the eyelet-holes, 'is really quite peculiar and delicate.'

'It is,' said Mr. Tottle.

"It is," Mr. Tottle said.

'Our acquaintance has been of so short duration,' said Miss Lillerton.

"Our friendship has been so brief," said Miss Lillerton.

'Only a week,' assented Watkins Tottle.

'Just a week,' agreed Watkins Tottle.

'Oh! more than that,' exclaimed the lady, in a tone of surprise.

"Oh! even more than that," the lady exclaimed, sounding surprised.

'Indeed!' said Tottle.

"Absolutely!" said Tottle.

'More than a month-more than two months!' said Miss Lillerton.

'More than a month—more than two months!' said Miss Lillerton.

'Rather odd, this,' thought Watkins.

"This is quite strange," thought Watkins.

'Oh!' he said, recollecting Parsons's assurance that she had known him from report, 'I understand. But, my dear madam, pray, consider. The longer this acquaintance has existed, the less reason is I there for delay now. Why not at once fix a period for gratifying the hopes of your devoted admirer?'

'Oh!' he said, remembering Parsons's claim that she knew him by reputation, 'I get it. But, my dear lady, please think about it. The longer this acquaintance has lasted, the less reason I have to postpone things now. Why not set a date to fulfill the hopes of your devoted admirer right away?'

'People have suggested to me over and over that this is the path I should take,' replied Miss Lillerton, 'but please forgive my sensitivity, Mr. Tottle—I'm sorry for this awkwardness—I have my own beliefs about these things, and I’m certain that I could never find the courage to bring up the date with my future husband.'

'Then allow me to name it,' said Tottle eagerly.

'Then let me name it,' Tottle said eagerly.

'I should like to fix it myself,' replied Miss Lillerton, bashfully, but I cannot do so without at once resorting to a third party.'

"I'd like to fix it myself," replied Miss Lillerton, shyly, "but I can't do that without involving a third party right away."

'A third party!' thought Watkins Tottle; 'who the deuce is that to be, I wonder!'

'A third party!' thought Watkins Tottle; 'Who on earth could that be, I wonder!'

'Mr. Tottle,' continued Miss Lillerton, 'you have made me a most disinterested and kind offer-that offer I accept. Will you at once be the bearer of a note from me to-to Mr. Timson?'

'Mr. Tottle,' Miss Lillerton continued, 'you've made me a very selfless and generous offer, and I accept it. Will you please take a note from me to Mr. Timson right away?'

'Mr. Timson!' said Watkins.

"Mr. Timson!" said Watkins.

'After what has passed between us,' responded Miss Lillerton, still averting her head, 'you must understand whom I mean; Mr. Timson, the-the-clergyman.'

'After what has happened between us,' replied Miss Lillerton, still turning her head away, 'you must know who I mean; Mr. Timson, the—the clergyman.'

'Mr. Timson, the clergyman!' ejaculated Watkins Tottle, in a state of inexpressible beatitude, and positive wonder at his own success. 'Angel! Certainly-this moment!'

'Mr. Timson, the clergyman!' exclaimed Watkins Tottle, filled with immense joy and disbelief at his own success. 'Angel! Definitely—right now!'

"I'll get it ready right away," said Miss Lillerton, heading for the door; "the things that have happened today have left me so rattled, Mr. Tottle, that I'm not going to leave my room again tonight; I'll have the servant bring you the note."

'Stay,-stay,' cried Watkins Tottle, still keeping a most respectful distance from the lady; 'when shall we meet again?'

'Wait, wait,' cried Watkins Tottle, still keeping a respectful distance from the lady; 'when will we see each other again?'

'Oh! Mr. Tottle,' replied Miss Lillerton, coquettishly, 'when we are married, I can never see you too often, nor thank you too much;' and she left the room.

'Oh! Mr. Tottle,' replied Miss Lillerton, playfully, 'when we get married, I could never see you too often or thank you enough;' and she left the room.

Mr. Watkins Tottle threw himself into an armchair and lost himself in the most delightful daydreams of future happiness, where the thought of 'Five hundred pounds a year, with complete control over it in her will' was somehow the main focus. He had handled the meeting so well, and it ended so wonderfully, that he almost started to wish he had specifically asked for the annual five hundred to be settled on him.

'May I come in?' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, peeping in at the door.

'Can I come in?' asked Mr. Gabriel Parsons, looking in at the door.

'You may,' replied Watkins.

"You can," replied Watkins.

'Well, have you done it?' anxiously inquired Gabriel.

'So, have you done it?' Gabriel asked anxiously.

'Have I done it!' said Watkins Tottle. 'Hush-I'm going to the clergyman.'

'Did I really do it!' said Watkins Tottle. 'Shh—I'm heading to the clergyman.'

'No!' said Parsons. 'How well you have managed it!'

'No!' said Parsons. 'You handled it so well!'

'Where does Timson live?' inquired Watkins.

'Where does Timson live?' asked Watkins.

'At his uncle's,' replied Gabriel, 'just down the lane. He's waiting for a job, and has been helping his uncle here for the last couple of months. But you did such a great job—I didn't think you could pull it off like that!'

Mr. Watkins Tottle was about to show that the Richardsonian principle was the best foundation for love when he was interrupted by Martha, who walked in holding a little pink note folded like a fancy hat.

'Miss Lillerton's compliments,' said Martha, as she delivered it into Tottle's hands, and vanished.

'Miss Lillerton sends her compliments,' said Martha, as she handed it to Tottle and disappeared.

'Do you observe the delicacy?' said Tottle, appealing to Mr. Gabriel Parsons. 'Compliments, not love, by the servant, eh?'

'Do you notice the delicacy?' Tottle asked, looking at Mr. Gabriel Parsons. 'Compliments, not love, from the servant, right?'

Mr. Gabriel Parsons didn't exactly know what reply to make, so he poked the forefinger of his right hand between the third and fourth ribs of Mr. Watkins Tottle.

Mr. Gabriel Parsons wasn’t quite sure what to say, so he poked the forefinger of his right hand between the third and fourth ribs of Mr. Watkins Tottle.

'Come,' said Watkins, when the explosion of mirth, consequent on this practical jest, had subsided, 'we'll be off at once-let's lose no time.'

'Come on,' said Watkins, after the laughter from this practical joke had died down, 'let's get moving right away—no time to waste.'

'Capital!' echoed Gabriel Parsons; and in five minutes they were at the garden-gate of the villa tenanted by the uncle of Mr. Timson.

"Capital!" echoed Gabriel Parsons; and in five minutes they arrived at the garden gate of the villa occupied by Mr. Timson's uncle.

'Is Mr. Charles Timson at home?' inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle of Mr. Charles Timson's uncle's man.

'Is Mr. Charles Timson home?' Mr. Watkins Tottle asked Mr. Charles Timson's uncle's servant.

'Mr. Charles is at home,' replied the man, stammering; 'but he desired me to say he couldn't be interrupted, sir, by any of the parishioners.'

'Mr. Charles is at home,' replied the man, stammering; 'but he asked me to let you know he can't be interrupted, sir, by any of the parishioners.'

'I am not a parishioner,' replied Watkins.

'I don't attend this church,' replied Watkins.

'Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom?' inquired Parsons, thrusting himself forward.

"Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom?" asked Parsons, pushing himself forward.

'No, Mr. Parsons, sir; he's not exactly writing a sermon, but he is practising the violoncello in his own bedroom, and gave strict orders not to be disturbed.'

'No, Mr. Parsons, sir; he’s not exactly writing a sermon, but he is practicing the cello in his own bedroom and made it clear that he shouldn’t be disturbed.'

'Say I'm here,' replied Gabriel, leading the way across the garden; 'Mr. Parsons and Mr. Tottle, on private and particular business.'

'Say I'm here,' replied Gabriel, showing the way through the garden; 'Mr. Parsons and Mr. Tottle, on private and specific business.'

They were led into the living room, and the servant went off to deliver his message. The distant sound of the cello stopped; footsteps could be heard on the stairs; and Mr. Timson came in and shook hands with Parsons warmly.

'How do you do, sir?' said Watkins Tottle, with great solemnity.

'How are you, sir?' said Watkins Tottle, with great seriousness.

'How do you do, sir?' replied Timson, with as much coldness as if it were a matter of perfect indifference to him how he did, as it very likely was.

'How's it going, sir?' replied Timson, with as much coldness as if it didn't matter to him at all how he was doing, which it probably didn't.

'I beg to deliver this note to you,' said Watkins Tottle, producing the cocked-hat.

'I’d like to hand you this note,' said Watkins Tottle, pulling out the cocked hat.

'From Miss Lillerton!' said Timson, suddenly changing colour. 'Pray sit down.'

'From Miss Lillerton!' said Timson, suddenly turning pale. 'Please have a seat.'

Mr. Watkins Tottle sat down; and while Timson perused the note, fixed his eyes on an oyster-sauce-coloured portrait of the Archbishop of Canterbury, which hung over the fireplace.

Mr. Watkins Tottle sat down; and while Timson read the note, he focused his gaze on an oyster-sauce-colored portrait of the Archbishop of Canterbury, which was hanging over the fireplace.

Mr. Timson rose from his seat when he had concluded the note, and looked dubiously at Parsons. 'May I ask,' he inquired, appealing to Watkins Tottle, 'whether our friend here is acquainted with the object of your visit?'

Mr. Timson got up from his seat after finishing the note and looked uncertainly at Parsons. "Can I ask," he said, turning to Watkins Tottle, "if our friend here knows the reason for your visit?"

'Our friend is in my confidence,' replied Watkins, with considerable importance.

'Our friend is someone I trust,' replied Watkins, with a sense of importance.

'Then, sir,' said Timson, seizing both Tottle's hands, 'allow me in his presence to thank you most unfeignedly and cordially, for the noble part you have acted in this affair.'

'Then, sir,' said Timson, taking both of Tottle's hands, 'let me, in front of him, sincerely and warmly thank you for the great role you played in this situation.'

'He thinks I recommended him,' thought Tottle. 'Confound these fellows! they never think of anything but their fees.'

'He thinks I suggested him,' Tottle thought. 'Damn these guys! They only care about their fees.'

'I deeply regret having misunderstood your intentions, my dear sir,' continued Timson. 'Disinterested and manly, indeed! There are very few men who would have acted as you have done.'

'I really regret misunderstanding your intentions, my dear sir,' continued Timson. 'Selfless and brave, for sure! There are very few men who would have acted the way you have.'

Mr. Watkins Tottle could not help thinking that this last remark was anything but complimentary. He therefore inquired, rather hastily, 'When is it to be?'

Mr. Watkins Tottle couldn’t help but feel that this last comment was far from flattering. He then asked, a bit too quickly, "When is it going to be?"

'On Thursday,' replied Timson,-'on Thursday morning at half-past eight.'

'On Thursday,' replied Timson, 'on Thursday morning at 8:30.'

'Uncommonly early,' observed Watkins Tottle, with an air of triumphant self-denial. 'I shall hardly be able to get down here by that hour.' (This was intended for a joke.)

'Uncommonly early,' noted Watkins Tottle, with a tone of proud self-denial. 'I’ll hardly be able to make it down here by that time.' (This was meant as a joke.)

'Never mind, my dear fellow,' replied Timson, all suavity, shaking hands with Tottle again most heartily, 'so long as we see you to breakfast, you know-'

'It's all good, my friend,' replied Timson smoothly, shaking hands with Tottle again enthusiastically, 'as long as we get to see you for breakfast, you know-'

'Eh!' said Parsons, with one of the most extraordinary expressions of countenance that ever appeared in a human face.

'Eh!' said Parsons, with one of the most astonishing expressions ever seen on a human face.

'What!' ejaculated Watkins Tottle, at the same moment.

'What!' exclaimed Watkins Tottle, at the same time.

'I say that so long as we see you to breakfast,' replied Timson, 'we will excuse your being absent from the ceremony, though of course your presence at it would give us the utmost pleasure.'

"I'll say this: as long as we see you for breakfast," Timson replied, "we won't mind if you're not at the ceremony, though having you there would really make us happy."

Mr. Watkins Tottle staggered against the wall, and fixed his eyes on Timson with appalling perseverance.

Mr. Watkins Tottle leaned against the wall, staring at Timson with intense determination.

'Timson,' said Parsons, hurriedly brushing his hat with his left arm, 'when you say "us," whom do you mean?'

'Timson,' Parsons said, quickly brushing his hat with his left arm, 'when you say "us," who are you talking about?'

Mr. Timson looked foolish in his turn, when he replied, 'Why-Mrs. Timson that will be this day week: Miss Lillerton that is-'

Mr. Timson looked silly when he replied, 'Well, Mrs. Timson, that's a week from today: Miss Lillerton, that is-'

'Now don't stare at that idiot in the corner,' angrily exclaimed Parsons, as the extraordinary convulsions of Watkins Tottle's countenance excited the wondering gaze of Timson,-'but have the goodness to tell me in three words the contents of that note?'

'Now don't gawk at that idiot in the corner,' Parsons snapped, as the strange twitching of Watkins Tottle's face drew Timson's curious stare, 'but please tell me in three words what that note says?'

'This note,' replied Timson, 'is from Miss Lillerton, to whom I have been for the last five weeks regularly engaged. Her singular scruples and strange feeling on some points have hitherto prevented my bringing the engagement to that termination which I so anxiously desire. She informs me here, that she sounded Mrs. Parsons with the view of making her her confidante and go-between, that Mrs. Parsons informed this elderly gentleman, Mr. Tottle, of the circumstance, and that he, in the most kind and delicate terms, offered to assist us in any way, and even undertook to convey this note, which contains the promise I have long sought in vain-an act of kindness for which I can never be sufficiently grateful.'

'This note,' replied Timson, 'is from Miss Lillerton, with whom I've been regularly engaged for the past five weeks. Her unique concerns and odd feelings about certain things have prevented me from bringing our engagement to the conclusion I eagerly want. She tells me here that she spoke to Mrs. Parsons to make her her confidante and go-between. Mrs. Parsons then told this older gentleman, Mr. Tottle, about the situation, and he kindly and delicately offered to help us in any way he could and even agreed to deliver this note, which contains the promise I've been seeking in vain—a kindness for which I can never be thankful enough.'

'Good night, Timson,' said Parsons, hurrying off, and carrying the bewildered Tottle with him.

'Good night, Timson,' said Parsons, rushing off and taking the confused Tottle with him.

'Won't you stay-and have something?' said Timson.

'Won't you stay and have something?' Timson asked.

'No, thank ye,' replied Parsons; 'I've had quite enough;' and away he went, followed by Watkins Tottle in a state of stupefaction.

'No, thank you,' replied Parsons; 'I've had plenty;' and off he went, followed by Watkins Tottle in a state of shock.

Mr. Gabriel Parsons whistled until they had walked some quarter of a mile past his own gate, when he suddenly stopped, and said-

Mr. Gabriel Parsons whistled until they had walked about a quarter of a mile past his gate, when he suddenly stopped and said—

'You are a clever fellow, Tottle, ain't you?'

'You're a smart guy, Tottle, aren't you?'

'I don't know,' said the unfortunate Watkins.

'I don't know,' said the unlucky Watkins.

'I suppose you'll say this is Fanny's fault, won't you?' inquired Gabriel.

"I guess you'll say this is Fanny's fault, right?" Gabriel asked.

'I don't know anything about it,' replied the bewildered Tottle.

'I don't know anything about it,' replied the confused Tottle.

'Well,' said Parsons, turning on his heel to go home, 'the next time you make an offer, you had better speak plainly, and don't throw a chance away. And the next time you're locked up in a spunging-house, just wait there till I come and take you out, there's a good fellow.'

'Well,' said Parsons, turning on his heel to head home, 'next time you make an offer, you'd better be clear and not miss your opportunity. And the next time you're stuck in a spunging-house, just hang tight until I come and get you out, alright?'

How, or at what hour, Mr. Watkins Tottle returned to Cecil-street is unknown. His boots were seen outside his bedroom-door next morning; but we have the authority of his landlady for stating that he neither emerged therefrom nor accepted sustenance for four-and-twenty hours. At the expiration of that period, and when a council of war was being held in the kitchen on the propriety of summoning the parochial beadle to break his door open, he rang his bell, and demanded a cup of milk-and- water. The next morning he went through the formalities of eating and drinking as usual, but a week afterwards he was seized with a relapse, while perusing the list of marriages in a morning paper, from which he never perfectly recovered.

How, or at what time, Mr. Watkins Tottle returned to Cecil Street is unknown. His boots were seen outside his bedroom door the next morning; however, his landlady confirms that he didn’t come out or eat for twenty-four hours. After that time had passed, during a meeting in the kitchen about whether to call the local beadle to break down his door, he rang the bell and asked for a cup of milk and water. The following morning, he went through the usual routine of eating and drinking, but a week later he experienced a relapse while reading the marriage announcements in a morning paper, from which he never fully recovered.

A few weeks after the last-named occurrence, the body of a gentleman unknown, was found in the Regent's canal. In the trousers-pockets were four shillings and threepence halfpenny; a matrimonial advertisement from a lady, which appeared to have been cut out of a Sunday paper: a tooth-pick, and a card-case, which it is confidently believed would have led to the identification of the unfortunate gentleman, but for the circumstance of there being none but blank cards in it. Mr. Watkins Tottle absented himself from his lodgings shortly before. A bill, which has not been taken up, was presented next morning; and a bill, which has not been taken down, was soon afterwards affixed in his parlour-window.

A few weeks after the last event, the body of an unknown man was found in the Regent's canal. In his trouser pockets were four shillings and threepence halfpenny, a matrimonial ad from a lady that seemed to have been cut out of a Sunday paper, a toothpick, and a card case that many believe would have led to the identification of the unfortunate man, except it only had blank cards inside. Mr. Watkins Tottle had left his lodgings shortly before. A bill that hadn’t been settled was presented the next morning, and another bill that hadn’t been taken down was soon after put up in his parlor window.

CHAPTER XI-THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING

Mr. Nicodemus Dumps, or, as his acquaintance called him, 'long Dumps,' was a bachelor, six feet high, and fifty years old: cross, cadaverous, odd, and ill-natured. He was never happy but when he was miserable; and always miserable when he had the best reason to be happy. The only real comfort of his existence was to make everybody about him wretched-then he might be truly said to enjoy life. He was afflicted with a situation in the Bank worth five hundred a-year, and he rented a 'first-floor furnished,' at Pentonville, which he originally took because it commanded a dismal prospect of an adjacent churchyard. He was familiar with the face of every tombstone, and the burial service seemed to excite his strongest sympathy. His friends said he was surly-he insisted he was nervous; they thought him a lucky dog, but he protested that he was 'the most unfortunate man in the world.' Cold as he was, and wretched as he declared himself to be, he was not wholly unsusceptible of attachments. He revered the memory of Hoyle, as he was himself an admirable and imperturbable whist-player, and he chuckled with delight at a fretful and impatient adversary. He adored King Herod for his massacre of the innocents; and if he hated one thing more than another, it was a child. However, he could hardly be said to hate anything in particular, because he disliked everything in general; but perhaps his greatest antipathies were cabs, old women, doors that would not shut, musical amateurs, and omnibus cads. He subscribed to the 'Society for the Suppression of Vice' for the pleasure of putting a stop to any harmless amusements; and he contributed largely towards the support of two itinerant methodist parsons, in the amiable hope that if circumstances rendered any people happy in this world, they might perchance be rendered miserable by fears for the next.

Mr. Nicodemus Dumps, or as his friends called him, 'Long Dumps,' was a bachelor, six feet tall, and fifty years old. He was grumpy, pale, eccentric, and unpleasant. He was only happy when he was miserable and always miserable when he had the best reasons to be happy. The only real comfort in his life was making everyone around him unhappy; that way, he could truly say he enjoyed life. He had a job at the bank that paid five hundred a year, and he rented a furnished first-floor apartment in Pentonville, which he chose because it had a bleak view of a nearby graveyard. He was familiar with the face of every tombstone, and the burial service seemed to resonate with him the most. His friends thought he was grumpy—he insisted he was just anxious; they considered him a lucky guy, but he claimed he was 'the most unfortunate man in the world.' Despite being cold and wretched as he claimed to be, he wasn’t entirely incapable of forming attachments. He admired the memory of Hoyle, as he himself was an excellent and composed whist player, and he took pleasure in the misery of a fretful and impatient opponent. He idolized King Herod for the massacre of the innocents, and if he hated one thing more than anything else, it was children. However, it was hard to say he truly hated anything in particular because he disliked everything in general. Still, his greatest pet peeves were cabs, old women, doors that didn’t close, amateur musicians, and pushy bus conductors. He subscribed to the 'Society for the Suppression of Vice' just to stop any harmless fun, and he generously supported two traveling Methodist ministers, hoping that if anyone found happiness in this life, they might end up miserable over the next one.

Mr. Dumps had a nephew who had been married about a year, and who was somewhat of a favourite with his uncle, because he was an admirable subject to exercise his misery-creating powers upon. Mr. Charles Kitterbell was a small, sharp, spare man, with a very large head, and a broad, good-humoured countenance. He looked like a faded giant, with the head and face partially restored; and he had a cast in his eye which rendered it quite impossible for any one with whom he conversed to know where he was looking. His eyes appeared fixed on the wall, and he was staring you out of countenance; in short, there was no catching his eye, and perhaps it is a merciful dispensation of Providence that such eyes are not catching. In addition to these characteristics, it may be added that Mr. Charles Kitterbell was one of the most credulous and matter-of- fact little personages that ever took to himself a wife, and for himself a house in Great Russell-street, Bedford-square. (Uncle Dumps always dropped the 'Bedford-square,' and inserted in lieu thereof the dreadful words 'Tottenham-court-road.')

Mr. Dumps had a nephew who had been married for about a year and who was somewhat of a favorite with his uncle because he was a perfect target for Mr. Dumps' misery-inducing antics. Mr. Charles Kitterbell was a small, sharp, thin man with a very large head and a broad, cheerful face. He looked like a faded giant, with his head and face partially restored; and he had a squint that made it impossible for anyone he talked to know where he was actually looking. His eyes seemed fixed on the wall, and he was staring you down; in short, there was no catching his eye, and perhaps it’s a kind gift from Providence that such eyes are not inviting. In addition to these traits, it should be noted that Mr. Charles Kitterbell was one of the most gullible and straightforward little guys to ever get married and take a house on Great Russell Street, Bedford Square. (Uncle Dumps always dropped the 'Bedford Square' and replaced it with the dreadful words 'Tottenham Court Road.')

'No, but, uncle, 'pon my life you must-you must promise to be godfather,' said Mr. Kitterbell, as he sat in conversation with his respected relative one morning.

'No, but, uncle, I swear you have to—you have to promise to be my child's godfather,' said Mr. Kitterbell, as he sat talking with his respected relative one morning.

'I cannot, indeed I cannot,' returned Dumps.

'I really can’t, I just can’t,' replied Dumps.

'Well, but why not? Jemima will think it very unkind. It's very little trouble.'

'Well, why not? Jemima will find it really unkind. It's hardly any trouble at all.'

'As to the trouble,' rejoined the most unhappy man in existence, 'I don't mind that; but my nerves are in that state-I cannot go through the ceremony. You know I don't like going out.-For God's sake, Charles, don't fidget with that stool so; you'll drive me mad.' Mr. Kitterbell, quite regardless of his uncle's nerves, had occupied himself for some ten minutes in describing a circle on the floor with one leg of the office-stool on which he was seated, keeping the other three up in the air, and holding fast on by the desk.

'About the trouble,' replied the most miserable man alive, 'I can deal with that; but my nerves are shot—I can't go through with the ceremony. You know I hate going out. For God's sake, Charles, stop fidgeting with that stool; it’s driving me crazy.' Mr. Kitterbell, completely ignoring his uncle's nerves, had spent the last ten minutes spinning in circles on the floor with one leg of the office stool he was sitting on, while keeping the other three legs up in the air and gripping the desk for balance.

'I beg your pardon, uncle,' said Kitterbell, quite abashed, suddenly releasing his hold of the desk, and bringing the three wandering legs back to the floor, with a force sufficient to drive them through it.

"I’m sorry, uncle," said Kitterbell, feeling embarrassed, suddenly letting go of the desk and bringing the three wandering legs back to the floor with enough force to almost drive them through it.

'But come, don't refuse. If it's a boy, you know, we must have two godfathers.'

'But come on, don’t say no. If it’s a boy, you know we need two godfathers.'

'If it's a boy!' said Dumps; 'why can't you say at once whether it is a boy or not?'

'If it's a boy!' said Dumps; 'why can't you just say right away if it is a boy or not?'

'I should be very happy to tell you, but it's impossible I can undertake to say whether it's a girl or a boy, if the child isn't born yet.'

'I’d be really happy to tell you, but it’s impossible for me to say whether it’s a girl or a boy if the child hasn’t been born yet.'

'Not born yet!' echoed Dumps, with a gleam of hope lighting up his lugubrious visage. 'Oh, well, it may be a girl, and then you won't want me; or if it is a boy, it may die before it is christened.'

'Not born yet!' Dumps exclaimed, a spark of hope brightening his sad face. 'Oh, well, it might be a girl, and then you won't need me; or if it’s a boy, he might not survive long enough to be baptized.'

'I hope not,' said the father that expected to be, looking very grave.

'I hope not,' said the father-to-be, looking very serious.

'I hope not,' acquiesced Dumps, evidently pleased with the subject. He was beginning to get happy. 'I hope not, but distressing cases frequently occur during the first two or three days of a child's life; fits, I am told, are exceedingly common, and alarming convulsions are almost matters of course.'

"I hope not," agreed Dumps, clearly pleased with the topic. He was starting to feel cheerful. "I hope not, but upsetting situations often happen in the first couple of days of a baby's life; seizures, I've heard, are very common, and worrying convulsions are almost routine."

'Lord, uncle!' ejaculated little Kitterbell, gasping for breath.

'Lord, uncle!' exclaimed little Kitterbell, gasping for breath.

'Yes; my landlady was confined-let me see-last Tuesday: an uncommonly fine boy. On the Thursday night the nurse was sitting with him upon her knee before the fire, and he was as well as possible. Suddenly he became black in the face, and alarmingly spasmodic. The medical man was instantly sent for, and every remedy was tried, but-'

'Yes; my landlady gave birth—let me think—last Tuesday: an unusually fine baby boy. On Thursday night, the nurse was sitting with him on her lap in front of the fire, and he was doing as well as could be expected. Suddenly, he started to turn blue in the face and had alarming spasms. The doctor was called right away, and every possible treatment was attempted, but—'

'How frightful!' interrupted the horror-stricken Kitterbell.

'How scary!' interrupted the terrified Kitterbell.

'The child died, of course. However, your child may not die; and if it should be a boy, and should live to be christened, why I suppose I must be one of the sponsors.' Dumps was evidently good-natured on the faith of his anticipations.

'The child died, of course. However, your child may not die; and if it should be a boy, and should live to be baptized, then I guess I have to be one of the sponsors.' Dumps was clearly in a good mood based on his hopes.

'Thank you, uncle,' said his agitated nephew, grasping his hand as warmly as if he had done him some essential service. 'Perhaps I had better not tell Mrs. K. what you have mentioned.'

'Thank you, uncle,' said his frustrated nephew, shaking his hand as warmly as if he had done him a huge favor. 'Maybe I shouldn’t tell Mrs. K. what you brought up.'

'Why, if she's low-spirited, perhaps you had better not mention the melancholy case to her,' returned Dumps, who of course had invented the whole story; 'though perhaps it would be but doing your duty as a husband to prepare her for the worst.'

'Why, if she's feeling down, maybe you should avoid bringing up the sad situation to her,' replied Dumps, who of course had made up the entire story; 'though maybe it would be your responsibility as a husband to get her ready for the worst.'

A day or two afterwards, as Dumps was perusing a morning paper at the chop-house which he regularly frequented, the following-paragraph met his eyes:-

A day or two later, while Dumps was reading a morning paper at the cafe he often visited, he came across the following paragraph:-

'Births.-On Saturday, the 18th inst., in Great Russell-street, the lady of Charles Kitterbell, Esq., of a son.'

'Births.-On Saturday, the 18th of this month, in Great Russell Street, the wife of Charles Kitterbell, Esq., gave birth to a son.'

'It is a boy!' he exclaimed, dashing down the paper, to the astonishment of the waiters. 'It is a boy!' But he speedily regained his composure as his eye rested on a paragraph quoting the number of infant deaths from the bills of mortality.

'It's a boy!' he shouted, throwing down the paper, shocking the waiters. 'It's a boy!' But he quickly composed himself as he noticed a paragraph listing the number of infant deaths from the mortality reports.

Six weeks passed away, and as no communication had been received from the Kitterbells, Dumps was beginning to flatter himself that the child was dead, when the following note painfully resolved his doubts:-

Six weeks went by, and since there had been no word from the Kitterbells, Dumps was starting to convince himself that the child was dead, when the following note painfully cleared up his doubts:

'Great Russell-street, Monday morning.

Great Russell Street, Monday morning.

'Dear Uncle,-You will be delighted to hear that my dear Jemima has left her room, and that your future godson is getting on capitally. He was very thin at first, but he is getting much larger, and nurse says he is filling out every day. He cries a good deal, and is a very singular colour, which made Jemima and me rather uncomfortable; but as nurse says it's natural, and as of course we know nothing about these things yet, we are quite satisfied with what nurse says. We think he will be a sharp child; and nurse says she's sure he will, because he never goes to sleep. You will readily believe that we are all very happy, only we're a little worn out for want of rest, as he keeps us awake all night; but this we must expect, nurse says, for the first six or eight months. He has been vaccinated, but in consequence of the operation being rather awkwardly performed, some small particles of glass were introduced into the arm with the matter. Perhaps this may in some degree account for his being rather fractious; at least, so nurse says. We propose to have him christened at twelve o'clock on Friday, at Saint George's church, in Hart-street, by the name of Frederick Charles William. Pray don't be later than a quarter before twelve. We shall have a very few friends in the evening, when of course we shall see you. I am sorry to say that the dear boy appears rather restless and uneasy to-day: the cause, I fear, is fever.

Dear Uncle, You’ll be happy to know that my dear Jemima has left her room, and your future godson is doing really well. He was very thin at first, but he’s getting much bigger, and the nurse says he’s filling out more every day. He cries quite a bit and has a rather unusual color, which made Jemima and me a bit uneasy; but since the nurse says it’s natural, and of course we don’t know much about these things yet, we’re just trusting what she says. We think he’ll be a bright child; the nurse is sure he will be because he never seems to sleep. You can imagine we’re all quite happy, though we’re a little worn out from lack of sleep since he keeps us up all night; but the nurse says this is to be expected for the first six or eight months. He’s been vaccinated, but because the operation was done a bit awkwardly, some small bits of glass were accidentally introduced into his arm along with the vaccine. Maybe that’s why he’s a bit fussy, at least according to the nurse. We plan to have him baptized at twelve o'clock on Friday at Saint George’s Church on Hart Street, and we’ll be naming him Frederick Charles William. Please don’t be later than a quarter before twelve. We’ll have just a few friends over in the evening, and of course, we’ll see you then. I’m sorry to say the poor boy seems a bit restless and uneasy today; I fear it might be fever.

'Believe me, dear Uncle, 'Yours affectionately, 'Charles Kitterbell.

'P.S.-I open this note to say that we have just discovered the cause of little Frederick's restlessness. It is not fever, as I apprehended, but a small pin, which nurse accidentally stuck in his leg yesterday evening. We have taken it out, and he appears more composed, though he still sobs a good deal.'

'P.S.-I’m writing this note to let you know that we just found out why little Frederick has been so fidgety. It’s not a fever like I thought; it’s actually a tiny pin that the nurse accidentally poked into his leg last night. We’ve removed it, and he seems a bit calmer now, although he’s still crying quite a bit.'

It is almost unnecessary to say that the perusal of the above interesting statement was no great relief to the mind of the hypochondriacal Dumps. It was impossible to recede, however, and so he put the best face-that is to say, an uncommonly miserable one-upon the matter; and purchased a handsome silver mug for the infant Kitterbell, upon which he ordered the initials 'F. C. W. K.,' with the customary untrained grape-vine-looking flourishes, and a large full stop, to be engraved forthwith.

It’s almost pointless to say that reading the above intriguing statement didn’t really help the troubled mind of the hypochondriac Dumps. He couldn’t back out, though, so he tried to put on a brave face—which was, to be honest, quite miserable—and bought a nice silver mug for the baby Kitterbell. He had the initials 'F. C. W. K.' engraved on it, complete with those typical decorative flourishes that look like tangled vines, ending with a big period.

Monday was a fine day, Tuesday was delightful, Wednesday was equal to either, and Thursday was finer than ever; four successive fine days in London! Hackney-coachmen became revolutionary, and crossing-sweepers began to doubt the existence of a First Cause. The Morning Herald informed its readers that an old woman in Camden Town had been heard to say that the fineness of the season was 'unprecedented in the memory of the oldest inhabitant;' and Islington clerks, with large families and small salaries, left off their black gaiters, disdained to carry their once green cotton umbrellas, and walked to town in the conscious pride of white stockings and cleanly brushed Bluchers. Dumps beheld all this with an eye of supreme contempt-his triumph was at hand. He knew that if it had been fine for four weeks instead of four days, it would rain when he went out; he was lugubriously happy in the conviction that Friday would be a wretched day-and so it was. 'I knew how it would be,' said Dumps, as he turned round opposite the Mansion-house at half-past eleven o'clock on the Friday morning. 'I knew how it would be. I am concerned, and that's enough;'-and certainly the appearance of the day was sufficient to depress the spirits of a much more buoyant-hearted individual than himself. It had rained, without a moment's cessation, since eight o'clock; everybody that passed up Cheapside, and down Cheapside, looked wet, cold, and dirty. All sorts of forgotten and long-concealed umbrellas had been put into requisition. Cabs whisked about, with the 'fare' as carefully boxed up behind two glazed calico curtains as any mysterious picture in any one of Mrs. Radcliffe's castles; omnibus horses smoked like steam-engines; nobody thought of 'standing up' under doorways or arches; they were painfully convinced it was a hopeless case; and so everybody went hastily along, jumbling and jostling, and swearing and perspiring, and slipping about, like amateur skaters behind wooden chairs on the Serpentine on a frosty Sunday.

Monday was a nice day, Tuesday was lovely, Wednesday was just as good, and Thursday was even better; four sunny days in London! Hackney cab drivers got a bit rebellious, and street sweepers started to question the universe. The Morning Herald let its readers know that an old woman in Camden Town had been heard saying that the nice weather was 'unprecedented in the memory of the oldest resident;' and Islington office workers, with big families and small paychecks, ditched their black gaiters, scoffed at their old green umbrellas, and walked into town proudly showing off their white socks and freshly polished shoes. Dumps watched all this with total disdain—his victory was near. He knew that if it had been nice for four weeks instead of just four days, it would rain when he stepped outside; he was gloomily happy in the belief that Friday would be a miserable day—and sure enough, it was. 'I knew how it would be,' Dumps said as he turned around in front of the Mansion House at half-past eleven on that Friday morning. 'I knew how it would be. I'm worried, and that's enough;' and the look of the day was enough to bring down the spirits of someone much more cheerful than he was. It had rained non-stop since eight o'clock; everyone passing through Cheapside looked wet, cold, and grimy. All kinds of long-forgotten umbrellas had been brought out. Cabs zipped around, with the passengers tucked away behind two glossy canvas curtains like some mysterious artwork in one of Mrs. Radcliffe's castles; the horses pulling the omnibuses were puffing like steam engines; nobody thought about standing under doorways or arches; they were painfully aware it was a lost cause; so everyone hurried along, bumping into each other, cursing and sweating, slipping around like novice skaters behind wooden chairs on the Serpentine on a chilly Sunday.

Dumps paused; he could not think of walking, being rather smart for the christening. If he took a cab he was sure to be spilt, and a hackney- coach was too expensive for his economical ideas. An omnibus was waiting at the opposite corner-it was a desperate case-he had never heard of an omnibus upsetting or running away, and if the cad did knock him down, he could 'pull him up' in return.

Dumps hesitated; he couldn’t think of walking, looking too sharp for the event. If he took a cab, he was bound to get into trouble, and a private carriage was too pricey for his budget. An bus was waiting on the other corner—it was a last resort—he had never heard of a bus flipping over or speeding off, and if some jerk knocked him down, he could just get back at him.

'Now, sir!' cried the young gentleman who officiated as 'cad' to the 'Lads of the Village,' which was the name of the machine just noticed. Dumps crossed.

'Now, dude!' cried the young guy who served as 'cad' to the 'Lads of the Village,' which was the name of the machine just mentioned. Dumps crossed.

'This vay, sir!' shouted the driver of the 'Hark-away,' pulling up his vehicle immediately across the door of the opposition-'This vay, sir-he's full.' Dumps hesitated, whereupon the 'Lads of the Village' commenced pouring out a torrent of abuse against the 'Hark-away;' but the conductor of the 'Admiral Napier' settled the contest in a most satisfactory manner, for all parties, by seizing Dumps round the waist, and thrusting him into the middle of his vehicle which had just come up and only wanted the sixteenth inside.

'This way, sir!' shouted the driver of the 'Hark-away,' stopping his vehicle right in front of the door of the competition. 'This way, sir—he's full.' Dumps hesitated, and the 'Lads of the Village' started hurling a stream of insults at the 'Hark-away.' However, the conductor of the 'Admiral Napier' ended the dispute in a very satisfying way for everyone involved by grabbing Dumps around the waist and pushing him into the middle of his vehicle, which had just arrived and only needed one more passenger.

'All right,' said the 'Admiral,' and off the thing thundered, like a fire-engine at full gallop, with the kidnapped customer inside, standing in the position of a half doubled-up bootjack, and falling about with every jerk of the machine, first on the one side, and then on the other, like a 'Jack-in-the-green,' on May-day, setting to the lady with a brass ladle.

'Okay,' said the 'Admiral,' and off it roared, like a fire truck at top speed, with the kidnapped customer inside, hunched over like a half-folded bootjack, and toppling with every jolt of the machine, first to one side and then to the other, like a 'Jack-in-the-green' on May Day, dancing with a lady holding a brass ladle.

'For Heaven's sake, where am I to sit?' inquired the miserable man of an old gentleman, into whose stomach he had just fallen for the fourth time.

'For heaven's sake, where am I supposed to sit?' asked the miserable man of an old gentleman, into whose stomach he had just fallen for the fourth time.

'Anywhere but on my chest, sir,' replied the old gentleman in a surly tone.

'Anywhere but on my chest, sir,' replied the old man in a grumpy tone.

'Perhaps the box would suit the gentleman better,' suggested a very damp lawyer's clerk, in a pink shirt, and a smirking countenance.

'Maybe the box would be a better fit for the gentleman,' suggested a very damp lawyer's clerk, in a pink shirt, with a smirking expression.

After a great deal of struggling and falling about, Dumps at last managed to squeeze himself into a seat, which, in addition to the slight disadvantage of being between a window that would not shut, and a door that must be open, placed him in close contact with a passenger, who had been walking about all the morning without an umbrella, and who looked as if he had spent the day in a full water-butt-only wetter.

After a lot of struggling and stumbling, Dumps finally managed to squeeze into a seat, which, apart from the small inconvenience of being between a window that wouldn’t close and a door that had to stay open, put him right next to a passenger who had been walking around all morning without an umbrella. This guy looked like he had spent the day in a completely full rain barrel—only even wetter.

'Don't bang the door so,' said Dumps to the conductor, as he shut it after letting out four of the passengers; I am very nervous-it destroys me.'

"Please don't slam the door like that," Dumps said to the conductor as he closed it after letting out four of the passengers; "I get really anxious—it really bothers me."

'Did any gen'lm'n say anythink?' replied the cad, thrusting in his head, and trying to look as if he didn't understand the request.

'Did any gentleman say anything?' replied the guy, sticking his head in and trying to look like he didn't understand the request.

'I told you not to bang the door so!' repeated Dumps, with an expression of countenance like the knave of clubs, in convulsions.

'I told you not to slam the door like that!' Dumps repeated, looking like the knave of clubs, completely out of sorts.

'Oh! vy, it's rather a sing'ler circumstance about this here door, sir, that it von't shut without banging,' replied the conductor; and he opened the door very wide, and shut it again with a terrific bang, in proof of the assertion.

'Oh! wow, it's quite a strange situation with this door, sir, that it won’t shut without slamming,' replied the conductor; and he opened the door really wide, then slammed it shut with a huge bang as proof of his claim.

'I beg your pardon, sir,' said a little prim, wheezing old gentleman, sitting opposite Dumps, 'I beg your pardon; but have you ever observed, when you have been in an omnibus on a wet day, that four people out of five always come in with large cotton umbrellas, without a handle at the top, or the brass spike at the bottom?'

"I’m sorry to interrupt, sir," said a small, proper, wheezing old man sitting across from Dumps, "but have you ever noticed that when you're on a bus on a rainy day, four out of five people come on with large cotton umbrellas that have no handle at the top or brass tip at the bottom?"

'Why, sir,' returned Dumps, as he heard the clock strike twelve, 'it never struck me before; but now you mention it, I-Hollo! hollo!' shouted the persecuted individual, as the omnibus dashed past Drury-lane, where he had directed to be set down.-'Where is the cad?'

'Why, sir,' Dumps replied when he heard the clock strike twelve, 'I never realized it before; but now that you mention it, I—Hey! hey!' shouted the frustrated person as the bus rushed past Drury Lane, where he had asked to be dropped off. 'Where is that jerk?'

'I think he's on the box, sir,' said the young gentleman before noticed in the pink shirt, which looked like a white one ruled with red ink.

'I think he's on the box, sir,' said the young man previously mentioned in the pink shirt, which looked like a white one with red stripes.

'I want to be set down!' said Dumps in a faint voice, overcome by his previous efforts.

"I want to be put down!" said Dumps in a weak voice, exhausted from his earlier efforts.

'I think these cads want to be set down,' returned the attorney's clerk, chuckling at his sally.

'I think these jerks want to be put in their place,' replied the attorney's clerk, laughing at his joke.

'Hollo!' cried Dumps again.

"Hello!" cried Dumps again.

'Hollo!' echoed the passengers. The omnibus passed St. Giles's church.

'Holla!' echoed the passengers. The bus passed St. Giles's church.

'Hold hard!' said the conductor; 'I'm blowed if we ha'n't forgot the gen'lm'n as vas to be set down at Doory-lane.-Now, sir, make haste, if you please,' he added, opening the door, and assisting Dumps out with as much coolness as if it was 'all right.' Dumps's indignation was for once getting the better of his cynical equanimity. 'Drury-lane!' he gasped, with the voice of a boy in a cold bath for the first time.

'Hold on!' said the conductor; 'I can't believe we've forgotten the gentleman who was supposed to get off at Doory-lane. Now, sir, please hurry,' he added, opening the door and helping Dumps out with as much calmness as if everything was 'all right.' For once, Dumps's anger was getting the better of his usual cynicism. 'Drury-lane!' he gasped, sounding like a boy experiencing a cold bath for the first time.

'Doory-lane, sir?-yes, sir,-third turning on the right-hand side, sir.'

'Doory lane, sir? Yes, sir, third turn on the right side, sir.'

Dumps's passion was paramount: he clutched his umbrella, and was striding off with the firm determination of not paying the fare. The cad, by a remarkable coincidence, happened to entertain a directly contrary opinion, and Heaven knows how far the altercation would have proceeded, if it had not been most ably and satisfactorily brought to a close by the driver.

Dumps's passion was intense: he held onto his umbrella and walked away with a strong determination not to pay the fare. The guy, quite coincidentally, had the exact opposite view, and who knows how far the argument would have gone if the driver hadn't skillfully and effectively intervened to resolve it.

'Hollo!' said that respectable person, standing up on the box, and leaning with one hand on the roof of the omnibus. 'Hollo, Tom! tell the gentleman if so be as he feels aggrieved, we will take him up to the Edge-er (Edgeware) Road for nothing, and set him down at Doory-lane when we comes back. He can't reject that, anyhow.'

'Hollo!' said that respectable person, standing up on the box and leaning with one hand on the roof of the bus. 'Hollo, Tom! Tell the gentleman that if he feels wronged, we’ll take him up to Edgeware Road for free and drop him off at Door Lane when we come back. He can't turn that down, anyway.'

The argument was irresistible: Dumps paid the disputed sixpence, and in a quarter of an hour was on the staircase of No. 14, Great Russell- street.

The argument was too compelling to ignore: Dumps paid the controversial sixpence and, fifteen minutes later, was on the staircase of No. 14, Great Russell Street.

Everything indicated that preparations were making for the reception of 'a few friends' in the evening. Two dozen extra tumblers, and four ditto wine-glasses-looking anything but transparent, with little bits of straw in them on the slab in the passage, just arrived. There was a great smell of nutmeg, port wine, and almonds, on the staircase; the covers were taken off the stair-carpet, and the figure of Venus on the first landing looked as if she were ashamed of the composition-candle in her right hand, which contrasted beautifully with the lamp-blacked drapery of the goddess of love. The female servant (who looked very warm and bustling) ushered Dumps into a front drawing-room, very prettily furnished, with a plentiful sprinkling of little baskets, paper table-mats, china watchmen, pink and gold albums, and rainbow-bound little books on the different tables.

Everything suggested that preparations were underway for the arrival of "a few friends" in the evening. Two dozen extra tumblers and four wine glasses, which looked anything but clear and had bits of straw in them, were just placed on the table in the hallway. There was a strong smell of nutmeg, port wine, and almonds wafting up the staircase; the covers had been removed from the stair carpet, and the statue of Venus on the first landing seemed almost embarrassed by the composition candle in her right hand, which contrasted beautifully with the soot-covered drapery of the goddess of love. The female servant, who looked quite warm and busy, led Dumps into a charmingly furnished front drawing room, adorned with several little baskets, paper placemats, ceramic figurines, pink and gold albums, and rainbow-covered little books on the various tables.

'Ah, uncle!' said Mr. Kitterbell, 'how d'ye do? Allow me-Jemima, my dear-my uncle. I think you've seen Jemima before, sir?'

'Hey, uncle!' said Mr. Kitterbell, 'how are you? Let me introduce you—Jemima, my dear—this is my uncle. I believe you've met Jemima before, right?'

'Have had the pleasure,' returned big Dumps, his tone and look making it doubtful whether in his life he had ever experienced the sensation.

'I've had the pleasure,' replied big Dumps, his tone and expression making it unclear if he had ever truly felt that way in his life.

'I'm sure,' said Mrs. Kitterbell, with a languid smile, and a slight cough. 'I'm sure-hem-any friend-of Charles's-hem-much less a relation, is-'

'I'm sure,' said Mrs. Kitterbell, with a lazy smile and a slight cough. 'I'm sure—hem—any friend of Charles's—hem—let alone a relative, is—'

'I knew you'd say so, my love,' said little Kitterbell, who, while he appeared to be gazing on the opposite houses, was looking at his wife with a most affectionate air: 'Bless you!' The last two words were accompanied with a simper, and a squeeze of the hand, which stirred up all Uncle Dumps's bile.

'I knew you'd say that, my love,' said little Kitterbell, who, while pretending to gaze at the houses across the street, was actually looking at his wife with a very affectionate expression. 'Bless you!' He said the last two words with a smile and a squeeze of her hand, which stirred up all of Uncle Dumps's anger.

'Jane, tell nurse to bring down baby,' said Mrs. Kitterbell, addressing the servant. Mrs. Kitterbell was a tall, thin young lady, with very light hair, and a particularly white face-one of those young women who almost invariably, though one hardly knows why, recall to one's mind the idea of a cold fillet of veal. Out went the servant, and in came the nurse, with a remarkably small parcel in her arms, packed up in a blue mantle trimmed with white fur.-This was the baby.

'Jane, please ask the nurse to bring down the baby,' said Mrs. Kitterbell, speaking to the servant. Mrs. Kitterbell was a tall, slender young lady with very light hair and a particularly pale face—one of those young women who somehow remind you of a cold fillet of veal. The servant left, and the nurse entered, holding a remarkably small bundle in her arms, wrapped in a blue cloak trimmed with white fur. This was the baby.

'Now, uncle,' said Mr. Kitterbell, lifting up that part of the mantle which covered the infant's face, with an air of great triumph, 'Who do you think he's like?'

'Now, Uncle,' said Mr. Kitterbell, lifting the part of the mantle that covered the baby's face with a sense of great triumph, 'Who do you think he looks like?'

'He! he! Yes, who?' said Mrs. K., putting her arm through her husband's, and looking up into Dumps's face with an expression of as much interest as she was capable of displaying.

'Hey! hey! Yes, who?' said Mrs. K., linking her arm through her husband's, and looking up into Dumps's face with as much interest as she could show.

'Good God, how small he is!' cried the amiable uncle, starting back with well-feigned surprise; 'remarkably small indeed.'

'Good God, he's so little!' exclaimed the friendly uncle, stepping back with an exaggerated look of surprise; 'really very small indeed.'

'Do you think so?' inquired poor little Kitterbell, rather alarmed. 'He's a monster to what he was-ain't he, nurse?'

"Do you really think so?" asked poor little Kitterbell, looking quite worried. "He's a total monster compared to how he used to be, right, nurse?"

'He's a dear,' said the nurse, squeezing the child, and evading the question-not because she scrupled to disguise the fact, but because she couldn't afford to throw away the chance of Dumps's half-crown.

'He's a sweetheart,' said the nurse, hugging the child and dodging the question—not out of guilt for hiding the truth, but because she couldn't risk losing Dumps's half-crown.

'Well, but who is he like?' inquired little Kitterbell.

'Well, but who is he like?' asked little Kitterbell.

Dumps looked at the little pink heap before him, and only thought at the moment of the best mode of mortifying the youthful parents.

Dumps looked at the small pink bundle in front of him and was only focused on the best way to embarrass the young parents.

'I really don't know who he's like,' he answered, very well knowing the reply expected of him.

"I honestly have no idea who he's like," he replied, fully aware of the answer people thought he should give.

'Don't you think he's like me?' inquired his nephew with a knowing air.

"Don't you think he's like me?" his nephew asked with a knowing expression.

'Oh, decidedly not!' returned Dumps, with an emphasis not to be misunderstood. 'Decidedly not like you.-Oh, certainly not.'

'Oh, definitely not!' replied Dumps, with an emphasis that was hard to miss. 'Definitely not like you. Oh, for sure not.'

'Like Jemima?' asked Kitterbell, faintly.

"Like Jemima?" Kitterbell asked softly.

'Oh, dear no; not in the least. I'm no judge, of course, in such cases; but I really think he's more like one of those little carved representations that one sometimes sees blowing a trumpet on a tombstone!' The nurse stooped down over the child, and with great difficulty prevented an explosion of mirth. Pa and ma looked almost as miserable as their amiable uncle.

'Oh, no, not at all. I'm not an expert in these matters, of course, but I honestly think he's more like one of those little carved figures you sometimes see playing a trumpet on a tombstone!' The nurse leaned down over the child and struggled to hold back a laugh. Mom and Dad looked almost as unhappy as their well-meaning uncle.

'Well!' said the disappointed little father, 'you'll be better able to tell what he's like by-and-by. You shall see him this evening with his mantle off.'

'Well!' said the disappointed little father, 'you'll get a better sense of what he's like later. You'll see him this evening without his cloak.'

'Thank you,' said Dumps, feeling particularly grateful.

'Thank you,' said Dumps, feeling especially thankful.

'Now, my love,' said Kitterbell to his wife, 'it's time we were off. We're to meet the other godfather and the godmother at the church, uncle,-Mr. and Mrs. Wilson from over the way-uncommonly nice people. My love, are you well wrapped up?'

'Now, my love,' said Kitterbell to his wife, 'it's time to head out. We're meeting the other godfather and godmother at the church, Uncle - Mr. and Mrs. Wilson from across the street - really nice people. My love, are you bundled up properly?'

'Yes, dear.'

'Of course, sweetheart.'

'Are you sure you won't have another shawl?' inquired the anxious husband.

"Are you sure you don't want another shawl?" asked the worried husband.

'No, sweet,' returned the charming mother, accepting Dumps's proffered arm; and the little party entered the hackney-coach that was to take them to the church; Dumps amusing Mrs. Kitterbell by expatiating largely on the danger of measles, thrush, teeth-cutting, and other interesting diseases to which children are subject.

'No, dear,' replied the lovely mother, taking Dumps's offered arm; and the small group got into the cab that was going to take them to the church; Dumps entertained Mrs. Kitterbell by talking extensively about the risks of measles, thrush, teething, and other fascinating illnesses that children can get.

The ceremony (which occupied about five minutes) passed off without anything particular occurring. The clergyman had to dine some distance from town, and had two churchings, three christenings, and a funeral to perform in something less than an hour. The godfathers and godmother, therefore, promised to renounce the devil and all his works-'and all that sort of thing'-as little Kitterbell said-'in less than no time;' and with the exception of Dumps nearly letting the child fall into the font when he handed it to the clergyman, the whole affair went off in the usual business-like and matter-of-course manner, and Dumps re- entered the Bank-gates at two o'clock with a heavy heart, and the painful conviction that he was regularly booked for an evening party.

The ceremony (which lasted about five minutes) went by without anything unusual happening. The clergyman had to have dinner a bit far from town and had two churchings, three christenings, and a funeral to conduct in less than an hour. The godfathers and godmother, therefore, promised to reject the devil and all his works—"and all that sort of thing," as little Kitterbell put it—"in no time at all;" and aside from Dumps almost dropping the child into the font when he passed it to the clergyman, everything went on in the usual straightforward and routine way. Dumps walked back through the Bank gates at two o'clock with a heavy heart and the uneasy realization that he was definitely on the list for an evening party.

Evening came-and so did Dumps's pumps, black silk stockings, and white cravat which he had ordered to be forwarded, per boy, from Pentonville. The depressed godfather dressed himself at a friend's counting-house, from whence, with his spirits fifty degrees below proof, he sallied forth-as the weather had cleared up, and the evening was tolerably fine-to walk to Great Russell-street. Slowly he paced up Cheapside, Newgate-street, down Snow-hill, and up Holborn ditto, looking as grim as the figure-head of a man-of-war, and finding out fresh causes of misery at every step. As he was crossing the corner of Hatton-garden, a man apparently intoxicated, rushed against him, and would have knocked him down, had he not been providentially caught by a very genteel young man, who happened to be close to him at the time. The shock so disarranged Dumps's nerves, as well as his dress, that he could hardly stand. The gentleman took his arm, and in the kindest manner walked with him as far as Furnival's Inn. Dumps, for about the first time in his life, felt grateful and polite; and he and the gentlemanly-looking young man parted with mutual expressions of good will.

Evening arrived—and so did Dumps's pumps, black silk stockings, and white cravat that he had shipped, via a boy, from Pentonville. The downcast godfather got dressed at a friend's office, and from there, feeling low, he ventured out—since the weather had cleared up and the evening was reasonably nice—to walk to Great Russell Street. He slowly made his way up Cheapside, down Newgate Street, past Snow Hill, and up Holborn, looking as grim as the figurehead on a warship, discovering new reasons for misery with every step. As he was crossing the corner of Hatton Garden, a seemingly drunk man bumped into him, nearly knocking him down, if not for a very stylish young man who happened to be nearby and caught him just in time. The jolt disturbed Dumps's nerves and his outfit so much that he could barely stand. The gentleman took his arm and kindly walked with him all the way to Furnival's Inn. For perhaps the first time in his life, Dumps felt grateful and polite; he and the well-dressed young man parted with mutual good wishes.

'There are at least some well-disposed men in the world,' ruminated the misanthropical Dumps, as he proceeded towards his destination.

"There are at least a few good people in the world," thought the misanthropic Dumps as he made his way to his destination.

Rat-tat-ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rat-knocked a hackney-coachman at Kitterbell's door, in imitation of a gentleman's servant, just as Dumps reached it; and out came an old lady in a large toque, and an old gentleman in a blue coat, and three female copies of the old lady in pink dresses, and shoes to match.

Rat-tat-ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rat knocked on Kitterbell's door like a gentleman's servant, just as Dumps arrived; and out came an old lady in a big hat, an old gentleman in a blue coat, and three women resembling the old lady in pink dresses and matching shoes.

'It's a large party,' sighed the unhappy godfather, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, and leaning against the area-railings. It was some time before the miserable man could muster up courage to knock at the door, and when he did, the smart appearance of a neighbouring greengrocer (who had been hired to wait for seven and sixpence, and whose calves alone were worth double the money), the lamp in the passage, and the Venus on the landing, added to the hum of many voices, and the sound of a harp and two violins, painfully convinced him that his surmises were but too well founded.

"It's a big party," sighed the unhappy godfather, wiping the sweat from his forehead and leaning against the railing. It took him a while to gather the courage to knock on the door, and when he finally did, the sharp look of a nearby greengrocer (who had been hired for seven and sixpence, and whose calves alone were worth twice that) alongside the lamp in the hallway and the statue of Venus on the landing, mixed with the chatter of many voices and the sound of a harp and two violins, painfully confirmed his fears were all too true.

'How are you?' said little Kitterbell, in a greater bustle than ever, bolting out of the little back parlour with a cork-screw in his hand, and various particles of sawdust, looking like so many inverted commas, on his inexpressibles.

'How are you?' said little Kitterbell, in a bigger rush than ever, bursting out of the small back room with a corkscrew in his hand, and various bits of sawdust, looking like so many upside-down commas, on his pants.

'Good God!' said Dumps, turning into the aforesaid parlour to put his shoes on, which he had brought in his coat-pocket, and still more appalled by the sight of seven fresh-drawn corks, and a corresponding number of decanters. 'How many people are there up-stairs?'

'Good God!' said Dumps, walking into the mentioned parlor to put on his shoes, which he had taken out of his coat pocket, and even more shocked by the sight of seven freshly opened corks and an equal number of decanters. 'How many people are upstairs?'

'Oh, not above thirty-five. We've had the carpet taken up in the back drawing-room, and the piano and the card-tables are in the front. Jemima thought we'd better have a regular sit-down supper in the front parlour, because of the speechifying, and all that. But, Lord! uncle, what's the matter?' continued the excited little man, as Dumps stood with one shoe on, rummaging his pockets with the most frightful distortion of visage. 'What have you lost? Your pocket-book?'

'Oh, not more than thirty-five. We’ve had the carpet removed in the back living room, and the piano and card tables are in the front. Jemima thought it would be better to have a proper sit-down dinner in the front parlor because of the speeches and all that. But, wow! Uncle, what’s wrong?' the excited little man continued, as Dumps stood there with one shoe on, desperately searching his pockets with a look of total panic. 'Did you lose something? Your wallet?'

'No,' returned Dumps, diving first into one pocket and then into the other, and speaking in a voice like Desdemona with the pillow over her mouth.

'No,' replied Dumps, reaching into one pocket and then the other, speaking in a voice like Desdemona with a pillow over her face.

'Your card-case? snuff-box? the key of your lodgings?' continued Kitterbell, pouring question on question with the rapidity of lightning.

'Your card case? Snuff box? The key to your place?' continued Kitterbell, firing off questions one after another at lightning speed.

'No! no!' ejaculated Dumps, still diving eagerly into his empty pockets.

'No! no!' Dumps exclaimed, still eagerly searching through his empty pockets.

'Not-not-the mug you spoke of this morning?'

'Not—not the mug you mentioned this morning?'

'Yes, the mug!' replied Dumps, sinking into a chair.

'Yeah, the mug!' replied Dumps, sinking into a chair.

'How could you have done it?' inquired Kitterbell. 'Are you sure you brought it out?'

'How could you have done that?' asked Kitterbell. 'Are you sure you brought it out?'

'Yes! yes! I see it all!' said Dumps, starting up as the idea flashed across his mind; 'miserable dog that I am-I was born to suffer. I see it all: it was the gentlemanly-looking young man!'

'Yes! Yes! I see it all!' said Dumps, suddenly realizing as the idea struck him; 'what a pathetic fool I am - I was meant to suffer. I get it now: it was the polished-looking young man!'

'Mr. Dumps!' shouted the greengrocer in a stentorian voice, as he ushered the somewhat recovered godfather into the drawing-room half an hour after the above declaration. 'Mr. Dumps!'-everybody looked at the door, and in came Dumps, feeling about as much out of place as a salmon might be supposed to be on a gravel-walk.

'Mr. Dumps!' shouted the greengrocer in a loud voice, as he brought the somewhat recovered godfather into the drawing-room half an hour after the earlier announcement. 'Mr. Dumps!'—everyone turned to the door, and in walked Dumps, feeling as out of place as a salmon would on a gravel path.

'Happy to see you again,' said Mrs. Kitterbell, quite unconscious of the unfortunate man's confusion and misery; 'you must allow me to introduce you to a few of our friends:-my mamma, Mr. Dumps-my papa and sisters.' Dumps seized the hand of the mother as warmly as if she was his own parent, bowed to the young ladies, and against a gentleman behind him, and took no notice whatever of the father, who had been bowing incessantly for three minutes and a quarter.

"Happy to see you again," said Mrs. Kitterbell, completely unaware of the poor man's confusion and distress. "You have to let me introduce you to some of our friends: my mom, Mr. Dumps—my dad and my sisters." Dumps grabbed the mother’s hand as warmly as if she were his own mom, bowed to the young ladies and a gentleman behind him, and completely ignored the father, who had been bowing continuously for three minutes and a quarter.

'Uncle,' said little Kitterbell, after Dumps had been introduced to a select dozen or two, 'you must let me lead you to the other end of the room, to introduce you to my friend Danton. Such a splendid fellow!-I'm sure you'll like him-this way,'-Dumps followed as tractably as a tame bear.

'Uncle,' said little Kitterbell, after Dumps had met a select group of a dozen or so, 'you have to let me take you to the other end of the room to introduce you to my friend Danton. He's such a great guy! I'm sure you'll like him—this way,'—Dumps followed as obediently as a trained bear.

Mr. Danton was a young man of about five-and-twenty, with a considerable stock of impudence, and a very small share of ideas: he was a great favourite, especially with young ladies of from sixteen to twenty-six years of age, both inclusive. He could imitate the French-horn to admiration, sang comic songs most inimitably, and had the most insinuating way of saying impertinent nothings to his doting female admirers. He had acquired, somehow or other, the reputation of being a great wit, and, accordingly, whenever he opened his mouth, everybody who knew him laughed very heartily.

Mr. Danton was a young guy of about twenty-five, with a lot of cheek and very few ideas. He was a huge favorite, especially with young women aged sixteen to twenty-six. He could mimic the French horn beautifully, sang comic songs in a way that was hard to top, and had the most charming way of saying silly things to his adoring female fans. Somehow, he had built up a reputation as a great wit, so whenever he spoke, everyone who knew him laughed heartily.

The introduction took place in due form. Mr. Danton bowed, and twirled a lady's handkerchief, which he held in his hand, in a most comic way. Everybody smiled.

The introduction happened as it should. Mr. Danton bowed and playfully twirled a lady's handkerchief he was holding, making everyone laugh.

'Very warm,' said Dumps, feeling it necessary to say something.

'It's really warm,' said Dumps, feeling like he had to say something.

'Yes. It was warmer yesterday,' returned the brilliant Mr. Danton.-A general laugh.

'Yes. It was warmer yesterday,' replied the clever Mr. Danton. - A general laugh.

'I have great pleasure in congratulating you on your first appearance in the character of a father, sir,' he continued, addressing Dumps-'godfather, I mean.'-The young ladies were convulsed, and the gentlemen in ecstasies.

"I’m really happy to congratulate you on your first time playing the role of a father, sir," he continued, speaking to Dumps—"I mean godfather." The young ladies were in fits of laughter, and the gentlemen were thrilled.

A general hum of admiration interrupted the conversation, and announced the entrance of nurse with the baby. An universal rush of the young ladies immediately took place. (Girls are always so fond of babies in company.)

A general buzz of admiration interrupted the conversation and announced the entrance of the nurse with the baby. A collective rush of young ladies immediately happened. (Girls are always so fond of babies in social settings.)

'Oh, you dear!' said one.

"Oh, you sweetie!" said one.

'How sweet!' cried another, in a low tone of the most enthusiastic admiration.

"How sweet!" exclaimed another, in a soft voice filled with the highest admiration.

'Heavenly!' added a third.

"Awesome!" added a third.

'Oh! what dear little arms!' said a fourth, holding up an arm and fist about the size and shape of the leg of a fowl cleanly picked.

'Oh! what adorable little arms!' said a fourth, holding up an arm and fist about the size and shape of a chicken leg that's been cleaned.

'Did you ever!'-said a little coquette with a large bustle, who looked like a French lithograph, appealing to a gentleman in three waistcoats-'Did you ever!'

'Did you ever!' said a little flirt with a big bustle, who looked like a French lithograph, addressing a guy in three waistcoats. 'Did you ever!'

'Never, in my life,' returned her admirer, pulling up his collar.

'Never, in my life,' replied her admirer, pulling up his collar.

'Oh! do let me take it, nurse,' cried another young lady. 'The love!'

'Oh! Please let me have it, nurse,' exclaimed another young lady. 'The love!'

'Can it open its eyes, nurse?' inquired another, affecting the utmost innocence.-Suffice it to say, that the single ladies unanimously voted him an angel, and that the married ones, nem. con., agreed that he was decidedly the finest baby they had ever beheld-except their own.

'Can it open its eyes, nurse?' asked another, pretending to be completely innocent. Suffice it to say, all the single ladies unanimously voted him an angel, and the married ones all agreed that he was definitely the cutest baby they had ever seen—except for their own.

The quadrilles were resumed with great spirit. Mr. Danton was universally admitted to be beyond himself; several young ladies enchanted the company and gained admirers by singing 'We met'-'I saw her at the Fancy Fair'-and other equally sentimental and interesting ballads. 'The young men,' as Mrs. Kitterbell said, 'made themselves very agreeable;' the girls did not lose their opportunity; and the evening promised to go off excellently. Dumps didn't mind it: he had devised a plan for himself-a little bit of fun in his own way-and he was almost happy! He played a rubber and lost every point Mr. Danton said he could not have lost every point, because he made a point of losing: everybody laughed tremendously. Dumps retorted with a better joke, and nobody smiled, with the exception of the host, who seemed to consider it his duty to laugh till he was black in the face, at everything. There was only one drawback-the musicians did not play with quite as much spirit as could have been wished. The cause, however, was satisfactorily explained; for it appeared, on the testimony of a gentleman who had come up from Gravesend in the afternoon, that they had been engaged on board a steamer all day, and had played almost without cessation all the way to Gravesend, and all the way back again.

The quadrilles started up again with great energy. Mr. Danton was widely regarded as being in high spirits; several young ladies delighted the crowd and gained admirers by singing "We met," "I saw her at the Fancy Fair," and other equally sentimental and captivating ballads. "The young men," as Mrs. Kitterbell put it, "were very charming;" the girls seized their chance; and the evening was shaping up to be fantastic. Dumps didn’t mind it: he had come up with a plan for himself—a little fun in his own way—and he was almost happy! He played a round and lost every point, but Mr. Danton insisted he couldn’t have lost every point since he made a point of losing: everyone laughed heartily. Dumps shot back with a better joke, and nobody smiled except the host, who seemed determined to laugh until he turned blue at everything. There was just one downside—the musicians didn’t play with as much enthusiasm as one might have hoped. The reason was soon made clear; a gentleman who had come up from Gravesend in the afternoon explained that they had been performing on board a steamer all day and had played almost nonstop the entire way to Gravesend and back.

The 'sit-down supper' was excellent; there were four barley-sugar temples on the table, which would have looked beautiful if they had not melted away when the supper began; and a water-mill, whose only fault was that instead of going round, it ran over the table-cloth. Then there were fowls, and tongue, and trifle, and sweets, and lobster salad, and potted beef-and everything. And little Kitterbell kept calling out for clean plates, and the clean plates did not come: and then the gentlemen who wanted the plates said they didn't mind, they'd take a lady's; and then Mrs. Kitterbell applauded their gallantry, and the greengrocer ran about till he thought his seven and sixpence was very hardly earned; and the young ladies didn't eat much for fear it shouldn't look romantic, and the married ladies eat as much as possible, for fear they shouldn't have enough; and a great deal of wine was drunk, and everybody talked and laughed considerably.

The sit-down dinner was fantastic; there were four barley-sugar structures on the table that would have looked stunning if they hadn’t melted before dinner started; and a watermill, which only had one issue: instead of spinning, it spilled all over the tablecloth. Then there were chickens, tongue, trifle, sweets, lobster salad, and potted beef—and everything else. Little Kitterbell kept asking for clean plates, but they didn’t arrive; then the gentlemen who wanted the plates said it was fine, they’d take a lady's plate instead; Mrs. Kitterbell praised their chivalry, and the greengrocer hustled around, convinced his seven and sixpence was hard-earned; the young ladies barely ate so it wouldn't seem unromantic, while the married ladies ate as much as they could, worried there wouldn’t be enough; and a lot of wine was consumed, with everyone chatting and laughing a lot.

'Hush! hush!' said Mr. Kitterbell, rising and looking very important. 'My love (this was addressed to his wife at the other end of the table), take care of Mrs. Maxwell, and your mamma, and the rest of the married ladies; the gentlemen will persuade the young ladies to fill their glasses, I am sure.'

'Hush! Hush!' said Mr. Kitterbell, standing up and looking very important. 'My dear' (this was directed at his wife at the other end of the table), 'please look after Mrs. Maxwell, and your mom, and the other married ladies; the guys will make sure the young ladies fill their glasses, I’m sure.'

'Ladies and gentlemen,' said long Dumps, in a very sepulchral voice and rueful accent, rising from his chair like the ghost in Don Juan, 'will you have the kindness to charge your glasses? I am desirous of proposing a toast.'

'Ladies and gentlemen,' said long Dumps, in a very gloomy voice and somber tone, rising from his chair like a ghost in Don Juan, 'would you be so kind as to raise your glasses? I’d like to propose a toast.'

A dead silence ensued, and the glasses were filled-everybody looked serious.

A heavy silence fell, and the glasses were filled—everyone looked serious.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' slowly continued the ominous Dumps, 'I'-(here Mr. Danton imitated two notes from the French-horn, in a very loud key, which electrified the nervous toast-proposer, and convulsed his audience).

'Ladies and gentlemen,' the dark Dumps continued slowly, 'I'—(at this point, Mr. Danton mimicked two loud notes from a French horn, which shocked the anxious toast-proposer and amused his audience).

'Order! order!' said little Kitterbell, endeavouring to suppress his laughter.

'Order! Order!' said little Kitterbell, trying to hold back his laughter.

'Order!' said the gentlemen.

"Order!" said the men.

'Danton, be quiet,' said a particular friend on the opposite side of the table.

'Danton, be quiet,' said a close friend from across the table.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' resumed Dumps, somewhat recovered, and not much disconcerted, for he was always a pretty good hand at a speech-'In accordance with what is, I believe, the established usage on these occasions, I, as one of the godfathers of Master Frederick Charles William Kitterbell-(here the speaker's voice faltered, for he remembered the mug)-venture to rise to propose a toast. I need hardly say that it is the health and prosperity of that young gentleman, the particular event of whose early life we are here met to celebrate-(applause). Ladies and gentlemen, it is impossible to suppose that our friends here, whose sincere well-wishers we all are, can pass through life without some trials, considerable suffering, severe affliction, and heavy losses!'-Here the arch-traitor paused, and slowly drew forth a long, white pocket-handkerchief-his example was followed by several ladies. 'That these trials may be long spared them is my most earnest prayer, my most fervent wish (a distinct sob from the grandmother). I hope and trust, ladies and gentlemen, that the infant whose christening we have this evening met to celebrate, may not be removed from the arms of his parents by premature decay (several cambrics were in requisition): that his young and now apparently healthy form, may not be wasted by lingering disease. (Here Dumps cast a sardonic glance around, for a great sensation was manifest among the married ladies.) You, I am sure, will concur with me in wishing that he may live to be a comfort and a blessing to his parents. ("Hear, hear!" and an audible sob from Mr. Kitterbell.) But should he not be what we could wish-should he forget in after times the duty which he owes to them-should they unhappily experience that distracting truth, "how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child"'-Here Mrs. Kitterbell, with her handkerchief to her eyes, and accompanied by several ladies, rushed from the room, and went into violent hysterics in the passage, leaving her better half in almost as bad a condition, and a general impression in Dumps's favour; for people like sentiment, after all.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' Dumps continued, feeling a bit better and not too flustered, since he was always good at giving speeches, 'In line with the usual tradition for occasions like this, I, as one of the godfathers of Master Frederick Charles William Kitterbell—' (here the speaker's voice wavered as he recalled the mug)— 'would like to propose a toast. I don't need to say that it is for the health and prosperity of that young man, whose early life event we are here to celebrate—' (applause). 'Ladies and gentlemen, it's hard to imagine that our friends here, whom we all sincerely wish well, can go through life without facing some challenges, significant suffering, serious affliction, and substantial losses!'—Here the cunning traitor paused and slowly took out a long white handkerchief—his gesture was mimicked by several ladies. 'That these challenges may be delayed for them is my most earnest prayer, my most heartfelt wish' (a distinct sob from the grandmother). 'I hope and trust, ladies and gentlemen, that the baby we are celebrating this evening will not be taken from his parents too soon by early death' (several handkerchiefs were brought into use): 'that his young and currently healthy body will not be wasted by a lingering illness. (Here Dumps glanced around with a sly look, as a strong reaction was evident among the married ladies.) I'm sure you all join me in wishing that he will grow up to be a comfort and blessing to his parents. ("Hear, hear!" and an audible sob from Mr. Kitterbell.) But if he should not be what we hope for—if he should forget the duty he owes them in the future—if they are sadly faced with that painful truth, "how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child"—' At this, Mrs. Kitterbell, with her handkerchief to her eyes and joined by several other ladies, rushed from the room, breaking into violent hysterics in the hallway, leaving her husband almost as distressed and creating a favorable impression of Dumps; after all, people do like sentiment.

It need hardly be added, that this occurrence quite put a stop to the harmony of the evening. Vinegar, hartshorn, and cold water, were now as much in request as negus, rout-cakes, and bon-bons had been a short time before. Mrs. Kitterbell was immediately conveyed to her apartment, the musicians were silenced, flirting ceased, and the company slowly departed. Dumps left the house at the commencement of the bustle, and walked home with a light step, and (for him) a cheerful heart. His landlady, who slept in the next room, has offered to make oath that she heard him laugh, in his peculiar manner, after he had locked his door. The assertion, however, is so improbable, and bears on the face of it such strong evidence of untruth, that it has never obtained credence to this hour.

It hardly needs to be said that this incident completely ruined the evening's mood. Vinegar, ammonia, and cold water were now in higher demand than mulled wine, cakes, and candies had been just a little while ago. Mrs. Kitterbell was quickly taken to her room, the music stopped, flirting ended, and the guests gradually left. Dumps exited the house at the start of the commotion and walked home with a light step and (for him) a happy heart. His landlady, who was sleeping in the next room, claimed she heard him laughing in his distinctive way after he had locked his door. However, this claim is so unlikely and clearly lacks credibility that it has never been believed to this day.

The family of Mr. Kitterbell has considerably increased since the period to which we have referred; he has now two sons and a daughter; and as he expects, at no distant period, to have another addition to his blooming progeny, he is anxious to secure an eligible godfather for the occasion. He is determined, however, to impose upon him two conditions. He must bind himself, by a solemn obligation, not to make any speech after supper; and it is indispensable that he should be in no way connected with 'the most miserable man in the world.'

The family of Mr. Kitterbell has grown a lot since we last mentioned them; he now has two sons and a daughter. Since he expects to welcome another child soon, he’s eager to find a suitable godfather for the occasion. However, he’s determined to set two conditions. The godfather must promise, in a serious way, not to give any speech after dinner; and it’s essential that he has no connection to 'the most miserable man in the world.'

CHAPTER XII-THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH

We will be bold to say, that there is scarcely a man in the constant habit of walking, day after day, through any of the crowded thoroughfares of London, who cannot recollect among the people whom he 'knows by sight,' to use a familiar phrase, some being of abject and wretched appearance whom he remembers to have seen in a very different condition, whom he has observed sinking lower and lower, by almost imperceptible degrees, and the shabbiness and utter destitution of whose appearance, at last, strike forcibly and painfully upon him, as he passes by. Is there any man who has mixed much with society, or whose avocations have caused him to mingle, at one time or other, with a great number of people, who cannot call to mind the time when some shabby, miserable wretch, in rags and filth, who shuffles past him now in all the squalor of disease and poverty, with a respectable tradesman, or clerk, or a man following some thriving pursuit, with good prospects, and decent means?-or cannot any of our readers call to mind from among the list of their quondam acquaintance, some fallen and degraded man, who lingers about the pavement in hungry misery-from whom every one turns coldly away, and who preserves himself from sheer starvation, nobody knows how? Alas! such cases are of too frequent occurrence to be rare items in any man's experience; and but too often arise from one cause-drunkenness-that fierce rage for the slow, sure poison, that oversteps every other consideration; that casts aside wife, children, friends, happiness, and station; and hurries its victims madly on to degradation and death.

We will boldly say that there’s hardly a person who regularly walks day after day through the busy streets of London who can’t remember seeing someone they recognize—someone who looked completely different before—falling lower and lower in life, gradually becoming more shabby and destitute, their appearance striking the observer painfully as they pass by. Is there anyone who has spent a lot of time in society or whose work has led them to interact with many people that can’t recall when they saw a tattered, miserable figure shuffling by in all the squalor of disease and poverty, once a respectable tradesman, clerk, or someone with a thriving career and good prospects? Can none of our readers think of a former acquaintance, someone now fallen and degraded, lingering on the pavement in desperate hunger—who everyone looks away from coldly, surviving somehow from starvation? Sadly, such cases are too common to be unusual in anyone’s experience and often stem from one reason: alcoholism—a fierce craving for the slow, sure poison that disregards everything else; that casts aside spouse, children, friends, happiness, and status; and drives its victims madly toward degradation and death.

Some of these men have been impelled, by misfortune and misery, to the vice that has degraded them. The ruin of worldly expectations, the death of those they loved, the sorrow that slowly consumes, but will not break the heart, has driven them wild; and they present the hideous spectacle of madmen, slowly dying by their own hands. But by far the greater part have wilfully, and with open eyes, plunged into the gulf from which the man who once enters it never rises more, but into which he sinks deeper and deeper down, until recovery is hopeless.

Some of these men have been pushed into vice by their bad luck and suffering. The collapse of their hopes, the loss of loved ones, and a sorrow that eats away at them without ever breaking their hearts have driven them to madness; they reveal the tragic sight of people slowly destroying themselves. However, the majority have chosen to dive into this pit with full awareness, knowing that once they fall in, there's no coming back. They sink deeper and deeper until recovery becomes impossible.

Such a man as this once stood by the bedside of his dying wife, while his children knelt around, and mingled loud bursts of grief with their innocent prayers. The room was scantily and meanly furnished; and it needed but a glance at the pale form from which the light of life was fast passing away, to know that grief, and want, and anxious care, had been busy at the heart for many a weary year. An elderly woman, with her face bathed in tears, was supporting the head of the dying woman-her daughter-on her arm. But it was not towards her that the was face turned; it was not her hand that the cold and trembling fingers clasped; they pressed the husband's arm; the eyes so soon to be closed in death rested on his face, and the man shook beneath their gaze. His dress was slovenly and disordered, his face inflamed, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. He had been summoned from some wild debauch to the bed of sorrow and death.

Such a man once stood by the bedside of his dying wife while his children knelt around him, mixing loud cries of grief with their innocent prayers. The room was sparsely and poorly furnished; just one look at the pale body from which the light of life was quickly fading was enough to reveal that grief, hardship, and constant worry had plagued the heart for many exhausting years. An older woman, with tears streaming down her face, was supporting the head of the dying woman—her daughter—on her arm. But it wasn’t toward her that the dying woman's face was turned; it wasn’t her hand that the cold and trembling fingers held onto; they clung to the husband’s arm. The eyes, soon to close in death, rested on his face, and the man trembled under their gaze. His clothes were messy and disheveled, his face red and swollen, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. He had been pulled away from some wild partying to the bed of grief and death.

A shaded lamp by the bed-side cast a dim light on the figures around, and left the remainder of the room in thick, deep shadow. The silence of night prevailed without the house, and the stillness of death was in the chamber. A watch hung over the mantel-shelf; its low ticking was the only sound that broke the profound quiet, but it was a solemn one, for well they knew, who heard it, that before it had recorded the passing of another hour, it would beat the knell of a departed spirit.

A lamp on the bedside cast a faint light on the figures around, leaving the rest of the room in deep shadow. The silence of the night filled the outside air, and the stillness of death hung in the room. A clock hung over the mantel; its soft ticking was the only sound that broke the heavy quiet, but it felt serious, for those who heard it knew that before it marked another hour, it would signal the end of a departed soul.

It is a dreadful thing to wait and watch for the approach of death; to know that hope is gone, and recovery impossible; and to sit and count the dreary hours through long, long nights-such nights as only watchers by the bed of sickness know. It chills the blood to hear the dearest secrets of the heart-the pent-up, hidden secrets of many years-poured forth by the unconscious, helpless being before you; and to think how little the reserve and cunning of a whole life will avail, when fever and delirium tear off the mask at last. Strange tales have been told in the wanderings of dying men; tales so full of guilt and crime, that those who stood by the sick person's couch have fled in horror and affright, lest they should be scared to madness by what they heard and saw; and many a wretch has died alone, raving of deeds the very name of which has driven the boldest man away.

It’s terrifying to wait and watch for death to come; to know that hope is lost and recovery is impossible; and to sit and count the long, gloomy hours through endless nights—nights that only those who keep vigil by a sickbed truly understand. It chills you to hear the deepest secrets of the heart—the long-hidden, bottled-up secrets shared by the unconscious, helpless person in front of you; and to realize how little the restraint and cleverness of a lifetime matter when fever and delirium finally strip away the facade. Strange stories have been told during the last moments of dying people; stories filled with guilt and crime, so disturbing that those standing by the sick person's side have run away in horror, fearing that they would be driven insane by what they heard and saw; and many a wretched soul has died alone, raving about deeds so horrific that even the bravest men have fled in terror.

But no such ravings were to be heard at the bed-side by which the children knelt. Their half-stifled sobs and moaning alone broke the silence of the lonely chamber. And when at last the mother's grasp relaxed, and, turning one look from the children to the father, she vainly strove to speak, and fell backward on the pillow, all was so calm and tranquil that she seemed to sink to sleep. They leant over her; they called upon her name, softly at first, and then in the loud and piercing tones of desperation. But there was no reply. They listened for her breath, but no sound came. They felt for the palpitation of the heart, but no faint throb responded to the touch. That heart was broken, and she was dead!

But there were no wild rants to be heard at the bedside where the children knelt. Their muffled sobs and cries were the only sounds that broke the silence of the desolate room. When finally the mother’s grip relaxed, and she turned her gaze from the children to the father, she tried unsuccessfully to speak and fell back onto the pillow. Everything was so calm and peaceful that it seemed she was just drifting off to sleep. They leaned over her; they called out her name, softly at first, then with loud and desperate cries. But there was no answer. They listened for her breath, but nothing came. They searched for a heartbeat, but no faint pulse responded to their touch. That heart was broken, and she was gone!

The husband sunk into a chair by the bed-side, and clasped his hands upon his burning forehead. He gazed from child to child, but when a weeping eye met his, he quailed beneath its look. No word of comfort was whispered in his ear, no look of kindness lighted on his face. All shrunk from and avoided him; and when at last he staggered from the room, no one sought to follow or console the widower.

The husband sank into a chair by the bedside and held his hands against his burning forehead. He looked from child to child, but when a tearful gaze met his, he flinched under its weight. No words of comfort were whispered to him, and no kind looks brightened his face. Everyone shrank away from him and avoided him; and when he finally stumbled out of the room, no one made an effort to follow or console the widower.

The time had been when many a friend would have crowded round him in his affliction, and many a heartfelt condolence would have met him in his grief. Where were they now? One by one, friends, relations, the commonest acquaintance even, had fallen off from and deserted the drunkard. His wife alone had clung to him in good and evil, in sickness and poverty, and how had he rewarded her? He had reeled from the tavern to her bed-side in time to see her die.

The time used to be when lots of friends would have gathered around him during his struggles, and he would have received countless heartfelt condolences in his sorrow. Where were they now? One by one, friends, relatives, and even casual acquaintances had turned away and abandoned the drunkard. Only his wife had stood by him through good times and bad, in sickness and poverty, and how had he repaid her? He had staggered from the bar to her bedside just in time to watch her die.

He rushed from the house, and walked swiftly through the streets. Remorse, fear, shame, all crowded on his mind. Stupefied with drink, and bewildered with the scene he had just witnessed, he re-entered the tavern he had quitted shortly before. Glass succeeded glass. His blood mounted, and his brain whirled round. Death! Every one must die, and why not she? She was too good for him; her relations had often told him so. Curses on them! Had they not deserted her, and left her to whine away the time at home? Well-she was dead, and happy perhaps. It was better as it was. Another glass-one more! Hurrah! It was a merry life while it lasted; and he would make the most of it.

He rushed out of the house and walked quickly through the streets. Regret, fear, and shame all crowded his mind. Dazed from drinking and confused by the scene he had just witnessed, he went back into the tavern he had just left. Glass after glass. His blood boiled, and his head spun. Death! Everyone has to die, so why not her? She was too good for him; her family had always said so. Damn them! Hadn’t they abandoned her and left her to waste away at home? Well, she was dead, and maybe happy now. It was better this way. Another drink—just one more! Cheers! It was a fun life while it lasted, and he was going to enjoy every bit of it.

Time went on; the three children who were left to him, grew up, and were children no longer. The father remained the same-poorer, shabbier, and more dissolute-looking, but the same confirmed and irreclaimable drunkard. The boys had, long ago, run wild in the streets, and left him; the girl alone remained, but she worked hard, and words or blows could always procure him something for the tavern. So he went on in the old course, and a merry life he led.

Time passed; the three kids he had left grew up and weren't kids anymore. The father stayed the same—poorer, more ragged, and looking more dissolute, but still a confirmed and hopeless drunkard. The boys had long since run wild in the streets and left him behind; only the girl remained, and she worked hard, always ready to give him something for the tavern with either words or blows. So he continued on his usual path, leading a carefree life.

One night, as early as ten o'clock-for the girl had been sick for many days, and there was, consequently, little to spend at the public- house-he bent his steps homeward, bethinking himself that if he would have her able to earn money, it would be as well to apply to the parish surgeon, or, at all events, to take the trouble of inquiring what ailed her, which he had not yet thought it worth while to do. It was a wet December night; the wind blew piercing cold, and the rain poured heavily down. He begged a few halfpence from a passer-by, and having bought a small loaf (for it was his interest to keep the girl alive, if he could), he shuffled onwards as fast as the wind and rain would let him.

One night, around ten o'clock—since the girl had been sick for many days and there wasn’t much money left to spend at the pub—he started heading home, thinking that if he wanted her to be able to earn money, it would be a good idea to see the parish surgeon or, at the very least, find out what was wrong with her, which he hadn't considered doing until now. It was a wet December night; the wind was sharp and cold, and the rain was coming down hard. He asked a passerby for some change, and after getting a few pennies, he bought a small loaf (because it was in his interest to keep the girl alive if he could). He shuffled along as quickly as the wind and rain allowed.

At the back of Fleet-street, and lying between it and the water-side, are several mean and narrow courts, which form a portion of Whitefriars: it was to one of these that he directed his steps.

At the back of Fleet Street, and situated between it and the river, are several small and narrow alleyways that make up part of Whitefriars: it was to one of these that he headed.

The alley into which he turned, might, for filth and misery, have competed with the darkest corner of this ancient sanctuary in its dirtiest and most lawless time. The houses, varying from two stories in height to four, were stained with every indescribable hue that long exposure to the weather, damp, and rottenness can impart to tenements composed originally of the roughest and coarsest materials. The windows were patched with paper, and stuffed with the foulest rags; the doors were falling from their hinges; poles with lines on which to dry clothes, projected from every casement, and sounds of quarrelling or drunkenness issued from every room.

The alley he turned into could easily compete with the grimiest part of this ancient place during its roughest times. The houses, ranging from two to four stories tall, were stained with every imaginable color that long exposure to the elements, moisture, and decay could leave on buildings made from the shoddiest materials. The windows were patched with paper and stuffed with the dirtiest rags; the doors were falling off their hinges; poles for drying clothes stuck out from every window, and sounds of fighting or drunkenness came from every room.

The solitary oil lamp in the centre of the court had been blown out, either by the violence of the wind or the act of some inhabitant who had excellent reasons for objecting to his residence being rendered too conspicuous; and the only light which fell upon the broken and uneven pavement, was derived from the miserable candles that here and there twinkled in the rooms of such of the more fortunate residents as could afford to indulge in so expensive a luxury. A gutter ran down the centre of the alley-all the sluggish odours of which had been called forth by the rain; and as the wind whistled through the old houses, the doors and shutters creaked upon their hinges, and the windows shook in their frames, with a violence which every moment seemed to threaten the destruction of the whole place.

The single oil lamp in the middle of the courtyard had gone out, either due to the strong wind or someone who had good reasons to not want their home too obvious; the only light that shone on the cracked and uneven pavement came from the sad candles flickering in the rooms of the luckier residents who could afford such an expensive luxury. A gutter ran down the middle of the alley, releasing all the unpleasant smells stirred up by the rain; and as the wind whistled through the old buildings, the doors and shutters creaked on their hinges, and the windows rattled in their frames, shaking violently as if they might collapse at any moment.

The man whom we have followed into this den, walked on in the darkness, sometimes stumbling into the main gutter, and at others into some branch repositories of garbage which had been formed by the rain, until he reached the last house in the court. The door, or rather what was left of it, stood ajar, for the convenience of the numerous lodgers; and he proceeded to grope his way up the old and broken stair, to the attic story.

The man we've followed into this place walked on in the dark, sometimes tripping into the main gutter and other times into small piles of trash created by the rain, until he reached the last house in the courtyard. The door, or what was left of it, was slightly open for the convenience of the many tenants; he then felt his way up the old, broken stairs to the top floor.

He was within a step or two of his room door, when it opened, and a girl, whose miserable and emaciated appearance was only to be equalled by that of the candle which she shaded with her hand, peeped anxiously out.

He was just a step or two from his room door when it opened, and a girl, whose pitiful and frail look matched the candle she was shielding with her hand, peeked out anxiously.

'Is that you, father?' said the girl.

'Is that you, Dad?' said the girl.

'Who else should it be?' replied the man gruffly. 'What are you trembling at? It's little enough that I've had to drink to-day, for there's no drink without money, and no money without work. What the devil's the matter with the girl?'

'Who else would it be?' the man replied gruffly. 'What are you shaking for? I've hardly had anything to drink today, since there's no booze without cash, and no cash without work. What's wrong with the girl?'

'I am not well, father-not at all well,' said the girl, bursting into tears.

'I’m not feeling well, Dad—not at all well,' the girl said, bursting into tears.

'Ah!' replied the man, in the tone of a person who is compelled to admit a very unpleasant fact, to which he would rather remain blind, if he could. 'You must get better somehow, for we must have money. You must go to the parish doctor, and make him give you some medicine. They're paid for it, damn 'em. What are you standing before the door for? Let me come in, can't you?'

'Ah!' the man replied, sounding like someone who has to face a really unpleasant truth that he would prefer to ignore. 'You have to get better somehow because we need money. You should see the parish doctor and get him to prescribe you some medicine. They're paid for it, damn them. Why are you just standing by the door? Let me in, will you?'

'Father,' whispered the girl, shutting the door behind her, and placing herself before it, 'William has come back.'

'Dad,' the girl whispered, closing the door behind her and standing in front of it, 'William's back.'

'Who!' said the man with a start.

"Who?" said the man, startled.

'Hush,' replied the girl, 'William; brother William.'

'And what does he want?' said the man, with an effort at composure-'money? meat? drink? He's come to the wrong shop for that, if he does. Give me the candle-give me the candle, fool-I ain't going to hurt him.' He snatched the candle from her hand, and walked into the room.

'And what does he want?' said the man, trying to stay calm—'money? food? a drink? He’s in the wrong place for that, if that’s the case. Hand me the candle—give me the candle, idiot—I’m not going to hurt him.' He grabbed the candle from her hand and walked into the room.

Sitting on an old box, with his head resting on his hand, and his eyes fixed on a wretched cinder fire that was smouldering on the hearth, was a young man of about two-and-twenty, miserably clad in an old coarse jacket and trousers. He started up when his father entered.

Sitting on an old box, with his head resting on his hand and his eyes fixed on a dying cinder fire smoldering in the hearth, was a young man of about twenty-two, poorly dressed in a worn-out, rough jacket and pants. He jumped up when his father walked in.

'Fasten the door, Mary,' said the young man hastily-'Fasten the door. You look as if you didn't know me, father. It's long enough, since you drove me from home; you may well forget me.'

'Lock the door, Mary,' the young man said quickly. 'Lock the door. You look like you don't recognize me, Dad. It's been a while since you sent me away; you might as well have forgotten me.'

'And what do you want here, now?' said the father, seating himself on a stool, on the other side of the fireplace. 'What do you want here, now?'

'And what do you want here, right now?' said the father, sitting down on a stool on the other side of the fireplace. 'What do you want here, right now?'

'Shelter,' replied the son. 'I'm in trouble: that's enough. If I'm caught I shall swing; that's certain. Caught I shall be, unless I stop here; that's as certain. And there's an end of it.'

'Shelter,' said the son. 'I’m in trouble: that’s all there is to it. If I get caught, I’m done for; that’s for sure. I will get caught unless I stay here; that’s a definite. And that’s the bottom line.'

'You mean to say, you've been robbing, or murdering, then?' said the father.

"You’re saying you’ve been stealing or killing, then?" said the father.

'Yes, I do,' replied the son. 'Does it surprise you, father?' He looked steadily in the man's face, but he withdrew his eyes, and bent them on the ground.

'Yes, I do,' replied the son. 'Are you surprised, Dad?' He stared into the man's face, but then he looked away and focused his gaze on the ground.

'Where's your brothers?' he said, after a long pause.

'Where are your brothers?' he said, after a long pause.

'Where they'll never trouble you,' replied his son: 'John's gone to America, and Henry's dead.'

'Where they'll never bother you,' his son replied. 'John's gone to America, and Henry's passed away.'

'Dead!' said the father, with a shudder, which even he could not express.

'Dead!' said the father, shuddering in a way he couldn't even put into words.

'Dead,' replied the young man. 'He died in my arms-shot like a dog, by a gamekeeper. He staggered back, I caught him, and his blood trickled down my hands. It poured out from his side like water. He was weak, and it blinded him, but he threw himself down on his knees, on the grass, and prayed to God, that if his mother was in heaven, He would hear her prayers for pardon for her youngest son. "I was her favourite boy, Will," he said, "and I am glad to think, now, that when she was dying, though I was a very young child then, and my little heart was almost bursting, I knelt down at the foot of the bed, and thanked God for having made me so fond of her as to have never once done anything to bring the tears into her eyes. O Will, why was she taken away, and father left?" There's his dying words, father,' said the young man; 'make the best you can of 'em. You struck him across the face, in a drunken fit, the morning we ran away; and here's the end of it.'

'He’s dead,' the young man replied. 'He died in my arms—shot like a dog by a gamekeeper. He staggered back, I caught him, and his blood flowed down my hands. It poured out from his side like water. He was weak, and it blinded him, but he dropped to his knees on the grass and prayed to God that if his mother was in heaven, He would hear her prayers for forgiveness for her youngest son. "I was her favorite boy, Will," he said, "and I’m glad to think that when she was dying, even though I was just a little kid then and my heart was almost bursting, I knelt at the foot of the bed and thanked God for making me love her so much that I never did anything to make her cry. Oh Will, why was she taken away and father left?" Those are his last words, father,' the young man said; 'make the best of them. You hit him across the face in a drunken rage the morning we ran away; and this is how it ends.'

The girl wept aloud; and the father, sinking his head upon his knees, rocked himself to and fro.

The girl cried out loud, and the father, resting his head on his knees, rocked back and forth.

'If I am taken,' said the young man, 'I shall be carried back into the country, and hung for that man's murder. They cannot trace me here, without your assistance, father. For aught I know, you may give me up to justice; but unless you do, here I stop, until I can venture to escape abroad.'

'If I get caught,' said the young man, 'I'll be taken back to the country and hanged for that guy's murder. They can’t follow me here without your help, Dad. For all I know, you might turn me in to the authorities; but unless you do, I'm staying put until I can safely get away abroad.'

For two whole days, all three remained in the wretched room, without stirring out. On the third evening, however, the girl was worse than she had been yet, and the few scraps of food they had were gone. It was indispensably necessary that somebody should go out; and as the girl was too weak and ill, the father went, just at nightfall.

For two full days, all three stayed in the miserable room without leaving. On the third evening, though, the girl was worse than ever, and the little bit of food they had was gone. It was absolutely necessary for someone to step outside; since the girl was too weak and sick, the father went out just as night was falling.

He got some medicine for the girl, and a trifle in the way of pecuniary assistance. On his way back, he earned sixpence by holding a horse; and he turned homewards with enough money to supply their most pressing wants for two or three days to come. He had to pass the public-house. He lingered for an instant, walked past it, turned back again, lingered once more, and finally slunk in. Two men whom he had not observed, were on the watch. They were on the point of giving up their search in despair, when his loitering attracted their attention; and when he entered the public-house, they followed him.

He got some medicine for the girl and a little bit of financial help. On his way back, he made sixpence by holding a horse, and he headed home with enough money to cover their most urgent needs for the next two or three days. He had to walk by the pub. He paused for a moment, walked past it, turned back again, hesitated once more, and finally slipped inside. Two men he hadn’t noticed were watching. They were about to give up their search in frustration when his lingering caught their attention; and when he entered the pub, they followed him.

'You'll drink with me, master,' said one of them, proffering him a glass of liquor.

'You'll drink with me, boss,' said one of them, handing him a glass of liquor.

'And me too,' said the other, replenishing the glass as soon as it was drained of its contents.

'Me too,' said the other, refilling the glass as soon as it was empty.

The man thought of his hungry children, and his son's danger. But they were nothing to the drunkard. He did drink; and his reason left him.

The man thought about his hungry kids and his son’s peril. But to the drunkard, they didn’t matter. He kept drinking, and he lost his ability to think clearly.

'A wet night, Warden,' whispered one of the men in his ear, as he at length turned to go away, after spending in liquor one-half of the money on which, perhaps, his daughter's life depended.

'A rainy night, Warden,' whispered one of the men in his ear, as he finally turned to leave after spending half of the money that might depend on his daughter's life on drinks.

'The right sort of night for our friends in hiding, Master Warden,' whispered the other.

'The perfect kind of night for our friends in hiding, Master Warden,' whispered the other.

'Sit down here,' said the one who had spoken first, drawing him into a corner. 'We have been looking arter the young un. We came to tell him, it's all right now, but we couldn't find him 'cause we hadn't got the precise direction. But that ain't strange, for I don't think he know'd it himself, when he come to London, did he?'

'Sit down here,' said the first speaker, pulling him into a corner. 'We've been looking for the kid. We came to tell him it’s all good now, but we couldn’t find him because we didn’t have the exact directions. But that’s not surprising, since I don’t think he even knew where it was himself when he got to London, right?'

'No, he didn't,' replied the father.

'No, he didn't,' replied the dad.

The two men exchanged glances.

The two men exchanged looks.

'There's a vessel down at the docks, to sail at midnight, when it's high water,' resumed the first speaker, 'and we'll put him on board. His passage is taken in another name, and what's better than that, it's paid for. It's lucky we met you.'

'There's a boat down at the docks, set to sail at midnight, when the tide is high,' the first speaker continued, 'and we'll get him on board. His ticket is booked under a different name, and even better, it's already paid for. It's a good thing we ran into you.'

'Very,' said the second.

"Very," said the second.

'Capital luck,' said the first, with a wink to his companion.

'Capital luck,' said the first, giving a wink to his friend.

'Great,' replied the second, with a slight nod of intelligence.

'Great,' replied the second, with a slight nod of understanding.

'Another glass here; quick'-said the first speaker. And in five minutes more, the father had unconsciously yielded up his own son into the hangman's hands.

'Another drink here; hurry up,' said the first speaker. And in just five more minutes, the father had unknowingly handed his own son over to the hangman's grasp.

Slowly and heavily the time dragged along, as the brother and sister, in their miserable hiding-place, listened in anxious suspense to the slightest sound. At length, a heavy footstep was heard upon the stair; it approached nearer; it reached the landing; and the father staggered into the room.

Slowly and heavily, time dragged on as the brother and sister, in their miserable hiding spot, listened anxiously for any sound. Finally, a heavy footstep was heard on the stairs; it got closer, reached the landing, and their father staggered into the room.

The girl saw that he was intoxicated, and advanced with the candle in her hand to meet him; she stopped short, gave a loud scream, and fell senseless on the ground. She had caught sight of the shadow of a man reflected on the floor. They both rushed in, and in another instant the young man was a prisoner, and handcuffed.

The girl noticed that he was drunk and stepped forward with the candle in her hand to confront him; she suddenly stopped, let out a loud scream, and collapsed unconscious on the floor. She had seen the shadow of a man on the ground. They both rushed in, and in no time, the young man was in custody and handcuffed.

'Very quietly done,' said one of the men to his companion, 'thanks to the old man. Lift up the girl, Tom-come, come, it's no use crying, young woman. It's all over now, and can't be helped.'

'Very quietly done,' said one of the men to his companion, 'thanks to the old man. Lift up the girl, Tom—come on, it's no use crying, young woman. It's all over now, and there's nothing we can do about it.'

The young man stooped for an instant over the girl, and then turned fiercely round upon his father, who had reeled against the wall, and was gazing on the group with drunken stupidity.

The young man bent down for a moment over the girl, then spun around angrily to face his father, who had leaned against the wall, staring at the group with a dazed look.

'Listen to me, father,' he said, in a tone that made the drunkard's flesh creep. 'My brother's blood, and mine, is on your head: I never had kind look, or word, or care, from you, and alive or dead, I never will forgive you. Die when you will, or how, I will be with you. I speak as a dead man now, and I warn you, father, that as surely as you must one day stand before your Maker, so surely shall your children be there, hand in hand, to cry for judgment against you.' He raised his manacled hands in a threatening attitude, fixed his eyes on his shrinking parent, and slowly left the room; and neither father nor sister ever beheld him more, on this side of the grave.

'Listen to me, Dad,' he said, in a tone that made the drunk feel uneasy. 'My brother's blood, and mine, is on your hands: I've never had a kind look, word, or any care from you, and whether I'm alive or dead, I will never forgive you. You can die whenever you want, or however you want, but I will be with you. I’m speaking to you like a dead man now, and I’m warning you, Dad, that just as you will one day stand before your Creator, so will your children be there, side by side, crying for justice against you.' He raised his shackled hands in a threatening way, locked his eyes on his shrinking father, and slowly left the room; neither the father nor the sister ever saw him again, on this side of the grave.

When the dim and misty light of a winter's morning penetrated into the narrow court, and struggled through the begrimed window of the wretched room, Warden awoke from his heavy sleep, and found himself alone. He rose, and looked round him; the old flock mattress on the floor was undisturbed; everything was just as he remembered to have seen it last: and there were no signs of any one, save himself, having occupied the room during the night. He inquired of the other lodgers, and of the neighbours; but his daughter had not been seen or heard of. He rambled through the streets, and scrutinised each wretched face among the crowds that thronged them, with anxious eyes. But his search was fruitless, and he returned to his garret when night came on, desolate and weary.

When the dim, hazy light of a winter morning filtered into the narrow courtyard and struggled through the dirty window of the grim room, Warden woke from his deep sleep to find himself alone. He got up and looked around; the old flock mattress on the floor was undisturbed. Everything was just as he remembered it, and there were no signs of anyone else having been in the room during the night. He asked the other lodgers and the neighbors, but no one had seen or heard from his daughter. He wandered through the streets, scrutinizing each weary face in the crowded throngs with anxious eyes. But his search was fruitless, and he returned to his attic when night fell, feeling desolate and tired.

For many days he occupied himself in the same manner, but no trace of his daughter did he meet with, and no word of her reached his ears. At length he gave up the pursuit as hopeless. He had long thought of the probability of her leaving him, and endeavouring to gain her bread in quiet, elsewhere. She had left him at last to starve alone. He ground his teeth, and cursed her!

For many days, he kept himself busy in the same way, but he found no sign of his daughter, and no news of her reached him. Finally, he gave up the search as pointless. He had often considered the possibility that she had left him to try to make a living quietly somewhere else. She had finally abandoned him to fend for himself. He gritted his teeth and cursed her!

He begged his bread from door to door. Every halfpenny he could wring from the pity or credulity of those to whom he addressed himself, was spent in the old way. A year passed over his head; the roof of a jail was the only one that had sheltered him for many months. He slept under archways, and in brickfields-anywhere, where there was some warmth or shelter from the cold and rain. But in the last stage of poverty, disease, and houseless want, he was a drunkard still.

He went from door to door begging for food. Every penny he could get from the kindness or gullibility of those he approached was spent in the same old way. A year went by; the roof of a jail was the only place that had provided shelter for him for many months. He slept under archways and in brickfields—anywhere he could find some warmth or cover from the cold and rain. But even at the lowest point of poverty, sickness, and homelessness, he was still a drunkard.

At last, one bitter night, he sunk down on a door-step faint and ill. The premature decay of vice and profligacy had worn him to the bone. His cheeks were hollow and livid; his eyes were sunken, and their sight was dim. His legs trembled beneath his weight, and a cold shiver ran through every limb.

At last, one cold night, he collapsed onto a doorstep, feeling faint and unwell. The early effects of his reckless lifestyle had worn him down to nothing. His cheeks were hollow and pale; his eyes were sunken, and his vision was blurry. His legs shook under his weight, and a chilling shiver ran through every part of his body.

And now the long-forgotten scenes of a misspent life crowded thick and fast upon him. He thought of the time when he had a home-a happy, cheerful home-and of those who peopled it, and flocked about him then, until the forms of his elder children seemed to rise from the grave, and stand about him-so plain, so clear, and so distinct they were that he could touch and feel them. Looks that he had long forgotten were fixed upon him once more; voices long since hushed in death sounded in his ears like the music of village bells. But it was only for an instant. The rain beat heavily upon him; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart again.

And now, the long-forgotten moments of a wasted life rushed back to him. He remembered the time when he had a home—a happy, cheerful home—and the people who filled it, surrounding him then, until the images of his older children seemed to rise from the dead and stand around him—so vivid, so clear, and so real that he could reach out and touch them. Expressions he had long forgotten were fixed on him once more; voices that had long since been silenced by death rang in his ears like the sound of village bells. But it was just for a moment. The rain was pouring down on him; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart again.

He rose, and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces further. The street was silent and empty; the few passengers who passed by, at that late hour, hurried quickly on, and his tremulous voice was lost in the violence of the storm. Again that heavy chill struck through his frame, and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. He coiled himself up in a projecting doorway, and tried to sleep.

He got up and dragged his weak body a little further. The street was quiet and empty; the few people who walked by at that late hour hurried on, and his shaky voice was drowned out by the storm's intensity. Once more, a heavy chill pierced through him, and it felt like his blood was freezing. He curled up in a doorway and tried to sleep.

But sleep had fled from his dull and glazed eyes. His mind wandered strangely, but he was awake, and conscious. The well-known shout of drunken mirth sounded in his ear, the glass was at his lips, the board was covered with choice rich food-they were before him: he could see them all, he had but to reach out his hand, and take them-and, though the illusion was reality itself, he knew that he was sitting alone in the deserted street, watching the rain-drops as they pattered on the stones; that death was coming upon him by inches-and that there were none to care for or help him.

But sleep had left his dull, glazed eyes. His mind wandered strangely, yet he was awake and aware. The familiar sound of drunken laughter echoed in his ears, the glass was at his lips, the table was filled with delicious food—everything was in front of him: he could see it all, just reach out his hand and grab it—but even though the illusion felt like reality, he knew he was sitting alone in the empty street, watching the raindrops patter on the stones; that death was creeping up on him slowly—and there was no one to care for or help him.

Suddenly he started up, in the extremity of terror. He had heard his own voice shouting in the night air, he knew not what, or why. Hark! A groan!-another! His senses were leaving him: half-formed and incoherent words burst from his lips; and his hands sought to tear and lacerate his flesh. He was going mad, and he shrieked for help till his voice failed him.

Suddenly, he jumped up in sheer panic. He had heard his own voice shouting into the night, not knowing what he was saying or why. Listen! A groan!—another! His senses were slipping away from him: half-formed and jumbled words poured from his mouth, and his hands instinctively tried to claw at his own skin. He was losing his mind, and he screamed for help until his voice gave out.

He raised his head, and looked up the long dismal street. He recollected that outcasts like himself, condemned to wander day and night in those dreadful streets, had sometimes gone distracted with their own loneliness. He remembered to have heard many years before that a homeless wretch had once been found in a solitary corner, sharpening a rusty knife to plunge into his own heart, preferring death to that endless, weary, wandering to and fro. In an instant his resolve was taken, his limbs received new life; he ran quickly from the spot, and paused not for breath until he reached the river-side.

He lifted his head and looked down the long, gloomy street. He remembered that people like him, forced to roam endlessly in those dreadful streets, sometimes went insane from their own loneliness. He recalled hearing many years ago about a homeless person who was found in a quiet corner, sharpening a rusty knife to stab into his own heart, choosing death over the endless, exhausting wandering. In an instant, he made up his mind; energy surged through him, and he ran quickly from the spot, not stopping for breath until he reached the riverbank.

He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that lead from the commencement of Waterloo Bridge, down to the water's level. He crouched into a corner, and held his breath, as the patrol passed. Never did prisoner's heart throb with the hope of liberty and life half so eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death. The watch passed close to him, but he remained unobserved; and after waiting till the sound of footsteps had died away in the distance, he cautiously descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the landing- place from the river.

He quietly made his way down the steep stone stairs that lead from the start of Waterloo Bridge to the water's edge. He huddled in a corner and held his breath as the patrol walked by. No prisoner's heart ever raced with the hope of freedom and life as intensely as that wretched man's at the thought of death. The watch passed close to him, but he went unnoticed; after waiting until the sound of footsteps faded away in the distance, he carefully made his way down and stood beneath the dark arch that serves as the landing spot from the river.

The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet. The rain had ceased, the wind was lulled, and all was, for the moment, still and quiet-so quiet, that the slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rippling of the water against the barges that were moored there, was distinctly audible to his ear. The stream stole languidly and sluggishly on. Strange and fantastic forms rose to the surface, and beckoned him to approach; dark gleaming eyes peered from the water, and seemed to mock his hesitation, while hollow murmurs from behind, urged him onwards. He retreated a few paces, took a short run, desperate leap, and plunged into the river.

The tide was in, and the water flowed around his feet. The rain had stopped, the wind had calmed down, and everything was, for the moment, still and quiet—so quiet that even the faintest sound on the opposite bank, like the rippling of the water against the barges moored there, was clearly audible to him. The stream moved lazily and sluggishly on. Strange and fantastical shapes rose to the surface, inviting him to come closer; dark, gleaming eyes watched him from the water, seeming to mock his hesitation, while distant whispers urged him forward. He stepped back a few paces, took a short run, made a desperate leap, and dove into the river.

Not five seconds had passed when he rose to the water's surface-but what a change had taken place in that short time, in all his thoughts and feelings! Life-life in any form, poverty, misery, starvation-anything but death. He fought and struggled with the water that closed over his head, and screamed in agonies of terror. The curse of his own son rang in his ears. The shore-but one foot of dry ground-he could almost touch the step. One hand's breadth nearer, and he was saved-but the tide bore him onward, under the dark arches of the bridge, and he sank to the bottom.

Not even five seconds had gone by when he surfaced, but what a shift had occurred in that brief moment, in all his thoughts and feelings! Life—any form of life, even if it meant poverty, misery, starvation—anything but death. He fought and struggled against the water that engulfed him, screaming in sheer terror. The curse of his own son echoed in his ears. The shore—just a single foot of dry land—was almost within reach. Just one more arm's length, and he would be safe—but the tide swept him away, beneath the dark arches of the bridge, and he sank to the bottom.

Again he rose, and struggled for life. For one instant-for one brief instant-the buildings on the river's banks, the lights on the bridge through which the current had borne him, the black water, and the fast- flying clouds, were distinctly visible-once more he sunk, and once again he rose. Bright flames of fire shot up from earth to heaven, and reeled before his eyes, while the water thundered in his ears, and stunned him with its furious roar.

Again he got up and fought for his life. For just a moment—for one brief moment—the buildings along the river, the lights on the bridge that the current had carried him under, the dark water, and the swiftly moving clouds were all clearly visible—then he sank down again, and once more he rose. Bright flames shot up from the ground to the sky, swirling in front of his eyes, while the water rumbled in his ears, overwhelming him with its deafening roar.

A week afterwards the body was washed ashore, some miles down the river, a swollen and disfigured mass. Unrecognised and unpitied, it was borne to the grave; and there it has long since mouldered away! SKETCHES OF YOUNG GENTLEMEN

A week later, the body was found washed up on the shore, a few miles down the river, a swollen and disfigured mass. Unrecognizable and unloved, it was taken to the grave; and there it has long since decayed! SKETCHES OF YOUNG GENTLEMEN

TO THE YOUNG LADIES of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland; also THE YOUNG LADIES of the principality of wales, and likewise THE YOUNG LADIES resident in the isles of guernsey, jersey, alderney, and sark, the humble dedication of their devoted admirer,

TO THE YOUNG LADIES of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland; also THE YOUNG LADIES of the principality of Wales, and likewise THE YOUNG LADIES living in the islands of Guernsey, Jersey, Alderney, and Sark, the humble dedication of their devoted admirer,

Sheweth,-

Shows,—

That your Dedicator has perused, with feelings of virtuous indignation, a work purporting to be 'Sketches of Young Ladies;' written by Quiz, illustrated by Phiz, and published in one volume, square twelvemo.

That your Dedicator has read, with a sense of righteous anger, a work claiming to be 'Sketches of Young Ladies;' written by Quiz, illustrated by Phiz, and published in one volume, square twelvemo.

That after an attentive and vigilant perusal of the said work, your Dedicator is humbly of opinion that so many libels, upon your Honourable sex, were never contained in any previously published work, in twelvemo or any other mo.

That after carefully and thoroughly reading the mentioned work, your Dedicator believes that no other previously published work, in twelvemo or any other format, contained as many attacks on your honorable sex.

That in the title page and preface to the said work, your Honourable sex are described and classified as animals; and although your Dedicator is not at present prepared to deny that you are animals, still he humbly submits that it is not polite to call you so.

That in the title page and preface of the mentioned work, your Honorable gender is described and categorized as animals; and although your Dedicator is not currently in a position to deny that you are animals, he respectfully suggests that it's not polite to refer to you in that way.

That in the aforesaid preface, your Honourable sex are also described as Troglodites, which, being a hard word, may, for aught your Honourable sex or your Dedicator can say to the contrary, be an injurious and disrespectful appellation.

That in the mentioned preface, your esteemed group is also referred to as Troglodites, which, being a difficult term, might, for all your esteemed group or your Dedicator can argue otherwise, be an insulting and disrespectful name.

That the author of the said work applied himself to his task in malice prepense and with wickedness aforethought; a fact which, your Dedicator contends, is sufficiently demonstrated, by his assuming the name of Quiz, which, your Dedicator submits, denotes a foregone conclusion, and implies an intention of quizzing.

That the author of the work in question approached his task with planned malice and deliberate wickedness; a point that your Dedicator argues is clearly shown by his choosing the name Quiz, which your Dedicator suggests indicates a predetermined outcome and suggests an intention to mock.

That in the execution of his evil design, the said Quiz, or author of the said work, must have betrayed some trust or confidence reposed in him by some members of your Honourable sex, otherwise he never could have acquired so much information relative to the manners and customs of your Honourable sex in general.

That in carrying out his malicious plan, the so-called Quiz, or creator of this work, must have betrayed some trust or confidence placed in him by some members of your esteemed group; otherwise, he could never have gained so much knowledge about the behaviors and traditions of your esteemed group in general.

That actuated by these considerations, and further moved by various slanders and insinuations respecting your Honourable sex contained in the said work, square twelvemo, entitled 'Sketches of Young Ladies,' your Dedicator ventures to produce another work, square twelvemo, entitled 'Sketches of Young Gentlemen,' of which he now solicits your acceptance and approval.

That motivated by these thoughts, and further influenced by various slanders and hints about your esteemed gender found in the mentioned book, a square twelvemo titled 'Sketches of Young Ladies,' your Dedicator now presents another work, square twelvemo, titled 'Sketches of Young Gentlemen,' which he now asks for your acceptance and approval.

That as the Young Ladies are the best companions of the Young Gentlemen, so the Young Gentlemen should be the best companions of the Young Ladies; and extending the comparison from animals (to quote the disrespectful language of the said Quiz) to inanimate objects, your Dedicator humbly suggests, that such of your Honourable sex as purchased the bane should possess themselves of the antidote, and that those of your Honourable sex who were not rash enough to take the first, should lose no time in swallowing the last,-prevention being in all cases better than cure, as we are informed upon the authority, not only of general acknowledgment, but also of traditionary wisdom.

That since young ladies are the best companions for young gentlemen, young gentlemen should be the best companions for young ladies. To extend the comparison from animals (to echo the disrespectful language of the aforementioned Quiz) to inanimate objects, your Dedicator suggests that those of your esteemed gender who bought the poison should also get the antidote, and that those of your esteemed gender who were wise enough not to take the first should quickly take the last—because prevention is always better than cure, as we know from both common knowledge and traditional wisdom.

That with reference to the said bane and antidote, your Dedicator has no further remarks to make, than are comprised in the printed directions issued with Doctor Morison's pills; namely, that whenever your Honourable sex take twenty-five of Number, 1, you will be pleased to take fifty of Number 2, without delay.

That regarding the mentioned poison and remedy, your Dedicator has no additional comments beyond what is included in the printed instructions that come with Doctor Morison's pills; specifically, that whenever you, honorable readers, take twenty-five of Number 1, please take fifty of Number 2 right away.

And your Dedicator shall ever pray, &c. THE BASHFUL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

And your Dedicator will always pray, etc. THE BASHFUL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

We found ourself seated at a small dinner party the other day, opposite a stranger of such singular appearance and manner, that he irresistibly attracted our attention.

We found ourselves at a small dinner party recently, sitting across from a stranger with such a unique appearance and demeanor that he effortlessly caught our attention.

This was a fresh-coloured young gentleman, with as good a promise of light whisker as one might wish to see, and possessed of a very velvet- like, soft-looking countenance. We do not use the latter term invidiously, but merely to denote a pair of smooth, plump, highly- coloured cheeks of capacious dimensions, and a mouth rather remarkable for the fresh hue of the lips than for any marked or striking expression it presented. His whole face was suffused with a crimson blush, and bore that downcast, timid, retiring look, which betokens a man ill at ease with himself.

This was a young man with a fresh complexion, sporting a good hint of light whiskers, and had a very soft, velvety-looking face. We're not using the term "velvety" in a negative way; we just mean he had smooth, plump, brightly colored cheeks and a mouth that was more notable for the vibrant color of his lips than for any strong or striking expression. His entire face was flushed with a deep red, and he had a downcast, shy, and withdrawn look that suggested he was uncomfortable with himself.

There was nothing in these symptoms to attract more than a passing remark, but our attention had been originally drawn to the bashful young gentleman, on his first appearance in the drawing-room above-stairs, into which he was no sooner introduced, than making his way towards us who were standing in a window, and wholly neglecting several persons who warmly accosted him, he seized our hand with visible emotion, and pressed it with a convulsive grasp for a good couple of minutes, after which he dived in a nervous manner across the room, oversetting in his way a fine little girl of six years and a quarter old-and shrouding himself behind some hangings, was seen no more, until the eagle eye of the hostess detecting him in his concealment, on the announcement of dinner, he was requested to pair off with a lively single lady, of two or three and thirty.

There was nothing unusual about these symptoms to warrant more than a brief comment, but we were initially drawn to the shy young man. As soon as he entered the drawing-room upstairs, he made his way toward us, standing by the window, completely ignoring several people who warmly greeted him. He grabbed our hand with clear emotion and held it in a tight grip for a couple of minutes. After that, he nervously darted across the room, accidentally knocking down a sweet little girl who was about six and a quarter, and then he hid behind some drapes. We didn’t see him again until the hostess spotted him hiding when she announced dinner and asked him to pair up with a lively single woman in her early thirties.

This most flattering salutation from a perfect stranger, would have gratified us not a little as a token of his having held us in high respect, and for that reason been desirous of our acquaintance, if we had not suspected from the first, that the young gentleman, in making a desperate effort to get through the ceremony of introduction, had, in the bewilderment of his ideas, shaken hands with us at random. This impression was fully confirmed by the subsequent behaviour of the bashful young gentleman in question, which we noted particularly, with the view of ascertaining whether we were right in our conjecture.

This very warm greeting from a complete stranger would have pleased us quite a bit as a sign that he respected us and wanted to get to know us, if we hadn’t suspected from the start that the young man, in a clumsy attempt to get through the introduction, had randomly shaken our hands without really thinking. This feeling was completely supported by how the shy young man acted afterward, which we observed closely to confirm if our guess was correct.

The young gentleman seated himself at table with evident misgivings, and turning sharp round to pay attention to some observation of his loquacious neighbour, overset his bread. There was nothing very bad in this, and if he had had the presence of mind to let it go, and say nothing about it, nobody but the man who had laid the cloth would have been a bit the wiser; but the young gentleman in various semi-successful attempts to prevent its fall, played with it a little, as gentlemen in the streets may be seen to do with their hats on a windy day, and then giving the roll a smart rap in his anxiety to catch it, knocked it with great adroitness into a tureen of white soup at some distance, to the unspeakable terror and disturbance of a very amiable bald gentleman, who was dispensing the contents. We thought the bashful young gentleman would have gone off in an apoplectic fit, consequent upon the violent rush of blood to his face at the occurrence of this catastrophe.

The young guy sat down at the table looking quite uneasy, and when he quickly turned to pay attention to something his chatty neighbor said, he knocked over his bread. This wasn’t a huge issue, and if he had just let it be and said nothing, the only person who would have noticed would be the one who set the table. But the young guy, in several not-so-successful tries to stop it from falling, ended up fidgeting with it like guys do with their hats on a windy day. Then, in his hurry to catch it, he gave the roll a little smack, which cleverly sent it flying into a tureen of white soup some distance away, causing sheer panic and disruption for a very nice bald guy who was serving it. We thought the shy young man was about to pass out from embarrassment, his face turning beet red after this disaster.

From this moment we perceived, in the phraseology of the fancy, that it was 'all up' with the bashful young gentleman, and so indeed it was. Several benevolent persons endeavoured to relieve his embarrassment by taking wine with him, but finding that it only augmented his sufferings, and that after mingling sherry, champagne, hock, and moselle together, he applied the greater part of the mixture externally, instead of internally, they gradually dropped off, and left him to the exclusive care of the talkative lady, who, not noting the wildness of his eye, firmly believed she had secured a listener. He broke a glass or two in the course of the meal, and disappeared shortly afterwards; it is inferred that he went away in some confusion, inasmuch as he left the house in another gentleman's coat, and the footman's hat.

From that moment, we realized, in the whimsical language of the situation, that it was 'all over' for the shy young man, and indeed it was. Several kind people tried to ease his discomfort by having a drink with him, but when they found it only made his struggles worse, and after he mixed sherry, champagne, hock, and moselle together, mostly applying the mixture on himself instead of drinking it, they gradually backed off, leaving him in the sole company of the talkative lady, who, not noticing the wild look in his eyes, genuinely thought she had a listener. He broke a glass or two during the meal and soon disappeared; it's assumed he left in some embarrassment, since he exited wearing another man’s coat and the footman's hat.

This little incident led us to reflect upon the most prominent characteristics of bashful young gentlemen in the abstract; and as this portable volume will be the great text-book of young ladies in all future generations, we record them here for their guidance and behoof.

This little incident made us think about the main traits of shy young men in general. Since this handy book will be the key reference for young women in all future generations, we’ll note them here for their benefit.

If the bashful young gentleman, in turning a street corner, chance to stumble suddenly upon two or three young ladies of his acquaintance, nothing can exceed his confusion and agitation. His first impulse is to make a great variety of bows, and dart past them, which he does until, observing that they wish to stop, but are uncertain whether to do so or not, he makes several feints of returning, which causes them to do the same; and at length, after a great quantity of unnecessary dodging and falling up against the other passengers, he returns and shakes hands most affectionately with all of them, in doing which he knocks out of their grasp sundry little parcels, which he hastily picks up, and returns very muddy and disordered. The chances are that the bashful young gentleman then observes it is very fine weather, and being reminded that it has only just left off raining for the first time these three days, he blushes very much, and smiles as if he had said a very good thing. The young lady who was most anxious to speak, here inquires, with an air of great commiseration, how his dear sister Harriet is to-day; to which the young gentleman, without the slightest consideration, replies with many thanks, that she is remarkably well. 'Well, Mr. Hopkins!' cries the young lady, 'why, we heard she was bled yesterday evening, and have been perfectly miserable about her.' 'Oh, ah,' says the young gentleman, 'so she was. Oh, she's very ill, very ill indeed.' The young gentleman then shakes his head, and looks very desponding (he has been smiling perpetually up to this time), and after a short pause, gives his glove a great wrench at the wrist, and says, with a strong emphasis on the adjective, 'Good morning, good morning.' And making a great number of bows in acknowledgment of several little messages to his sister, walks backward a few paces, and comes with great violence against a lamp-post, knocking his hat off in the contact, which in his mental confusion and bodily pain he is going to walk away without, until a great roar from a carter attracts his attention, when he picks it up, and tries to smile cheerfully to the young ladies, who are looking back, and who, he has the satisfaction of seeing, are all laughing heartily.

If the shy young man happens to turn a corner and suddenly runs into a couple of young ladies he knows, his embarrassment and agitation are off the charts. His first instinct is to bow multiple times and hurry past them, which he does until he notices they want to stop but aren’t sure if they should. He pretends to turn back several times, making them do the same, and after a lot of unnecessary dodging and bumping into other people, he finally returns and shakes hands with all of them affectionately. In doing so, he accidentally knocks some small packages out of their hands, which he quickly picks up, returning them all muddy and disheveled. The shy young man then observes that it’s really nice outside, and when reminded it just stopped raining for the first time in three days, he blushes deeply and grins as if he’s just said something brilliant. The young lady who seems most eager to talk asks, with a look of deep concern, how his dear sister Harriet is doing today. The young man, without a second thought, thanks her and says she’s doing remarkably well. “Well, Mr. Hopkins!” exclaims the young lady, “we heard she was bled last night and have been terribly worried about her.” “Oh, right,” the young man replies, “she is very ill, very ill indeed.” He then shakes his head and looks quite gloomy (he’s been smiling until now), and after a brief pause, he yanks at his glove and says, stressing the adjective, “Good morning, good morning.” He bows a lot in acknowledgment of several messages to his sister, walks backward a few steps, and crashes into a lamp post, knocking his hat off. In his dazed state and pain, he nearly walks off without it until a loud shout from a car driver grabs his attention. He picks it up and tries to smile cheerfully at the young ladies, who are looking back and, to his satisfaction, are all laughing heartily.

At a quadrille party, the bashful young gentleman always remains as near the entrance of the room as possible, from which position he smiles at the people he knows as they come in, and sometimes steps forward to shake hands with more intimate friends: a process which on each repetition seems to turn him a deeper scarlet than before. He declines dancing the first set or two, observing, in a faint voice, that he would rather wait a little; but at length is absolutely compelled to allow himself to be introduced to a partner, when he is led, in a great heat and blushing furiously, across the room to a spot where half-a-dozen unknown ladies are congregated together.

At a dance party, the shy young man stays as close to the entrance as possible. From there, he smiles at people he knows as they arrive and occasionally steps forward to greet closer friends, each time seeming to blush even more. He insists on not dancing for the first couple of sets, softly saying he'd prefer to wait a bit. But eventually, he has no choice but to let himself be introduced to a partner. He is then led, feeling warm and blushing furiously, across the room to where a group of six unfamiliar ladies is gathered.

'Miss Lambert, let me introduce Mr. Hopkins for the next quadrille.' Miss Lambert inclines her head graciously. Mr. Hopkins bows, and his fair conductress disappears, leaving Mr. Hopkins, as he too well knows, to make himself agreeable. The young lady more than half expects that the bashful young gentleman will say something, and the bashful young gentleman feeling this, seriously thinks whether he has got anything to say, which, upon mature reflection, he is rather disposed to conclude he has not, since nothing occurs to him. Meanwhile, the young lady, after several inspections of her bouquet, all made in the expectation that the bashful young gentleman is going to talk, whispers her mamma, who is sitting next her, which whisper the bashful young gentleman immediately suspects (and possibly with very good reason) must be about him. In this comfortable condition he remains until it is time to 'stand up,' when murmuring a 'Will you allow me?' he gives the young lady his arm, and after inquiring where she will stand, and receiving a reply that she has no choice, conducts her to the remotest corner of the quadrille, and making one attempt at conversation, which turns out a desperate failure, preserves a profound silence until it is all over, when he walks her twice round the room, deposits her in her old seat, and retires in confusion.

'Miss Lambert, let me introduce you to Mr. Hopkins for the next dance.' Miss Lambert nods politely. Mr. Hopkins bows, and his partner walks away, leaving Mr. Hopkins, as he knows all too well, to charm her. The young lady half expects the shy young man to say something, and feeling this pressure, he seriously wonders if he has anything to say at all, which upon reflection, he leans towards concluding that he does not, since nothing comes to mind. Meanwhile, the young lady, after checking her bouquet several times, hoping the shy young man will talk, leans over to whisper to her mother, who is next to her, which the shy young man immediately suspects (and probably with good reason) is about him. He stays in this awkward state until it’s time to dance, when he quietly asks, 'May I have this dance?' and offers her his arm. After asking where she wants to stand and getting the reply that she has no choice, he leads her to the furthest corner of the dance floor. He makes one attempt at conversation, which ends up being a total flop, and remains silent until it’s all over. He then walks her twice around the room, puts her back in her original seat, and retreats in embarrassment.

A married bashful gentleman-for these bashful gentlemen do get married sometimes; how it is ever brought about, is a mystery to us-a married bashful gentleman either causes his wife to appear bold by contrast, or merges her proper importance in his own insignificance. Bashful young gentlemen should be cured, or avoided. They are never hopeless, and never will be, while female beauty and attractions retain their influence, as any young lady will find, who may think it worth while on this confident assurance to take a patient in hand. THE OUT-AND-OUT YOUNG GENTLEMAN

A shy married guy—because shy guys do get married sometimes; how that happens is a mystery to us—a shy married guy either makes his wife seem bold by contrast or diminishes her importance with his own lack of confidence. Shy young men should either be fixed or avoided. They’re never beyond hope, and they never will be, as long as female beauty and charm continue to have their effect, as any young woman will discover if she thinks it’s worth her while to take on a project like that. THE OUT-AND-OUT YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Out-and-out young gentlemen may be divided into two classes-those who have something to do, and those who have nothing. I shall commence with the former, because that species come more frequently under the notice of young ladies, whom it is our province to warn and to instruct.

Out-and-out young gentlemen can be split into two groups—those who have something to do and those who don’t. I’ll start with the first group, since they tend to catch the attention of young ladies, whom it’s our job to warn and guide.

The out-and-out young gentleman is usually no great dresser, his instructions to his tailor being all comprehended in the one general direction to 'make that what's-a-name a regular bang-up sort of thing.' For some years past, the favourite costume of the out-and-out young gentleman has been a rough pilot coat, with two gilt hooks and eyes to the velvet collar; buttons somewhat larger than crown-pieces; a black or fancy neckerchief, loosely tied; a wide-brimmed hat, with a low crown; tightish inexpressibles, and iron-shod boots. Out of doors he sometimes carries a large ash stick, but only on special occasions, for he prefers keeping his hands in his coat pockets. He smokes at all hours, of course, and swears considerably.

The fully-fledged young gentleman typically isn’t a great dresser; his instructions to his tailor can be summed up with the simple request to "make that whatever-it-is a really stylish piece." For the past few years, the go-to outfit for the fully-fledged young gentleman has been a rugged pilot coat, featuring two gold hooks and eyes on the velvet collar; buttons a bit larger than coins; a black or patterned neckerchief, loosely tied; a wide-brimmed hat with a low crown; snug trousers; and boots with iron tips. Outdoors, he occasionally carries a large ash stick, but only on special occasions, as he prefers keeping his hands in his coat pockets. He smokes at all times and swears quite a bit.

The out-and-out young gentleman is employed in a city counting-house or solicitor's office, in which he does as little as he possibly can: his chief places of resort are, the streets, the taverns, and the theatres. In the streets at evening time, out-and-out young gentlemen have a pleasant custom of walking six or eight abreast, thus driving females and other inoffensive persons into the road, which never fails to afford them the highest satisfaction, especially if there be any immediate danger of their being run over, which enhances the fun of the thing materially. In all places of public resort, the out-and-outers are careful to select each a seat to himself, upon which he lies at full length, and (if the weather be very dirty, but not in any other case) he lies with his knees up, and the soles of his boots planted firmly on the cushion, so that if any low fellow should ask him to make room for a lady, he takes ample revenge upon her dress, without going at all out of his way to do it. He always sits with his hat on, and flourishes his stick in the air while the play is proceeding, with a dignified contempt of the performance; if it be possible for one or two out-and-out young gentlemen to get up a little crowding in the passages, they are quite in their element, squeezing, pushing, whooping, and shouting in the most humorous manner possible. If they can only succeed in irritating the gentleman who has a family of daughters under his charge, they are like to die with laughing, and boast of it among their companions for a week afterwards, adding, that one or two of them were 'devilish fine girls,' and that they really thought the youngest would have fainted, which was the only thing wanted to render the joke complete.

The typical young gentleman works in a city office or law firm, where he tries to do as little as possible. His favorite hangouts are the streets, bars, and theaters. In the evenings, these young gentlemen have a habit of walking six or eight across, forcing women and other harmless people onto the road, which gives them great enjoyment, especially if there’s any risk of someone getting hit, which adds to the fun. In public places, they make sure to take up their own space, lounging fully stretched out, and (if the weather is really bad, but not otherwise) with their knees up and the soles of their shoes firmly planted on the cushion. This way, if a lowly person asks him to make room for a lady, he gets revenge on her dress without even trying. They always wear their hats and wave their canes in the air during the show, showing complete disdain for the performance. If a couple of these young gentlemen can gather a crowd in the aisles, they thrive, squeezing, pushing, yelling, and making the most of it. If they can annoy a man with a bunch of daughters with their antics, they laugh until they can’t breathe and brag about it for a week, saying that one or two of them were "really good-looking" and that they thought the youngest might faint, which would have made the joke perfect.

If the out-and-out young gentleman have a mother and sisters, of course he treats them with becoming contempt, inasmuch as they (poor things!) having no notion of life or gaiety, are far too weak-spirited and moping for him. Sometimes, however, on a birth-day or at Christmas-time, he cannot very well help accompanying them to a party at some old friend's, with which view he comes home when they have been dressed an hour or two, smelling very strongly of tobacco and spirits, and after exchanging his rough coat for some more suitable attire (in which however he loses nothing of the out-and-outer), gets into the coach and grumbles all the way at his own good nature: his bitter reflections aggravated by the recollection, that Tom Smith has taken the chair at a little impromptu dinner at a fighting man's, and that a set-to was to take place on a dining-table, between the fighting man and his brother-in-law, which is probably 'coming off' at that very instant.

If a typical young man has a mother and sisters, he obviously treats them with a certain disdain because they, poor things, have no sense of life or fun and are way too timid and gloomy for him. However, sometimes, on a birthday or during the holidays, he can’t really avoid going with them to a party at an old friend's place. With that in mind, he returns home after they’ve been getting ready for an hour or two, reeking of tobacco and alcohol, and after swapping his rough coat for something more appropriate (though he still manages to keep his edgy style), he gets into the carriage and grumbles all the way about his own kindness. His bitter thoughts are worsened by the fact that Tom Smith is hosting a spontaneous dinner at a fighter’s house, where a showdown is supposed to happen on a dining table between the fighter and his brother-in-law, which is probably happening at that very moment.

As the out-and-out young gentleman is by no means at his ease in ladies' society, he shrinks into a corner of the drawing-room when they reach the friend's, and unless one of his sisters is kind enough to talk to him, remains there without being much troubled by the attentions of other people, until he espies, lingering outside the door, another gentleman, whom he at once knows, by his air and manner (for there is a kind of free-masonry in the craft), to be a brother out-and-outer, and towards whom he accordingly makes his way. Conversation being soon opened by some casual remark, the second out-and-outer confidentially informs the first, that he is one of the rough sort and hates that kind of thing, only he couldn't very well be off coming; to which the other replies, that that's just his case-'and I'll tell you what,' continues the out-and-outer in a whisper, 'I should like a glass of warm brandy and water just now,'-'Or a pint of stout and a pipe,' suggests the other out-and-outer.

As the awkward young man feels uncomfortable in the company of ladies, he retreats to a corner of the drawing room when they arrive at their friend's place. Unless one of his sisters is nice enough to talk to him, he stays there, not really bothered by anyone else's attention, until he notices another guy lingering outside the door. He instantly recognizes him, by his demeanor and attitude (there's a certain understanding among people like them), as another awkward young man, and he walks over to him. After a few casual words to break the ice, the second awkward guy admits to the first that he’s not really into this sort of thing and only came because he felt he had to. The first guy agrees, saying that’s exactly his situation— and he adds in a low voice, “I could really use a glass of warm brandy and water right now,” to which the other awkward man replies, “Or a pint of stout and a pipe.”

The discovery is at once made that they are sympathetic souls; each of them says at the same moment, that he sees the other understands what's what: and they become fast friends at once, more especially when it appears, that the second out-and-outer is no other than a gentleman, long favourably known to his familiars as 'Mr. Warmint Blake,' who upon divers occasions has distinguished himself in a manner that would not have disgraced the fighting man, and who-having been a pretty long time about town-had the honour of once shaking hands with the celebrated Mr. Thurtell himself.

The discovery is quickly made that they are kindred spirits; each of them simultaneously realizes that the other understands the situation: and they instantly become close friends, especially when it turns out that the second outsider is none other than a gentleman, well-known to his friends as 'Mr. Warmint Blake,' who on several occasions has proven himself in ways that would impress even a warrior, and who—having spent quite some time in the city—once had the honor of shaking hands with the infamous Mr. Thurtell himself.

At supper, these gentlemen greatly distinguish themselves, brightening up very much when the ladies leave the table, and proclaiming aloud their intention of beginning to spend the evening-a process which is generally understood to be satisfactorily performed, when a great deal of wine is drunk and a great deal of noise made, both of which feats the out-and-out young gentlemen execute to perfection. Having protracted their sitting until long after the host and the other guests have adjourned to the drawing-room, and finding that they have drained the decanters empty, they follow them thither with complexions rather heightened, and faces rather bloated with wine; and the agitated lady of the house whispers her friends as they waltz together, to the great terror of the whole room, that 'both Mr. Blake and Mr. Dummins are very nice sort of young men in their way, only they are eccentric persons, and unfortunately rather too wild!'

At dinner, these guys really stand out, getting much more lively when the ladies leave the table, and loudly declaring their plan to start the evening—a process that everyone understands is completed well when a lot of wine is consumed and a lot of noise is made, both of which the truly young men excel at. After stretching their time at the table long after the host and other guests have gone to the living room, and realizing that they have emptied the decanters, they follow them in with slightly flushed faces and somewhat bloated appearances from the wine; and the flustered hostess whispers to her friends as they dance together, to the great alarm of the whole room, that 'both Mr. Blake and Mr. Dummins are very nice young men in their own way, but they are quite eccentric and unfortunately a bit too wild!'

The remaining class of out-and-out young gentlemen is composed of persons, who, having no money of their own and a soul above earning any, enjoy similar pleasures, nobody knows how. These respectable gentlemen, without aiming quite so much at the out-and-out in external appearance, are distinguished by all the same amiable and attractive characteristics, in an equal or perhaps greater degree, and now and then find their way into society, through the medium of the other class of out-and-out young gentlemen, who will sometimes carry them home, and who usually pay their tavern bills. As they are equally gentlemanly, clever, witty, intelligent, wise, and well-bred, we need scarcely have recommended them to the peculiar consideration of the young ladies, if it were not that some of the gentle creatures whom we hold in such high respect, are perhaps a little too apt to confound a great many heavier terms with the light word eccentricity, which we beg them henceforth to take in a strictly Johnsonian sense, without any liberality or latitude of construction. THE VERY FRIENDLY YOUNG GENTLEMAN

The remaining group of young gentlemen consists of people who, having no money of their own and a sense of pride that keeps them from earning any, enjoy similar pleasures in ways that nobody quite understands. These respectable gentlemen don't aim for the flashy appearance of the others but possess all the same charming and appealing traits, possibly even more so. Occasionally, they manage to mingle in society, thanks to the other group of young gentlemen, who might take them home and usually cover their tavern bills. Since they are equally gentlemanly, clever, witty, intelligent, wise, and well-mannered, we hardly need to recommend them to the special attention of the young ladies—if it weren't for the fact that some of the lovely individuals we hold in high regard might mistakenly equate a lot of serious terms with the light term eccentricity. We ask them to regard it strictly in a Johnsonian sense, without any broad interpretation. THE VERY FRIENDLY YOUNG GENTLEMAN

We know-and all people know-so many specimens of this class, that in selecting the few heads our limits enable us to take from a great number, we have been induced to give the very friendly young gentleman the preference over many others, to whose claims upon a more cursory view of the question we had felt disposed to assign the priority.

We all know so many examples of this type that when picking just a few to include within our limits from a large number, we’ve chosen to favor the very friendly young man over many others, whose claims we initially thought might take priority upon a quick look at the matter.

The very friendly young gentleman is very friendly to everybody, but he attaches himself particularly to two, or at most to three families: regulating his choice by their dinners, their circle of acquaintance, or some other criterion in which he has an immediate interest. He is of any age between twenty and forty, unmarried of course, must be fond of children, and is expected to make himself generally useful if possible. Let us illustrate our meaning by an example, which is the shortest mode and the clearest.

The really friendly young man is super nice to everyone, but he usually connects with just two or three families. He picks them based on their dinners, social circles, or something else that catches his interest. He's anywhere from twenty to forty, definitely single, should like kids, and is expected to be helpful when he can. Let's clarify this with an example, which is the quickest and clearest way.

We encountered one day, by chance, an old friend of whom we had lost sight for some years, and who-expressing a strong anxiety to renew our former intimacy-urged us to dine with him on an early day, that we might talk over old times. We readily assented, adding, that we hoped we should be alone. 'Oh, certainly, certainly,' said our friend, 'not a soul with us but Mincin.' 'And who is Mincin?' was our natural inquiry. 'O don't mind him,' replied our friend, 'he's a most particular friend of mine, and a very friendly fellow you will find him;' and so he left us.

One day, we randomly ran into an old friend we hadn’t seen in a few years. He was eager to reconnect and insisted we go to dinner with him soon so we could catch up. We happily agreed, mentioning that we hoped it would just be the three of us. “Oh, definitely, definitely,” our friend said, “it’ll be just us and Mincin.” “And who’s Mincin?” was our immediate question. “Oh, don’t worry about him,” our friend replied, “he’s a really close friend of mine, and you’ll find him to be a great guy.” And with that, he left us.

'We thought no more about Mincin until we duly presented ourselves at the house next day, when, after a hearty welcome, our friend motioned towards a gentleman who had been previously showing his teeth by the fireplace, and gave us to understand that it was Mr. Mincin, of whom he had spoken. It required no great penetration on our part to discover at once that Mr. Mincin was in every respect a very friendly young gentleman.

'We didn’t think about Mincin again until we showed up at the house the next day. After a warm welcome, our friend gestured toward a man who had been smiling by the fireplace and indicated that this was Mr. Mincin, the one he had mentioned. It didn’t take us long to realize that Mr. Mincin was, in every way, a very friendly young man.'

'I am delighted,' said Mincin, hastily advancing, and pressing our hand warmly between both of his, 'I am delighted, I am sure, to make your acquaintance-(here he smiled)-very much delighted indeed-(here he exhibited a little emotion)-I assure you that I have looked forward to it anxiously for a very long time:' here he released our hands, and rubbing his own, observed, that the day was severe, but that he was delighted to perceive from our appearance that it agreed with us wonderfully; and then went on to observe, that, notwithstanding the coldness of the weather, he had that morning seen in the paper an exceedingly curious paragraph, to the effect, that there was now in the garden of Mr. Wilkins of Chichester, a pumpkin, measuring four feet in height, and eleven feet seven inches in circumference, which he looked upon as a very extraordinary piece of intelligence. We ventured to remark, that we had a dim recollection of having once or twice before observed a similar paragraph in the public prints, upon which Mr. Mincin took us confidentially by the button, and said, Exactly, exactly, to be sure, we were very right, and he wondered what the editors meant by putting in such things. Who the deuce, he should like to know, did they suppose cared about them? that struck him as being the best of it.

"I’m so glad to meet you," said Mincin, stepping forward and warmly taking our hand between both of his. "I’m really delighted, truly," he smiled. "I’ve been looking forward to this for quite some time." He then let go of our hands, rubbed his own together, and noted that the day was pretty harsh, but he was happy to see that it suited us well. He continued, despite the chill in the air, that he had read an extremely interesting piece in the paper that morning. It mentioned that there was a pumpkin in Mr. Wilkins' garden in Chichester that measured four feet tall and eleven feet seven inches around, which he thought was quite remarkable. We mentioned that we vaguely remembered seeing similar stories in the news before, at which point Mr. Mincin leaned in closer and said, "Exactly, exactly! You’re completely right. I’ve often wondered what the editors were thinking by including such things. Who on earth do they think cares about this? That really puzzles me."

The lady of the house appeared shortly afterwards, and Mr. Mincin's friendliness, as will readily be supposed, suffered no diminution in consequence; he exerted much strength and skill in wheeling a large easy-chair up to the fire, and the lady being seated in it, carefully closed the door, stirred the fire, and looked to the windows to see that they admitted no air; having satisfied himself upon all these points, he expressed himself quite easy in his mind, and begged to know how she found herself to-day. Upon the lady's replying very well, Mr. Mincin (who it appeared was a medical gentleman) offered some general remarks upon the nature and treatment of colds in the head, which occupied us agreeably until dinner-time. During the meal, he devoted himself to complimenting everybody, not forgetting himself, so that we were an uncommonly agreeable quartette.

The lady of the house showed up shortly after, and Mr. Mincin's friendliness, as you can imagine, didn’t fade at all; he put in a lot of effort and skill into wheeling a large comfy chair up to the fire, and after she sat down in it, he carefully closed the door, stoked the fire, and made sure the windows weren't letting in any drafts. Once he checked off all these things, he felt completely at ease and asked how she was doing today. When she replied that she was very well, Mr. Mincin (who turned out to be a doctor) shared some general thoughts on colds and how to treat them, which kept us entertained until dinner. During the meal, he focused on complimenting everyone, including himself, so we made for an exceptionally pleasant group of four.

'I'll tell you what, Capper,' said Mr. Mincin to our host, as he closed the room door after the lady had retired, 'you have very great reason to be fond of your wife. Sweet woman, Mrs. Capper, sir!' 'Nay, Mincin-I beg,' interposed the host, as we were about to reply that Mrs. Capper unquestionably was particularly sweet. 'Pray, Mincin, don't.' 'Why not?' exclaimed Mr. Mincin, 'why not? Why should you feel any delicacy before your old friend-our old friend, if I may be allowed to call you so, sir; why should you, I ask?' We of course wished to know why he should also, upon which our friend admitted that Mrs. Capper was a very sweet woman, at which admission Mr. Mincin cried 'Bravo!' and begged to propose Mrs. Capper with heartfelt enthusiasm, whereupon our host said, 'Thank you, Mincin,' with deep feeling; and gave us, in a low voice, to understand, that Mincin had saved Mrs. Capper's cousin's life no less than fourteen times in a year and a half, which he considered no common circumstance-an opinion to which we most cordially subscribed.

"I'll tell you what, Capper," Mr. Mincin said to our host as he shut the door after the lady had left, "you really have every reason to be fond of your wife. Sweet woman, Mrs. Capper, sir!" "No, Mincin—I insist," the host interrupted, as we were about to agree that Mrs. Capper was indeed particularly sweet. "Please, Mincin, don't." "Why not?" Mr. Mincin exclaimed. "Why not? Why should you feel any hesitation in front of your old friend—our old friend, if I may say so, sir; why should you, I ask?" Naturally, we were curious about why he should feel that way too, to which our friend admitted that Mrs. Capper was a very sweet woman, prompting Mr. Mincin to shout "Bravo!" and enthusiastically propose a toast to Mrs. Capper. Our host replied, "Thank you, Mincin," with genuine emotion and quietly let us know that Mincin had saved Mrs. Capper's cousin's life no fewer than fourteen times in a year and a half—a fact he considered quite significant, an opinion we wholeheartedly agreed with.

Now that we three were left to entertain ourselves with conversation, Mr. Mincin's extreme friendliness became every moment more apparent; he was so amazingly friendly, indeed, that it was impossible to talk about anything in which he had not the chief concern. We happened to allude to some affairs in which our friend and we had been mutually engaged nearly fourteen years before, when Mr. Mincin was all at once reminded of a joke which our friend had made on that day four years, which he positively must insist upon telling-and which he did tell accordingly, with many pleasant recollections of what he said, and what Mrs. Capper said, and how he well remembered that they had been to the play with orders on the very night previous, and had seen Romeo and Juliet, and the pantomime, and how Mrs. Capper being faint had been led into the lobby, where she smiled, said it was nothing after all, and went back again, with many other interesting and absorbing particulars: after which the friendly young gentleman went on to assure us, that our friend had experienced a marvellously prophetic opinion of that same pantomime, which was of such an admirable kind, that two morning papers took the same view next day: to this our friend replied, with a little triumph, that in that instance he had some reason to think he had been correct, which gave the friendly young gentleman occasion to believe that our friend was always correct; and so we went on, until our friend, filling a bumper, said he must drink one glass to his dear friend Mincin, than whom he would say no man saved the lives of his acquaintances more, or had a more friendly heart. Finally, our friend having emptied his glass, said, 'God bless you, Mincin,'-and Mr. Mincin and he shook hands across the table with much affection and earnestness.

Now that the three of us were left to chat, Mr. Mincin’s friendliness became more obvious by the moment; he was so incredibly friendly that it was impossible to talk about anything that didn’t involve him. We happened to mention some things we had all been involved in about fourteen years ago, when Mr. Mincin suddenly remembered a joke our friend had made on that day four years earlier, which he insisted on telling us—and he did, reminiscing about what he said, what Mrs. Capper said, and how he distinctly remembered they had gone to the theater the night before and seen Romeo and Juliet and the pantomime. He recalled how Mrs. Capper, feeling faint, had been taken to the lobby, smiled, said it was nothing after all, and then went back in, along with many other interesting details. After that, the friendly young man assured us that our friend had a remarkably accurate prediction about that same pantomime, so impressive that two morning papers shared the same opinion the next day. Our friend responded, a bit triumphantly, that in that case, he had good reason to believe he was right, which led Mr. Mincin to think that our friend was always right; and we continued like this until our friend, filling his glass, said he had to toast his dear friend Mincin, claiming no one saved the lives of his friends more or had a bigger heart. Finally, after finishing his drink, our friend said, “God bless you, Mincin,” and he and Mr. Mincin shook hands across the table with great affection and sincerity.

But great as the friendly young gentleman is, in a limited scene like this, he plays the same part on a larger scale with increased ACclat. Mr. Mincin is invited to an evening party with his dear friends the Martins, where he meets his dear friends the Cappers, and his dear friends the Watsons, and a hundred other dear friends too numerous to mention. He is as much at home with the Martins as with the Cappers; but how exquisitely he balances his attentions, and divides them among his dear friends! If he flirts with one of the Miss Watsons, he has one little Martin on the sofa pulling his hair, and the other little Martin on the carpet riding on his foot. He carries Mrs. Watson down to supper on one arm, and Miss Martin on the other, and takes wine so judiciously, and in such exact order, that it is impossible for the most punctilious old lady to consider herself neglected. If any young lady, being prevailed upon to sing, become nervous afterwards, Mr. Mincin leads her tenderly into the next room, and restores her with port wine, which she must take medicinally. If any gentleman be standing by the piano during the progress of the ballad, Mr. Mincin seizes him by the arm at one point of the melody, and softly beating time the while with his head, expresses in dumb show his intense perception of the delicacy of the passage. If anybody's self-love is to be flattered, Mr. Mincin is at hand. If anybody's overweening vanity is to be pampered, Mr. Mincin will surfeit it. What wonder that people of all stations and ages recognise Mr. Mincin's friendliness; that he is universally allowed to be handsome as amiable; that mothers think him an oracle, daughters a dear, brothers a beau, and fathers a wonder! And who would not have the reputation of the very friendly young gentleman? THE MILITARY YOUNG GENTLEMAN

But as friendly as the charming young man is, in a small setting like this, he takes on the same role on a larger scale with even more flair. Mr. Mincin is invited to a party in the evening with his dear friends the Martins, where he sees his dear friends the Cappers, and his dear friends the Watsons, along with countless other dear friends too many to name. He feels just as comfortable with the Martins as he does with the Cappers; but how skillfully he balances his attention and shares it among his dear friends! If he flirts with one of the Miss Watsons, he has one little Martin on the couch pulling his hair and the other little Martin on the floor riding on his foot. He carries Mrs. Watson to supper on one arm, and Miss Martin on the other, and drinks wine so thoughtfully and in such a careful order that even the most formal old lady can't feel ignored. If any young lady, after being persuaded to sing, becomes anxious, Mr. Mincin gently takes her to the next room and revives her with port wine, which she has to drink for her health. If any gentleman stands by the piano during the song, Mr. Mincin grabs his arm at a certain point in the music, and while softly keeping time with his head, he silently shows how keenly he understands the finesse of the piece. If anyone needs their ego stroked, Mr. Mincin is there. If anyone's excessive vanity needs to be indulged, Mr. Mincin will gladly do so. No wonder people of all walks of life and ages recognize Mr. Mincin's friendliness; he is universally considered handsome as well as kind; mothers see him as a sage, daughters think of him as a sweetheart, brothers as a gentleman, and fathers as a marvel! And who wouldn’t want the reputation of the incredibly friendly young man? THE MILITARY YOUNG GENTLEMAN

We are rather at a loss to imagine how it has come to pass that military young gentlemen have obtained so much favour in the eyes of the young ladies of this kingdom. We cannot think so lightly of them as to suppose that the mere circumstance of a man's wearing a red coat ensures him a ready passport to their regard; and even if this were the case, it would be no satisfactory explanation of the circumstance, because, although the analogy may in some degree hold good in the case of mail coachmen and guards, still general postmen wear red coats, and they are not to our knowledge better received than other men; nor are firemen either, who wear (or used to wear) not only red coats, but very resplendent and massive badges besides-much larger than epaulettes. Neither do the twopenny post-office boys, if the result of our inquiries be correct, find any peculiar favour in woman's eyes, although they wear very bright red jackets, and have the additional advantage of constantly appearing in public on horseback, which last circumstance may be naturally supposed to be greatly in their favour.

We’re a bit puzzled as to how military young men have won so much admiration from the young women in this country. We can't believe that just the fact that a man wears a red coat automatically makes him appealing to them; and even if that were true, it wouldn’t really explain the situation, because while that's somewhat true for mail coachmen and guards, general postmen also wear red coats and, as far as we know, they aren’t treated any better than other men. The same goes for firefighters, who used to wear not just red coats but also big, flashy badges—much larger than epaulettes. Likewise, the two-penny post office boys, if our findings are correct, don't seem to receive any special favor from women, even though they wear bright red jackets and have the added advantage of riding horses in public, which you might think would work in their favor.

We have sometimes thought that this phenomenon may take its rise in the conventional behaviour of captains and colonels and other gentlemen in red coats on the stage, where they are invariably represented as fine swaggering fellows, talking of nothing but charming girls, their king and country, their honour, and their debts, and crowing over the inferior classes of the community, whom they occasionally treat with a little gentlemanly swindling, no less to the improvement and pleasure of the audience, than to the satisfaction and approval of the choice spirits who consort with them. But we will not devote these pages to our speculations upon the subject, inasmuch as our business at the present moment is not so much with the young ladies who are bewitched by her Majesty's livery as with the young gentlemen whose heads are turned by it. For 'heads' we had written 'brains;' but upon consideration, we think the former the more appropriate word of the two.

We sometimes think that this phenomenon might stem from the typical behavior of captains, colonels, and other men in red coats on stage, where they are always portrayed as confident, swaggering types who only talk about charming girls, their king and country, their honor, and their debts, while looking down on the lower classes, whom they occasionally swindle in a gentlemanly manner, much to the enjoyment of the audience and the approval of the elite who socialize with them. However, we won’t spend these pages speculating on this topic, since right now, we’re more focused on the young men whose heads are turned by her Majesty's uniform than on the young ladies who are charmed by it. We initially wrote 'brains,' but upon reflection, we believe 'heads' fits better.

These young gentlemen may be divided into two classes-young gentlemen who are actually in the army, and young gentlemen who, having an intense and enthusiastic admiration for all things appertaining to a military life, are compelled by adverse fortune or adverse relations to wear out their existence in some ignoble counting-house. We will take this latter description of military young gentlemen first.

These young men can be divided into two groups—those who are actually in the army and those who, despite their deep admiration for everything related to a military life, are stuck in some mundane office due to bad luck or difficult circumstances. Let's discuss this second group of military-minded young men first.

The whole heart and soul of the military young gentleman are concentrated in his favourite topic. There is nothing that he is so learned upon as uniforms; he will tell you, without faltering for an instant, what the habiliments of any one regiment are turned up with, what regiment wear stripes down the outside and inside of the leg, and how many buttons the Tenth had on their coats; he knows to a fraction how many yards and odd inches of gold lace it takes to make an ensign in the Guards; is deeply read in the comparative merits of different bands, and the apparelling of trumpeters; and is very luminous indeed in descanting upon 'crack regiments,' and the 'crack' gentlemen who compose them, of whose mightiness and grandeur he is never tired of telling.

The entire heart and soul of the young military gentleman is focused on his favorite topic. There’s nothing he knows more about than uniforms; he can tell you without skipping a beat what the gear of any regiment looks like, which regiment has stripes on the outside and inside of their pants, and how many buttons the Tenth had on their coats. He knows exactly how many yards and inches of gold lace it takes to make an ensign in the Guards, has extensively studied the relative merits of different bands, and is very knowledgeable about the attire of trumpeters. He can go on and on about 'elite regiments' and the 'top-tier' individuals that make them up, of whose greatness and prestige he never seems to tire of sharing.

We were suggesting to a military young gentleman only the other day, after he had related to us several dazzling instances of the profusion of half-a-dozen honourable ensign somebodies or nobodies in the articles of kid gloves and polished boots, that possibly 'cracked' regiments would be an improvement upon 'crack,' as being a more expressive and appropriate designation, when he suddenly interrupted us by pulling out his watch, and observing that he must hurry off to the Park in a cab, or he would be too late to hear the band play. Not wishing to interfere with so important an engagement, and being in fact already slightly overwhelmed by the anecdotes of the honourable ensigns afore-mentioned, we made no attempt to detain the military young gentleman, but parted company with ready good-will.

We were talking to a young military guy just the other day, after he had shared with us several impressive stories about the many honorable ensigns, whether they were noteworthy or not, and their fancy kid gloves and shiny boots. We suggested that maybe calling regiments "cracked" would be a better term than "crack," as it seemed more fitting and descriptive. Suddenly, he interrupted us by pulling out his watch and saying he needed to rush to the Park in a cab, or he'd be late to hear the band play. Not wanting to get in the way of such an important commitment, and honestly feeling a bit overwhelmed by the stories about the honorable ensigns, we didn’t try to keep the young military guy from leaving, but parted ways amicably.

Some three or four hours afterwards, we chanced to be walking down Whitehall, on the Admiralty side of the way, when, as we drew near to one of the little stone places in which a couple of horse soldiers mount guard in the daytime, we were attracted by the motionless appearance and eager gaze of a young gentleman, who was devouring both man and horse with his eyes, so eagerly, that he seemed deaf and blind to all that was passing around him. We were not much surprised at the discovery that it was our friend, the military young gentleman, but we were a little astonished when we returned from a walk to South Lambeth to find him still there, looking on with the same intensity as before. As it was a very windy day, we felt bound to awaken the young gentleman from his reverie, when he inquired of us with great enthusiasm, whether 'that was not a glorious spectacle,' and proceeded to give us a detailed account of the weight of every article of the spectacle's trappings, from the man's gloves to the horse's shoes.

About three or four hours later, we happened to be walking down Whitehall, on the Admiralty side, when we neared one of the little stone spots where a couple of soldiers on horseback stand guard during the day. We noticed a young man who was staring intently at both the soldiers and their horses, so focused that he seemed completely unaware of everything happening around him. We weren’t too surprised to realize it was our friend, the young military man, but we were a bit taken aback when we returned from a walk to South Lambeth and found him still there, gazing with the same intensity as before. Since it was a very windy day, we felt obliged to bring him back to reality, and he eagerly asked us if “that wasn’t just a magnificent sight,” and then went on to give us a detailed rundown of the weight of every part of the spectacle’s gear, from the soldier’s gloves to the horse’s shoes.

We have made it a practice since, to take the Horse Guards in our daily walk, and we find it is the custom of military young gentlemen to plant themselves opposite the sentries, and contemplate them at leisure, in periods varying from fifteen minutes to fifty, and averaging twenty- five. We were much struck a day or two since, by the behaviour of a very promising young butcher who (evincing an interest in the service, which cannot be too strongly commanded or encouraged), after a prolonged inspection of the sentry, proceeded to handle his boots with great curiosity, and as much composure and indifference as if the man were wax-work.

We’ve made it a habit since then to pass by the Horse Guards on our daily walks, and we’ve noticed that it's common for young military men to stand across from the sentries and observe them casually, spending anywhere from fifteen to fifty minutes, with the average being twenty-five. A couple of days ago, we were really impressed by the behavior of a very promising young butcher who, showing an interest in the service that can’t be emphasized enough, after carefully inspecting the sentry, began to examine his boots with great curiosity, acting as casually and indifferently as if the man were made of wax.

But the really military young gentleman is waiting all this time, and at the very moment that an apology rises to our lips, he emerges from the barrack gate (he is quartered in a garrison town), and takes the way towards the high street. He wears his undress uniform, which somewhat mars the glory of his outward man; but still how great, how grand, he is! What a happy mixture of ease and ferocity in his gait and carriage, and how lightly he carries that dreadful sword under his arm, making no more ado about it than if it were a silk umbrella! The lion is sleeping: only think if an enemy were in sight, how soon he'd whip it out of the scabbard, and what a terrible fellow he would be!

But the true military young man has been waiting this whole time, and just as we find ourselves about to apologize, he steps out of the barrack gate (he's stationed in a garrison town) and heads towards the main street. He’s in his informal uniform, which somewhat takes away from his impressive appearance; but still, he looks so great, so grand! There’s such a perfect mix of relaxed confidence and intensity in the way he walks and carries himself, and he holds that menacing sword under his arm as if it were just a casual silk umbrella! The lion is resting: just imagine if there were an enemy present, how quickly he'd draw it from the scabbard, and what a fearsome guy he would be!

But he walks on, thinking of nothing less than blood and slaughter; and now he comes in sight of three other military young gentlemen, arm-in- arm, who are bearing down towards him, clanking their iron heels on the pavement, and clashing their swords with a noise, which should cause all peaceful men to quail at heart. They stop to talk. See how the flaxen- haired young gentleman with the weak legs-he who has his pocket- handkerchief thrust into the breast of his coat-glares upon the fainthearted civilians who linger to look upon his glory; how the next young gentleman elevates his head in the air, and majestically places his arms a-kimbo, while the third stands with his legs very wide apart, and clasps his hands behind him. Well may we inquire-not in familiar jest, but in respectful earnest-if you call that nothing. Oh! if some encroaching foreign power-the Emperor of Russia, for instance, or any of those deep fellows, could only see those military young gentlemen as they move on together towards the billiard-room over the way, wouldn't he tremble a little!

But he keeps walking, thinking only about blood and slaughter; now he spots three other young military guys, arm-in-arm, coming toward him, their iron heels clanking on the pavement and their swords clashing loudly, enough to terrify any peaceful person. They stop to chat. Look at the flaxen-haired young guy with weak legs—he’s got his handkerchief stuck in the breast of his coat—glaring at the fainthearted civilians who are hanging around to admire him; notice how the next young guy holds his head up high, dramatically putting his hands on his hips, while the third stands with his legs wide apart, clasping his hands behind his back. We could rightly wonder—not jokingly, but with genuine respect—if you’d call that nothing. Oh! If some invading foreign power—the Emperor of Russia, for example, or any of those clever guys—could just see these military young men as they stroll together toward the billiard room across the street, wouldn’t he feel a bit of fear?

And then, at the Theatre at night, when the performances are by command of Colonel Fitz-Sordust and the officers of the garrison-what a splendid sight it is! How sternly the defenders of their country look round the house as if in mute assurance to the audience, that they may make themselves comfortable regarding any foreign invasion, for they (the military young gentlemen) are keeping a sharp look-out, and are ready for anything. And what a contrast between them, and that stage-box full of grey-headed officers with tokens of many battles about them, who have nothing at all in common with the military young gentlemen, and who-but for an old-fashioned kind of manly dignity in their looks and bearing-might be common hard-working soldiers for anything they take the pains to announce to the contrary!

And then, at the theater at night, when the performances are hosted by Colonel Fitz-Sordust and the garrison officers—what a fantastic sight it is! The defenders of the country survey the audience with stern expressions, silently assuring everyone that they can relax about any foreign invasion because these military young men are keeping a close watch and are prepared for anything. And what a contrast they present to the stage box filled with elderly officers, marked by many battles, who have nothing in common with the young military men. If it weren’t for their old-fashioned, dignified appearance and demeanor, you might mistake them for ordinary, hardworking soldiers for all the effort they make to show otherwise!

Ah! here is a family just come in who recognise the flaxen-headed young gentleman; and the flaxen-headed young gentleman recognises them too, only he doesn't care to show it just now. Very well done indeed! He talks louder to the little group of military young gentlemen who are standing by him, and coughs to induce some ladies in the next box but one to look round, in order that their faces may undergo the same ordeal of criticism to which they have subjected, in not a wholly inaudible tone, the majority of the female portion of the audience. Oh! a gentleman in the same box looks round as if he were disposed to resent this as an impertinence; and the flaxen-headed young gentleman sees his friends at once, and hurries away to them with the most charming cordiality.

Ah! Here comes a family that recognizes the young man with the flaxen hair; and he recognizes them too, but he doesn’t want to show it right now. Very clever! He raises his voice to the little group of young military men standing next to him and coughs to get the attention of some ladies in the next box over, hoping their faces will also face the same judgment that they've quietly given to most of the women in the audience. Oh! A man in the same box turns around, looking like he’s about to take offense at this rudeness; and the young man with the flaxen hair notices his friends and quickly goes over to them with the most charming friendliness.

Three young ladies, one young man, and the mamma of the party, receive the military young gentleman with great warmth and politeness, and in five minutes afterwards the military young gentleman, stimulated by the mamma, introduces the two other military young gentlemen with whom he was walking in the morning, who take their seats behind the young ladies and commence conversation; whereat the mamma bestows a triumphant bow upon a rival mamma, who has not succeeded in decoying any military young gentlemen, and prepares to consider her visitors from that moment three of the most elegant and superior young gentlemen in the whole world. THE POLITICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Three young women, one young man, and the mother of the group warmly welcome the young military man. Just five minutes later, encouraged by the mother, he introduces two other military guys he was with that morning, who then take their seats behind the young women and start chatting; this prompts the mother to give a victorious nod to a rival mother who hasn't managed to attract any military young men, and she prepares to regard her guests as three of the most stylish and outstanding young men in the world. THE POLITICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Once upon a time-not in the days when pigs drank wine, but in a more recent period of our history-it was customary to banish politics when ladies were present. If this usage still prevailed, we should have had no chapter for political young gentlemen, for ladies would have neither known nor cared what kind of monster a political young gentleman was. But as this good custom in common with many others has 'gone out,' and left no word when it is likely to be home again; as political young ladies are by no means rare, and political young gentlemen the very reverse of scarce, we are bound in the strict discharge of our most responsible duty not to neglect this natural division of our subject.

Once upon a time—not when pigs drank wine, but in a more recent part of our history—it was standard to avoid politics when women were around. If this tradition were still followed, we wouldn’t have a chapter about political young gentlemen, since women wouldn’t have known or cared what kind of creature a political young gentleman was. However, since this good custom, along with many others, has faded away and left no sign of a return; and since political young women are not rare, while political young men are far from uncommon, we must fulfill our duty to address this natural division of our topic.

If the political young gentleman be resident in a country town (and there are political young gentlemen in country towns sometimes), he is wholly absorbed in his politics; as a pair of purple spectacles communicate the same uniform tint to all objects near and remote, so the political glasses, with which the young gentleman assists his mental vision, give to everything the hue and tinge of party feeling. The political young gentleman would as soon think of being struck with the beauty of a young lady in the opposite interest, as he would dream of marrying his sister to the opposite member.

If a young political guy lives in a small town (and there are sometimes young political guys in small towns), he’s completely consumed by his politics; just like how a pair of purple sunglasses colors everything around them, the political lens through which he views the world gives everything a shade of party loyalty. The young political guy would think just as likely of being captivated by the beauty of a young woman from the opposing party as he would of marrying his sister to a member of the opposite side.

If the political young gentleman be a Conservative, he has usually some vague ideas about Ireland and the Pope which he cannot very clearly explain, but which he knows are the right sort of thing, and not to be very easily got over by the other side. He has also some choice sentences regarding church and state, culled from the banners in use at the last election, with which he intersperses his conversation at intervals with surprising effect. But his great topic is the constitution, upon which he will declaim, by the hour together, with much heat and fury; not that he has any particular information on the subject, but because he knows that the constitution is somehow church and state, and church and state somehow the constitution, and that the fellows on the other side say it isn't, which is quite a sufficient reason for him to say it is, and to stick to it.

If the young political guy is a Conservative, he usually has some vague ideas about Ireland and the Pope that he can’t really explain, but he knows they’re the right takes and that they’re not easily countered by the other side. He also has some catchy phrases about church and state, picked up from the signs used in the last election, which he drops into conversations with impressive effect. But his main topic is the constitution, which he will talk about for hours with a lot of passion and intensity; not because he has any detailed knowledge on the matter, but because he knows that the constitution is somehow linked to church and state, and church and state are somehow linked to the constitution, and since the guys on the other side claim otherwise, that’s more than enough reason for him to insist that they are connected and to stand by that view.

Perhaps his greatest topic of all, though, is the people. If a fight takes place in a populous town, in which many noses are broken, and a few windows, the young gentleman throws down the newspaper with a triumphant air, and exclaims, 'Here's your precious people!' If half-a- dozen boys run across the course at race time, when it ought to be kept clear, the young gentleman looks indignantly round, and begs you to observe the conduct of the people; if the gallery demand a hornpipe between the play and the afterpiece, the same young gentleman cries 'No' and 'Shame' till he is hoarse, and then inquires with a sneer what you think of popular moderation now; in short, the people form a never- failing theme for him; and when the attorney, on the side of his candidate, dwells upon it with great power of eloquence at election time, as he never fails to do, the young gentleman and his friends, and the body they head, cheer with great violence against the other people, with whom, of course, they have no possible connexion. In much the same manner the audience at a theatre never fail to be highly amused with any jokes at the expense of the public-always laughing heartily at some other public, and never at themselves.

Perhaps his biggest topic of all is the people. If a fight breaks out in a crowded town, with a lot of broken noses and a few shattered windows, the young gentleman throws down the newspaper with a triumphant look and exclaims, 'Here’s your precious people!' If a group of boys runs across the track during race time, when it should be clear, the young gentleman looks around indignantly and asks you to notice the behavior of the people; if the audience demands a hornpipe between the play and the afterpiece, the same young gentleman yells 'No' and 'Shame' until he loses his voice, then sneers as he asks what you think of popular moderation now. In short, the people are an endless source of material for him; and when the attorney, supporting his candidate, speaks passionately about them during election time, as he always does, the young gentleman, along with his friends and their group, cheers loudly against the other people, with whom they have no real connection. Likewise, the audience at a theater is always very entertained by jokes at the public's expense—laughing heartily at some other public and never at themselves.

If the political young gentleman be a Radical, he is usually a very profound person indeed, having great store of theoretical questions to put to you, with an infinite variety of possible cases and logical deductions therefrom. If he be of the utilitarian school, too, which is more than probable, he is particularly pleasant company, having many ingenious remarks to offer upon the voluntary principle and various cheerful disquisitions connected with the population of the country, the position of Great Britain in the scale of nations, and the balance of power. Then he is exceedingly well versed in all doctrines of political economy as laid down in the newspapers, and knows a great many parliamentary speeches by heart; nay, he has a small stock of aphorisms, none of them exceeding a couple of lines in length, which will settle the toughest question and leave you nothing to say. He gives all the young ladies to understand, that Miss Martineau is the greatest woman that ever lived; and when they praise the good looks of Mr. Hawkins the new member, says he's very well for a representative, all things considered, but he wants a little calling to account, and he is more than half afraid it will be necessary to bring him down on his knees for that vote on the miscellaneous estimates. At this, the young ladies express much wonderment, and say surely a Member of Parliament is not to be brought upon his knees so easily; in reply to which the political young gentleman smiles sternly, and throws out dark hints regarding the speedy arrival of that day, when Members of Parliament will be paid salaries, and required to render weekly accounts of their proceedings, at which the young ladies utter many expressions of astonishment and incredulity, while their lady-mothers regard the prophecy as little else than blasphemous.

If the young political guy is a Radical, he's usually quite deep, filled with theoretical questions to ask you, along with countless examples and logical conclusions that follow. If he leans toward utilitarianism, which is likely, he's especially enjoyable to be around, offering plenty of clever insights about the voluntary principle and various upbeat discussions related to the country's population, Great Britain's rank among nations, and the balance of power. He's also really knowledgeable about all the political economy theories you read in the newspapers and can recite quite a few parliamentary speeches from memory; in fact, he has a handful of short sayings that can solve even the toughest issues and leave you speechless. He makes sure all the young ladies know that Miss Martineau is the greatest woman ever, and when they compliment the looks of Mr. Hawkins, the new member, he says he's pretty good as a representative, but he might need a little accountability, and he's more than a bit worried that they might have to bring him down on his knees for that vote on the miscellaneous estimates. The young ladies are quite surprised and say surely a Member of Parliament can't be brought to his knees that easily; to which the young political guy smiles seriously and hints at the coming day when Members of Parliament will be paid salaries and required to provide weekly accounts of their actions, prompting gasps of disbelief from the young ladies while their mothers consider the idea almost blasphemous.

It is extremely improving and interesting to hear two political young gentlemen, of diverse opinions, discuss some great question across a dinner-table; such as, whether, if the public were admitted to Westminster Abbey for nothing, they would or would not convey small chisels and hammers in their pockets, and immediately set about chipping all the noses off the statues; or whether, if they once got into the Tower for a shilling, they would not insist upon trying the crown on their own heads, and loading and firing off all the small arms in the armoury, to the great discomposure of Whitechapel and the Minories. Upon these, and many other momentous questions which agitate the public mind in these desperate days, they will discourse with great vehemence and irritation for a considerable time together, both leaving off precisely where they began, and each thoroughly persuaded that he has got the better of the other.

It is really engaging and interesting to listen to two young politicians with different opinions discuss important issues over dinner, like whether people would bring small chisels and hammers to Westminster Abbey if they got in for free and immediately start chipping the noses off the statues. Or whether, if they managed to get into the Tower for a shilling, they wouldn’t insist on trying the crown on for themselves and firing all the small arms in the armory, causing chaos in Whitechapel and the Minories. They go back and forth on these and many other pressing questions that trouble the public today, arguing passionately and heatedly for quite a while, yet both end up exactly where they started, each completely convinced that they have outsmarted the other.

In society, at assemblies, balls, and playhouses, these political young gentlemen are perpetually on the watch for a political allusion, or anything which can be tortured or construed into being one; when, thrusting themselves into the very smallest openings for their favourite discourse, they fall upon the unhappy company tooth and nail. They have recently had many favourable opportunities of opening in churches, but as there the clergyman has it all his own way, and must not be contradicted, whatever politics he preaches, they are fain to hold their tongues until they reach the outer door, though at the imminent risk of bursting in the effort.

In society, at gatherings, dances, and theaters, these politically-minded young men are always on the lookout for any political reference or anything they can twist into one. Whenever they find even the smallest chance to share their favorite topics, they attack the unfortunate audience relentlessly. They've recently had a lot of chances to speak up in churches, but since the clergyman has full control there and shouldn't be challenged, no matter what politics he promotes, they end up keeping quiet until they get outside, even though it’s a struggle not to burst out with their thoughts.

As such discussions can please nobody but the talkative parties concerned, we hope they will henceforth take the hint and discontinue them, otherwise we now give them warning, that the ladies have our advice to discountenance such talkers altogether. THE DOMESTIC YOUNG GENTLEMAN

As these discussions only seem to satisfy the chatterboxes involved, we hope they will take the hint and stop them from now on. Otherwise, we are now warning them that the ladies have our advice to completely ignore such talkers. THE DOMESTIC YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Let us make a slight sketch of our amiable friend, Mr. Felix Nixon. We are strongly disposed to think, that if we put him in this place, he will answer our purpose without another word of comment.

Let’s give a brief description of our friendly acquaintance, Mr. Felix Nixon. We really believe that if we place him here, he will serve our purpose without any further discussion.

Felix, then, is a young gentleman who lives at home with his mother, just within the twopenny-post office circle of three miles from St. Martin-le-Grand. He wears Indiarubber goloshes when the weather is at all damp, and always has a silk handkerchief neatly folded up in the right-hand pocket of his great-coat, to tie over his mouth when he goes home at night; moreover, being rather near-sighted, he carries spectacles for particular occasions, and has a weakish tremulous voice, of which he makes great use, for he talks as much as any old lady breathing.

Felix is a young man who lives at home with his mom, just within the two-penny post office area of three miles from St. Martin-le-Grand. He wears rubber overshoes when the weather is damp and always has a silk handkerchief neatly folded in the right pocket of his coat to cover his mouth when he goes home at night. Additionally, since he's a bit near-sighted, he carries glasses for certain occasions and has a slightly shaky voice, which he uses a lot, as he talks as much as any chatty old lady.

The two chief subjects of Felix's discourse, are himself and his mother, both of whom would appear to be very wonderful and interesting persons. As Felix and his mother are seldom apart in body, so Felix and his mother are scarcely ever separate in spirit. If you ask Felix how he finds himself to-day, he prefaces his reply with a long and minute bulletin of his mother's state of health; and the good lady in her turn, edifies her acquaintance with a circumstantial and alarming account, how he sneezed four times and coughed once after being out in the rain the other night, but having his feet promptly put into hot water, and his head into a flannel-something, which we will not describe more particularly than by this delicate allusion, was happily brought round by the next morning, and enabled to go to business as usual.

The two main topics of Felix's conversations are himself and his mother, both of whom seem to be really fascinating and remarkable people. Since Felix and his mother are rarely apart physically, they are hardly ever separated emotionally either. If you ask Felix how he's doing today, he starts his answer with a detailed update on his mother's health. In return, the kind lady informs her friends with a dramatic and concerning story about how he sneezed four times and coughed once after getting caught in the rain the other night. However, after his feet were quickly placed in hot water and his head wrapped up in something cozy, which we won't describe in detail beyond this subtle hint, he fortunately recovered by the next morning and was able to go back to work as usual.

Our friend is not a very adventurous or hot-headed person, but he has passed through many dangers, as his mother can testify: there is one great story in particular, concerning a hackney coachman who wanted to overcharge him one night for bringing them home from the play, upon which Felix gave the aforesaid coachman a look which his mother thought would have crushed him to the earth, but which did not crush him quite, for he continued to demand another sixpence, notwithstanding that Felix took out his pocket-book, and, with the aid of a flat candle, pointed out the fare in print, which the coachman obstinately disregarding, he shut the street-door with a slam which his mother shudders to think of; and then, roused to the most appalling pitch of passion by the coachman knocking a double knock to show that he was by no means convinced, he broke with uncontrollable force from his parent and the servant girl, and running into the street without his hat, actually shook his fist at the coachman, and came back again with a face as white, Mrs. Nixon says, looking about her for a simile, as white as that ceiling. She never will forget his fury that night, Never!

Our friend isn't particularly adventurous or hot-headed, but he's faced a lot of dangers, as his mother can confirm. There's one memorable story about a cab driver who tried to overcharge him one night for taking them home from the theater. Felix shot the cab driver a look that his mom thought would crush him, but it didn't quite do the trick, because the driver kept asking for another sixpence. Even after Felix pulled out his wallet and, with the help of a flat candle, pointed out the printed fare, the driver stubbornly ignored him. Felix slammed the front door with a bang that still makes his mom shudder. Then, fueled by rage from the cab driver knocking loudly to show he wasn't convinced, Felix broke away from his mom and the maid, ran into the street without his hat, and actually shook his fist at the driver. He returned with a face as white as that ceiling, Mrs. Nixon says, searching for a comparison. She’ll never forget his fury that night. Never!

To this account Felix listens with a solemn face, occasionally looking at you to see how it affects you, and when his mother has made an end of it, adds that he looked at every coachman he met for three weeks afterwards, in hopes that he might see the scoundrel; whereupon Mrs. Nixon, with an exclamation of terror, requests to know what he would have done to him if he had seen him, at which Felix smiling darkly and clenching his right fist, she exclaims, 'Goodness gracious!' with a distracted air, and insists upon extorting a promise that he never will on any account do anything so rash, which her dutiful son-it being something more than three years since the offence was committed-reluctantly concedes, and his mother, shaking her head prophetically, fears with a sigh that his spirit will lead him into something violent yet. The discourse then, by an easy transition, turns upon the spirit which glows within the bosom of Felix, upon which point Felix himself becomes eloquent, and relates a thrilling anecdote of the time when he used to sit up till two o'clock in the morning reading French, and how his mother used to say, 'Felix, you will make yourself ill, I know you will;' and how he used to say, 'Mother, I don't care-I will do it;' and how at last his mother privately procured a doctor to come and see him, who declared, the moment he felt his pulse, that if he had gone on reading one night more-only one night more-he must have put a blister on each temple, and another between his shoulders; and who, as it was, sat down upon the instant, and writing a prescription for a blue pill, said it must be taken immediately, or he wouldn't answer for the consequences. The recital of these and many other moving perils of the like nature, constantly harrows up the feelings of Mr. Nixon's friends.

To this story, Felix listens with a serious expression, occasionally glancing at you to gauge your reaction. When his mother finishes, he adds that he looked at every driver he encountered for three weeks afterward, hoping to spot the scoundrel. Mrs. Nixon, shocked, asks what he would have done if he had seen him. Felix smiles darkly and clenches his right fist, prompting her to exclaim, "Goodness gracious!" with a worried look. She insists he promise to never act so recklessly, which her dutiful son—it's been over three years since the incident—reluctantly agrees to. His mother, shaking her head as if sensing danger, sighs, expressing her worry that his spirit will lead him to something violent one day. The conversation then shifts naturally to the passion that burns within Felix. He gets animated while sharing a thrilling story about how he used to stay up until two in the morning reading French, despite his mother's warnings that he would make himself sick. He would tell her, "Mom, I don’t care—I’ll do it." Eventually, she took it upon herself to hire a doctor, who, the moment he checked Felix’s pulse, declared that if he had read for one more night—even just one more—he would have needed blisters on both temples and another on his back. As it was, the doctor immediately wrote a prescription for a blue pill that had to be taken right away or he wouldn’t guarantee the outcome. Sharing these and many other dramatic close calls continually stirs the emotions of Mr. Nixon's friends.

Mrs. Nixon has a tolerably extensive circle of female acquaintance, being a good-humoured, talkative, bustling little body, and to the unmarried girls among them she is constantly vaunting the virtues of her son, hinting that she will be a very happy person who wins him, but that they must mind their P's and Q's, for he is very particular, and terribly severe upon young ladies. At this last caution the young ladies resident in the same row, who happen to be spending the evening there, put their pocket-handkerchiefs before their mouths, and are troubled with a short cough; just then Felix knocks at the door, and his mother drawing the tea-table nearer the fire, calls out to him as he takes off his boots in the back parlour that he needn't mind coming in in his slippers, for there are only the two Miss Greys and Miss Thompson, and she is quite sure they will excuse him, and nodding to the two Miss Greys, she adds, in a whisper, that Julia Thompson is a great favourite with Felix, at which intelligence the short cough comes again, and Miss Thompson in particular is greatly troubled with it, till Felix coming in, very faint for want of his tea, changes the subject of discourse, and enables her to laugh out boldly and tell Amelia Grey not to be so foolish. Here they all three laugh, and Mrs. Nixon says they are giddy girls; in which stage of the proceedings, Felix, who has by this time refreshened himself with the grateful herb that 'cheers but not inebriates,' removes his cup from his countenance and says with a knowing smile, that all girls are; whereat his admiring mamma pats him on the back and tells him not to be sly, which calls forth a general laugh from the young ladies, and another smile from Felix, who, thinking he looks very sly indeed, is perfectly satisfied.

Mrs. Nixon has a pretty wide circle of female friends; she's a cheerful, chatty, bustling little woman. To the unmarried girls in this group, she often brags about her son's qualities, suggesting that whoever wins him over will be very lucky. However, she warns them to be on their best behavior because he can be quite picky and hard on young ladies. At this warning, the young women living nearby who are spending the evening there cover their mouths with their handkerchiefs and cough a little. Just then, Felix knocks on the door, and his mother moves the tea table closer to the fire. She calls out to him, as he takes off his boots in the back room, saying he can come in wearing his slippers since only the two Miss Greys and Miss Thompson are there, and she's sure they won't mind. Nodding at the two Miss Greys, she whispers that Julia Thompson is one of Felix's favorites, causing them to cough again, especially Miss Thompson, who is particularly affected until Felix enters, looking weak from not having his tea. He changes the topic, which allows her to laugh freely and tell Amelia Grey not to be so silly. The three of them laugh, and Mrs. Nixon comments on how playful the girls are. At this point, Felix, having refreshed himself with a nice cup of tea, puts down his cup and says with a knowing smile that all girls are like that. His admiring mother pats him on the back and tells him not to be sneaky, which makes all the young ladies laugh again and brings another smile from Felix, who thinks he looks quite sly and feels very pleased with himself.

Tea being over, the young ladies resume their work, and Felix insists upon holding a skein of silk while Miss Thompson winds it on a card. This process having been performed to the satisfaction of all parties, he brings down his flute in compliance with a request from the youngest Miss Grey, and plays divers tunes out of a very small music-book till supper-time, when he is very facetious and talkative indeed. Finally, after half a tumblerful of warm sherry and water, he gallantly puts on his goloshes over his slippers, and telling Miss Thompson's servant to run on first and get the door open, escorts that young lady to her house, five doors off: the Miss Greys who live in the next house but one stopping to peep with merry faces from their own door till he comes back again, when they call out 'Very well, Mr. Felix,' and trip into the passage with a laugh more musical than any flute that was ever played.

After tea, the young ladies go back to their work, and Felix insists on holding a skein of silk while Miss Thompson winds it onto a card. Once they've finished this to everyone’s satisfaction, he picks up his flute at the request of the youngest Miss Grey and plays various tunes from a very small music book until supper time, when he becomes very amusing and chatty. Finally, after half a glass of warm sherry and water, he gallantly puts on his galoshes over his slippers and tells Miss Thompson's servant to run ahead and open the door. Then he walks that young lady home, just five doors down, while the Miss Greys from the next house stop at their door to peek out with cheerful faces until he comes back, when they call out, "Very well, Mr. Felix," and skip into the passage with laughter more melodious than any flute ever played.

Felix is rather prim in his appearance, and perhaps a little priggish about his books and flute, and so forth, which have all their peculiar corners of peculiar shelves in his bedroom; indeed all his female acquaintance (and they are good judges) have long ago set him down as a thorough old bachelor. He is a favourite with them however, in a certain way, as an honest, inoffensive, kind-hearted creature; and as his peculiarities harm nobody, not even himself, we are induced to hope that many who are not personally acquainted with him will take our good word in his behalf, and be content to leave him to a long continuance of his harmless existence. THE CENSORIOUS YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Felix has a very neat appearance and can be a bit stuffy about his books and flute, among other things, all of which have their own special spots on the shelves in his bedroom. In fact, all the women he knows (who are good judges of character) have long classified him as a complete bachelor. However, they do like him in a certain way, seeing him as an honest, well-meaning, kind-hearted person. Since his quirks don't hurt anyone, not even himself, we hope that many who don’t know him personally will trust our recommendation and be okay with letting him continue his harmless life. THE CENSORIOUS YOUNG GENTLEMAN

There is an amiable kind of young gentleman going about in society, upon whom, after much experience of him, and considerable turning over of the subject in our mind, we feel it our duty to affix the above appellation. Young ladies mildly call him a 'sarcastic' young gentleman, or a 'severe' young gentleman. We, who know better, beg to acquaint them with the fact, that he is merely a censorious young gentleman, and nothing else.

There’s a friendly young guy going around in society, who, after a lot of experience with him and some serious thinking about it, we feel we should label as such. Young women gently refer to him as a 'sarcastic' young man or a 'strict' young man. We, who know better, want to let them know that he’s really just a judgmental young man, and nothing more.

The censorious young gentleman has the reputation among his familiars of a remarkably clever person, which he maintains by receiving all intelligence and expressing all opinions with a dubious sneer, accompanied with a half smile, expressive of anything you please but good-humour. This sets people about thinking what on earth the censorious young gentleman means, and they speedily arrive at the conclusion that he means something very deep indeed; for they reason in this way-'This young gentleman looks so very knowing that he must mean something, and as I am by no means a dull individual, what a very deep meaning he must have if I can't find it out!' It is extraordinary how soon a censorious young gentleman may make a reputation in his own small circle if he bear this in his mind, and regulate his proceedings accordingly.

The judgmental young man is known among his friends as someone incredibly smart, a reputation he maintains by receiving all information and sharing all opinions with a skeptical smirk, paired with a half-smile that suggests anything but good humor. This gets people thinking about what the judgmental young man really means, and they quickly conclude that he must have a very profound meaning; they reason this way—"This guy looks so insightful that he has to mean something, and since I’m definitely not a dull person, he must have a really deep point if I can't figure it out!" It’s amazing how quickly a judgmental young man can build a reputation in his own small group if he keeps this in mind and acts accordingly.

As young ladies are generally-not curious, but laudably desirous to acquire information, the censorious young gentleman is much talked about among them, and many surmises are hazarded regarding him. 'I wonder,' exclaims the eldest Miss Greenwood, laying down her work to turn up the lamp, 'I wonder whether Mr. Fairfax will ever be married.' 'Bless me, dear,' cries Miss Marshall, 'what ever made you think of him?' 'Really I hardly know,' replies Miss Greenwood; 'he is such a very mysterious person, that I often wonder about him.' 'Well, to tell you the truth,' replies Miss Marshall, 'and so do I.' Here two other young ladies profess that they are constantly doing the like, and all present appear in the same condition except one young lady, who, not scrupling to state that she considers Mr. Fairfax 'a horror,' draws down all the opposition of the others, which having been expressed in a great many ejaculatory passages, such as 'Well, did I ever!'-and 'Lor, Emily, dear!' ma takes up the subject, and gravely states, that she must say she does not think Mr. Fairfax by any means a horror, but rather takes him to be a young man of very great ability; 'and I am quite sure,' adds the worthy lady, 'he always means a great deal more than he says.'

As young women are usually not curious but commendably eager to gain knowledge, the critical young man is often the talk of the group, and many guesses are made about him. "I wonder," says the eldest Miss Greenwood, putting down her work to turn up the lamp, "I wonder if Mr. Fairfax will ever get married." "Goodness, dear," exclaims Miss Marshall, "what made you think of him?" "Honestly, I’m not sure," replies Miss Greenwood; "he's such a mysterious person that I often think about him." "Well, to be honest," says Miss Marshall, "so do I." Here, two other young women admit they feel the same way, and everyone present seems to share this sentiment except one young lady, who boldly states that she thinks Mr. Fairfax is "a nightmare," drawing ire from the others. This opposition is expressed in multiple exclamatory remarks like "Well, can you believe it!" and "Oh my, Emily, dear!" Finally, their mother interjects, stating that she doesn’t see Mr. Fairfax as a nightmare at all; instead, she believes he is a very capable young man. "And I’m quite sure," adds the esteemed lady, "that he always means much more than he says."

The door opens at this point of the disclosure, and who of all people alive walks into the room, but the very Mr. Fairfax, who has been the subject of conversation! 'Well, it really is curious,' cries ma, 'we were at that very moment talking about you.' 'You did me great honour,' replies Mr. Fairfax; 'may I venture to ask what you were saying?' 'Why, if you must know,' returns the eldest girl, 'we were remarking what a very mysterious man you are.' 'Ay, ay!' observes Mr. Fairfax, 'Indeed!' Now Mr. Fairfax says this ay, ay, and indeed, which are slight words enough in themselves, with so very unfathomable an air, and accompanies them with such a very equivocal smile, that ma and the young ladies are more than ever convinced that he means an immensity, and so tell him he is a very dangerous man, and seems to be always thinking ill of somebody, which is precisely the sort of character the censorious young gentleman is most desirous to establish; wherefore he says, 'Oh, dear, no,' in a tone, obviously intended to mean, 'You have me there,' and which gives them to understand that they have hit the right nail on the very centre of its head.

The door opens at this moment of the conversation, and who walks into the room but Mr. Fairfax, the very person we've been talking about! "Well, this is quite interesting," says Mom, "we were just discussing you." "You did me a great honor," replies Mr. Fairfax; "may I ask what you were saying?" "Well, if you really want to know," the oldest daughter responds, "we were noting how mysterious you are." "Oh, really!" Mr. Fairfax exclaims, sounding quite enigmatic. He says "oh, really!" in such a way, along with a rather ambiguous smile, that Mom and the young ladies become even more convinced he means something significant. They tell him he seems like a dangerous man who’s always thinking badly of someone, which is exactly the kind of image the critical young man wants to project. So he replies, "Oh, no, not at all," in a tone that clearly means, "You caught me," making them feel they’ve hit the nail right on the head.

When the conversation ranges from the mystery overhanging the censorious young gentleman's behaviour, to the general topics of the day, he sustains his character to admiration. He considers the new tragedy well enough for a new tragedy, but Lord bless us-well, no matter; he could say a great deal on that point, but he would rather not, lest he should be thought ill-natured, as he knows he would be. 'But is not Mr. So- and-so's performance truly charming?' inquires a young lady. 'Charming!' replies the censorious young gentleman. 'Oh, dear, yes, certainly; very charming-oh, very charming indeed.' After this, he stirs the fire, smiling contemptuously all the while: and a modest young gentleman, who has been a silent listener, thinks what a great thing it must be, to have such a critical judgment. Of music, pictures, books, and poetry, the censorious young gentleman has an equally fine conception. As to men and women, he can tell all about them at a glance. 'Now let us hear your opinion of young Mrs. Barker,' says some great believer in the powers of Mr. Fairfax, 'but don't be too severe.' 'I never am severe,' replies the censorious young gentleman. 'Well, never mind that now. She is very lady-like, is she not?' 'Lady-like!' repeats the censorious young gentleman (for he always repeats when he is at a loss for anything to say). 'Did you observe her manner? Bless my heart and soul, Mrs. Thompson, did you observe her manner?-that's all I ask.' 'I thought I had done so,' rejoins the poor lady, much perplexed; 'I did not observe it very closely perhaps.' 'Oh, not very closely,' rejoins the censorious young gentleman, triumphantly. 'Very good; then I did. Let us talk no more about her.' The censorious young gentleman purses up his lips, and nods his head sagely, as he says this; and it is forthwith whispered about, that Mr. Fairfax (who, though he is a little prejudiced, must be admitted to be a very excellent judge) has observed something exceedingly odd in Mrs. Barker's manner. THE FUNNY YOUNG GENTLEMAN

When the conversation shifts from the mystery surrounding the judgmental young man's behavior to current topics, he maintains his character quite well. He thinks the new tragedy is decent for what it is, but good grief—well, it doesn’t matter; he could say a lot about that, but he would prefer not to, since he knows he would come off as mean. "But isn’t Mr. So-and-so's performance truly charming?" a young woman asks. "Charming!" replies the judgmental young man. "Oh, absolutely, very charming—oh, definitely charming indeed." After this, he pokes the fire, smirking condescendingly the whole time; a modest young man who has been quietly listening wonders what an amazing thing it must be to have such a critical eye. The judgmental young man has just as refined an opinion on music, art, books, and poetry. As for men and women, he can size them up in an instant. "Now, tell us what you think of young Mrs. Barker," says someone who firmly believes in Mr. Fairfax's skills, "but don’t be too harsh." "I'm never harsh," responds the judgmental young man. "Well, let's set that aside for now. She's very ladylike, isn't she?" "Ladylike!" echoes the judgmental young man (he tends to repeat himself when he's unsure of what to say). "Did you notice her manner? Good gracious, Mrs. Thompson, did you notice her manner?—that's all I need to know." "I thought I had," replies the poor woman, quite confused; "I suppose I didn’t pay close enough attention." "Oh, not very closely," the judgmental young man retorts triumphantly. "Very well; then I did. Let’s not discuss her anymore." The judgmental young man purses his lips and nods wisely as he says this; soon, it's being whispered that Mr. Fairfax (who, though a bit biased, is recognized as an excellent judge) has noted something very strange about Mrs. Barker's manner. THE FUNNY YOUNG GENTLEMAN

As one funny young gentleman will serve as a sample of all funny young Gentlemen we purpose merely to note down the conduct and behaviour of an individual specimen of this class, whom we happened to meet at an annual family Christmas party in the course of this very last Christmas that ever came.

As one amusing young man will represent all amusing young men, we intend to simply record the actions and behavior of a specific example of this group, whom we encountered at a family Christmas party during this past Christmas that was the last one ever.

We were all seated round a blazing fire which crackled pleasantly as the guests talked merrily and the urn steamed cheerily-for, being an old- fashioned party, there was an urn, and a teapot besides-when there came a postman's knock at the door, so violent and sudden, that it startled the whole circle, and actually caused two or three very interesting and most unaffected young ladies to scream aloud and to exhibit many afflicting symptoms of terror and distress, until they had been several times assured by their respective adorers, that they were in no danger. We were about to remark that it was surely beyond post-time, and must have been a runaway knock, when our host, who had hitherto been paralysed with wonder, sank into a chair in a perfect ecstasy of laughter, and offered to lay twenty pounds that it was that droll dog Griggins. He had no sooner said this, than the majority of the company and all the children of the house burst into a roar of laughter too, as if some inimitable joke flashed upon them simultaneously, and gave vent to various exclamations of-To be sure it must be Griggins, and How like him that was, and What spirits he was always in! with many other commendatory remarks of the like nature.

We were all gathered around a roaring fire that crackled happily as the guests chatted joyfully and the urn steamed invitingly—because it was an old-fashioned party, we had an urn and a teapot, too—when there came a loud and sudden knock from the postman at the door that startled everyone, causing a few very interesting and completely genuine young ladies to scream and show signs of distress until their respective admirers reassured them that they were safe. We were about to say that it was definitely past post-time, and it must have been a random knock, when our host, who had been frozen in surprise, sank into a chair in fits of laughter and bet twenty pounds that it was that funny guy Griggins. No sooner had he said this than most of the guests and all the kids in the house burst into laughter as if they had all suddenly thought of some hilarious inside joke, exclaiming things like, "Of course it must be Griggins!" and "How typical of him!" and "He’s always in such high spirits!" along with many other compliments in the same vein.

Not having the happiness to know Griggins, we became extremely desirous to see so pleasant a fellow, the more especially as a stout gentleman with a powdered head, who was sitting with his breeches buckles almost touching the hob, whispered us he was a wit of the first water, when the door opened, and Mr. Griggins being announced, presented himself, amidst another shout of laughter and a loud clapping of hands from the younger branches. This welcome he acknowledged by sundry contortions of countenance, imitative of the clown in one of the new pantomimes, which were so extremely successful, that one stout gentleman rolled upon an ottoman in a paroxysm of delight, protesting, with many gasps, that if somebody didn't make that fellow Griggins leave off, he would be the death of him, he knew. At this the company only laughed more boisterously than before, and as we always like to accommodate our tone and spirit if possible to the humour of any society in which we find ourself, we laughed with the rest, and exclaimed, 'Oh! capital, capital!' as loud as any of them.

Not knowing the joy of meeting Griggins, we became really eager to see such a charming guy, especially since a large gentleman with a powdered wig, sitting with his pants almost touching the fireplace, whispered to us that he was a top-notch wit. When the door opened and Mr. Griggins was announced, he stepped in to another burst of laughter and loud applause from the younger crowd. He acknowledged this warm welcome with various facial expressions, mimicking the clown from one of the new pantomimes, which were so hilarious that one chubby gentleman fell onto an ottoman in fits of laughter, gasping that if someone didn’t make Griggins stop, he was going to die from laughing. This only made everyone laugh even louder, and since we always try to match our mood to the vibe of any group we're with, we joined in the laughter and shouted, "Oh! hilarious, hilarious!" as loudly as anyone.

When he had quite exhausted all beholders, Mr. Griggins received the welcomes and congratulations of the circle, and went through the needful introductions with much ease and many puns. This ceremony over, he avowed his intention of sitting in somebody's lap unless the young ladies made room for him on the sofa, which being done, after a great deal of tittering and pleasantry, he squeezed himself among them, and likened his condition to that of love among the roses. At this novel jest we all roared once more. 'You should consider yourself highly honoured, sir,' said we. 'Sir,' replied Mr. Griggins, 'you do me proud.' Here everybody laughed again; and the stout gentleman by the fire whispered in our ear that Griggins was making a dead set at us.

When Mr. Griggins had captured everyone's attention, he received the warm welcomes and congratulations of the group and made the necessary introductions effortlessly, throwing in plenty of puns. Once that was done, he declared his intention to sit on someone's lap unless the young women made space for him on the sofa. After a lot of giggling and joking, they did, and he squeezed in among them, comparing his situation to love in a patch of roses. At this fresh joke, we all burst into laughter again. "You should consider yourself very honored, sir," we said. "Sir," Mr. Griggins replied, "you flatter me." Everyone laughed again, and the hefty gentleman by the fire leaned in to whisper that Griggins was trying hard to charm us.

The tea-things having been removed, we all sat down to a round game, and here Mr. Griggins shone forth with peculiar brilliancy, abstracting other people's fish, and looking over their hands in the most comical manner. He made one most excellent joke in snuffing a candle, which was neither more nor less than setting fire to the hair of a pale young gentleman who sat next him, and afterwards begging his pardon with considerable humour. As the young gentleman could not see the joke however, possibly in consequence of its being on the top of his own head, it did not go off quite as well as it might have done; indeed, the young gentleman was heard to murmur some general references to 'impertinence,' and a 'rascal,' and to state the number of his lodgings in an angry tone-a turn of the conversation which might have been productive of slaughterous consequences, if a young lady, betrothed to the young gentleman, had not used her immediate influence to bring about a reconciliation: emphatically declaring in an agitated whisper, intended for his peculiar edification but audible to the whole table, that if he went on in that way, she never would think of him otherwise than as a friend, though as that she must always regard him. At this terrible threat the young gentleman became calm, and the young lady, overcome by the revulsion of feeling, instantaneously fainted.

After we cleared away the tea things, we all sat down to play a game, and that's when Mr. Griggins really stood out, swiping other people's fish and peeking at their hands in the funniest way. He made one really great joke while snuffing a candle, which involved setting fire to the hair of a pale young guy sitting next to him, and then he humorously apologized. However, the young guy didn't find the joke funny, probably because it was literally on top of his head, so it didn't go over as well as it could have. In fact, we heard him mumble about 'impertinence' and 'rascal,' and he angrily stated his lodging number—a comment that could have led to serious trouble if a young lady, engaged to the young man, hadn't stepped in to smooth things over. She dramatically whispered, meant just for him but loud enough for everyone to hear, that if he kept acting that way, she would only see him as a friend, even though she would always think of him that way. At this alarming warning, the young man calmed down, and the young lady, overwhelmed by the wave of emotions, instantly fainted.

Mr. Griggins's spirits were slightly depressed for a short period by this unlooked-for result of such a harmless pleasantry, but being promptly elevated by the attentions of the host and several glasses of wine, he soon recovered, and became even more vivacious than before, insomuch that the stout gentleman previously referred to, assured us that although he had known him since he was that high (something smaller than a nutmeg-grater), he had never beheld him in such excellent cue.

Mr. Griggins felt a bit down for a while after this unexpected outcome of such a harmless joke, but thanks to the host's hospitality and a few glasses of wine, he quickly perked up and became even more lively than before. In fact, the stout gentleman mentioned earlier told us that even though he had known Mr. Griggins since he was really small (smaller than a nutmeg grater), he had never seen him in such great shape.

When the round game and several games at blind man's buff which followed it were all over, and we were going down to supper, the inexhaustible Mr. Griggins produced a small sprig of mistletoe from his waistcoat pocket, and commenced a general kissing of the assembled females, which occasioned great commotion and much excitement. We observed that several young gentlemen-including the young gentleman with the pale countenance-were greatly scandalised at this indecorous proceeding, and talked very big among themselves in corners; and we observed too, that several young ladies when remonstrated with by the aforesaid young gentlemen, called each other to witness how they had struggled, and protested vehemently that it was very rude, and that they were surprised at Mrs. Brown's allowing it, and that they couldn't bear it, and had no patience with such impertinence. But such is the gentle and forgiving nature of woman, that although we looked very narrowly for it, we could not detect the slightest harshness in the subsequent treatment of Mr. Griggins. Indeed, upon the whole, it struck us that among the ladies he seemed rather more popular than before!

When the game of charades and the round of blind man's buff wrapped up, and we were heading to supper, the ever-energetic Mr. Griggins pulled out a little sprig of mistletoe from his waistcoat pocket and started kissing all the ladies present, causing quite a stir and a lot of excitement. We noticed that several young men—especially the one with the pale face—were very offended by this inappropriate behavior and were having heated discussions among themselves in the corners; we also noticed that some young women, when scolded by those young men, called on each other to witness how hard they had tried to resist, and fervently insisted that it was very rude, expressing surprise that Mrs. Brown allowed it, claiming they couldn't stand it, and that they had no patience for such rudeness. However, such is the gentle and forgiving nature of women that, despite our close observations, we couldn't find a trace of bitterness in how Mr. Griggins was treated afterward. In fact, overall, it seemed to us that he was even more popular with the ladies than before!

To recount all the drollery of Mr. Griggins at supper, would fill such a tiny volume as this, 429 to the very bottom of the outside cover. How he drank out of other people's glasses, and ate of other people's bread, how he frightened into screaming convulsions a little boy who was sitting up to supper in a high chair, by sinking below the table and suddenly reappearing with a mask on; how the hostess was really surprised that anybody could find a pleasure in tormenting children, and how the host frowned at the hostess, and felt convinced that Mr. Griggins had done it with the very best intentions; how Mr. Griggins explained, and how everybody's good-humour was restored but the child's;-to tell these and a hundred other things ever so briefly, would occupy more of our room and our readers' patience, than either they or we can conveniently spare. Therefore we change the subject, merely observing that we have offered no description of the funny young gentleman's personal appearance, believing that almost every society has a Griggins of its own, and leaving all readers to supply the deficiency, according to the particular circumstances of their particular case. THE THEATRICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

To recount all the antics of Mr. Griggins at dinner would fill such a tiny book as this, 429 to the very bottom of the outside cover. How he drank from other people's glasses and ate other people's bread, how he scared a little boy in a high chair into screams by ducking under the table and suddenly popping up with a mask on; how the hostess was genuinely surprised that anyone could enjoy tormenting children, and how the host frowned at the hostess, convinced that Mr. Griggins meant well; how Mr. Griggins explained himself, and how everyone’s good mood was restored except for the child’s—telling these and a hundred other things very briefly would take up more space and more of our readers' patience than either they or we can afford. So, we’ll change the subject, just noting that we haven’t described the funny young gentleman’s looks, believing that nearly every group has its own Griggins and leaving it up to readers to fill in the details based on their own experiences. THE THEATRICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

All gentlemen who love the drama-and there are few gentlemen who are not attached to the most intellectual and rational of all our amusements-do not come within this definition. As we have no mean relish for theatrical entertainments ourself, we are disinterestedly anxious that this should be perfectly understood.

All gentlemen who appreciate drama—and there are few who don't have a fondness for the most intellectual and rational of all our pastimes—do not fit this definition. Since we ourselves have a genuine enjoyment for theatrical performances, we want to make it clear that this should be fully understood.

The theatrical young gentleman has early and important information on all theatrical topics. 'Well,' says he, abruptly, when you meet him in the street, 'here's a pretty to-do. Flimkins has thrown up his part in the melodrama at the Surrey.'-'And what's to be done?' you inquire with as much gravity as you can counterfeit. 'Ah, that's the point,' replies the theatrical young gentleman, looking very serious; 'Boozle declines it; positively declines it. From all I am told, I should say it was decidedly in Boozle's line, and that he would be very likely to make a great hit in it; but he objects on the ground of Flimkins having been put up in the part first, and says no earthly power shall induce him to take the character. It's a fine part, too-excellent business, I'm told. He has to kill six people in the course of the piece, and to fight over a bridge in red fire, which is as safe a card, you know, as can be. Don't mention it; but I hear that the last scene, when he is first poisoned, and then stabbed, by Mrs. Flimkins as Vengedora, will be the greatest thing that has been done these many years.' With this piece of news, and laying his finger on his lips as a caution for you not to excite the town with it, the theatrical young gentleman hurries away.

The theater-savvy young man is always in the know about everything going on in the theater world. “Well,” he says suddenly when you bump into him on the street, “there’s quite a situation. Flimkins has quit his role in the melodrama at the Surrey.” “And what’s going to happen now?” you ask, trying to sound as serious as possible. “Ah, that’s the issue,” the young man replies, looking very serious. “Boozle is refusing it; he’s absolutely turning it down. From what I hear, I’d say it’s definitely Boozle's kind of role, and he’d probably make a big impression with it; but he won’t take it because Flimkins was first assigned the part, and he says nothing will persuade him to accept the role. It’s a great part, too—excellent material, I’m told. He has to kill six characters throughout the play and fight across a bridge engulfed in red fire, which is as sure a thing as you can get. Don’t say anything, but I hear the last scene, where he gets poisoned and then stabbed by Mrs. Flimkins as Vengedora, will be the best thing to hit the stage in years.” With that piece of news, and putting a finger to his lips to signal you not to stir up gossip, the theater-savvy young man rushes off.

The theatrical young gentleman, from often frequenting the different theatrical establishments, has pet and familiar names for them all. Thus Covent-Garden is the garden, Drury-Lane the lane, the Victoria the vic, and the Olympic the pic. Actresses, too, are always designated by their surnames only, as Taylor, Nisbett, Faucit, Honey; that talented and lady-like girl Sheriff, that clever little creature Horton, and so on. In the same manner he prefixes Christian names when he mentions actors, as Charley Young, Jemmy Buckstone, Fred. Yates, Paul Bedford. When he is at a loss for a Christian name, the word 'old' applied indiscriminately answers quite as well: as old Charley Matthews at Vestris's, old Harley, and old Braham. He has a great knowledge of the private proceedings of actresses, especially of their getting married, and can tell you in a breath half-a-dozen who have changed their names without avowing it. Whenever an alteration of this kind is made in the playbills, he will remind you that he let you into the secret six months ago.

The young drama enthusiast, who frequently visits various theaters, has cute nicknames for all of them. So, Covent Garden is just "the garden," Drury Lane is "the lane," the Victoria is "the vic," and the Olympic is "the pic." Actresses are usually referred to by their last names only, like Taylor, Nisbett, Faucit, and Honey; that talented and classy girl Sheriff, that clever little one Horton, and so on. Similarly, he uses first names when mentioning actors, such as Charley Young, Jemmy Buckstone, Fred Yates, and Paul Bedford. When he can't remember a first name, he just uses "old" to refer to them, like old Charley Matthews at Vestris's, old Harley, and old Braham. He knows a lot about the private lives of actresses, especially when they get married, and can quickly name several who have changed their names without announcing it. Whenever there’s a name change in the playbills, he’ll remind you that he told you about it six months ago.

The theatrical young gentleman has a great reverence for all that is connected with the stage department of the different theatres. He would, at any time, prefer going a street or two out of his way, to omitting to pass a stage-entrance, into which he always looks with a curious and searching eye. If he can only identify a popular actor in the street, he is in a perfect transport of delight; and no sooner meets him, than he hurries back, and walks a few paces in front of him, so that he can turn round from time to time, and have a good stare at his features. He looks upon a theatrical-fund dinner as one of the most enchanting festivities ever known; and thinks that to be a member of the Garrick Club, and see so many actors in their plain clothes, must be one of the highest gratifications the world can bestow.

The dramatic young man has a deep admiration for everything related to the theater scene in various theaters. He would always rather take a couple of extra blocks to avoid missing a stage door, which he gazes into with a curious and probing eye. If he spots a well-known actor on the street, he is overjoyed; as soon as he encounters them, he rushes back and walks a few steps ahead, so he can occasionally turn around and get a good look at their face. He views a theatrical charity dinner as one of the most delightful events imaginable, and believes that being a member of the Garrick Club and seeing so many actors in their casual clothes must be one of the greatest pleasures in the world.

The theatrical young gentleman is a constant half-price visitor at one or other of the theatres, and has an infinite relish for all pieces which display the fullest resources of the establishment. He likes to place implicit reliance upon the play-bills when he goes to see a show- piece, and works himself up to such a pitch of enthusiasm, as not only to believe (if the bills say so) that there are three hundred and seventy-five people on the stage at one time in the last scene, but is highly indignant with you, unless you believe it also. He considers that if the stage be opened from the foot-lights to the back wall, in any new play, the piece is a triumph of dramatic writing, and applauds accordingly. He has a great notion of trap-doors too; and thinks any character going down or coming up a trap (no matter whether he be an angel or a demon-they both do it occasionally) one of the most interesting feats in the whole range of scenic illusion.

The dramatic young man is a regular at the theaters, always taking advantage of half-price tickets, and he has a deep appreciation for any performance that showcases the full range of the venue's resources. He likes to fully trust the playbills when he attends a show and gets so worked up with excitement that he not only believes (if the playbills claim so) that there are three hundred and seventy-five people on stage at once in the final scene, but he also gets quite upset with anyone who doesn't believe it too. He thinks that if the stage is opened up from the front lights to the back wall in any new play, it's a sign of brilliant writing and cheers accordingly. He also has a strong fascination with trap doors and considers any character who goes down or comes up through one—whether they're an angel or a demon—to be one of the most captivating tricks in all of stagecraft.

Besides these acquirements, he has several veracious accounts to communicate of the private manners and customs of different actors, which, during the pauses of a quadrille, he usually communicates to his partner, or imparts to his neighbour at a supper table. Thus he is advised, that Mr. Liston always had a footman in gorgeous livery waiting at the side-scene with a brandy bottle and tumbler, to administer half a pint or so of spirit to him every time he came off, without which assistance he must infallibly have fainted. He knows for a fact, that, after an arduous part, Mr. George Bennett is put between two feather beds, to absorb the perspiration; and is credibly informed, that Mr. Baker has, for many years, submitted to a course of lukewarm toast-and- water, to qualify him to sustain his favourite characters. He looks upon Mr. Fitz Ball as the principal dramatic genius and poet of the day; but holds that there are great writers extant besides him,-in proof whereof he refers you to various dramas and melodramas recently produced, of which he takes in all the sixpenny and three-penny editions as fast as they appear.

Besides these skills, he has several true stories to share about the personal habits and customs of different actors, which he usually shares with his partner during breaks in a dance or tells his neighbor at the dinner table. For instance, he knows that Mr. Liston always had a footman in fancy livery waiting by the stage with a brandy bottle and tumbler to give him half a pint or so of liquor every time he came off stage, without which he would have definitely fainted. He knows for sure that after a tough performance, Mr. George Bennett is placed between two feather beds to soak up his sweat, and he’s been reliably told that Mr. Baker has, for many years, been on a regimen of lukewarm toast-and-water to prepare him for his favorite roles. He sees Mr. Fitz Ball as the leading dramatic talent and poet of the time, but believes there are other great writers out there as well—he points to various dramas and melodramas produced recently, for which he buys all the sixpenny and three-penny editions as soon as they come out.

The theatrical young gentleman is a great advocate for violence of emotion and redundancy of action. If a father has to curse a child upon the stage, he likes to see it done in the thorough-going style, with no mistake about it: to which end it is essential that the child should follow the father on her knees, and be knocked violently over on her face by the old gentleman as he goes into a small cottage, and shuts the door behind him. He likes to see a blessing invoked upon the young lady, when the old gentleman repents, with equal earnestness, and accompanied by the usual conventional forms, which consist of the old gentleman looking anxiously up into the clouds, as if to see whether it rains, and then spreading an imaginary tablecloth in the air over the young lady's head-soft music playing all the while. Upon these, and other points of a similar kind, the theatrical young gentleman is a great critic indeed. He is likewise very acute in judging of natural expressions of the passions, and knows precisely the frown, wink, nod, or leer, which stands for any one of them, or the means by which it may be converted into any other: as jealousy, with a good stamp of the right foot, becomes anger; or wildness, with the hands clasped before the throat, instead of tearing the wig, is passionate love. If you venture to express a doubt of the accuracy of any of these portraitures, the theatrical young gentleman assures you, with a haughty smile, that it always has been done in that way, and he supposes they are not going to change it at this time of day to please you; to which, of course, you meekly reply that you suppose not.

The dramatic young man is a huge fan of intense emotions and over-the-top actions. If a father has to shout at a child on stage, he wants it done with complete conviction, with no ambiguity: for this to happen, it’s essential that the child should follow her father on her knees, and be forcefully pushed down onto her face by the old man as he enters a small cottage and shuts the door behind him. He wants to see a blessing for the young lady when the old man feels regret, done with equal sincerity, and featuring the usual theatrical gestures, like the old man looking anxiously up at the sky as if checking for rain, then spreading an imaginary tablecloth in the air over the young lady's head, all while soft music plays in the background. On these and similar matters, the dramatic young man is quite the critic. He’s also very sharp at evaluating authentic expressions of feelings, knowing exactly the frown, wink, nod, or mischievous glance that represents each one, or how to switch one into another: for instance, jealousy turns into anger with a firm stamp of the right foot, or wildness transforms into passionate love when the hands are clasped before the throat instead of ripping off a wig. If you dare to question the accuracy of any of these representations, the dramatic young man will confidently tell you, with a condescending smile, that it’s always been done this way, and he can’t imagine they’d change it just to accommodate you; to which, of course, you humbly respond that you can’t imagine so either.

There are innumerable disquisitions of this nature, in which the theatrical young gentleman is very profound, especially to ladies whom he is most in the habit of entertaining with them; but as we have no space to recapitulate them at greater length, we must rest content with calling the attention of the young ladies in general to the theatrical young gentlemen of their own acquaintance. THE POETICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

There are countless discussions like this, where the dramatic young man is very deep, especially with the ladies he often entertains. But since we don’t have enough space to go into more detail, we’ll simply draw the young ladies' attention to the theatrical young men they know. THE POETICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Time was, and not very long ago either, when a singular epidemic raged among the young gentlemen, vast numbers of whom, under the influence of the malady, tore off their neckerchiefs, turned down their shirt collars, and exhibited themselves in the open streets with bare throats and dejected countenances, before the eyes of an astonished public. These were poetical young gentlemen. The custom was gradually found to be inconvenient, as involving the necessity of too much clean linen and too large washing bills, and these outward symptoms have consequently passed away; but we are disposed to think, notwithstanding, that the number of poetical young gentlemen is considerably on the increase.

There was a time, not too long ago, when a specific trend swept through the young men, many of whom, influenced by this fad, removed their neckerchiefs, turned down their shirt collars, and showed up in the streets with bare necks and sad expressions, in front of a shocked public. These were the poetic young men. Eventually, this trend became impractical due to the need for too much clean linen and expensive laundry bills, so these outward signs have faded away; however, we believe that the number of poetic young men is still significantly increasing.

We know a poetical young gentleman-a very poetical young gentleman. We do not mean to say that he is troubled with the gift of poesy in any remarkable degree, but his countenance is of a plaintive and melancholy cast, his manner is abstracted and bespeaks affliction of soul: he seldom has his hair cut, and often talks about being an outcast and wanting a kindred spirit; from which, as well as from many general observations in which he is wont to indulge, concerning mysterious impulses, and yearnings of the heart, and the supremacy of intellect gilding all earthly things with the glowing magic of immortal verse, it is clear to all his friends that he has been stricken poetical.

We know a very poetic young guy. We're not saying he has a remarkable talent for poetry, but his face shows a sad and melancholy vibe, and his demeanor is lost in thought, suggesting he's going through something hard. He rarely gets a haircut and often talks about being an outcast and longing for a kindred spirit. From this, along with the many general thoughts he tends to share about mysterious urges, deep desires, and how intellect can elevate everything with the magic of immortal poetry, it’s clear to all his friends that he has been hit by a poetic phase.

The favourite attitude of the poetical young gentleman is lounging on a sofa with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, or sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair, staring with very round eyes at the opposite wall. When he is in one of these positions, his mother, who is a worthy, affectionate old soul, will give you a nudge to bespeak your attention without disturbing the abstracted one, and whisper with a shake of the head, that John's imagination is at some extraordinary work or other, you may take her word for it. Hereupon John looks more fiercely intent upon vacancy than before, and suddenly snatching a pencil from his pocket, puts down three words, and a cross on the back of a card, sighs deeply, paces once or twice across the room, inflicts a most unmerciful slap upon his head, and walks moodily up to his dormitory.

The favorite pose of the poetic young man is lounging on a sofa with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, or sitting straight up in a high-backed chair, staring wide-eyed at the wall across from him. When he’s in one of these positions, his mother, a kind and loving old soul, will nudge you to get your attention without interrupting the lost-in-thought young man, and whisper with a shake of her head that John’s imagination is busy with something extraordinary—just take her word for it. At this, John looks even more intensely focused on nothing, and suddenly grabs a pencil from his pocket to write down three words and a cross on the back of a card, sighs deeply, paces back and forth across the room, gives himself a harsh slap on the head, and then walks off grumpily to his dorm room.

The poetical young gentleman is apt to acquire peculiar notions of things too, which plain ordinary people, unblessed with a poetical obliquity of vision, would suppose to be rather distorted. For instance, when the sickening murder and mangling of a wretched woman was affording delicious food wherewithal to gorge the insatiable curiosity of the public, our friend the poetical young gentleman was in ecstasies-not of disgust, but admiration. 'Heavens!' cried the poetical young gentleman, 'how grand; how great!' We ventured deferentially to inquire upon whom these epithets were bestowed: our humble thoughts oscillating between the police officer who found the criminal, and the lock-keeper who found the head. 'Upon whom!' exclaimed the poetical young gentleman in a frenzy of poetry, 'Upon whom should they be bestowed but upon the murderer!'-and thereupon it came out, in a fine torrent of eloquence, that the murderer was a great spirit, a bold creature full of daring and nerve, a man of dauntless heart and determined courage, and withal a great casuist and able reasoner, as was fully demonstrated in his philosophical colloquies with the great and noble of the land. We held our peace, and meekly signified our indisposition to controvert these opinions-firstly, because we were no match at quotation for the poetical young gentleman; and secondly, because we felt it would be of little use our entering into any disputation, if we were: being perfectly convinced that the respectable and immoral hero in question is not the first and will not be the last hanged gentleman upon whom false sympathy or diseased curiosity will be plentifully expended.

The poetic young guy tends to develop some unusual ideas about things that regular folks, lacking a poetic way of seeing the world, would think are pretty warped. For example, while the shocking murder and brutalization of a poor woman was giving the public a chance to feed their never-ending curiosity, our poetic friend was full of excitement—not disgust, but admiration. “Wow!” the poetic young guy shouted, “how magnificent; how incredible!” We respectfully asked who he was talking about, our minds drifting between the police officer who caught the criminal and the lock-keeper who found the head. “Who else!” the poetic young guy exclaimed with fervor, “Who should these praises go to but the murderer!” And then he launched into an impressive speech claiming that the murderer was a great soul, a brave person full of daring and spirit, a man with indomitable heart and steady courage, and also a great debater and smart thinker, as fully shown in his philosophical discussions with the powerful and noble in the land. We remained quiet and subtly indicated that we didn’t want to argue against these views—firstly, because we couldn’t quote as well as the poetic young guy; and secondly, because we figured it wouldn't make any difference to debate him even if we could, being completely convinced that the respectable yet immoral hero in question isn’t the first nor will he be the last executed person upon whom false sympathy or twisted curiosity will be lavished.

This was a stern mystic flight of the poetical young gentleman. In his milder and softer moments he occasionally lays down his neckcloth, and pens stanzas, which sometimes find their way into a Lady's Magazine, or the 'Poets' Corner' of some country newspaper; or which, in default of either vent for his genius, adorn the rainbow leaves of a lady's album. These are generally written upon some such occasions as contemplating the Bank of England by midnight, or beholding Saint Paul's in a snow- storm; and when these gloomy objects fail to afford him inspiration, he pours forth his soul in a touching address to a violet, or a plaintive lament that he is no longer a child, but has gradually grown up.

This was a serious mystical journey for the poetic young man. In his calmer and gentler moments, he sometimes loosens his tie and writes poems that occasionally get published in a Lady's Magazine or in the 'Poets' Corner' of a local newspaper; or, if neither of those options are available, they fill the colorful pages of a lady's album. These are usually inspired by moments like staring at the Bank of England at midnight or watching Saint Paul's during a snowstorm; and when those gloomy sights don’t spark his creativity, he expresses his feelings in a heartfelt note to a violet or a sad reflection that he's no longer a child but has grown up over time.

The poetical young gentleman is fond of quoting passages from his favourite authors, who are all of the gloomy and desponding school. He has a great deal to say too about the world, and is much given to opining, especially if he has taken anything strong to drink, that there is nothing in it worth living for. He gives you to understand, however, that for the sake of society, he means to bear his part in the tiresome play, manfully resisting the gratification of his own strong desire to make a premature exit; and consoles himself with the reflection, that immortality has some chosen nook for himself and the other great spirits whom earth has chafed and wearied.

The poetic young man loves to quote passages from his favorite authors, who all come from the dark and brooding genre. He has a lot to say about the world and often expresses the opinion, especially after a few drinks, that there's nothing in it worth living for. However, he makes it clear that for the sake of society, he's determined to stick it out in this exhausting play, bravely resisting his strong urge to leave early; and he comforts himself with the thought that immortality has a special place for him and other great souls who have been worn out by life.

When the poetical young gentleman makes use of adjectives, they are all superlatives. Everything is of the grandest, greatest, noblest, mightiest, loftiest; or the lowest, meanest, obscurest, vilest, and most pitiful. He knows no medium: for enthusiasm is the soul of poetry; and who so enthusiastic as a poetical young gentleman? 'Mr. Milkwash,' says a young lady as she unlocks her album to receive the young gentleman's original impromptu contribution, 'how very silent you are! I think you must be in love.' 'Love!' cries the poetical young gentleman, starting from his seat by the fire and terrifying the cat who scampers off at full speed, 'Love! that burning, consuming passion; that ardour of the soul, that fierce glowing of the heart. Love! The withering, blighting influence of hope misplaced and affection slighted. Love did you say! Ha! ha! ha!'

When the poetic young guy uses adjectives, they’re always superlatives. Everything is the grandest, greatest, noblest, mightiest, loftiest; or the lowest, meanest, most obscure, vilest, and most pitiful. He doesn’t know any middle ground because enthusiasm is the heart of poetry, and who’s more enthusiastic than a poetic young guy? “Mr. Milkwash,” a young lady says as she opens her album to get the young guy’s original spontaneous contribution, “you’re so quiet! I think you must be in love.” “Love!” the poetic young guy exclaims, jumping up from his seat by the fire and scaring the cat, which bolts away at full speed. “Love! That burning, consuming passion; that fervor of the soul, that fierce blaze of the heart. Love! The withering, destructive influence of misplaced hope and overlooked affection. Love, you say! Ha! ha! ha!”

With this, the poetical young gentleman laughs a laugh belonging only to poets and Mr. O. Smith of the Adelphi Theatre, and sits down, pen in hand, to throw off a page or two of verse in the biting, semi- atheistical demoniac style, which, like the poetical young gentleman himself, is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. THE 'THROWING- OFF' YOUNG GENTLEMAN

With this, the young poet laughs a laugh that only poets and Mr. O. Smith of the Adelphi Theatre can share, and sits down, pen in hand, to write a page or two of verse in the sharp, semi-atheistic, demonic style, which, like the young poet himself, is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. THE 'THROWING-OFF' YOUNG GENTLEMAN

There is a certain kind of impostor-a bragging, vaunting, puffing young gentleman-against whom we are desirous to warn that fairer part of the creation, to whom we more peculiarly devote these our labours. And we are particularly induced to lay especial stress upon this division of our subject, by a little dialogue we held some short time ago, with an esteemed young lady of our acquaintance, touching a most gross specimen of this class of men. We had been urging all the absurdities of his conduct and conversation, and dwelling upon the impossibilities he constantly recounted-to which indeed we had not scrupled to prefix a certain hard little word of one syllable and three letters-when our fair friend, unable to maintain the contest any longer, reluctantly cried, 'Well; he certainly has a habit of throwing-off, but then-' What then? Throw him off yourself, said we. And so she did, but not at our instance, for other reasons appeared, and it might have been better if she had done so at first.

There’s a certain type of impostor—a bragging, boastful, pompous young man—that we want to warn the fairer half of society about, to whom we particularly dedicate our efforts. We feel especially compelled to emphasize this part of our topic because of a little conversation we recently had with a dear young woman we know, regarding a particularly awful example of this kind of man. We had been pointing out all his ridiculous behaviors and conversations, highlighting the impossible things he constantly claimed—of which we didn’t hesitate to tag a certain short, harsh word of one syllable and three letters—when our charming friend, unable to keep up the argument any longer, reluctantly said, ‘Well; he definitely has a habit of showing off, but then—’ But what? Just get rid of him yourself, we said. And she did, but not because of our suggestion; other reasons came into play, and it might have been better if she’d done it from the start.

The throwing-off young gentleman has so often a father possessed of vast property in some remote district of Ireland, that we look with some suspicion upon all young gentlemen who volunteer this description of themselves. The deceased grandfather of the throwing-off young gentleman was a man of immense possessions, and untold wealth; the throwing-off young gentleman remembers, as well as if it were only yesterday, the deceased baronet's library, with its long rows of scarce and valuable books in superbly embossed bindings, arranged in cases, reaching from the lofty ceiling to the oaken floor; and the fine antique chairs and tables, and the noble old castle of Ballykillbabaloo, with its splendid prospect of hill and dale, and wood, and rich wild scenery, and the fine hunting stables and the spacious court-yards, 'and-and-everything upon the same magnificent scale,' says the throwing- off young gentleman, 'princely; quite princely. Ah!' And he sighs as if mourning over the fallen fortunes of his noble house.

The boastful young gentleman often has a father who owns a vast estate in some distant part of Ireland, which makes us a bit suspicious of all young men who describe themselves this way. The late grandfather of the boastful young gentleman was extremely wealthy, and he remembers vividly, as if it were just yesterday, the late baronet's library, filled with long rows of rare and valuable books in beautifully embossed covers, arranged in cases that reached from the high ceiling down to the oak floor; along with the elegant antique chairs and tables, and the grand old castle of Ballykillbabaloo, which offers a stunning view of hills, valleys, woods, and rich natural beauty, along with fine hunting stables and spacious courtyards, 'and everything else on the same magnificent scale,' says the boastful young gentleman, 'royal; truly royal. Ah!' And he sighs as if mourning the lost glory of his noble lineage.

The throwing-off young gentleman is a universal genius; at walking, running, rowing, swimming, and skating, he is unrivalled; at all games of chance or skill, at hunting, shooting, fishing, riding, driving, or amateur theatricals, no one can touch him-that is could not, because he gives you carefully to understand, lest there should be any opportunity of testing his skill, that he is quite out of practice just now, and has been for some years. If you mention any beautiful girl of your common acquaintance in his hearing, the throwing-off young gentleman starts, smiles, and begs you not to mind him, for it was quite involuntary: people do say indeed that they were once engaged, but no-although she is a very fine girl, he was so situated at that time that he couldn't possibly encourage the-'but it's of no use talking about it!' he adds, interrupting himself. 'She has got over it now, and I firmly hope and trust is happy.' With this benevolent aspiration he nods his head in a mysterious manner, and whistling the first part of some popular air, thinks perhaps it will be better to change the subject.

The young man who's always showing off is a true all-rounder; he's unbeatable at walking, running, rowing, swimming, and skating. In all games of chance or skill, and in hunting, shooting, fishing, riding, driving, or amateur theater, no one can match him. That is, they couldn't if he didn't make it very clear that he's been out of practice lately and has been for several years. If you mention any attractive girl in his presence, he suddenly reacts, smiles, and tells you not to pay attention to him, saying it was completely unintentional. People do say they were once engaged, but no—although she's a great girl, he was in a situation back then that made it impossible for him to pursue anything. "But it's pointless to talk about it!" he interrupts himself. "She's moved on now, and I really hope she’s happy." With this kind wish, he nods mysteriously, then starts whistling the beginning of a popular tune, likely thinking it might be best to switch topics.

There is another great characteristic of the throwing-off young gentleman, which is, that he 'happens to be acquainted' with a most extraordinary variety of people in all parts of the world. Thus in all disputed questions, when the throwing-off young gentleman has no argument to bring forward, he invariably happens to be acquainted with some distant person, intimately connected with the subject, whose testimony decides the point against you, to the great-may we say it-to the great admiration of three young ladies out of every four, who consider the throwing-off young gentleman a very highly-connected young man, and a most charming person.

There’s another notable trait of the carefree young guy, which is that he “just happens to know” a truly remarkable range of people from all over the globe. So, in any debate, when the carefree young guy has no solid argument, he always seems to know someone far away, closely tied to the issue, whose opinion swings the verdict in his favor. This impresses—dare we say it—nearly three out of four young ladies, who view the carefree young guy as a very well-connected individual and a charming person.

Sometimes the throwing-off young gentleman happens to look in upon a little family circle of young ladies who are quietly spending the evening together, and then indeed is he at the very height and summit of his glory; for it is to be observed that he by no means shines to equal advantage in the presence of men as in the society of over-credulous young ladies, which is his proper element. It is delightful to hear the number of pretty things the throwing-off young gentleman gives utterance to, during tea, and still more so to observe the ease with which, from long practice and study, he delicately blends one compliment to a lady with two for himself. 'Did you ever see a more lovely blue than this flower, Mr. Caveton?' asks a young lady who, truth to tell, is rather smitten with the throwing-off young gentleman. 'Never,' he replies, bending over the object of admiration, 'never but in your eyes.' 'Oh, Mr. Caveton,' cries the young lady, blushing of course. 'Indeed I speak the truth,' replies the throwing-off young gentleman, 'I never saw any approach to them. I used to think my cousin's blue eyes lovely, but they grow dim and colourless beside yours.' 'Oh! a beautiful cousin, Mr. Caveton!' replies the young lady, with that perfect artlessness which is the distinguishing characteristic of all young ladies; 'an affair, of course.' 'No; indeed, indeed you wrong me,' rejoins the throwing-off young gentleman with great energy. 'I fervently hope that her attachment towards me may be nothing but the natural result of our close intimacy in childhood, and that in change of scene and among new faces she may soon overcome it. I love her! Think not so meanly of me, Miss Lowfield, I beseech, as to suppose that title, lands, riches, and beauty, can influence my choice. The heart, the heart, Miss Lowfield.' Here the throwing-off young gentleman sinks his voice to a still lower whisper; and the young lady duly proclaims to all the other young ladies when they go up-stairs, to put their bonnets on, that Mr. Caveton's relations are all immensely rich, and that he is hopelessly beloved by title, lands, riches, and beauty.

Sometimes, the dashing young gentleman stops by a little gathering of young ladies who are quietly enjoying the evening together, and it’s in that moment that he truly feels on top of the world. It’s clear that he doesn’t impress men as much as he does when he’s surrounded by naive young ladies, which is really where he thrives. It's wonderful to listen to all the charming things he says during tea, and even more delightful to see how effortlessly, through lots of practice, he skillfully mixes one compliment for a lady with two for himself. "Have you ever seen a more beautiful blue than this flower, Mr. Caveton?" asks a young lady who, to be honest, is quite taken with him. "Never," he replies, leaning closer to the flower, "never except in your eyes." "Oh, Mr. Caveton," exclaims the young lady, blushing, of course. "I truly mean it," he insists, "I've never seen anything like them. I once thought my cousin's blue eyes were lovely, but they seem dull and colorless next to yours." "Oh! A beautiful cousin, Mr. Caveton!" the young lady replies, with that perfect innocence typical of all young ladies; "a romantic situation, I suppose." "No; you completely misjudge me," the dashing young gentleman responds passionately. "I sincerely hope that her affection for me is just a natural result of our childhood closeness and that she will soon move on in a new setting with new people. I love her! Don’t think so poorly of me, Miss Lowfield, as to assume that title, wealth, lands, or beauty could sway my decisions. It’s all about the heart, Miss Lowfield." Here, the dashing young gentleman lowers his voice to a whisper; and the young lady promptly shares with the other ladies when they head upstairs to put on their bonnets that Mr. Caveton's family is incredibly wealthy, and that he is hopelessly adored in the context of title, lands, riches, and beauty.

We have seen a throwing-off young gentleman who, to our certain knowledge, was innocent of a note of music, and scarcely able to recognise a tune by ear, volunteer a Spanish air upon the guitar when he had previously satisfied himself that there was not such an instrument within a mile of the house.

We’ve witnessed a young man who, to our knowledge, couldn’t play a single note of music and could barely recognize a tune by ear, suddenly play a Spanish melody on the guitar after making sure there wasn’t one within a mile of the house.

We have heard another throwing-off young gentleman, after striking a note or two upon the piano, and accompanying it correctly (by dint of laborious practice) with his voice, assure a circle of wondering listeners that so acute was his ear that he was wholly unable to sing out of tune, let him try as he would. We have lived to witness the unmasking of another throwing-off young gentleman, who went out a visiting in a military cap with a gold band and tassel, and who, after passing successfully for a captain and being lauded to the skies for his red whiskers, his bravery, his soldierly bearing and his pride, turned out to be the dishonest son of an honest linen-draper in a small country town, and whom, if it were not for this fortunate exposure, we should not yet despair of encountering as the fortunate husband of some rich heiress. Ladies, ladies, the throwing-off young gentlemen are often swindlers, and always fools. So pray you avoid them. THE YOUNG LADIES' YOUNG GENTLEMAN

We’ve seen yet another show-off young guy, after playing a note or two on the piano and skillfully singing along (thanks to hard work), assure a group of amazed listeners that his ear was so sharp he couldn't sing out of tune, no matter how hard he tried. We've witnessed the reveal of another show-off young man who went out visiting in a military cap with a gold band and tassel, and who, after successfully passing himself off as a captain and being praised for his red whiskers, bravery, soldierly demeanor, and pride, turned out to be the dishonest son of an honest linen merchant from a small town. If it weren't for this lucky exposure, we might still expect to see him as the lucky husband of some rich heiress. Ladies, ladies, the show-off young men are often con artists and always foolish. So please, steer clear of them. THE YOUNG LADIES' YOUNG GENTLEMAN

This young gentleman has several titles. Some young ladies consider him 'a nice young man,' others 'a fine young man,' others 'quite a lady's man,' others 'a handsome man,' others 'a remarkably good-looking young man.' With some young ladies he is 'a perfect angel,' and with others 'quite a love.' He is likewise a charming creature, a duck, and a dear.

This young man has several titles. Some young women see him as 'a nice guy,' others 'a great guy,' some call him 'quite the ladies' man,' others 'handsome,' and some think he’s 'really good-looking.' To some young women, he’s 'a perfect angel,' while others see him as 'quite a catch.' He’s also considered charming, adorable, and lovely.

The young ladies' young gentleman has usually a fresh colour and very white teeth, which latter articles, of course, he displays on every possible opportunity. He has brown or black hair, and whiskers of the same, if possible; but a slight tinge of red, or the hue which is vulgarly known as sandy, is not considered an objection. If his head and face be large, his nose prominent, and his figure square, he is an uncommonly fine young man, and worshipped accordingly. Should his whiskers meet beneath his chin, so much the better, though this is not absolutely insisted on; but he must wear an under-waistcoat, and smile constantly.

The young ladies' ideal gentleman usually has a fresh complexion and very white teeth, which he definitely shows off at every chance. He typically has brown or black hair, and ideally matching whiskers; however, a slight hint of red or what is commonly called sandy is not seen as a problem. If his head and face are large, his nose is prominent, and his build is stocky, he is considered an exceptionally handsome young man and is admired accordingly. If his whiskers connect beneath his chin, that's even better, although it's not a strict requirement; he must wear an undershirt and smile all the time.

There was a great party got up by some party-loving friends of ours last summer, to go and dine in Epping Forest. As we hold that such wild expeditions should never be indulged in, save by people of the smallest means, who have no dinner at home, we should indubitably have excused ourself from attending, if we had not recollected that the projectors of the excursion were always accompanied on such occasions by a choice sample of the young ladies' young gentleman, whom we were very anxious to have an opportunity of meeting. This determined us, and we went.

Last summer, some of our fun-loving friends organized a big party to have dinner in Epping Forest. Since we believe that such wild outings should only be enjoyed by people with very little money who don’t have dinner at home, we definitely would have opted out if we hadn’t remembered that the planners of the trip always brought along a select group of young ladies’ young gentlemen, whom we were eager to meet. That convinced us, so we went.

We were to make for Chigwell in four glass coaches, each with a trifling company of six or eight inside, and a little boy belonging to the projectors on the box-and to start from the residence of the projectors, Woburn-place, Russell-square, at half-past ten precisely. We arrived at the place of rendezvous at the appointed time, and found the glass coaches and the little boys quite ready, and divers young ladies and young gentlemen looking anxiously over the breakfast-parlour blinds, who appeared by no means so much gratified by our approach as we might have expected, but evidently wished we had been somebody else. Observing that our arrival in lieu of the unknown occasioned some disappointment, we ventured to inquire who was yet to come, when we found from the hasty reply of a dozen voices, that it was no other than the young ladies' young gentleman.

We were set to head to Chigwell in four glass coaches, each carrying a small group of six or eight people inside and a little boy belonging to the organizers on the front seat. We were to leave from the organizers’ place, Woburn Place, Russell Square, at exactly half-past ten. We got to the meeting spot on time and found the glass coaches and the little boys ready, along with several young ladies and young gentlemen looking anxiously through the breakfast parlor blinds. They didn’t seem nearly as happy to see us as we might have expected and clearly wished we were someone else. Noticing their disappointment at our arrival instead of the unknown, we asked who else was supposed to come and learned from the quick response of a dozen voices that it was none other than the young ladies’ young gentleman.

'I cannot imagine,' said the mamma, 'what has become of Mr. Balim-always so punctual, always so pleasant and agreeable. I am sure I can-not think.' As these last words were uttered in that measured, emphatic manner which painfully announces that the speaker has not quite made up his or her mind what to say, but is determined to talk on nevertheless, the eldest daughter took up the subject, and hoped no accident had happened to Mr. Balim, upon which there was a general chorus of 'Dear Mr. Balim!' and one young lady, more adventurous than the rest, proposed that an express should be straightway sent to dear Mr. Balim's lodgings. This, however, the papa resolutely opposed, observing, in what a short young lady behind us termed 'quite a bearish way,' that if Mr. Balim didn't choose to come, he might stop at home. At this all the daughters raised a murmur of 'Oh pa!' except one sprightly little girl of eight or ten years old, who, taking advantage of a pause in the discourse, remarked, that perhaps Mr. Balim might have been married that morning-for which impertinent suggestion she was summarily ejected from the room by her eldest sister.

"I can't imagine," said the mom, "what's happened to Mr. Balim—always so punctual, always so pleasant and agreeable. I'm really at a loss." As she said this in that deliberate, forceful way that awkwardly reveals she hasn't quite figured out what to say but is determined to keep talking, the oldest daughter picked up the conversation and expressed hope that nothing bad had happened to Mr. Balim. This led to a general chorus of "Dear Mr. Balim!" and one adventurous young lady suggested that they should send an express to Mr. Balim's home right away. However, the dad firmly opposed this, noting, in what a short young lady behind us called "a rather gruff way," that if Mr. Balim didn't want to come, he could just stay home. This prompted all the daughters to murmur, "Oh, Dad!" except for one lively little girl, around eight or ten years old, who, seizing a moment of silence in the conversation, remarked that maybe Mr. Balim had gotten married that morning. For this cheeky suggestion, she was promptly removed from the room by her oldest sister.

We were all in a state of great mortification and uneasiness, when one of the little boys, running into the room as airily as little boys usually run who have an unlimited allowance of animal food in the holidays, and keep their hands constantly forced down to the bottoms of very deep trouser-pockets when they take exercise, joyfully announced that Mr. Balim was at that moment coming up the street in a hackney-cab; and the intelligence was confirmed beyond all doubt a minute afterwards by the entry of Mr. Balim himself, who was received with repeated cries of 'Where have you been, you naughty creature?' whereunto the naughty creature replied, that he had been in bed, in consequence of a late party the night before, and had only just risen. The acknowledgment awakened a variety of agonizing fears that he had taken no breakfast; which appearing after a slight cross-examination to be the real state of the case, breakfast for one was immediately ordered, notwithstanding Mr. Balim's repeated protestations that he couldn't think of it. He did think of it though, and thought better of it too, for he made a remarkably good meal when it came, and was assiduously served by a select knot of young ladies. It was quite delightful to see how he ate and drank, while one pair of fair hands poured out his coffee, and another put in the sugar, and another the milk; the rest of the company ever and anon casting angry glances at their watches, and the glass coaches,-and the little boys looking on in an agony of apprehension lest it should begin to rain before we set out; it might have rained all day, after we were once too far to turn back again, and welcome, for aught they cared.

We were all feeling very embarrassed and uneasy when one of the little boys, running into the room as carefree as kids do when they can eat as much as they want during holidays, and keeping his hands shoved deep in his very deep trouser pockets while he played, joyfully announced that Mr. Balim was currently coming up the street in a cab. This news was confirmed moments later by Mr. Balim’s entrance, greeted with repeated shouts of “Where have you been, you naughty creature?” To which the naughty creature replied that he had been in bed after a late party the night before and had just gotten up. This admission sparked a range of agonizing worries that he hadn’t had breakfast, which, after a little questioning, turned out to be true. Breakfast for one was quickly ordered, even though Mr. Balim kept insisting he couldn’t possibly eat. But he did think about it, and he actually ended up enjoying a very good meal once it arrived, served attentively by a small group of young ladies. It was quite a sight to see how he ate and drank, while one pair of fair hands poured his coffee, another added the sugar, and yet another poured in the milk; the rest of us occasionally glancing anxiously at our watches and the coach outside, while the little boys looked on in dread that it might start to rain before we left. It could have poured all day, and once we were too far to turn back, they wouldn't have cared less.

However, the cavalcade moved at length, every coachman being accommodated with a hamper between his legs something larger than a wheelbarrow; and the company being packed as closely as they possibly could in the carriages, 'according,' as one married lady observed, 'to the immemorial custom, which was half the diversion of gipsy parties.' Thinking it very likely it might be (we have never been able to discover the other half), we submitted to be stowed away with a cheerful aspect, and were fortunate enough to occupy one corner of a coach in which were one old lady, four young ladies, and the renowned Mr. Balim the young ladies' young gentleman.

However, the procession finally got moving, with each driver provided a hamper between his legs that was bigger than a wheelbarrow. The passengers were packed as tightly as possible in the carriages, 'according,' as one married woman noted, 'to the age-old tradition, which was half the fun of gypsy parties.' Thinking it might actually be (we’ve never figured out what the other half was), we willingly squeezed ourselves in with happy faces and were lucky enough to be in one corner of a coach, which had one old lady, four young ladies, and the famous Mr. Balim, the young ladies' date.

We were no sooner fairly off, than the young ladies' young gentleman hummed a fragment of an air, which induced a young lady to inquire whether he had danced to that the night before. 'By Heaven, then, I did,' replied the young gentleman, 'and with a lovely heiress; a superb creature, with twenty thousand pounds.' 'You seem rather struck,' observed another young lady. ''Gad she was a sweet creature,' returned the young gentleman, arranging his hair. 'Of course she was struck too?' inquired the first young lady. 'How can you ask, love?' interposed the second; 'could she fail to be?' 'Well, honestly I think she was,' observed the young gentleman. At this point of the dialogue, the young lady who had spoken first, and who sat on the young gentleman's right, struck him a severe blow on the arm with a rosebud, and said he was a vain man-whereupon the young gentleman insisted on having the rosebud, and the young lady appealing for help to the other young ladies, a charming struggle ensued, terminating in the victory of the young gentleman, and the capture of the rosebud. This little skirmish over, the married lady, who was the mother of the rosebud, smiled sweetly upon the young gentleman, and accused him of being a flirt; the young gentleman pleading not guilty, a most interesting discussion took place upon the important point whether the young gentleman was a flirt or not, which being an agreeable conversation of a light kind, lasted a considerable time. At length, a short silence occurring, the young ladies on either side of the young gentleman fell suddenly fast asleep; and the young gentleman, winking upon us to preserve silence, won a pair of gloves from each, thereby causing them to wake with equal suddenness and to scream very loud. The lively conversation to which this pleasantry gave rise, lasted for the remainder of the ride, and would have eked out a much longer one.

We had hardly set off when the young man's tune prompted one of the young ladies to ask if he had danced to that the night before. "I certainly did," the young man replied, "and with a gorgeous heiress; an incredible lady with twenty thousand pounds." "You seem quite taken by her," noted another young lady. "She was an absolute delight," the young man said, fixing his hair. "So, she was into you too?" asked the first young lady. "How could she not be, darling?" the second interjected. "Honestly, I think she was," the young man remarked. At this point, the first young lady, sitting to the right of the young man, hit him hard on the arm with a rosebud, calling him vain. The young man insisted on having the rosebud, and as the young lady sought help from the others, a delightful struggle broke out, ending with the young man victorious and the rosebud in his possession. Once that little tussle was over, the married lady, who was the mother of the rosebud, smiled sweetly at the young man and accused him of being a flirt. He denied it, and an engaging debate unfolded about whether he really was a flirt or not, which turned into a light-hearted discussion that lasted quite a while. Eventually, a brief silence fell, and the young ladies on either side of the young man suddenly fell asleep. The young man, signaling us to be quiet, cleverly took a pair of gloves from each one, causing them to wake up with a start and scream loudly. The lively banter that followed this little trick lasted for the rest of the ride and would have carried on much longer.

We dined rather more comfortably than people usually do under such circumstances, nothing having been left behind but the cork-screw and the bread. The married gentlemen were unusually thirsty, which they attributed to the heat of the weather; the little boys ate to inconvenience; mammas were very jovial, and their daughters very fascinating; and the attendants being well-behaved men, got exceedingly drunk at a respectful distance.

We had a more comfortable dinner than most people do in situations like this, with only the corkscrew and the bread left over. The married guys were especially thirsty, which they blamed on the hot weather; the little boys ate way too much; the moms were really cheerful, and their daughters were quite charming; and the staff, being well-mannered, got pretty drunk while keeping a respectful distance.

We had our eye on Mr. Balim at dinner-time, and perceived that he flourished wonderfully, being still surrounded by a little group of young ladies, who listened to him as an oracle, while he ate from their plates and drank from their glasses in a manner truly captivating from its excessive playfulness. His conversation, too, was exceedingly brilliant. In fact, one elderly lady assured us, that in the course of a little lively badinage on the subject of ladies' dresses, he had evinced as much knowledge as if he had been born and bred a milliner.

We were watching Mr. Balim during dinner and noticed how well he was doing, surrounded by a small group of young ladies who listened to him like he was a guru. He took food from their plates and sipped from their glasses in a way that was incredibly charming because of its playful nature. His conversation was also very impressive. In fact, one older lady told us that during a fun back-and-forth about women's dresses, he showed as much knowledge as if he had been raised as a dressmaker.

As such of the fat people who did not happen to fall asleep after dinner entered upon a most vigorous game at ball, we slipped away alone into a thicker part of the wood, hoping to fall in with Mr. Balim, the greater part of the young people having dropped off in twos and threes and the young ladies' young gentleman among them. Nor were we disappointed, for we had not walked far, when, peeping through the trees, we discovered him before us, and truly it was a pleasant thing to contemplate his greatness.

As some of the heavier people who didn’t fall asleep after dinner got into a lively game of ball, we slipped away into a denser part of the woods, hoping to run into Mr. Balim, since most of the young people had paired off and the young ladies’ gentleman was among them. We weren’t let down, because we hadn’t walked far when we spotted him through the trees, and it was truly nice to admire his presence.

The young ladies' young gentleman was seated upon the ground, at the feet of a few young ladies who were reclining on a bank; he was so profusely decked with scarfs, ribands, flowers, and other pretty spoils, that he looked like a lamb-or perhaps a calf would be a better simile-adorned for the sacrifice. One young lady supported a parasol over his interesting head, another held his hat, and a third his neck- cloth, which in romantic fashion he had thrown off; the young gentleman himself, with his hand upon his breast, and his face moulded into an expression of the most honeyed sweetness, was warbling forth some choice specimens of vocal music in praise of female loveliness, in a style so exquisitely perfect, that we burst into an involuntary shout of laughter, and made a hasty retreat.

The young ladies' gentleman was sitting on the ground at the feet of a few young ladies who were lounging on a grassy bank; he was so covered in scarves, ribbons, flowers, and other pretty decorations that he looked like a lamb—or maybe a calf would be a better comparison—dressed up for sacrifice. One young lady held a parasol over his charming head, another held his hat, and a third held his neckcloth, which he had dramatically tossed aside. The young gentleman himself, with his hand on his chest and his face shaped into an expression of the sweetest charm, was singing some beautiful songs in praise of female beauty, in a style so perfectly refined that we couldn't help but burst into laughter and quickly left.

What charming fellows these young ladies' young gentlemen are! Ducks, dears, loves, angels, are all terms inadequate to express their merit. They are such amazingly, uncommonly, wonderfully, nice men. CONCLUSION

What charming guys these young ladies' guys are! Ducks, dears, loves, angels, are all terms inadequate to express their worth. They are such incredibly, unusually, wonderfully nice men. CONCLUSION

As we have placed before the young ladies so many specimens of young gentlemen, and have also in the dedication of this volume given them to understand how much we reverence and admire their numerous virtues and perfections; as we have given them such strong reasons to treat us with confidence, and to banish, in our case, all that reserve and distrust of the male sex which, as a point of general behaviour, they cannot do better than preserve and maintain-we say, as we have done all this, we feel that now, when we have arrived at the close of our task, they may naturally press upon us the inquiry, what particular description of young gentlemen we can conscientiously recommend.

As we have presented so many examples of young men to the young ladies and have made it clear in the dedication of this volume how much we respect and admire their many virtues and qualities; as we have given them strong reasons to trust us and to shed, in our case, any reserve and skepticism about the male gender, which, as a general principle, they should definitely continue to uphold—we say, having done all this, we believe that now, as we reach the end of our task, they might understandably want to ask us what specific type of young men we can sincerely recommend.

Here we are at a loss. We look over our list, and can neither recommend the bashful young gentleman, nor the out-and-out young gentleman, nor the very friendly young gentleman, nor the military young gentleman, nor the political young gentleman, nor the domestic young gentleman, nor the censorious young gentleman, nor the funny young gentleman, nor the theatrical young gentleman, nor the poetical young gentleman, nor the throwing-off young gentleman, nor the young ladies' young gentleman.

Here we are at a loss. We look over our list and can't recommend the shy young man, the straightforward young man, the overly friendly young man, the military young man, the politically inclined young man, the homebody young man, the critical young man, the funny young man, the theatrical young man, the poetic young man, the carefree young man, or the young ladies' favorite young man.

As there are some good points about many of them, which still are not sufficiently numerous to render any one among them eligible, as a whole, our respectful advice to the young ladies is, to seek for a young gentleman who unites in himself the best qualities of all, and the worst weaknesses of none, and to lead him forthwith to the hymeneal altar, whether he will or no. And to the young lady who secures him, we beg to tender one short fragment of matrimonial advice, selected from many sound passages of a similar tendency, to be found in a letter written by Dean Swift to a young lady on her marriage.

While there are some good qualities in many of them, they still aren't numerous enough to make any one of them a great choice overall. Therefore, our respectful advice to the young ladies is to look for a young man who possesses the best qualities of all and none of the worst weaknesses, and to lead him to the altar right away, whether he likes it or not. And for the young lady who manages to secure him, we would like to offer a brief piece of marital advice, chosen from many wise passages of a similar nature found in a letter written by Dean Swift to a young lady on her marriage.

'The grand affair of your life will be, to gain and preserve the esteem of your husband. Neither good-nature nor virtue will suffer him to esteem you against his judgment; and although he is not capable of using you ill, yet you will in time grow a thing indifferent and perhaps contemptible; unless you can supply the loss of youth and beauty with more durable qualities. You have but a very few years to be young and handsome in the eyes of the world; and as few months to be so in the eyes of a husband who is not a fool; for I hope you do not still dream of charms and raptures, which marriage ever did, and ever will, put a sudden end to.'

'The most important thing in your life will be to earn and keep your husband’s respect. Neither his nature nor his values will let him respect you against his better judgment; and while he might not treat you poorly, over time you could become someone he doesn't care about, or even looks down on, unless you can make up for the loss of youth and beauty with lasting qualities. You only have a few years to be seen as young and attractive in the world’s eyes, and even fewer months to hold that view in the eyes of a husband who isn’t naive; because I hope you’re not still expecting the charms and excitement that marriage has always ended abruptly.'

From the anxiety we express for the proper behaviour of the fortunate lady after marriage, it may possibly be inferred that the young gentleman to whom we have so delicately alluded, is no other than ourself. Without in any way committing ourself upon this point, we have merely to observe, that we are ready to receive sealed offers containing a full specification of age, temper, appearance, and condition; but we beg it to be distinctly understood that we do not pledge ourself to accept the highest bidder.

From the concern we show about how the lucky lady will act after marriage, it might be assumed that the young man we've subtly mentioned is actually us. Without making any commitments on this matter, we just want to say that we're open to sealed offers that include complete details about age, personality, looks, and status; however, we want it to be clearly understood that we are not promising to choose the highest bidder.

These offers may be forwarded to the Publishers, Messrs. Chapman and Hall, London; to whom all pieces of plate and other testimonials of approbation from the young ladies generally, are respectfully requested to be addressed. SKETCHES OF YOUNG COUPLES AN URGENT REMONSTRANCE, &c.

These offers can be sent to the Publishers, Messrs. Chapman and Hall, London; to whom all gifts and other expressions of appreciation from the young ladies are kindly requested to be directed. SKETCHES OF YOUNG COUPLES AN URGENT REMONSTRANCE, &c.

TO THE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND, (being bachelors or widowers,) THE REMONSTRANCE OF THEIR FAITHFUL FELLOW-SUBJECT,

TO THE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND, (those who are bachelors or widowers,) THE REMONSTRANCE OF THEIR FAITHFUL FELLOW-SUBJECT,

Sheweth,-

Shows,-

That Her Most Gracious Majesty, Victoria, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Queen, Defender of the Faith, did, on the 23rd day of November last past, declare and pronounce to Her Most Honourable Privy Council, Her Majesty's Most Gracious intention of entering into the bonds of wedlock.

That Her Most Gracious Majesty, Victoria, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Queen, Defender of the Faith, did, on November 23rd of last year, announce to Her Most Honourable Privy Council Her Majesty's gracious intention to enter into marriage.

That Her Most Gracious Majesty, in so making known Her Most Gracious intention to Her Most Honourable Privy Council as aforesaid, did use and employ the words-'It is my intention to ally myself in marriage with Prince Albert of Saxe Coburg and Gotha.'

That Her Most Gracious Majesty, in sharing Her Most Gracious intention with Her Most Honourable Privy Council as mentioned above, did use and employ the words - 'It is my intention to marry Prince Albert of Saxe Coburg and Gotha.'

That the present is Bissextile, or Leap Year, in which it is held and considered lawful for any lady to offer and submit proposals of marriage to any gentleman, and to enforce and insist upon acceptance of the same, under pain of a certain fine or penalty; to wit, one silk or satin dress of the first quality, to be chosen by the lady and paid (or owed) for, by the gentleman.

That this year is a Leap Year, where it's accepted and considered appropriate for any woman to propose marriage to any man, and to demand that he accept her proposal, with the consequence being a fine: one high-quality silk or satin dress, which the woman gets to pick, and the man is responsible for buying (or paying for).

That these and other the horrors and dangers with which the said Bissextile, or Leap Year, threatens the gentlemen of England on every occasion of its periodical return, have been greatly aggravated and augmented by the terms of Her Majesty's said Most Gracious communication, which have filled the heads of divers young ladies in this Realm with certain new ideas destructive to the peace of mankind, that never entered their imagination before.

That these and other horrors and dangers posed by the Bissextile, or Leap Year, threaten the gentlemen of England every time it comes around, have been greatly worsened by the terms of Her Majesty's Most Gracious communication. This has filled the minds of various young ladies in this Realm with new ideas that are harmful to the peace of mankind, ideas that never crossed their minds before.

That a case has occurred in Camberwell, in which a young lady informed her Papa that 'she intended to ally herself in marriage' with Mr. Smith of Stepney; and that another, and a very distressing case, has occurred at Tottenham, in which a young lady not only stated her intention of allying herself in marriage with her cousin John, but, taking violent possession of her said cousin, actually married him.

There has been a situation in Camberwell where a young woman told her father that she "planned to marry" Mr. Smith from Stepney. Additionally, there is another very troubling case from Tottenham, where a young woman not only expressed her intention to marry her cousin John but also forcefully took him and actually wed him.

That similar outrages are of constant occurrence, not only in the capital and its neighbourhood, but throughout the kingdom, and that unless the excited female populace be speedily checked and restrained in their lawless proceedings, most deplorable results must ensue therefrom; among which may be anticipated a most alarming increase in the population of the country, with which no efforts of the agricultural or manufacturing interest can possibly keep pace.

That similar incidents happen all the time, not just in the capital and surrounding areas but throughout the entire country, and that if the agitated women aren't quickly controlled and stopped in their unlawful actions, very unfortunate outcomes will follow; one of which could be a concerning rise in the population that the agricultural or manufacturing sectors won't be able to keep up with.

That there is strong reason to suspect the existence of a most extensive plot, conspiracy, or design, secretly contrived by vast numbers of single ladies in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and now extending its ramifications in every quarter of the land; the object and intent of which plainly appears to be the holding and solemnising of an enormous and unprecedented number of marriages, on the day on which the nuptials of Her said Most Gracious Majesty are performed.

There is a strong reason to believe that there’s a very large scheme, conspiracy, or plan secretly created by countless single women in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, which is now spreading its influence everywhere across the country; the purpose and intention of this clearly seems to be to hold and celebrate an enormous and unprecedented number of weddings on the day when Her Gracious Majesty's nuptials take place.

That such plot, conspiracy, or design, strongly savours of Popery, as tending to the discomfiture of the Clergy of the Established Church, by entailing upon them great mental and physical exhaustion; and that such Popish plots are fomented and encouraged by Her Majesty's Ministers, which clearly appears-not only from Her Majesty's principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs traitorously getting married while holding office under the Crown; but from Mr. O'Connell having been heard to declare and avow that, if he had a daughter to marry, she should be married on the same day as Her said Most Gracious Majesty.

That such a plot, conspiracy, or plan clearly smells of Catholicism, as it aims to undermine the Clergy of the Established Church by putting them through significant mental and physical strain; and that these Catholic schemes are stirred up and supported by Her Majesty's Ministers, which is evident—not only from Her Majesty's principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs traitorously getting married while in office under the Crown; but also from Mr. O'Connell having been heard to state that if he had a daughter to marry, she would marry on the same day as Her Most Gracious Majesty.

That such arch plots, conspiracies, and designs, besides being fraught with danger to the Established Church, and (consequently) to the State, cannot fail to bring ruin and bankruptcy upon a large class of Her Majesty's subjects; as a great and sudden increase in the number of married men occasioning the comparative desertion (for a time) of Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and Gaming-Houses, will deprive the Proprietors of their accustomed profits and returns. And in further proof of the depth and baseness of such designs, it may be here observed, that all proprietors of Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and Gaming-Houses, are (especially the last) solemnly devoted to the Protestant religion.

That such elaborate plots, conspiracies, and schemes, in addition to posing a threat to the Established Church and, therefore, to the State, are bound to lead to ruin and financial failure for a large segment of Her Majesty's subjects; a sudden rise in the number of married men will temporarily cause a decline in business for Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and Gaming-Houses, depriving owners of their usual profits and returns. Moreover, to further illustrate the depth and wickedness of these schemes, it should be noted that all owners of Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and Gaming-Houses are, particularly those of the last, strongly committed to the Protestant faith.

For all these reasons, and many others of no less gravity and import, an urgent appeal is made to the gentlemen of England (being bachelors or widowers) to take immediate steps for convening a Public meeting; To consider of the best and surest means of averting the dangers with which they are threatened by the recurrence of Bissextile, or Leap Year, and the additional sensation created among single ladies by the terms of Her Majesty's Most Gracious Declaration; To take measures, without delay, for resisting the said single Ladies, and counteracting their evil designs; And to pray Her Majesty to dismiss her present Ministers, and to summon to her Councils those distinguished Gentlemen in various Honourable Professions who, by insulting on all occasions the only Lady in England who can be insulted with safety, have given a sufficient guarantee to Her Majesty's Loving Subjects that they, at least, are qualified to make war with women, and are already expert in the use of those weapons which are common to the lowest and most abandoned of the sex. THE YOUNG COUPLE

For all these reasons, and many others just as serious, an urgent appeal is made to the gentlemen of England (whether bachelors or widowers) to take immediate action to organize a Public meeting; To discuss the best and most effective ways to avoid the dangers posed by the upcoming Leap Year and the extra attention it brings from single ladies due to Her Majesty's Most Gracious Declaration; To take swift steps to resist these single Ladies and counteract their harmful intentions; And to request Her Majesty to dismiss her current Ministers and invite to her Councils those distinguished Gentlemen in various Honorable Professions who, by consistently offending the only Lady in England who can be safely insulted, have proven to Her Majesty's Loving Subjects that they are, at the very least, capable of going to war with women and are already well-versed in using the tactics that are typical of the lowest and most disreputable members of the sex. THE YOUNG COUPLE

There is to be a wedding this morning at the corner house in the terrace. The pastry-cook's people have been there half-a-dozen times already; all day yesterday there was a great stir and bustle, and they were up this morning as soon as it was light. Miss Emma Fielding is going to be married to young Mr. Harvey.

There’s a wedding this morning at the corner house on the terrace. The pastry chef's team has been there half a dozen times already; all day yesterday there was a lot of activity and they got up this morning as soon as it was light. Miss Emma Fielding is getting married to young Mr. Harvey.

Heaven alone can tell in what bright colours this marriage is painted upon the mind of the little housemaid at number six, who has hardly slept a wink all night with thinking of it, and now stands on the unswept door-steps leaning upon her broom, and looking wistfully towards the enchanted house. Nothing short of omniscience can divine what visions of the baker, or the green-grocer, or the smart and most insinuating butterman, are flitting across her mind-what thoughts of how she would dress on such an occasion, if she were a lady-of how she would dress, if she were only a bride-of how cook would dress, being bridesmaid, conjointly with her sister 'in place' at Fulham, and how the clergyman, deeming them so many ladies, would be quite humbled and respectful. What day-dreams of hope and happiness-of life being one perpetual holiday, with no master and no mistress to grant or withhold it-of every Sunday being a Sunday out-of pure freedom as to curls and ringlets, and no obligation to hide fine heads of hair in caps-what pictures of happiness, vast and immense to her, but utterly ridiculous to us, bewilder the brain of the little housemaid at number six, all called into existence by the wedding at the corner!

Only heaven knows what bright images this marriage creates in the mind of the little housemaid at number six, who barely slept a wink all night thinking about it. Now she stands on the unkempt doorstep, leaning on her broom and gazing dreamily at the enchanted house. Nothing short of total knowledge can figure out what visions of the baker, the green-grocer, or the charming butterman are dancing through her mind—what she would wear on such an occasion if she were a lady, how she would dress if she were just a bride, how the cook would look as a bridesmaid alongside her sister 'in place' at Fulham, and how the clergyman, thinking they were all ladies, would be humbled and respectful. What daydreams of hope and happiness—of life as a never-ending holiday, free of any master or mistress to grant or deny it—of every Sunday being a day off—of pure freedom with curls and ringlets, free from the obligation of hiding beautiful hair under caps—what vast and immense images of happiness, ridiculous to us yet totally captivating to her, swirl in the mind of the little housemaid at number six, all sparked into existence by the wedding at the corner!

We smile at such things, and so we should, though perhaps for a better reason than commonly presents itself. It should be pleasant to us to know that there are notions of happiness so moderate and limited, since upon those who entertain them, happiness and lightness of heart are very easily bestowed.

We smile at these things, and we should, though maybe for a better reason than usually seems obvious. It should be nice for us to know that there are ideas of happiness that are so simple and modest, because those who hold onto them can easily find happiness and a light heart.

But the little housemaid is awakened from her reverie, for forth from the door of the magical corner house there runs towards her, all fluttering in smart new dress and streaming ribands, her friend Jane Adams, who comes all out of breath to redeem a solemn promise of taking her in, under cover of the confusion, to see the breakfast table spread forth in state, and-sight of sights!-her young mistress ready dressed for church.

But the little housemaid is brought back to reality when her friend Jane Adams comes rushing out of the door of the magical corner house, all flustered in her smart new dress and flowing ribbons. Jane, out of breath, is here to honor a solemn promise to take her inside, amidst the chaos, to see the breakfast table set up grandly and—what a sight!—her young mistress already dressed for church.

And there, in good truth, when they have stolen up-stairs on tip-toe and edged themselves in at the chamber-door-there is Miss Emma 'looking like the sweetest picter,' in a white chip bonnet and orange flowers, and all other elegancies becoming a bride, (with the make, shape, and quality of every article of which the girl is perfectly familiar in one moment, and never forgets to her dying day)-and there is Miss Emma's mamma in tears, and Miss Emma's papa comforting her, and saying how that of course she has been long looking forward to this, and how happy she ought to be-and there too is Miss Emma's sister with her arms round her neck, and the other bridesmaid all smiles and tears, quieting the children, who would cry more but that they are so finely dressed, and yet sob for fear sister Emma should be taken away-and it is all so affecting, that the two servant-girls cry more than anybody; and Jane Adams, sitting down upon the stairs, when they have crept away, declares that her legs tremble so that she don't know what to do, and that she will say for Miss Emma, that she never had a hasty word from her, and that she does hope and pray she may be happy.

And there, truly, when they have quietly snuck upstairs on tiptoe and squeezed themselves through the chamber door—there is Miss Emma, looking like the sweetest picture, in a white chip bonnet with orange flowers and all the other beautiful details fitting for a bride (with every piece of her outfit that the girl knows inside and out in an instant, and will never forget for the rest of her life)—and there’s Miss Emma’s mom in tears, and Miss Emma’s dad comforting her, saying how she has been looking forward to this for so long and how happy she should be—and there’s also Miss Emma’s sister with her arms around her neck, and the other bridesmaid with smiles and tears, calming the children, who would cry more except that they are so nicely dressed, and still sob out of fear that sister Emma might be taken away—and it’s all so touching that the two servant girls cry more than anyone else; and Jane Adams, sitting down on the stairs after they have quietly left, declares that her legs are shaking so much she doesn’t know what to do, and she will say for Miss Emma that she has never had a harsh word from her, and she truly hopes and prays that she will be happy.

But Jane soon comes round again, and then surely there never was anything like the breakfast table, glittering with plate and china, and set out with flowers and sweets, and long-necked bottles, in the most sumptuous and dazzling manner. In the centre, too, is the mighty charm, the cake, glistening with frosted sugar, and garnished beautifully. They agree that there ought to be a little Cupid under one of the barley-sugar temples, or at least two hearts and an arrow; but, with this exception, there is nothing to wish for, and a table could not be handsomer. As they arrive at this conclusion, who should come in but Mr. John! to whom Jane says that its only Anne from number six; and John says he knows, for he's often winked his eye down the area, which causes Anne to blush and look confused. She is going away, indeed; when Mr. John will have it that she must drink a glass of wine, and he says never mind it's being early in the morning, it won't hurt her: so they shut the door and pour out the wine; and Anne drinking lane's health, and adding, 'and here's wishing you yours, Mr. John,' drinks it in a great many sips,-Mr. John all the time making jokes appropriate to the occasion. At last Mr. John, who has waxed bolder by degrees, pleads the usage at weddings, and claims the privilege of a kiss, which he obtains after a great scuffle; and footsteps being now heard on the stairs, they disperse suddenly.

But Jane soon perks up again, and there’s never been a breakfast table like this one, sparkling with plates and china, decorated with flowers and sweets, and long-necked bottles, in the most luxurious and stunning way. In the center sits the main attraction, the cake, shining with frosted sugar and beautifully decorated. They agree there should be a little Cupid under one of the barley-sugar towers, or at least two hearts and an arrow; but aside from that, there’s nothing more to wish for, and the table couldn’t look more gorgeous. Just as they reach this conclusion, who walks in but Mr. John! Jane tells him it’s just Anne from number six; and John says he knows, because he’s often winked his eye down the area, which makes Anne blush and look flustered. She’s about to leave when Mr. John insists that she must have a glass of wine, saying it doesn’t matter that it’s early in the morning, it won’t hurt her. So they close the door and pour the wine; and as Anne drinks to Lane's health, adding, “And here’s wishing you yours, Mr. John,” she takes many sips, while Mr. John cracks jokes suitable for the moment. Finally, Mr. John, feeling braver, invokes wedding traditions and asks for a kiss, which he manages to get after a playful struggle; and hearing footsteps on the stairs, they suddenly scatter.

By this time a carriage has driven up to convey the bride to church, and Anne of number six prolonging the process of 'cleaning her door,' has the satisfaction of beholding the bride and bridesmaids, and the papa and mamma, hurry into the same and drive rapidly off. Nor is this all, for soon other carriages begin to arrive with a posse of company all beautifully dressed, at whom she could stand and gaze for ever; but having something else to do, is compelled to take one last long look and shut the street-door.

By this time, a carriage has pulled up to take the bride to the church, and Anne from number six, who is still 'cleaning her door,' gets the satisfaction of watching the bride, bridesmaids, and the parents hurry inside and drive off quickly. But that’s not all; soon other carriages start arriving with a group of elegantly dressed guests that she wishes she could stare at forever. However, with things to do, she is forced to take one last long look and then shut the front door.

And now the company have gone down to breakfast, and tears have given place to smiles, for all the corks are out of the long-necked bottles, and their contents are disappearing rapidly. Miss Emma's papa is at the top of the table; Miss Emma's mamma at the bottom; and beside the latter are Miss Emma herself and her husband,-admitted on all hands to be the handsomest and most interesting young couple ever known. All down both sides of the table, too, are various young ladies, beautiful to see, and various young gentlemen who seem to think so; and there, in a post of honour, is an unmarried aunt of Miss Emma's, reported to possess unheard-of riches, and to have expressed vast testamentary intentions respecting her favourite niece and new nephew. This lady has been very liberal and generous already, as the jewels worn by the bride abundantly testify, but that is nothing to what she means to do, or even to what she has done, for she put herself in close communication with the dressmaker three months ago, and prepared a wardrobe (with some articles worked by her own hands) fit for a Princess. People may call her an old maid, and so she may be, but she is neither cross nor ugly for all that; on the contrary, she is very cheerful and pleasant-looking, and very kind and tender-hearted: which is no matter of surprise except to those who yield to popular prejudices without thinking why, and will never grow wiser and never know better.

And now the group has gone down to breakfast, and tears have given way to smiles, as all the corks are out of the long-necked bottles, and their contents are disappearing quickly. Miss Emma's dad is at the head of the table; Miss Emma's mom is at the foot; and next to her are Miss Emma herself and her husband, who everyone agrees is the most attractive and interesting young couple ever seen. Along both sides of the table, there are various young ladies, lovely to look at, and various young gentlemen who seem to think so; and there, in a place of honor, is an unmarried aunt of Miss Emma's, said to have unimaginable wealth and to have expressed extensive plans regarding her favorite niece and new nephew. This lady has already been very generous, as the jewels worn by the bride clearly show, but that's nothing compared to what she plans to give, or even what she has already done, since she got in touch with the dressmaker three months ago and prepared a wardrobe (including some pieces made by her own hands) fit for a princess. People may call her an old maid, and she may be, but she is neither grumpy nor unattractive; on the contrary, she is very cheerful and pleasant-looking, and very kind and warm-hearted, which should come as no surprise except to those who conform to popular prejudices without considering why, and who will never become wiser or know better.

Of all the company though, none are more pleasant to behold or better pleased with themselves than two young children, who, in honour of the day, have seats among the guests. Of these, one is a little fellow of six or eight years old, brother to the bride,-and the other a girl of the same age, or something younger, whom he calls 'his wife.' The real bride and bridegroom are not more devoted than they: he all love and attention, and she all blushes and fondness, toying with a little bouquet which he gave her this morning, and placing the scattered rose- leaves in her bosom with nature's own coquettishness. They have dreamt of each other in their quiet dreams, these children, and their little hearts have been nearly broken when the absent one has been dispraised in jest. When will there come in after-life a passion so earnest, generous, and true as theirs; what, even in its gentlest realities, can have the grace and charm that hover round such fairy lovers!

Of all the people at the event, none are more enjoyable to watch or happier with themselves than two young children who, in celebration of the day, have special seats among the guests. One is a little boy, about six or eight years old, the bride’s brother, and the other is a girl of similar age, or slightly younger, whom he refers to as "his wife." The real bride and groom aren't more dedicated than they are: he is all love and attention, and she is all blushing and affection, playing with a small bouquet he gave her this morning and placing the scattered rose petals in her dress with a natural playfulness. These children have dreamed of each other in their quiet moments, and their little hearts have felt almost broken when the absent one was teased in jest. When will there ever be a passion in later life as sincere, generous, and true as theirs? What, even in its simplest forms, can have the grace and charm that surround such fairy-tale lovers!

By this time the merriment and happiness of the feast have gained their height; certain ominous looks begin to be exchanged between the bridesmaids, and somehow it gets whispered about that the carriage which is to take the young couple into the country has arrived. Such members of the party as are most disposed to prolong its enjoyments, affect to consider this a false alarm, but it turns out too true, being speedily confirmed, first by the retirement of the bride and a select file of intimates who are to prepare her for the journey, and secondly by the withdrawal of the ladies generally. To this there ensues a particularly awkward pause, in which everybody essays to be facetious, and nobody succeeds; at length the bridegroom makes a mysterious disappearance in obedience to some equally mysterious signal; and the table is deserted.

By now, the fun and excitement of the celebration have reached their peak; some uneasy glances start to pass between the bridesmaids, and word gets around that the carriage meant to take the newlyweds to the countryside has arrived. Some guests who want to keep the party going pretend it's just a false alarm, but it turns out to be true, confirmed first by the bride's departure along with a close group of friends who are getting her ready for the trip, and then by the general exit of the ladies. This leads to a particularly awkward silence, where everyone tries to joke around, but no one manages to be funny; eventually, the groom makes a sudden exit following some equally mysterious cue, and the table is left empty.

Now, for at least six weeks last past it has been solemnly devised and settled that the young couple should go away in secret; but they no sooner appear without the door than the drawing-room windows are blocked up with ladies waving their handkerchiefs and kissing their hands, and the dining-room panes with gentlemen's faces beaming farewell in every queer variety of its expression. The hall and steps are crowded with servants in white favours, mixed up with particular friends and relations who have darted out to say good-bye; and foremost in the group are the tiny lovers arm in arm, thinking, with fluttering hearts, what happiness it would be to dash away together in that gallant coach, and never part again.

Now, for at least the past six weeks, it has been seriously planned and agreed that the young couple should sneak away; but as soon as they step outside the door, the drawing-room windows are filled with ladies waving their handkerchiefs and blowing kisses, and the dining-room panes are crowded with men’s faces beaming farewell in all sorts of funny expressions. The hall and steps are packed with servants in white favors, mixed in with special friends and relatives who rushed out to say goodbye; and at the front of the group are the little lovers, arm in arm, dreaming, with fluttering hearts, about how wonderful it would be to take off together in that stylish coach and never be apart again.

The bride has barely time for one hurried glance at her old home, when the steps rattle, the door slams, the horses clatter on the pavement, and they have left it far away.

The bride barely has time for a quick look at her old home when the steps bang, the door slams, the horses clatter on the pavement, and they’re already far away.

A knot of women servants still remain clustered in the hall, whispering among themselves, and there of course is Anne from number six, who has made another escape on some plea or other, and been an admiring witness of the departure. There are two points on which Anne expatiates over and over again, without the smallest appearance of fatigue or intending to leave off; one is, that she 'never see in all her life such a-oh such a angel of a gentleman as Mr. Harvey'-and the other, that she 'can't tell how it is, but it don't seem a bit like a work-a-day, or a Sunday neither-it's all so unsettled and unregular.' THE FORMAL COUPLE

A group of women servants is still huddled in the hall, quietly chatting among themselves, and of course, there’s Anne from number six, who has managed to slip away again for some reason and has been a fascinated observer of the departure. There are two things Anne goes on and on about, without showing even a hint of getting tired or wanting to stop; one is that she 'has never seen in her life such a—oh such a wonderful gentleman as Mr. Harvey'—and the other is that she 'can’t explain it, but it doesn’t feel like a regular day, or even a Sunday—it’s all so chaotic and unpredictable.' THE FORMAL COUPLE

The formal couple are the most prim, cold, immovable, and unsatisfactory people on the face of the earth. Their faces, voices, dress, house, furniture, walk, and manner, are all the essence of formality, unrelieved by one redeeming touch of frankness, heartiness, or nature.

The formal couple are the stiffest, coldest, most unyielding, and least satisfying people on earth. Everything about them—their faces, voices, clothes, home, furniture, gait, and demeanor—oozes formality, with not a single redeeming hint of honesty, warmth, or authenticity.

Everything with the formal couple resolves itself into a matter of form. They don't call upon you on your account, but their own; not to see how you are, but to show how they are: it is not a ceremony to do honour to you, but to themselves,-not due to your position, but to theirs. If one of a friend's children die, the formal couple are as sure and punctual in sending to the house as the undertaker; if a friend's family be increased, the monthly nurse is not more attentive than they. The formal couple, in fact, joyfully seize all occasions of testifying their good-breeding and precise observance of the little usages of society; and for you, who are the means to this end, they care as much as a man does for the tailor who has enabled him to cut a figure, or a woman for the milliner who has assisted her to a conquest.

Everything with the formal couple comes down to appearances. They don’t visit you for your sake, but for their own; not to check on how you’re doing, but to display how they’re doing. It’s not a gesture to honor you, but to glorify themselves—it's not about your status, but about theirs. If a friend’s child passes away, the formal couple is just as prompt and reliable in sending their condolences as the funeral home; if a friend's family grows, they’re just as attentive as the postpartum nurse. In fact, the formal couple eagerly takes every opportunity to show off their refinement and adherence to social norms; and as for you, who facilitate this purpose, they care as little about you as a man cares for the tailor who helped him look good, or a woman cares for the milliner who helped her win over a suitor.

Having an extensive connexion among that kind of people who make acquaintances and eschew friends, the formal gentleman attends from time to time a great many funerals, to which he is formally invited, and to which he formally goes, as returning a call for the last time. Here his deportment is of the most faultless description; he knows the exact pitch of voice it is proper to assume, the sombre look he ought to wear, the melancholy tread which should be his gait for the day. He is perfectly acquainted with all the dreary courtesies to be observed in a mourning-coach; knows when to sigh, and when to hide his nose in the white handkerchief; and looks into the grave and shakes his head when the ceremony is concluded, with the sad formality of a mute.

Having a wide circle of acquaintances who prefer polite interactions over real friendships, the formal gentleman occasionally attends many funerals, which he is officially invited to and attends as a way of returning a final call. At these events, his behavior is impeccably correct; he knows the appropriate tone of voice to use, the somber expression he should maintain, and the melancholy way of walking he should adopt for the day. He is fully versed in all the gloomy customs to observe in a mourning carriage; he knows when to sigh and when to discreetly dab his nose with a white handkerchief; and he peers into the grave and shakes his head at the end of the ceremony, displaying the mournful formality of a mute.

'What kind of funeral was it?' says the formal lady, when he returns home. 'Oh!' replies the formal gentleman, 'there never was such a gross and disgusting impropriety; there were no feathers.' 'No feathers!' cries the lady, as if on wings of black feathers dead people fly to Heaven, and, lacking them, they must of necessity go elsewhere. Her husband shakes his head; and further adds, that they had seed-cake instead of plum-cake, and that it was all white wine. 'All white wine!' exclaims his wife. 'Nothing but sherry and madeira,' says the husband. 'What! no port?' 'Not a drop.' No port, no plums, and no feathers! 'You will recollect, my dear,' says the formal lady, in a voice of stately reproof, 'that when we first met this poor man who is now dead and gone, and he took that very strange course of addressing me at dinner without being previously introduced, I ventured to express my opinion that the family were quite ignorant of etiquette, and very imperfectly acquainted with the decencies of life. You have now had a good opportunity of judging for yourself, and all I have to say is, that I trust you will never go to a funeral there again.' 'My dear,' replies the formal gentleman, 'I never will.' So the informal deceased is cut in his grave; and the formal couple, when they tell the story of the funeral, shake their heads, and wonder what some people's feelings are made of, and what their notions of propriety can be!

"What kind of funeral was it?" asks the formal lady when he gets home. "Oh!" replies the formal gentleman, "it was such a gross and disgusting mistake; there were no feathers." "No feathers!" cries the lady, as if dead people fly to Heaven on black feathered wings, and without them, they must go somewhere else. Her husband shakes his head and adds that they had seed-cake instead of plum-cake, and that it was all white wine. "All white wine!" exclaims his wife. "Just sherry and madeira," says the husband. "What! No port?" "Not a drop." No port, no plums, and no feathers! "You will remember, my dear," says the formal lady with a tone of dignified reproach, "that when we first met this poor man who is now gone, and he took that very odd approach of speaking to me at dinner without being introduced, I expressed my belief that the family was completely unaware of etiquette and very badly acquainted with the decencies of life. You’ve now had a good chance to judge for yourself, and all I can say is that I hope you never go to a funeral there again." "My dear," replies the formal gentleman, "I never will." So the informal deceased is disgraced in his grave; and the formal couple, when they share the story of the funeral, shake their heads and wonder what some people's feelings are made of and what their views on propriety could possibly be!

If the formal couple have a family (which they sometimes have), they are not children, but little, pale, sour, sharp-nosed men and women; and so exquisitely brought up, that they might be very old dwarfs for anything that appeareth to the contrary. Indeed, they are so acquainted with forms and conventionalities, and conduct themselves with such strict decorum, that to see the little girl break a looking-glass in some wild outbreak, or the little boy kick his parents, would be to any visitor an unspeakable relief and consolation.

If the formal couple has kids (which they sometimes do), they aren’t really children, but rather small, pale, sour, sharp-nosed kids; and they are brought up so meticulously that they could easily be mistaken for very old dwarfs. In fact, they are so familiar with rules and expectations, and act with such strict decorum, that witnessing the little girl shatter a mirror in a sudden outburst, or the little boy kicking his parents, would bring any guest an immense sense of relief and comfort.

The formal couple are always sticklers for what is rigidly proper, and have a great readiness in detecting hidden impropriety of speech or thought, which by less scrupulous people would be wholly unsuspected. Thus, if they pay a visit to the theatre, they sit all night in a perfect agony lest anything improper or immoral should proceed from the stage; and if anything should happen to be said which admits of a double construction, they never fail to take it up directly, and to express by their looks the great outrage which their feelings have sustained. Perhaps this is their chief reason for absenting themselves almost entirely from places of public amusement. They go sometimes to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy;-but that is often more shocking than the stage itself, and the formal lady thinks that it really is high time Mr. Etty was prosecuted and made a public example of.

The formal couple always insists on what's strictly proper and has a knack for spotting hidden improprieties in speech or thought that others might overlook. So, when they go to the theater, they spend the entire night in complete agony, worried that something improper or immoral might come from the stage. If anything is said that could be interpreted in more than one way, they quickly address it and make sure their expressions show the offense they've felt. This might be the main reason they mostly avoid public entertainment. Sometimes they go to the Royal Academy Exhibition, but that often shocks them even more than the theater, and the formal lady believes it's really time for Mr. Etty to be prosecuted and made an example of.

We made one at a christening party not long since, where there were amongst the guests a formal couple, who suffered the acutest torture from certain jokes, incidental to such an occasion, cut-and very likely dried also-by one of the godfathers; a red-faced elderly gentleman, who, being highly popular with the rest of the company, had it all his own way, and was in great spirits. It was at supper-time that this gentleman came out in full force. We-being of a grave and quiet demeanour-had been chosen to escort the formal lady down-stairs, and, sitting beside her, had a favourable opportunity of observing her emotions.

We had one at a christening party not too long ago, where there was a formal couple among the guests who endured the utmost discomfort from certain jokes typical of such an event, likely prepared in advance by one of the godfathers; a red-faced older man who was quite popular with the rest of the guests and had everything going his way, full of cheer. It was during supper that this man really let loose. We, being serious and reserved, were chosen to escort the formal lady downstairs, and sitting next to her gave us a good chance to observe her feelings.

We have a shrewd suspicion that, in the very beginning, and in the first blush-literally the first blush-of the matter, the formal lady had not felt quite certain whether the being present at such a ceremony, and encouraging, as it were, the public exhibition of a baby, was not an act involving some degree of indelicacy and impropriety; but certain we are that when that baby's health was drunk, and allusions were made, by a grey-headed gentleman proposing it, to the time when he had dandled in his arms the young Christian's mother,-certain we are that then the formal lady took the alarm, and recoiled from the old gentleman as from a hoary profligate. Still she bore it; she fanned herself with an indignant air, but still she bore it. A comic song was sung, involving a confession from some imaginary gentleman that he had kissed a female, and yet the formal lady bore it. But when at last, the health of the godfather before-mentioned being drunk, the godfather rose to return thanks, and in the course of his observations darkly hinted at babies yet unborn, and even contemplated the possibility of the subject of that festival having brothers and sisters, the formal lady could endure no more, but, bowing slightly round, and sweeping haughtily past the offender, left the room in tears, under the protection of the formal gentleman. THE LOVING COUPLE

We have a strong suspicion that, at the very start, and in the very first moment of the situation, the formal lady wasn’t completely sure whether attending such a ceremony and, in a way, supporting the public display of a baby was a bit inappropriate. However, we are certain that when the baby’s health was toasted, and a grey-haired gentleman referenced the time when he had held the young mother in his arms, the formal lady became alarmed and shrank away from the old gentleman as if he were a lewd man. Still, she tolerated it; she fanned herself indignantly, but she still tolerated it. A funny song was performed, confessing that some fictional man had kissed a woman, yet the formal lady endured it. But finally, when the health of the aforementioned godfather was proposed, and he stood up to express his gratitude, hinting at unborn babies and suggesting that the celebrant might have siblings, the formal lady could take no more. With a slight bow and a haughty sweep past the offender, she exited the room in tears, escorted by the formal gentleman. THE LOVING COUPLE

There cannot be a better practical illustration of the wise saw and ancient instance, that there may be too much of a good thing, than is presented by a loving couple. Undoubtedly it is meet and proper that two persons joined together in holy matrimony should be loving, and unquestionably it is pleasant to know and see that they are so; but there is a time for all things, and the couple who happen to be always in a loving state before company, are well-nigh intolerable.

There’s no better example of the saying that you can have too much of a good thing than a loving couple. Of course, it’s right and good for two people in a marriage to be loving, and it’s nice to see that they are; however, there’s a time for everything, and a couple that constantly acts affectionate in public can be really hard to take.

And in taking up this position we would have it distinctly understood that we do not seek alone the sympathy of bachelors, in whose objection to loving couples we recognise interested motives and personal considerations. We grant that to that unfortunate class of society there may be something very irritating, tantalising, and provoking, in being compelled to witness those gentle endearments and chaste interchanges which to loving couples are quite the ordinary business of life. But while we recognise the natural character of the prejudice to which these unhappy men are subject, we can neither receive their biassed evidence, nor address ourself to their inflamed and angered minds. Dispassionate experience is our only guide; and in these moral essays we seek no less to reform hymeneal offenders than to hold out a timely warning to all rising couples, and even to those who have not yet set forth upon their pilgrimage towards the matrimonial market.

And as we take this stance, we want it to be clear that we’re not just looking for the support of single men, whose objections to couples we see as driven by self-interest and personal issues. We understand that for this unfortunate group in society, it can be really frustrating and annoying to witness the tender affection and innocent exchanges that loving couples see as totally normal. However, while we acknowledge the natural bias these unhappy men have, we can’t accept their skewed opinions or address their angry and hurt feelings. Impartial experience is our only guide; and in these moral essays, we aim to not only reform those who fail in marriage but also to give an important warning to all upcoming couples, including those who haven’t yet started their journey toward the marriage market.

Let all couples, present or to come, therefore profit by the example of Mr. and Mrs. Leaver, themselves a loving couple in the first degree.

Let all couples, whether they're here now or will be in the future, learn from the example of Mr. and Mrs. Leaver, who are a truly loving couple.

Mr. and Mrs. Leaver are pronounced by Mrs. Starling, a widow lady who lost her husband when she was young, and lost herself about the same- time-for by her own count she has never since grown five years older-to be a perfect model of wedded felicity. 'You would suppose,' says the romantic lady, 'that they were lovers only just now engaged. Never was such happiness! They are so tender, so affectionate, so attached to each other, so enamoured, that positively nothing can be more charming!'

Mr. and Mrs. Leaver are described by Mrs. Starling, a widow who lost her husband when she was young and claims she hasn't aged a day since then, as the perfect example of married bliss. "You would think," says the romantic woman, "that they are a couple just recently engaged. Their happiness is incredible! They are so caring, so loving, so devoted to each other, so infatuated, that honestly, nothing could be more delightful!"

'Augusta, my soul,' says Mr. Leaver. 'Augustus, my life,' replies Mrs. Leaver. 'Sing some little ballad, darling,' quoth Mr. Leaver. 'I couldn't, indeed, dearest,' returns Mrs. Leaver. 'Do, my dove,' says Mr. Leaver. 'I couldn't possibly, my love,' replies Mrs. Leaver; 'and it's very naughty of you to ask me.' 'Naughty, darling!' cries Mr. Leaver. 'Yes, very naughty, and very cruel,' returns Mrs. Leaver, 'for you know I have a sore throat, and that to sing would give me great pain. You're a monster, and I hate you. Go away!' Mrs. Leaver has said 'go away,' because Mr. Leaver has tapped her under the chin: Mr. Leaver not doing as he is bid, but on the contrary, sitting down beside her, Mrs. Leaver slaps Mr. Leaver; and Mr. Leaver in return slaps Mrs. Leaver, and it being now time for all persons present to look the other way, they look the other way, and hear a still small sound as of kissing, at which Mrs. Starling is thoroughly enraptured, and whispers her neighbour that if all married couples were like that, what a heaven this earth would be!

'Augusta, my dear,' says Mr. Leaver. 'Augustus, my love,' replies Mrs. Leaver. 'Sing a little song, sweetheart,' says Mr. Leaver. 'I really can’t, darling,' Mrs. Leaver responds. 'Please, my love,' Mr. Leaver urges. 'I absolutely can't, my dear,' Mrs. Leaver replies, 'and it's very unfair of you to ask me.' 'Unfair, sweetheart!' exclaims Mr. Leaver. 'Yes, very unfair and very hurtful,' Mrs. Leaver replies, 'because you know I have a sore throat, and singing would really hurt me. You're terrible, and I don't like you. Go away!' Mrs. Leaver says 'go away' because Mr. Leaver has tapped her under the chin: since Mr. Leaver doesn’t do as she asks, but instead sits down next to her, Mrs. Leaver slaps Mr. Leaver; and Mr. Leaver then slaps Mrs. Leaver in return. As it’s now time for everyone present to look the other way, they turn away and hear a soft sound that resembles kissing, which leaves Mrs. Starling completely delighted, and she whispers to her neighbor that if all married couples were like that, what a paradise this earth would be!

The loving couple are at home when this occurs, and maybe only three or four friends are present, but, unaccustomed to reserve upon this interesting point, they are pretty much the same abroad. Indeed upon some occasions, such as a pic-nic or a water-party, their lovingness is even more developed, as we had an opportunity last summer of observing in person.

The loving couple is at home when this happens, and there are maybe only three or four friends around, but not used to holding back on this interesting point, they act pretty much the same outside as well. In fact, on some occasions, like a picnic or a water party, their affection is even more pronounced, as we had the chance to see in person last summer.

There was a great water-party made up to go to Twickenham and dine, and afterwards dance in an empty villa by the river-side, hired expressly for the purpose. Mr. and Mrs. Leaver were of the company; and it was our fortune to have a seat in the same boat, which was an eight-oared galley, manned by amateurs, with a blue striped awning of the same pattern as their Guernsey shirts, and a dingy red flag of the same shade as the whiskers of the stroke oar. A coxswain being appointed, and all other matters adjusted, the eight gentlemen threw themselves into strong paroxysms, and pulled up with the tide, stimulated by the compassionate remarks of the ladies, who one and all exclaimed, that it seemed an immense exertion-as indeed it did. At first we raced the other boat, which came alongside in gallant style; but this being found an unpleasant amusement, as giving rise to a great quantity of splashing, and rendering the cold pies and other viands very moist, it was unanimously voted down, and we were suffered to shoot a-head, while the second boat followed ingloriously in our wake.

There was a big group planning a water party to go to Twickenham for dinner, and afterwards to dance in an empty villa by the river, which was rented just for that occasion. Mr. and Mrs. Leaver were part of the group, and we were lucky enough to have a spot in the same boat, an eight-oared galley manned by amateurs, with a blue striped awning matching their Guernsey shirts and a dingy red flag that matched the stroke oar’s whiskers. Once a coxswain was appointed and everything was organized, the eight gentlemen threw themselves into vigorous efforts and rowed with the tide, encouraged by the sympathetic comments from the ladies, who all remarked on how it looked like a huge effort— which it really did. At first, we raced against another boat that came up alongside us with great style; however, this turned out to be an unpleasant distraction, causing a lot of splashing and making the cold pies and other food very wet. So, it was unanimously decided to stop the race, and we were allowed to move ahead while the second boat followed behind without any glory.

It was at this time that we first recognised Mr. Leaver. There were two firemen-watermen in the boat, lying by until somebody was exhausted; and one of them, who had taken upon himself the direction of affairs, was heard to cry in a gruff voice, 'Pull away, number two-give it her, number two-take a longer reach, number two-now, number two, sir, think you're winning a boat.' The greater part of the company had no doubt begun to wonder which of the striped Guernseys it might be that stood in need of such encouragement, when a stifled shriek from Mrs. Leaver confirmed the doubtful and informed the ignorant; and Mr. Leaver, still further disguised in a straw hat and no neckcloth, was observed to be in a fearful perspiration, and failing visibly. Nor was the general consternation diminished at this instant by the same gentleman (in the performance of an accidental aquatic feat, termed 'catching a crab') plunging suddenly backward, and displaying nothing of himself to the company, but two violently struggling legs. Mrs. Leaver shrieked again several times, and cried piteously-'Is he dead? Tell me the worst. Is he dead?'

It was at this time that we first recognized Mr. Leaver. There were two firemen-watermen in the boat, waiting until someone got exhausted; and one of them, who had taken charge, was heard shouting in a rough voice, 'Pull harder, number two—give it your all, number two—take a longer stroke, number two—now, number two, come on, think you're winning a race.' Most of the crowd had probably started to wonder which of the striped Guernseys needed such encouragement, when a muffled scream from Mrs. Leaver confirmed their doubts and informed the clueless; Mr. Leaver, further disguised in a straw hat and without a necktie, was seen to be in a terrible sweat and clearly struggling. The general panic was not eased at this moment by the same man (in the midst of an accidental mishap known as 'catching a crab') suddenly falling backward, showing nothing to the crowd but two flailing legs. Mrs. Leaver screamed again several times and pleaded, 'Is he dead? Tell me the truth. Is he dead?'

Now, a moment's reflection might have convinced the loving wife, that unless her husband were endowed with some most surprising powers of muscular action, he never could be dead while he kicked so hard; but still Mrs. Leaver cried, 'Is he dead? is he dead?' and still everybody else cried-'No, no, no,' until such time as Mr. Leaver was replaced in a sitting posture, and his oar (which had been going through all kinds of wrong-headed performances on its own account) was once more put in his hand, by the exertions of the two firemen-watermen. Mr. Leaver then exclaimed, 'Augustus, my child, come to me;' and Mr. Leaver said, 'Augusta, my love, compose yourself, I am not injured.' But Mrs. Leaver cried again more piteously than before, 'Augustus, my child, come to me;' and now the company generally, who seemed to be apprehensive that if Mr. Leaver remained where he was, he might contribute more than his proper share towards the drowning of the party, disinterestedly took part with Mrs. Leaver, and said he really ought to go, and that he was not strong enough for such violent exercise, and ought never to have undertaken it. Reluctantly, Mr. Leaver went, and laid himself down at Mrs. Leaver's feet, and Mrs. Leaver stooping over him, said, 'Oh Augustus, how could you terrify me so?' and Mr. Leaver said, 'Augusta, my sweet, I never meant to terrify you;' and Mrs. Leaver said, 'You are faint, my dear;' and Mr. Leaver said, 'I am rather so, my love;' and they were very loving indeed under Mrs. Leaver's veil, until at length Mr. Leaver came forth again, and pleasantly asked if he had not heard something said about bottled stout and sandwiches.

Now, a moment's thought might have led the loving wife to realize that unless her husband had some truly incredible strength, he couldn't be dead while kicking so hard; but still, Mrs. Leaver cried, "Is he dead? Is he dead?" and everyone else shouted, "No, no, no," until Mr. Leaver was put back in a sitting position, and his oar (which had been doing all sorts of crazy things on its own) was placed back in his hand by the efforts of the two firemen-watermen. Mr. Leaver then said, "Augustus, my child, come to me;" and Mr. Leaver added, "Augusta, my love, calm down, I’m not hurt." But Mrs. Leaver cried again more desperately than before, "Augustus, my child, come to me;" and now the rest of the company, worried that if Mr. Leaver stayed where he was, he might contribute more than his fair share to the drowning, decided to side with Mrs. Leaver and said he really should leave and that he wasn't strong enough for such intense activity and shouldn’t have attempted it in the first place. Reluctantly, Mr. Leaver complied and laid down at Mrs. Leaver's feet, and as she leaned over him, she said, "Oh Augustus, how could you scare me like that?" and Mr. Leaver replied, "Augusta, my sweet, I never meant to scare you;" and Mrs. Leaver said, "You're pale, my dear;" and Mr. Leaver agreed, "I am a bit, my love;" and they were very affectionate indeed under Mrs. Leaver's veil, until eventually, Mr. Leaver sat up again and cheerfully asked if he hadn’t heard something about bottled stout and sandwiches.

Mrs. Starling, who was one of the party, was perfectly delighted with this scene, and frequently murmured half-aside, 'What a loving couple you are!' or 'How delightful it is to see man and wife so happy together!' To us she was quite poetical, (for we are a kind of cousins,) observing that hearts beating in unison like that made life a paradise of sweets; and that when kindred creatures were drawn together by sympathies so fine and delicate, what more than mortal happiness did not our souls partake! To all this we answered 'Certainly,' or 'Very true,' or merely sighed, as the case might be. At every new act of the loving couple, the widow's admiration broke out afresh; and when Mrs. Leaver would not permit Mr. Leaver to keep his hat off, lest the sun should strike to his head, and give him a brain fever, Mrs. Starling actually shed tears, and said it reminded her of Adam and Eve.

Mrs. Starling, who was part of the group, was absolutely thrilled by this scene and often said to herself, "What a loving couple you are!" or "How wonderful it is to see a husband and wife so happy together!" To us, she seemed quite poetic (since we’re kind of cousins), commenting that hearts beating in sync like that made life a paradise of sweetness; and that when kindred spirits were brought together by such fine and delicate sympathies, what greater happiness could our souls experience? To all this, we simply responded with "Of course," or "Very true," or just sighed, depending on the moment. With every new gesture from the loving couple, the widow's admiration would burst forth again; and when Mrs. Leaver wouldn’t let Mr. Leaver keep his hat off for fear the sun would affect his head and give him a brain fever, Mrs. Starling actually cried, saying it reminded her of Adam and Eve.

The loving couple were thus loving all the way to Twickenham, but when we arrived there (by which time the amateur crew looked very thirsty and vicious) they were more playful than ever, for Mrs. Leaver threw stones at Mr. Leaver, and Mr. Leaver ran after Mrs. Leaver on the grass, in a most innocent and enchanting manner. At dinner, too, Mr. Leaver would steal Mrs. Leaver's tongue, and Mrs. Leaver would retaliate upon Mr. Leaver's fowl; and when Mrs. Leaver was going to take some lobster salad, Mr. Leaver wouldn't let her have any, saying that it made her ill, and she was always sorry for it afterwards, which afforded Mrs. Leaver an opportunity of pretending to be cross, and showing many other prettinesses. But this was merely the smiling surface of their loves, not the mighty depths of the stream, down to which the company, to say the truth, dived rather unexpectedly, from the following accident. It chanced that Mr. Leaver took upon himself to propose the bachelors who had first originated the notion of that entertainment, in doing which, he affected to regret that he was no longer of their body himself, and pretended grievously to lament his fallen state. This Mrs. Leaver's feelings could not brook, even in jest, and consequently, exclaiming aloud, 'He loves me not, he loves me not!' she fell in a very pitiable state into the arms of Mrs. Starling, and, directly becoming insensible, was conveyed by that lady and her husband into another room. Presently Mr. Leaver came running back to know if there was a medical gentleman in company, and as there was, (in what company is there not?) both Mr. Leaver and the medical gentleman hurried away together.

The loving couple was clearly enjoying themselves all the way to Twickenham, but when we got there (by then the amateur crew looked pretty thirsty and aggressive), they were more playful than ever. Mrs. Leaver started throwing stones at Mr. Leaver, and he chased after her on the grass in a completely innocent and charming way. At dinner, Mr. Leaver would steal bites from Mrs. Leaver's plate, and she would retaliate by grabbing food off of his. When Mrs. Leaver wanted some lobster salad, Mr. Leaver refused to let her have any, claiming it made her sick and that she always regretted it afterward, which gave her the chance to pretend to be annoyed and show off her other cute behaviors. But this was just the happy surface of their love, not the deep waters beneath, which the group, honestly, unexpectedly found themselves diving into because of what happened next. Mr. Leaver proposed a toast to the bachelors who first came up with the idea for this gathering, expressing a fake regret that he was no longer part of their group and pretending to mourn his lost status. Mrs. Leaver couldn't stand this, even as a joke, and cried out, “He loves me not, he loves me not!” She then dramatically fell into Mrs. Starling's arms and, becoming unconscious, was carried away by that lady and her husband to another room. Soon after, Mr. Leaver rushed back to see if there was a doctor in the group, and since there was (isn't there always?), both he and the doctor hurried off together.

The medical gentleman was the first who returned, and among his intimate friends he was observed to laugh and wink, and look as unmedical as might be; but when Mr. Leaver came back he was very solemn, and in answer to all inquiries, shook his head, and remarked that Augusta was far too sensitive to be trifled with-an opinion which the widow subsequently confirmed. Finding that she was in no imminent peril, however, the rest of the party betook themselves to dancing on the green, and very merry and happy they were, and a vast quantity of flirtation there was; the last circumstance being no doubt attributable, partly to the fineness of the weather, and partly to the locality, which is well known to be favourable to all harmless recreations.

The doctor was the first to return, and among his close friends, he was spotted laughing and winking, trying to look as casual as possible. But when Mr. Leaver came back, he was very serious, and in response to everyone’s questions, he shook his head and said that Augusta was far too sensitive to be messed with—an opinion that the widow later confirmed. Once they realized she wasn’t in any immediate danger, the rest of the group started dancing on the green, having a great time, with plenty of flirting going on; this was likely due in part to the beautiful weather and also because the location is well known for being great for all kinds of fun activities.

In the bustle of the scene, Mr. and Mrs. Leaver stole down to the boat, and disposed themselves under the awning, Mrs. Leaver reclining her head upon Mr. Leaver's shoulder, and Mr. Leaver grasping her hand with great fervour, and looking in her face from time to time with a melancholy and sympathetic aspect. The widow sat apart, feigning to be occupied with a book, but stealthily observing them from behind her fan; and the two firemen-watermen, smoking their pipes on the bank hard by, nudged each other, and grinned in enjoyment of the joke. Very few of the party missed the loving couple; and the few who did, heartily congratulated each other on their disappearance. THE CONTRADICTORY COUPLE

In the hustle of the scene, Mr. and Mrs. Leaver quietly made their way to the boat and settled under the awning. Mrs. Leaver rested her head on Mr. Leaver's shoulder, while he held her hand tightly, glancing at her with a sad and caring expression from time to time. The widow sat off to the side, pretending to be absorbed in a book, but secretly watching them from behind her fan. Meanwhile, the two firemen-watermen, smoking their pipes nearby, nudged each other and grinned at the situation. Very few people in the group noticed the affectionate couple, and those who did happily congratulated each other on their absence. THE CONTRADICTORY COUPLE

One would suppose that two people who are to pass their whole lives together, and must necessarily be very often alone with each other, could find little pleasure in mutual contradiction; and yet what is more common than a contradictory couple?

One would think that two people who are going to spend their whole lives together and will often be alone with each other could find little enjoyment in arguing with each other; yet what’s more common than a couple that contradicts each other?

The contradictory couple agree in nothing but contradiction. They return home from Mrs. Bluebottle's dinner-party, each in an opposite corner of the coach, and do not exchange a syllable until they have been seated for at least twenty minutes by the fireside at home, when the gentleman, raising his eyes from the stove, all at once breaks silence:

The contradictory couple agree on nothing except their contradictions. They come home from Mrs. Bluebottle's dinner party, each sitting in opposite corners of the carriage, and don’t say a word until they’ve been sitting for at least twenty minutes by the fire at home. Then, the gentleman, lifting his gaze from the stove, suddenly breaks the silence:

'What a very extraordinary thing it is,' says he, 'that you will contradict, Charlotte!' 'I contradict!' cries the lady, 'but that's just like you.' 'What's like me?' says the gentleman sharply. 'Saying that I contradict you,' replies the lady. 'Do you mean to say that you do not contradict me?' retorts the gentleman; 'do you mean to say that you have not been contradicting me the whole of this day?' 'Do you mean to tell me now, that you have not? I mean to tell you nothing of the kind,' replies the lady quietly; 'when you are wrong, of course I shall contradict you.'

"What a truly strange thing this is," he says, "that you would contradict me, Charlotte!" "I contradict you?" the lady exclaims. "That’s just like you." "What’s like me?" the gentleman replies sharply. "Saying that I contradict you," the lady answers. "Are you saying you don’t contradict me?" the gentleman retorts. "Are you really saying you haven’t been contradicting me all day?" "Are you telling me now that you haven’t?" "I’m not telling you anything of the sort," the lady replies calmly. "When you’re wrong, of course I’ll contradict you."

During this dialogue the gentleman has been taking his brandy-and-water on one side of the fire, and the lady, with her dressing-case on the table, has been curling her hair on the other. She now lets down her back hair, and proceeds to brush it; preserving at the same time an air of conscious rectitude and suffering virtue, which is intended to exasperate the gentleman-and does so.

During this conversation, the man has been sipping his brandy and water on one side of the fireplace, while the woman, with her makeup case on the table, has been curling her hair on the other. She now lets her hair down and starts to brush it, all while maintaining an air of moral superiority and enduring virtue, which is meant to annoy the man—and it does.

'I do believe,' he says, taking the spoon out of his glass, and tossing it on the table, 'that of all the obstinate, positive, wrong-headed creatures that were ever born, you are the most so, Charlotte.' 'Certainly, certainly, have it your own way, pray. You see how much I contradict you,' rejoins the lady. 'Of course, you didn't contradict me at dinner-time-oh no, not you!' says the gentleman. 'Yes, I did,' says the lady. 'Oh, you did,' cries the gentleman 'you admit that?' 'If you call that contradiction, I do,' the lady answers; 'and I say again, Edward, that when I know you are wrong, I will contradict you. I am not your slave.' 'Not my slave!' repeats the gentleman bitterly; 'and you still mean to say that in the Blackburns' new house there are not more than fourteen doors, including the door of the wine-cellar!' 'I mean to say,' retorts the lady, beating time with her hair-brush on the palm of her hand, 'that in that house there are fourteen doors and no more.' 'Well then-' cries the gentleman, rising in despair, and pacing the room with rapid strides. 'By G-, this is enough to destroy a man's intellect, and drive him mad!'

"I really believe," he says, pulling the spoon out of his glass and tossing it on the table, "that out of all the stubborn, determined, wrong-headed people ever born, you are the worst, Charlotte." "Sure, sure, go ahead and think that," the lady replies. "Look how much I argue with you." "Of course, you didn't argue with me at dinner—oh no, not you!" the man says. "Yes, I did," the lady insists. "Oh, you did," the man exclaims. "You admit that?" "If you call that arguing, I do," the lady responds. "And I’ll say it again, Edward, that when I know you’re wrong, I will argue with you. I am not your servant." "Not your servant!" the man repeats bitterly. "And you still want to claim that in the Blackburns' new house there aren't more than fourteen doors, including the wine-cellar door?" "I want to say," the lady snaps, tapping her hairbrush against her palm, "that in that house there are fourteen doors and no more." "Well then—" the man cries, rising in frustration and pacing the room quickly. "By God, this is enough to drive a man to madness!"

By and by the gentleman comes-to a little, and passing his hand gloomily across his forehead, reseats himself in his former chair. There is a long silence, and this time the lady begins. 'I appealed to Mr. Jenkins, who sat next to me on the sofa in the drawing-room during tea-' 'Morgan, you mean,' interrupts the gentleman. 'I do not mean anything of the kind,' answers the lady. 'Now, by all that is aggravating and impossible to bear,' cries the gentleman, clenching his hands and looking upwards in agony, 'she is going to insist upon it that Morgan is Jenkins!' 'Do you take me for a perfect fool?' exclaims the lady; 'do you suppose I don't know the one from the other? Do you suppose I don't know that the man in the blue coat was Mr. Jenkins?' 'Jenkins in a blue coat!' cries the gentleman with a groan; 'Jenkins in a blue coat! a man who would suffer death rather than wear anything but brown!' 'Do you dare to charge me with telling an untruth?' demands the lady, bursting into tears. 'I charge you, ma'am,' retorts the gentleman, starting up, 'with being a monster of contradiction, a monster of aggravation, a-a-a-Jenkins in a blue coat!-what have I done that I should be doomed to hear such statements!'

Slowly, the man comes to his senses and, brushing his hand wearily across his forehead, sits back down in his previous chair. A long silence follows, and this time the woman speaks first. "I talked to Mr. Jenkins, who was sitting next to me on the sofa in the drawing room during tea—" "You mean Morgan," interrupts the man. "I don't mean that at all," the woman replies. "Now, for all that is frustrating and impossible to handle," the man exclaims, clenching his fists and looking up in despair, "she's going to insist that Morgan is Jenkins!" "Do you think I'm a complete fool?" the woman exclaims. "Do you really think I can't tell them apart? Do you really believe I don't know that the man in the blue coat was Mr. Jenkins?" "Jenkins in a blue coat!" the man groans. "Jenkins in a blue coat! A man who would rather die than wear anything but brown!" "How dare you accuse me of lying?" the woman demands, bursting into tears. "I accuse you, ma'am," the man responds, jumping to his feet, "of being a walking contradiction, a source of frustration—a—a Jenkins in a blue coat! What have I done to deserve hearing such nonsense!"

Expressing himself with great scorn and anguish, the gentleman takes up his candle and stalks off to bed, where feigning to be fast asleep when the lady comes up-stairs drowned in tears, murmuring lamentations over her hard fate and indistinct intentions of consulting her brothers, he undergoes the secret torture of hearing her exclaim between whiles, 'I know there are only fourteen doors in the house, I know it was Mr. Jenkins, I know he had a blue coat on, and I would say it as positively as I do now, if they were the last words I had to speak!'

Expressing his deep contempt and pain, the gentleman grabs his candle and heads off to bed, pretending to be sound asleep when the lady comes upstairs, overwhelmed with tears. She murmurs her sorrows about her tough situation and vague plans to talk to her brothers. Meanwhile, he silently endures the anguish of hearing her cry out intermittently, "I know there are only fourteen doors in the house, I know it was Mr. Jenkins, I know he was wearing a blue coat, and I would say it just as firmly as I do now, even if these were the last words I ever spoke!"

If the contradictory couple are blessed with children, they are not the less contradictory on that account. Master James and Miss Charlotte present themselves after dinner, and being in perfect good humour, and finding their parents in the same amiable state, augur from these appearances half a glass of wine a-piece and other extraordinary indulgences. But unfortunately Master James, growing talkative upon such prospects, asks his mamma how tall Mrs. Parsons is, and whether she is not six feet high; to which his mamma replies, 'Yes, she should think she was, for Mrs. Parsons is a very tall lady indeed; quite a giantess.' 'For Heaven's sake, Charlotte,' cries her husband, 'do not tell the child such preposterous nonsense. Six feet high!' 'Well,' replies the lady, 'surely I may be permitted to have an opinion; my opinion is, that she is six feet high-at least six feet.' 'Now you know, Charlotte,' retorts the gentleman sternly, 'that that is not your opinion-that you have no such idea-and that you only say this for the sake of contradiction.' 'You are exceedingly polite,' his wife replies; 'to be wrong about such a paltry question as anybody's height, would be no great crime; but I say again, that I believe Mrs. Parsons to be six feet-more than six feet; nay, I believe you know her to be full six feet, and only say she is not, because I say she is.' This taunt disposes the gentleman to become violent, but he cheeks himself, and is content to mutter, in a haughty tone, 'Six feet-ha! ha! Mrs. Parsons six feet!' and the lady answers, 'Yes, six feet. I am sure I am glad you are amused, and I'll say it again-six feet.' Thus the subject gradually drops off, and the contradiction begins to be forgotten, when Master James, with some undefined notion of making himself agreeable, and putting things to rights again, unfortunately asks his mamma what the moon's made of; which gives her occasion to say that he had better not ask her, for she is always wrong and never can be right; that he only exposes her to contradiction by asking any question of her; and that he had better ask his papa, who is infallible, and never can be wrong. Papa, smarting under this attack, gives a terrible pull at the bell, and says, that if the conversation is to proceed in this way, the children had better be removed. Removed they are, after a few tears and many struggles; and Pa having looked at Ma sideways for a minute or two, with a baleful eye, draws his pocket-handkerchief over his face, and composes himself for his after-dinner nap.

If the contradictory couple has children, they aren’t any less contradictory because of it. Master James and Miss Charlotte show up after dinner, and, feeling cheerful and seeing that their parents are in the same good mood, they expect to get half a glass of wine each and other special treats. But unfortunately, Master James, getting chatty about these prospects, asks his mom how tall Mrs. Parsons is and if she isn’t six feet tall. To this, his mom replies, “Yes, I’d think she is, because Mrs. Parsons is a very tall lady indeed; quite a giantess.” “For heaven's sake, Charlotte,” shouts her husband, “don’t tell the child such ridiculous nonsense. Six feet tall!” “Well,” the lady answers, “I’m definitely allowed to have an opinion; my opinion is that she is six feet tall—at least six feet.” “Now you know, Charlotte,” the gentleman retorts sternly, “that’s not your opinion—that you have no such idea—and that you only say this just to be contrary.” “You’re very polite,” his wife responds. “Being wrong about something so trivial as a person’s height wouldn’t be a big deal; but again, I say that I believe Mrs. Parsons is six feet—more than six feet; in fact, I think you know she’s a full six feet too, and you only say she’s not because I say she is.” This jab makes the gentleman want to get angry, but he holds back and chooses instead to huff in a condescending tone, “Six feet—ha! Ha! Mrs. Parsons six feet!” and the lady replies, “Yes, six feet. I’m glad you find it amusing, and I’ll say it again—six feet.” So the topic eventually fades, and the contradiction starts to be forgotten when Master James, with a vague idea of trying to be agreeable and fixing things, unfortunately asks his mom what the moon is made of; this prompts her to say that he’d better not ask her because she’s always wrong and can never be right; that he only makes her contradict herself by asking her anything; and that he should ask his dad, who is infallible and never wrong. Dad, feeling stung by this remark, pulls the bell hard and says that if the conversation is going to go on like this, the kids should be taken away. They are taken away after a few tears and many struggles; and Dad, having glanced at Mom sideways for a minute or two with a furious look, takes out his handkerchief, covers his face, and settles down for his post-dinner nap.

The friends of the contradictory couple often deplore their frequent disputes, though they rather make light of them at the same time: observing, that there is no doubt they are very much attached to each other, and that they never quarrel except about trifles. But neither the friends of the contradictory couple, nor the contradictory couple themselves, reflect, that as the most stupendous objects in nature are but vast collections of minute particles, so the slightest and least considered trifles make up the sum of human happiness or misery. THE COUPLE WHO DOTE UPON THEIR CHILDREN

The friends of the arguing couple often lament their constant disagreements, even though they tend to brush them off at the same time. They point out that it’s clear they are very much in love with each other and only fight over minor issues. But neither the friends nor the couple themselves realize that just as the most impressive things in nature are made up of countless tiny parts, the smallest and often overlooked details contribute to the overall happiness or unhappiness of human life. THE COUPLE WHO DOTE UPON THEIR CHILDREN

The couple who dote upon their children have usually a great many of them: six or eight at least. The children are either the healthiest in all the world, or the most unfortunate in existence. In either case, they are equally the theme of their doting parents, and equally a source of mental anguish and irritation to their doting parents' friends.

The couple who spoils their kids usually has quite a few of them: six or eight, at least. The kids are either the healthiest in the world or the most unfortunate on the planet. In either situation, they are the constant focus of their parents' affection, and they equally cause mental stress and annoyance to their parents' friends.

The couple who dote upon their children recognise no dates but those connected with their births, accidents, illnesses, or remarkable deeds. They keep a mental almanack with a vast number of Innocents'-days, all in red letters. They recollect the last coronation, because on that day little Tom fell down the kitchen stairs; the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot, because it was on the fifth of November that Ned asked whether wooden legs were made in heaven and cocked hats grew in gardens. Mrs. Whiffler will never cease to recollect the last day of the old year as long as she lives, for it was on that day that the baby had the four red spots on its nose which they took for measles: nor Christmas-day, for twenty-one days after Christmas-day the twins were born; nor Good Friday, for it was on a Good Friday that she was frightened by the donkey-cart when she was in the family way with Georgiana. The movable feasts have no motion for Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler, but remain pinned down tight and fast to the shoulders of some small child, from whom they can never be separated any more. Time was made, according to their creed, not for slaves but for girls and boys; the restless sands in his glass are but little children at play.

The couple who are devoted to their kids only recognize dates related to their births, accidents, illnesses, or special events. They have a mental calendar full of Innocents' Days, all marked in red. They remember the last coronation because that’s when little Tom tumbled down the kitchen stairs; they recall the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot because on November 5th, Ned asked if wooden legs were made in heaven and if cocked hats grew in gardens. Mrs. Whiffler will never forget the last day of the old year for as long as she lives, since that’s when the baby had four red spots on its nose that they thought were measles; nor can she forget Christmas Day, because 21 days later, the twins were born; nor Good Friday, since she was startled by the donkey cart while she was pregnant with Georgiana. The movable feasts mean nothing to Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler; they remain firmly attached to the shoulders of their little ones, from whom they can never be separated. For them, time was created not for slaves but for children; the restless sands in the hourglass are just little kids at play.

As we have already intimated, the children of this couple can know no medium. They are either prodigies of good health or prodigies of bad health; whatever they are, they must be prodigies. Mr. Whiffler must have to describe at his office such excruciating agonies constantly undergone by his eldest boy, as nobody else's eldest boy ever underwent; or he must be able to declare that there never was a child endowed with such amazing health, such an indomitable constitution, and such a cast- iron frame, as his child. His children must be, in some respect or other, above and beyond the children of all other people. To such an extent is this feeling pushed, that we were once slightly acquainted with a lady and gentleman who carried their heads so high and became so proud after their youngest child fell out of a two-pair-of-stairs window without hurting himself much, that the greater part of their friends were obliged to forego their acquaintance. But perhaps this may be an extreme case, and one not justly entitled to be considered as a precedent of general application.

As we've already hinted, the kids of this couple have no middle ground. They're either incredibly healthy or incredibly unhealthy; whatever the case, they have to be extraordinary. Mr. Whiffler must describe at work the unbearable pain his eldest son constantly experiences, which no one else’s eldest son has ever endured; or he has to say that there has never been a kid with such incredible health, such a strong constitution, and such a tough body as his child. His kids must be, in some way, superior to all other kids. This attitude is taken to such an extreme that we once knew a couple who held their heads high and became so proud after their youngest child fell out of a two-story window without getting hurt that most of their friends had to end the relationship. But maybe that’s an extreme case and shouldn't be viewed as a general rule.

If a friend happen to dine in a friendly way with one of these couples who dote upon their children, it is nearly impossible for him to divert the conversation from their favourite topic. Everything reminds Mr. Whiffler of Ned, or Mrs. Whiffler of Mary Anne, or of the time before Ned was born, or the time before Mary Anne was thought of. The slightest remark, however harmless in itself, will awaken slumbering recollections of the twins. It is impossible to steer clear of them. They will come uppermost, let the poor man do what he may. Ned has been known to be lost sight of for half an hour, Dick has been forgotten, the name of Mary Anne has not been mentioned, but the twins will out. Nothing can keep down the twins.

If a friend happens to have dinner with one of those couples who are obsessed with their kids, it’s almost impossible for him to change the subject from their favorite topic. Everything reminds Mr. Whiffler of Ned, or Mrs. Whiffler of Mary Anne, or of the time before Ned was born, or the time before Mary Anne was even thought of. The smallest comment, no matter how innocent, will bring up memories of the twins. There’s no avoiding them. They will come up, no matter what the poor guy does. Ned has been known to be out of sight for half an hour, Dick has been forgotten, Mary Anne’s name hasn’t been mentioned, but the twins will always come up. Nothing can keep the twins down.

'It's a very extraordinary thing, Saunders,' says Mr. Whiffler to the visitor, 'but-you have seen our little babies, the-the-twins?' The friend's heart sinks within him as he answers, 'Oh, yes-often.' 'Your talking of the Pyramids,' says Mr. Whiffler, quite as a matter of course, 'reminds me of the twins. It's a very extraordinary thing about those babies-what colour should you say their eyes were?' 'Upon my word,' the friend stammers, 'I hardly know how to answer'-the fact being, that except as the friend does not remember to have heard of any departure from the ordinary course of nature in the instance of these twins, they might have no eyes at all for aught he has observed to the contrary. 'You wouldn't say they were red, I suppose?' says Mr. Whiffler. The friend hesitates, and rather thinks they are; but inferring from the expression of Mr. Whiffler's face that red is not the colour, smiles with some confidence, and says, 'No, no! very different from that.' 'What should you say to blue?' says Mr. Whiffler. The friend glances at him, and observing a different expression in his face, ventures to say, 'I should say they were blue-a decided blue.' 'To be sure!' cries Mr. Whiffler, triumphantly, 'I knew you would! But what should you say if I was to tell you that the boy's eyes are blue and the girl's hazel, eh?' 'Impossible!' exclaims the friend, not at all knowing why it should be impossible. 'A fact, notwithstanding,' cries Mr. Whiffler; 'and let me tell you, Saunders, that's not a common thing in twins, or a circumstance that'll happen every day.'

"It's a really unusual thing, Saunders," Mr. Whiffler says to the visitor, "but—have you seen our little babies, the twins?" The friend's heart sinks as he replies, "Oh, yes—often." "Your mention of the Pyramids," Mr. Whiffler says casually, "reminds me of the twins. It's very strange about those babies—what color would you say their eyes are?" "Honestly," the friend stammers, "I hardly know how to answer"—the truth being that aside from the fact that he doesn't recall hearing anything unusual about these twins, they might as well have no eyes at all based on his observations. "You wouldn't say they were red, would you?" Mr. Whiffler asks. The friend hesitates, thinks they might be, but reads Mr. Whiffler's expression and, sensing that red isn't the right color, smiles with some confidence and says, "No, no! Very different from that." "What about blue?" Mr. Whiffler inquires. The friend glances at him and seeing a different look on his face, dares to say, "I would say they're blue—a definite blue." "Of course!" Mr. Whiffler exclaims triumphantly, "I knew you would! But what would you say if I told you the boy's eyes are blue and the girl's are hazel, huh?" "Impossible!" the friend exclaims, not really knowing why it should be impossible. "A fact, nonetheless," Mr. Whiffler insists; "and let me tell you, Saunders, that's not something you see every day in twins."

In this dialogue Mrs. Whiffler, as being deeply responsible for the twins, their charms and singularities, has taken no share; but she now relates, in broken English, a witticism of little Dick's bearing upon the subject just discussed, which delights Mr. Whiffler beyond measure, and causes him to declare that he would have sworn that was Dick's if he had heard it anywhere. Then he requests that Mrs. Whiffler will tell Saunders what Tom said about mad bulls; and Mrs. Whiffler relating the anecdote, a discussion ensues upon the different character of Tom's wit and Dick's wit, from which it appears that Dick's humour is of a lively turn, while Tom's style is the dry and caustic. This discussion being enlivened by various illustrations, lasts a long time, and is only stopped by Mrs. Whiffler instructing the footman to ring the nursery bell, as the children were promised that they should come down and taste the pudding.

In this conversation, Mrs. Whiffler, who feels very responsible for the twins and their unique traits, hasn't joined in. However, she shares, in broken English, a funny remark from little Dick related to the topic just discussed, which absolutely delights Mr. Whiffler and makes him say he would have bet it was Dick's if he had heard it elsewhere. He then asks Mrs. Whiffler to tell Saunders what Tom said about crazy bulls. As Mrs. Whiffler recounts the story, a debate starts about the different styles of Tom's humor and Dick's humor. It becomes clear that Dick's humor is lively, while Tom's is dry and sharp. This animated discussion, filled with various examples, goes on for quite a while and only ends when Mrs. Whiffler tells the footman to ring the nursery bell, since the kids were promised they could come down and taste the pudding.

The friend turns pale when this order is given, and paler still when it is followed up by a great pattering on the staircase, (not unlike the sound of rain upon a skylight,) a violent bursting open of the dining- room door, and the tumultuous appearance of six small children, closely succeeded by a strong nursery-maid with a twin in each arm. As the whole eight are screaming, shouting, or kicking-some influenced by a ravenous appetite, some by a horror of the stranger, and some by a conflict of the two feelings-a pretty long space elapses before all their heads can be ranged round the table and anything like order restored; in bringing about which happy state of things both the nurse and footman are severely scratched. At length Mrs. Whiffler is heard to say, 'Mr. Saunders, shall I give you some pudding?' A breathless silence ensues, and sixteen small eyes are fixed upon the guest in expectation of his reply. A wild shout of joy proclaims that he has said 'No, thank you.' Spoons are waved in the air, legs appear above the table-cloth in uncontrollable ecstasy, and eighty short fingers dabble in damson syrup.

The friend goes pale when this order is given, and even paler when it’s followed by a loud pattering on the stairs, (similar to the sound of rain on a skylight,) a sudden bursting open of the dining room door, and the chaotic entrance of six small children, closely followed by a strong nanny carrying a toddler in each arm. With all eight screaming, shouting, or kicking—some fueled by ravenous hunger, some by fear of the stranger, and some caught in a mix of both feelings—it takes quite a while before all their heads can be arranged around the table and any semblance of order can be restored; during this chaotic process, both the nanny and footman end up getting scratched. Finally, Mrs. Whiffler is heard to say, 'Mr. Saunders, shall I give you some pudding?' A breathless silence follows, and sixteen small eyes are fixed on the guest, eagerly waiting for his response. A wild cheer of joy erupts when he says 'No, thank you.' Spoons are waved in the air, legs pop up from under the tablecloth in uncontrollable excitement, and eighty little fingers dive into the damson syrup.

While the pudding is being disposed of, Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler look on with beaming countenances, and Mr. Whiffler nudging his friend Saunders, begs him to take notice of Tom's eyes, or Dick's chin, or Ned's nose, or Mary Anne's hair, or Emily's figure, or little Bob's calves, or Fanny's mouth, or Carry's head, as the case may be. Whatever the attention of Mr. Saunders is called to, Mr. Saunders admires of course; though he is rather confused about the sex of the youngest branches and looks at the wrong children, turning to a girl when Mr. Whiffler directs his attention to a boy, and falling into raptures with a boy when he ought to be enchanted with a girl. Then the dessert comes, and there is a vast deal of scrambling after fruit, and sudden spirting forth of juice out of tight oranges into infant eyes, and much screeching and wailing in consequence. At length it becomes time for Mrs. Whiffler to retire, and all the children are by force of arms compelled to kiss and love Mr. Saunders before going up-stairs, except Tom, who, lying on his back in the hall, proclaims that Mr. Saunders 'is a naughty beast;' and Dick, who having drunk his father's wine when he was looking another way, is found to be intoxicated and is carried out, very limp and helpless.

While the pudding is being cleared away, Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler watch with smiling faces, and Mr. Whiffler nudges his friend Saunders, urging him to notice Tom's eyes, or Dick's chin, or Ned's nose, or Mary Anne's hair, or Emily's figure, or little Bob's calves, or Fanny's mouth, or Carry's head, as it happens to be. Whatever Mr. Saunders is directed to admire, he does so, though he's a bit confused about the genders of the youngest kids and ends up looking at the wrong children, turning to a girl when Mr. Whiffler points out a boy, and marveling at a boy when he should be captivated by a girl. Then dessert arrives, and there's a lot of scrambling for fruit, with juice unexpectedly squirting from tight oranges into little eyes, causing plenty of screams and cries. Finally, it's time for Mrs. Whiffler to leave, and all the kids are forced to kiss and hug Mr. Saunders before heading upstairs, except for Tom, who, lying on his back in the hall, declares that Mr. Saunders "is a naughty beast;" and Dick, who has secretly drunk his father's wine while he was distracted, is found to be drunk and is carried out, very limp and helpless.

Mr. Whiffler and his friend are left alone together, but Mr. Whiffler's thoughts are still with his family, if his family are not with him. 'Saunders,' says he, after a short silence, 'if you please, we'll drink Mrs. Whiffler and the children.' Mr. Saunders feels this to be a reproach against himself for not proposing the same sentiment, and drinks it in some confusion. 'Ah!' Mr. Whiffler sighs, 'these children, Saunders, make one quite an old man.' Mr. Saunders thinks that if they were his, they would make him a very old man; but he says nothing. 'And yet,' pursues Mr. Whiffler, 'what can equal domestic happiness? what can equal the engaging ways of children! Saunders, why don't you get married?' Now, this is an embarrassing question, because Mr. Saunders has been thinking that if he had at any time entertained matrimonial designs, the revelation of that day would surely have routed them for ever. 'I am glad, however,' says Mr. Whiffler, 'that you are a bachelor,-glad on one account, Saunders; a selfish one, I admit. Will you do Mrs. Whiffler and myself a favour?' Mr. Saunders is surprised-evidently surprised; but he replies, 'with the greatest pleasure.' 'Then, will you, Saunders,' says Mr. Whiffler, in an impressive manner, 'will you cement and consolidate our friendship by coming into the family (so to speak) as a godfather?' 'I shall be proud and delighted,' replies Mr. Saunders: 'which of the children is it? really, I thought they were all christened; or-' 'Saunders,' Mr. Whiffler interposes, 'they are all christened; you are right. The fact is, that Mrs. Whiffler is-in short, we expect another.' 'Not a ninth!' cries the friend, all aghast at the idea. 'Yes, Saunders,' rejoins Mr. Whiffler, solemnly, 'a ninth. Did we drink Mrs. Whiffler's health? Let us drink it again, Saunders, and wish her well over it!'

Mr. Whiffler and his friend are left alone together, but Mr. Whiffler's thoughts are still with his family, even if they aren't with him. "Saunders," he says after a short pause, "let's toast to Mrs. Whiffler and the kids." Mr. Saunders feels this is a jab at him for not suggesting the same thing, and he drinks sheepishly. "Ah!" Mr. Whiffler sighs, "these kids, Saunders, make you feel old." Mr. Saunders thinks that if they were his kids, they would make him feel very old too, but he says nothing. "And yet," Mr. Whiffler continues, "what can match domestic happiness? What can compare to the charming ways of children! Saunders, why don't you get married?" This is an awkward question, as Mr. Saunders has been contemplating that if he ever thought about marriage, today’s revelation would surely put an end to those thoughts. "I'm actually glad," Mr. Whiffler says, "that you are single—glad for one selfish reason, I admit. Would you do Mrs. Whiffler and me a favor?" Mr. Saunders is clearly surprised but replies, "with pleasure." "So, will you, Saunders," Mr. Whiffler says seriously, "cement and strengthen our friendship by becoming a godfather to the family?" "I’d be honored and thrilled," Mr. Saunders replies. "Which of the kids is it? Really, I thought they were all baptized; or—" "Saunders," Mr. Whiffler interrupts, "they are all baptized; you're right. The truth is, Mrs. Whiffler is—in short, we’re expecting another." "Not a ninth!" exclaims his friend, shocked by the idea. "Yes, Saunders," Mr. Whiffler responds solemnly, "a ninth. Did we toast to Mrs. Whiffler's health? Let's do it again, Saunders, and wish her well!"

Doctor Johnson used to tell a story of a man who had but one idea, which was a wrong one. The couple who dote upon their children are in the same predicament: at home or abroad, at all times, and in all places, their thoughts are bound up in this one subject, and have no sphere beyond. They relate the clever things their offspring say or do, and weary every company with their prolixity and absurdity. Mr. Whiffler takes a friend by the button at a street corner on a windy day to tell him a bon mot of his youngest boy's; and Mrs. Whiffler, calling to see a sick acquaintance, entertains her with a cheerful account of all her own past sufferings and present expectations. In such cases the sins of the fathers indeed descend upon the children; for people soon come to regard them as predestined little bores. The couple who dote upon their children cannot be said to be actuated by a general love for these engaging little people (which would be a great excuse); for they are apt to underrate and entertain a jealousy of any children but their own. If they examined their own hearts, they would, perhaps, find at the bottom of all this, more self-love and egotism than they think of. Self-love and egotism are bad qualities, of which the unrestrained exhibition, though it may be sometimes amusing, never fails to be wearisome and unpleasant. Couples who dote upon their children, therefore, are best avoided. THE COOL COUPLE

Doctor Johnson used to share a story about a man who had just one idea, and it was the wrong one. The couple who are obsessed with their kids are in the same situation: whether at home or out, all the time and everywhere, their thoughts are focused solely on this one topic, with no room for anything else. They go on and on about the witty things their kids say or do, boring everyone they meet with their long-windedness and absurdity. Mr. Whiffler pulls a friend aside at a windy street corner to share a clever remark from his youngest son, while Mrs. Whiffler, visiting a sick friend, fills her in on all her past hardships and current hopes. In these cases, the parents’ flaws really do pass down to the children; soon enough, people start to see them as destined to be little nuisances. The couple who are obsessed with their kids can’t honestly be said to have a genuine love for these charming little people (which would be a reasonable excuse); instead, they often underestimate and feel jealous of other kids that aren’t theirs. If they looked deep within themselves, they might find that beneath it all lies more self-love and egotism than they realize. Self-love and egotism are undesirable traits, and while they can sometimes be entertaining when displayed openly, they inevitably become tiresome and unpleasant. Therefore, it’s best to steer clear of couples who are obsessed with their kids. THE COOL COUPLE

There is an old-fashioned weather-glass representing a house with two doorways, in one of which is the figure of a gentleman, in the other the figure of a lady. When the weather is to be fine the lady comes out and the gentleman goes in; when wet, the gentleman comes out and the lady goes in. They never seek each other's society, are never elevated and depressed by the same cause, and have nothing in common. They are the model of a cool couple, except that there is something of politeness and consideration about the behaviour of the gentleman in the weather-glass, in which, neither of the cool couple can be said to participate.

There’s an old-fashioned weather gauge that looks like a house with two doorways. In one doorway, there’s a figure of a gentleman, and in the other, a figure of a lady. When the weather is nice, the lady comes out and the gentleman goes in; when it’s wet, the gentleman comes out and the lady goes in. They never look for each other’s company, are never affected by the same events, and have nothing in common. They’re the epitome of a cool couple, except that the gentleman in the weather gauge shows a bit of politeness and consideration in his behavior, which neither of the cool couple can really be said to share.

The cool couple are seldom alone together, and when they are, nothing can exceed their apathy and dulness: the gentleman being for the most part drowsy, and the lady silent. If they enter into conversation, it is usually of an ironical or recriminatory nature. Thus, when the gentleman has indulged in a very long yawn and settled himself more snugly in his easy-chair, the lady will perhaps remark, 'Well, I am sure, Charles! I hope you're comfortable.' To which the gentleman replies, 'Oh yes, he's quite comfortable quite.' 'There are not many married men, I hope,' returns the lady, 'who seek comfort in such selfish gratifications as you do.' 'Nor many wives who seek comfort in such selfish gratifications as you do, I hope,' retorts the gentleman. 'Whose fault is that?' demands the lady. The gentleman becoming more sleepy, returns no answer. 'Whose fault is that?' the lady repeats. The gentleman still returning no answer, she goes on to say that she believes there never was in all this world anybody so attached to her home, so thoroughly domestic, so unwilling to seek a moment's gratification or pleasure beyond her own fireside as she. God knows that before she was married she never thought or dreamt of such a thing; and she remembers that her poor papa used to say again and again, almost every day of his life, 'Oh, my dear Louisa, if you only marry a man who understands you, and takes the trouble to consider your happiness and accommodate himself a very little to your disposition, what a treasure he will find in you!' She supposes her papa knew what her disposition was-he had known her long enough-he ought to have been acquainted with it, but what can she do? If her home is always dull and lonely, and her husband is always absent and finds no pleasure in her society, she is naturally sometimes driven (seldom enough, she is sure) to seek a little recreation elsewhere; she is not expected to pine and mope to death, she hopes. 'Then come, Louisa,' says the gentleman, waking up as suddenly as he fell asleep, 'stop at home this evening, and so will I.' 'I should be sorry to suppose, Charles, that you took a pleasure in aggravating me,' replies the lady; 'but you know as well as I do that I am particularly engaged to Mrs. Mortimer, and that it would be an act of the grossest rudeness and ill-breeding, after accepting a seat in her box and preventing her from inviting anybody else, not to go.' 'Ah! there it is!' says the gentleman, shrugging his shoulders, 'I knew that perfectly well. I knew you couldn't devote an evening to your own home. Now all I have to say, Louisa, is this-recollect that I was quite willing to stay at home, and that it's no fault of mine we are not oftener together.'

The cool couple are rarely alone together, and when they are, their apathy and dullness is overwhelming: the guy is mostly drowsy, and the girl is quiet. If they start talking, it’s usually sarcastic or accusatory. So, when the guy lets out a big yawn and gets comfortable in his easy chair, the girl might say, 'Well, I hope you're comfortable, Charles!' To which he replies, 'Oh yes, I’m very comfortable.' 'I hope there aren’t many married men,' she responds, 'who find comfort in such selfish pleasures as you do.' 'Nor many wives who find comfort in such selfish pleasures as you do, I hope,' he snaps back. 'Whose fault is that?' she asks. The guy, growing sleepier, doesn’t answer. 'Whose fault is that?' she repeats. Still getting no response, she adds that she believes there has never been anyone in this world so tied to home, so thoroughly domestic, and so unwilling to seek even a moment of fun beyond her own fireside as she is. God knows that before she got married, she never thought or dreamed of such a thing; and she remembers her poor dad saying over and over again, almost daily, 'Oh, my dear Louisa, if you just marry a man who understands you and makes a little effort to think about your happiness and adjust himself to your personality, what a treasure he will find in you!' She figures her dad knew her personality well enough—he had known her long enough, so he should have—but what can she do? If her home is always boring and lonely, and her husband is always absent and doesn’t enjoy her company, she’s naturally sometimes pushed (though not often, she’s sure) to find a little fun elsewhere; she hopes she’s not expected to just sit around and mope. 'Then come on, Louisa,' says the guy, waking up as suddenly as he fell asleep, 'stay home tonight, and so will I.' 'I’d be sorry to think, Charles, that you enjoy upsetting me,' replies the girl; 'but you know as well as I do that I’m committed to Mrs. Mortimer and that it would be incredibly rude and inconsiderate, after accepting a seat in her box and preventing her from inviting anyone else, not to go.' 'Ah! there it is!' says the guy, shrugging, 'I knew that perfectly well. I knew you couldn't spend an evening at home. Now all I have to say, Louisa, is this—remember that I was totally willing to stay home, and it’s not my fault we’re not together more often.'

With that the gentleman goes away to keep an old appointment at his club, and the lady hurries off to dress for Mrs. Mortimer's; and neither thinks of the other until by some odd chance they find themselves alone again.

With that, the man leaves to keep an old appointment at his club, and the woman rushes off to get ready for Mrs. Mortimer's event; neither of them thinks about the other until, by some strange coincidence, they find themselves alone again.

But it must not be supposed that the cool couple are habitually a quarrelsome one. Quite the contrary. These differences are only occasions for a little self-excuse,-nothing more. In general they are as easy and careless, and dispute as seldom, as any common acquaintances may; for it is neither worth their while to put each other out of the way, nor to ruffle themselves.

But you shouldn't think that the cool couple are always bickering. Quite the opposite. These disagreements are just moments for a bit of justifying themselves—nothing more. Usually, they're pretty laid-back and carefree, and they argue as rarely as any casual friends do; because it's not worth their time to upset each other or to get bothered.

When they meet in society, the cool couple are the best-bred people in existence. The lady is seated in a corner among a little knot of lady friends, one of whom exclaims, 'Why, I vow and declare there is your husband, my dear!' 'Whose?-mine?' she says, carelessly. 'Ay, yours, and coming this way too.' 'How very odd!' says the lady, in a languid tone, 'I thought he had been at Dover.' The gentleman coming up, and speaking to all the other ladies and nodding slightly to his wife, it turns out that he has been at Dover, and has just now returned. 'What a strange creature you are!' cries his wife; 'and what on earth brought you here, I wonder?' 'I came to look after you, of course,' rejoins her husband. This is so pleasant a jest that the lady is mightily amused, as are all the other ladies similarly situated who are within hearing; and while they are enjoying it to the full, the gentleman nods again, turns upon his heel, and saunters away.

When they meet in social settings, the stylish couple are the most refined people around. The woman is sitting in a corner with a small group of female friends, one of whom exclaims, 'Oh my gosh, there’s your husband, dear!' 'Whose? Mine?' she replies casually. 'Yes, yours, and he’s coming this way too.' 'How strange!' says the woman in a bored tone, 'I thought he was in Dover.' As the man approaches and greets all the other ladies while giving his wife a slight nod, it turns out he has been in Dover and just returned. 'What a peculiar person you are!' his wife exclaims; 'and what on earth brought you here, I wonder?' 'I came to check on you, of course,' her husband responds. This is such a delightful joke that the woman finds it incredibly amusing, as do all the other ladies in the vicinity. While they are all enjoying the moment, the man nods again, turns on his heel, and casually strolls away.

There are times, however, when his company is not so agreeable, though equally unexpected; such as when the lady has invited one or two particular friends to tea and scandal, and he happens to come home in the very midst of their diversion. It is a hundred chances to one that he remains in the house half an hour, but the lady is rather disturbed by the intrusion, notwithstanding, and reasons within herself,-'I am sure I never interfere with him, and why should he interfere with me? It can scarcely be accidental; it never happens that I have a particular reason for not wishing him to come home, but he always comes. It's very provoking and tiresome; and I am sure when he leaves me so much alone for his own pleasure, the least he could do would be to do as much for mine.' Observing what passes in her mind, the gentleman, who has come home for his own accommodation, makes a merit of it with himself; arrives at the conclusion that it is the very last place in which he can hope to be comfortable; and determines, as he takes up his hat and cane, never to be so virtuous again.

There are times, though equally unexpected, when his company isn’t so enjoyable; like when the lady has invited a few specific friends over for tea and gossip, and he happens to come home right in the middle of their fun. It’s a good bet that he won’t stay in the house for more than half an hour. Still, the lady feels a bit unsettled by his presence and thinks to herself, 'I never interfere with him, so why should he interfere with me? It can't be a coincidence; it’s not like I ever have a specific reason for not wanting him home, but he always shows up. It’s really frustrating and annoying; and I know that when he leaves me alone for his own enjoyment, the least he could do is let me enjoy myself too.' Noticing what’s going on in her mind, the gentleman, who came home for his own convenience, puffs himself up with self-importance; he concludes that this is definitely the last place where he can expect to feel comfortable, and decides, as he grabs his hat and cane, that he’ll never be so considerate again.

Thus a great many cool couples go on until they are cold couples, and the grave has closed over their folly and indifference. Loss of name, station, character, life itself, has ensued from causes as slight as these, before now; and when gossips tell such tales, and aggravate their deformities, they elevate their hands and eyebrows, and call each other to witness what a cool couple Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so always were, even in the best of times. THE PLAUSIBLE COUPLE

Thus a lot of cool couples keep going until they become cold couples, and the grave has covered their foolishness and indifference. Losing their names, status, reputation, and even their lives has come from reasons as trivial as these in the past; and when gossipers share these stories and exaggerate their flaws, they raise their hands and eyebrows, calling each other to witness what a cool couple Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so always were, even during their best times. THE PLAUSIBLE COUPLE

The plausible couple have many titles. They are 'a delightful couple,' an 'affectionate couple,' 'a most agreeable couple, 'a good-hearted couple,' and 'the best-natured couple in existence.' The truth is, that the plausible couple are people of the world; and either the way of pleasing the world has grown much easier than it was in the days of the old man and his ass, or the old man was but a bad hand at it, and knew very little of the trade.

The charming couple have many titles. They are 'a delightful couple,' 'an affectionate couple,' 'a very pleasant couple,' 'a kind-hearted couple,' and 'the nicest couple around.' The truth is, the charming couple are people who know how to fit in; either it's become a lot easier to please others than it was back in the days of the old man and his donkey, or the old man just wasn't very good at it and didn't know much about how to go about it.

'But is it really possible to please the world!' says some doubting reader. It is indeed. Nay, it is not only very possible, but very easy. The ways are crooked, and sometimes foul and low. What then? A man need but crawl upon his hands and knees, know when to close his eyes and when his ears, when to stoop and when to stand upright; and if by the world is meant that atom of it in which he moves himself, he shall please it, never fear.

'But is it really possible to please everyone?' says some doubtful reader. It absolutely is. In fact, it’s not only possible but quite easy. The paths might be twisted, and sometimes dirty and degrading. So what? A person just needs to get down on their hands and knees, know when to close their eyes and when to plug their ears, when to bend down and when to stand tall; and if by the world we mean that small part of it where they exist, they will please it, no doubt.

Now, it will be readily seen, that if a plausible man or woman have an easy means of pleasing the world by an adaptation of self to all its twistings and twinings, a plausible man and woman, or, in other words, a plausible couple, playing into each other's hands, and acting in concert, have a manifest advantage. Hence it is that plausible couples scarcely ever fail of success on a pretty large scale; and hence it is that if the reader, laying down this unwieldy volume at the next full stop, will have the goodness to review his or her circle of acquaintance, and to search particularly for some man and wife with a large connexion and a good name, not easily referable to their abilities or their wealth, he or she (that is, the male or female reader) will certainly find that gentleman or lady, on a very short reflection, to be a plausible couple.

Now, it’s easy to see that if a charming man or woman can easily please others by fitting themselves into all of life’s complexities, a charming couple who work well together and support each other have a clear advantage. That’s why charming couples rarely fail to achieve success on a substantial scale. Therefore, if the reader, after putting down this cumbersome book at the next pause, could take a moment to think about their circle of friends and look specifically for a married couple with a wide network and a good reputation, not easily explained by their skills or wealth, they will definitely find that gentleman or lady to be a charming couple after just a little thought.

The plausible couple are the most ecstatic people living: the most sensitive people-to merit-on the face of the earth. Nothing clever or virtuous escapes them. They have microscopic eyes for such endowments, and can find them anywhere. The plausible couple never fawn-oh no! They don't even scruple to tell their friends of their faults. One is too generous, another too candid; a third has a tendency to think all people like himself, and to regard mankind as a company of angels; a fourth is kind-hearted to a fault. 'We never flatter, my dear Mrs. Jackson,' say the plausible couple; 'we speak our minds. Neither you nor Mr. Jackson have faults enough. It may sound strangely, but it is true. You have not faults enough. You know our way,-we must speak out, and always do. Quarrel with us for saying so, if you will; but we repeat it,-you have not faults enough!'

The couple who seem perfect are the most joyful people around: the most sensitive people to praise on the planet. Nothing clever or good gets past them. They have a sharp eye for such qualities and can spot them anywhere. The perfect couple never flatters—oh no! They don’t hesitate to point out their friends’ flaws. One is too generous, another is too honest; a third tends to think everyone is like him and views humanity as a bunch of angels; a fourth is kind-hearted to a fault. "We never flatter, dear Mrs. Jackson," say the perfect couple; "we say what we think. Neither you nor Mr. Jackson have enough flaws. It may sound strange, but it’s true. You don’t have enough flaws. You know how we are—we always have to speak our minds, and we always do. You can argue with us for saying it, if you want, but we stand by it—you don’t have enough flaws!"

The plausible couple are no less plausible to each other than to third parties. They are always loving and harmonious. The plausible gentleman calls his wife 'darling,' and the plausible lady addresses him as 'dearest.' If it be Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail Widger, Mrs. Widger is 'Lavinia, darling,' and Mr. Widger is 'Bobtail, dearest.' Speaking of each other, they observe the same tender form. Mrs. Widger relates what 'Bobtail' said, and Mr. Widger recounts what 'darling' thought and did.

The compatible couple is just as compatible with each other as they are with outsiders. They are always loving and in sync. The gentleman calls his wife "darling," and the lady refers to him as "dearest." If it’s Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail Widger, Mrs. Widger is "Lavinia, darling," and Mr. Widger is "Bobtail, dearest." When they talk about each other, they use the same affectionate terms. Mrs. Widger shares what "Bobtail" said, and Mr. Widger talks about what "darling" thought and did.

If you sit next to the plausible lady at a dinner-table, she takes the earliest opportunity of expressing her belief that you are acquainted with the Clickits; she is sure she has heard the Clickits speak of you-she must not tell you in what terms, or you will take her for a flatterer. You admit a knowledge of the Clickits; the plausible lady immediately launches out in their praise. She quite loves the Clickits. Were there ever such true-hearted, hospitable, excellent people-such a gentle, interesting little woman as Mrs. Clickit, or such a frank, unaffected creature as Mr. Clickit? were there ever two people, in short, so little spoiled by the world as they are? 'As who, darling?' cries Mr. Widger, from the opposite side of the table. 'The Clickits, dearest,' replies Mrs. Widger. 'Indeed you are right, darling,' Mr. Widger rejoins; 'the Clickits are a very high-minded, worthy, estimable couple.' Mrs. Widger remarking that Bobtail always grows quite eloquent upon this subject, Mr. Widger admits that he feels very strongly whenever such people as the Clickits and some other friends of his (here he glances at the host and hostess) are mentioned; for they are an honour to human nature, and do one good to think of. 'You know the Clickits, Mrs. Jackson?' he says, addressing the lady of the house. 'No, indeed; we have not that pleasure,' she replies. 'You astonish me!' exclaims Mr. Widger: 'not know the Clickits! why, you are the very people of all others who ought to be their bosom friends. You are kindred beings; you are one and the same thing:-not know the Clickits! Now will you know the Clickits? Will you make a point of knowing them? Will you meet them in a friendly way at our house one evening, and be acquainted with them?' Mrs. Jackson will be quite delighted; nothing would give her more pleasure. 'Then, Lavinia, my darling,' says Mr. Widger, 'mind you don't lose sight of that; now, pray take care that Mr. and Mrs. Jackson know the Clickits without loss of time. Such people ought not to be strangers to each other.' Mrs. Widger books both families as the centre of attraction for her next party; and Mr. Widger, going on to expatiate upon the virtues of the Clickits, adds to their other moral qualities, that they keep one of the neatest phaetons in town, and have two thousand a year.

If you sit next to the charming lady at a dinner table, she will quickly tell you that she believes you know the Clickits. She’s certain she has heard them mention you—but she won’t say how, or you might think she’s just flattering you. You acknowledge that you know the Clickits, and the charming lady immediately starts praising them. She absolutely adores the Clickits. Have there ever been such kind-hearted, welcoming, wonderful people? What a sweet, engaging little woman Mrs. Clickit is, or how genuine and down-to-earth Mr. Clickit is! Have there ever been two people, in short, so unaffected by the world as they are? "As who, darling?" Mr. Widger calls from across the table. "The Clickits, dear," Mrs. Widger replies. "You’re absolutely right, darling," Mr. Widger responds; "the Clickits are truly honorable, worthy, and admirable." Mrs. Widger notes that Bobtail always becomes very passionate about this topic. Mr. Widger admits he feels quite strongly whenever he hears about people like the Clickits and some other friends of his (he glances at the hosts) because they’re a credit to humanity, and it’s uplifting just to think about them. "Do you know the Clickits, Mrs. Jackson?" he asks the lady of the house. "No, not at all; we don’t have that pleasure," she replies. "I’m amazed!" Mr. Widger exclaims, "You don’t know the Clickits! You’re exactly the kind of people who should be their close friends. You’re like-minded; you’re practically the same! Not know the Clickits! Will you now make an effort to meet them? Will you come over to our house one evening to get to know them?" Mrs. Jackson would be thrilled; nothing would please her more. "Then, Lavinia, my dear," says Mr. Widger, "make sure you don’t forget that; please ensure Mr. and Mrs. Jackson get to know the Clickits right away. Such people shouldn’t be strangers." Mrs. Widger plans to make both families the highlight of her next party, and Mr. Widger continues to elaborate on the Clickits' virtues, adding that they own one of the best carriages in town and have an income of two thousand a year.

As the plausible couple never laud the merits of any absent person, without dexterously contriving that their praises shall reflect upon somebody who is present, so they never depreciate anything or anybody, without turning their depreciation to the same account. Their friend, Mr. Slummery, say they, is unquestionably a clever painter, and would no doubt be very popular, and sell his pictures at a very high price, if that cruel Mr. Fithers had not forestalled him in his department of art, and made it thoroughly and completely his own;-Fithers, it is to be observed, being present and within hearing, and Slummery elsewhere. Is Mrs. Tabblewick really as beautiful as people say? Why, there indeed you ask them a very puzzling question, because there is no doubt that she is a very charming woman, and they have long known her intimately. She is no doubt beautiful, very beautiful; they once thought her the most beautiful woman ever seen; still if you press them for an honest answer, they are bound to say that this was before they had ever seen our lovely friend on the sofa, (the sofa is hard by, and our lovely friend can't help hearing the whispers in which this is said;) since that time, perhaps, they have been hardly fair judges; Mrs. Tabblewick is no doubt extremely handsome,-very like our friend, in fact, in the form of the features,-but in point of expression, and soul, and figure, and air altogether-oh dear!

As the seemingly perfect couple never praise anyone who isn't there without cleverly making sure their compliments also reflect on someone who's present, they also never criticize anything or anyone without twisting that criticism to benefit the same person. Their friend, Mr. Slummery, they say, is definitely a talented painter who would probably be very popular and sell his artwork for a high price if that ruthless Mr. Fithers hadn't gotten ahead of him in that area of art and completely claimed it as his own—Fithers, by the way, is right there and can hear this, while Slummery is elsewhere. Is Mrs. Tabblewick really as beautiful as people say? Well, that's a tricky question because there's no doubt that she's a very charming woman, and they've known her well for a long time. She's definitely beautiful, very beautiful; they once thought she was the most stunning woman they had ever seen; yet if you push them for an honest reply, they have to admit that this was before they had ever seen our lovely friend on the sofa (which is nearby, and our lovely friend can’t help but hear the whispers about this); since then, perhaps, they haven't been the fairest judges; Mrs. Tabblewick is undeniably extremely good-looking—very similar to our friend, in fact, in terms of her features—but when it comes to her expression, soul, figure, and overall presence—oh dear!

But while the plausible couple depreciate, they are still careful to preserve their character for amiability and kind feeling; indeed the depreciation itself is often made to grow out of their excessive sympathy and good will. The plausible lady calls on a lady who dotes upon her children, and is sitting with a little girl upon her knee, enraptured by her artless replies, and protesting that there is nothing she delights in so much as conversing with these fairies; when the other lady inquires if she has seen young Mrs. Finching lately, and whether the baby has turned out a finer one than it promised to be. 'Oh dear!' cries the plausible lady, 'you cannot think how often Bobtail and I have talked about poor Mrs. Finching-she is such a dear soul, and was so anxious that the baby should be a fine child-and very naturally, because she was very much here at one time, and there is, you know, a natural emulation among mothers-that it is impossible to tell you how much we have felt for her.' 'Is it weak or plain, or what?' inquires the other. 'Weak or plain, my love,' returns the plausible lady, 'it's a fright-a perfect little fright; you never saw such a miserable creature in all your days. Positively you must not let her see one of these beautiful dears again, or you'll break her heart, you will indeed.-Heaven bless this child, see how she is looking in my face! can you conceive anything prettier than that? If poor Mrs. Finching could only hope-but that's impossible-and the gifts of Providence, you know-What did I do with my pocket-handkerchief!'

But while the seemingly nice couple is being talked down, they still make sure to keep up their image of being friendly and caring; in fact, the criticism often stems from their excessive kindness and goodwill. The seemingly nice lady visits a woman who adores her children and is sitting with a little girl on her lap, enchanted by her innocent responses, and insists that there's nothing she enjoys more than chatting with these little angels. When the other lady asks if she’s seen young Mrs. Finching lately and whether the baby turned out to be cuter than expected, the seemingly nice lady replies, “Oh dear! You can’t imagine how often Bobtail and I have discussed poor Mrs. Finching—she’s such a sweetheart and was so hoping for the baby to be lovely—and rightly so, since she was around here a lot at one point, and you know how mothers can be competitive—it's hard to explain just how much we’ve sympathized with her.” “Is it weak or plain, or what?” asks the other. “Weak or plain, my dear,” the seemingly nice lady responds, “it’s a little monster—a total eyesore; you’ve never seen such a sad little thing in your life. Honestly, you must not let her see one of these beautiful children again, or you’ll break her heart, you really will. Bless this child, look at how she’s gazing at me! Can you imagine anything cuter than that? If only poor Mrs. Finching could have hope—but that’s impossible—and the gifts of Providence, you know—What did I do with my handkerchief?”

What prompts the mother, who dotes upon her children, to comment to her lord that evening on the plausible lady's engaging qualities and feeling heart, and what is it that procures Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail Widger an immediate invitation to dinner? THE NICE LITTLE COUPLE

What makes the mother, who adores her kids, tell her husband that evening about the charming qualities and kind heart of the likely lady, and what leads to Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail Widger getting a quick dinner invitation? THE NICE LITTLE COUPLE

A custom once prevailed in old-fashioned circles, that when a lady or gentleman was unable to sing a song, he or she should enliven the company with a story. As we find ourself in the predicament of not being able to describe (to our own satisfaction) nice little couples in the abstract, we purpose telling in this place a little story about a nice little couple of our acquaintance.

A tradition used to exist in old-fashioned social circles where, if someone couldn't sing a song, they would entertain the group with a story. Since we find ourselves unable to describe (to our own satisfaction) nice little couples in general, we plan to share a little story about a nice little couple we know.

Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup are the nice little couple in question. Mr. Chirrup has the smartness, and something of the brisk, quick manner of a small bird. Mrs. Chirrup is the prettiest of all little women, and has the prettiest little figure conceivable. She has the neatest little foot, and the softest little voice, and the pleasantest little smile, and the tidiest little curls, and the brightest little eyes, and the quietest little manner, and is, in short, altogether one of the most engaging of all little women, dead or alive. She is a condensation of all the domestic virtues,-a pocket edition of the young man's best companion,-a little woman at a very high pressure, with an amazing quantity of goodness and usefulness in an exceedingly small space. Little as she is, Mrs. Chirrup might furnish forth matter for the moral equipment of a score of housewives, six feet high in their stockings-if, in the presence of ladies, we may be allowed the expression-and of corresponding robustness.

Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup are the lovely couple in question. Mr. Chirrup has the cleverness and a bit of the lively, quick demeanor of a small bird. Mrs. Chirrup is the prettiest of all small women, with the cutest little figure you can imagine. She has the neatest little feet, the softest little voice, the sweetest little smile, the tidiest little curls, the brightest little eyes, and the calmest little manner. In short, she’s one of the most charming little women, alive or dead. She embodies all the domestic virtues—a compact version of the young man's best companion—a little woman at an incredibly high level, packing an impressive amount of goodness and usefulness into a tiny space. Even though she’s so small, Mrs. Chirrup could provide enough inspiration for the moral guidance of a dozen housewives, six feet tall in their stockings—if we may use that expression in front of ladies—and just as sturdy.

Nobody knows all this better than Mr. Chirrup, though he rather takes on that he don't. Accordingly he is very proud of his better-half, and evidently considers himself, as all other people consider him, rather fortunate in having her to wife. We say evidently, because Mr. Chirrup is a warm-hearted little fellow; and if you catch his eye when he has been slyly glancing at Mrs. Chirrup in company, there is a certain complacent twinkle in it, accompanied, perhaps, by a half-expressed toss of the head, which as clearly indicates what has been passing in his mind as if he had put it into words, and shouted it out through a speaking-trumpet. Moreover, Mr. Chirrup has a particularly mild and bird-like manner of calling Mrs. Chirrup 'my dear;' and-for he is of a jocose turn-of cutting little witticisms upon her, and making her the subject of various harmless pleasantries, which nobody enjoys more thoroughly than Mrs. Chirrup herself. Mr. Chirrup, too, now and then affects to deplore his bachelor-days, and to bemoan (with a marvellously contented and smirking face) the loss of his freedom, and the sorrow of his heart at having been taken captive by Mrs. Chirrup-all of which circumstances combine to show the secret triumph and satisfaction of Mr. Chirrup's soul.

Nobody knows all this better than Mr. Chirrup, although he pretends he doesn't. He is quite proud of his wife and clearly thinks of himself, just like everyone else does, as lucky to have her. We say "clearly" because Mr. Chirrup is a warm-hearted little guy; if you catch his eye when he’s been sneakily looking at Mrs. Chirrup in public, there’s a certain satisfied sparkle in it, maybe along with a slight nod of his head, which shows exactly what he's thinking as if he shouted it through a megaphone. Moreover, Mr. Chirrup has a particularly gentle, bird-like way of calling Mrs. Chirrup "my dear;" and because he has a funny side, he likes to make little jokes at her expense and turn her into the subject of various light-hearted banter, which nobody enjoys more than Mrs. Chirrup herself. Sometimes, Mr. Chirrup pretends to miss his single days and mourns (with a wonderfully pleased and smirking face) his lost freedom and his heartbreak over being snatched up by Mrs. Chirrup— all these things together show the secret joy and contentment of Mr. Chirrup's soul.

We have already had occasion to observe that Mrs. Chirrup is an incomparable housewife. In all the arts of domestic arrangement and management, in all the mysteries of confectionery-making, pickling, and preserving, never was such a thorough adept as that nice little body. She is, besides, a cunning worker in muslin and fine linen, and a special hand at marketing to the very best advantage. But if there be one branch of housekeeping in which she excels to an utterly unparalleled and unprecedented extent, it is in the important one of carving. A roast goose is universally allowed to be the great stumbling-block in the way of young aspirants to perfection in this department of science; many promising carvers, beginning with legs of mutton, and preserving a good reputation through fillets of veal, sirloins of beef, quarters of lamb, fowls, and even ducks, have sunk before a roast goose, and lost caste and character for ever. To Mrs. Chirrup the resolving a goose into its smallest component parts is a pleasant pastime-a practical joke-a thing to be done in a minute or so, without the smallest interruption to the conversation of the time. No handing the dish over to an unfortunate man upon her right or left, no wild sharpening of the knife, no hacking and sawing at an unruly joint, no noise, no splash, no heat, no leaving off in despair; all is confidence and cheerfulness. The dish is set upon the table, the cover is removed; for an instant, and only an instant, you observe that Mrs. Chirrup's attention is distracted; she smiles, but heareth not. You proceed with your story; meanwhile the glittering knife is slowly upraised, both Mrs. Chirrup's wrists are slightly but not ungracefully agitated, she compresses her lips for an instant, then breaks into a smile, and all is over. The legs of the bird slide gently down into a pool of gravy, the wings seem to melt from the body, the breast separates into a row of juicy slices, the smaller and more complicated parts of his anatomy are perfectly developed, a cavern of stuffing is revealed, and the goose is gone!

We've already noted that Mrs. Chirrup is an exceptional housewife. In all aspects of home management, along with the skills of baking, pickling, and preserving, there has never been anyone as skilled as her. Additionally, she's great at sewing with muslin and fine linen, and she knows how to shop effectively to get the best deals. But if there's one area of homemaking where she stands out beyond anyone else, it's carving. A roast goose is generally seen as the biggest challenge for those trying to master this skill; many aspiring carvers, who start off well with legs of mutton and maintain a good reputation through fillets of veal, sirloins of beef, quarters of lamb, chickens, and even ducks, have failed miserably with a roast goose, completely losing their status and confidence. For Mrs. Chirrup, breaking down a goose into its smallest parts is an enjoyable task—a fun challenge that takes just a minute, without interrupting the conversation. There’s no handing the dish over to someone next to her, no frantic knife sharpening, no struggling with a difficult joint, no noise, no mess, no frustration; just confidence and enjoyment. The dish is placed on the table, the cover is lifted; for a brief moment, and just for a moment, you see that Mrs. Chirrup's focus is elsewhere; she smiles, but doesn’t quite hear. You continue your story; in the meantime, the shining knife is slowly raised, both of Mrs. Chirrup's wrists move slightly but gracefully, she tightens her lips for a moment, then smiles, and it's all done. The legs of the bird slide smoothly into a pool of gravy, the wings detach from the body as if melting, the breast transforms into a row of juicy slices, the intricate parts of its anatomy are perfectly revealed, a cavity of stuffing is uncovered, and just like that, the goose is gone!

To dine with Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup is one of the pleasantest things in the world. Mr. Chirrup has a bachelor friend, who lived with him in his own days of single blessedness, and to whom he is mightily attached. Contrary to the usual custom, this bachelor friend is no less a friend of Mrs. Chirrup's, and, consequently, whenever you dine with Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup, you meet the bachelor friend. It would put any reasonably-conditioned mortal into good-humour to observe the entire unanimity which subsists between these three; but there is a quiet welcome dimpling in Mrs. Chirrup's face, a bustling hospitality oozing as it were out of the waistcoat-pockets of Mr. Chirrup, and a patronising enjoyment of their cordiality and satisfaction on the part of the bachelor friend, which is quite delightful. On these occasions Mr. Chirrup usually takes an opportunity of rallying the friend on being single, and the friend retorts on Mr. Chirrup for being married, at which moments some single young ladies present are like to die of laughter; and we have more than once observed them bestow looks upon the friend, which convinces us that his position is by no means a safe one, as, indeed, we hold no bachelor's to be who visits married friends and cracks jokes on wedlock, for certain it is that such men walk among traps and nets and pitfalls innumerable, and often find themselves down upon their knees at the altar rails, taking M. or N. for their wedded wives, before they know anything about the matter.

Dining with Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup is one of the most enjoyable experiences out there. Mr. Chirrup has a bachelor friend who lived with him during his single days, and they share a strong bond. Unusually, this bachelor is also friends with Mrs. Chirrup, so whenever you have dinner with them, you'll also meet the bachelor friend. It's enough to lift anyone's spirits to see how well these three get along; Mrs. Chirrup has a warm, welcoming smile, Mr. Chirrup exudes a kind of bustling hospitality from his waistcoat pockets, and the bachelor friend shares an amused enjoyment of their camaraderie that’s truly charming. During these dinners, Mr. Chirrup often teases his friend about being single, and the friend shoots back with commentary on Mr. Chirrup being married, which makes the single young ladies in attendance crack up with laughter. We’ve noticed more than once that they give the friend looks that suggest his single status may not be as secure as he thinks, since we believe no bachelor who visits married friends and makes jokes about marriage is truly safe. Clearly, such men navigate a minefield of romantic traps and often find themselves on their knees at the altar, choosing M. or N. for their brides before they even realize what's happening.

However, this is no business of Mr. Chirrup's, who talks, and laughs, and drinks his wine, and laughs again, and talks more, until it is time to repair to the drawing-room, where, coffee served and over, Mrs. Chirrup prepares for a round game, by sorting the nicest possible little fish into the nicest possible little pools, and calling Mr. Chirrup to assist her, which Mr. Chirrup does. As they stand side by side, you find that Mr. Chirrup is the least possible shadow of a shade taller than Mrs. Chirrup, and that they are the neatest and best-matched little couple that can be, which the chances are ten to one against your observing with such effect at any other time, unless you see them in the street arm-in-arm, or meet them some rainy day trotting along under a very small umbrella. The round game (at which Mr. Chirrup is the merriest of the party) being done and over, in course of time a nice little tray appears, on which is a nice little supper; and when that is finished likewise, and you have said 'Good night,' you find yourself repeating a dozen times, as you ride home, that there never was such a nice little couple as Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup.

However, this isn’t Mr. Chirrup’s concern, as he chats, laughs, drinks his wine, laughs again, and talks some more until it's time to head to the living room. Once coffee is served and finished, Mrs. Chirrup gets ready for a round of games by sorting the nicest little fish into the cutest little pools, calling Mr. Chirrup to help her, which he gladly does. Standing side by side, you’ll notice that Mr. Chirrup is just a tiny bit taller than Mrs. Chirrup, and they make the most perfectly matched little couple you could imagine. The chances are slim that you’d notice this so clearly at any other time unless you see them walking arm-in-arm down the street or meet them on a rainy day huddling under a very small umbrella. Once the round of games (where Mr. Chirrup is the most cheerful of the bunch) is finished, a charming little tray with a lovely little supper appears. After finishing that and saying 'Good night,' you find yourself saying over and over again on your way home that there has never been such a sweet little couple as Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup.

Whether it is that pleasant qualities, being packed more closely in small bodies than in large, come more readily to hand than when they are diffused over a wider space, and have to be gathered together for use, we don't know, but as a general rule,-strengthened like all other rules by its exceptions,-we hold that little people are sprightly and good- natured. The more sprightly and good-natured people we have, the better; therefore, let us wish well to all nice little couples, and hope that they may increase and multiply. THE EGOTISTICAL COUPLE

Whether it's that pleasant qualities are found more readily in smaller bodies than in larger ones, or if they are simply easier to access when they are packed tightly together rather than spread out over a larger area, we can't say. However, as a general rule—which, like all rules, has exceptions—we believe that little people are lively and good-natured. The more lively and good-natured people we have, the better; so let's wish all nice little couples well and hope that they grow and thrive. THE EGOTISTICAL COUPLE

Egotism in couples is of two kinds.-It is our purpose to show this by two examples.

Egotism in couples comes in two forms. We aim to illustrate this with two examples.

The egotistical couple may be young, old, middle-aged, well to do, or ill to do; they may have a small family, a large family, or no family at all. There is no outward sign by which an egotistical couple may be known and avoided. They come upon you unawares; there is no guarding against them. No man can of himself be forewarned or forearmed against an egotistical couple.

The self-centered couple can be young, old, middle-aged, wealthy, or struggling; they might have a small family, a large family, or no family at all. There’s no clear way to identify and steer clear of a self-centered couple. They catch you off guard; there’s no way to protect yourself from them. No one can truly be forewarned or prepared for a self-centered couple.

The egotistical couple have undergone every calamity, and experienced every pleasurable and painful sensation of which our nature is susceptible. You cannot by possibility tell the egotistical couple anything they don't know, or describe to them anything they have not felt. They have been everything but dead. Sometimes we are tempted to wish they had been even that, but only in our uncharitable moments, which are few and far between.

The self-absorbed couple has been through every disaster and felt every joy and pain that our nature can experience. You can’t possibly tell them anything they don’t know or describe anything they haven’t felt. They’ve experienced everything except death. Sometimes we’re tempted to wish they had even faced that, but only in our unkind moments, which are rare.

We happened the other day, in the course of a morning call, to encounter an egotistical couple, nor were we suffered to remain long in ignorance of the fact, for our very first inquiry of the lady of the house brought them into active and vigorous operation. The inquiry was of course touching the lady's health, and the answer happened to be, that she had not been very well. 'Oh, my dear!' said the egotistical lady, 'don't talk of not being well. We have been in such a state since we saw you last!'-The lady of the house happening to remark that her lord had not been well either, the egotistical gentleman struck in: 'Never let Briggs complain of not being well-never let Briggs complain, my dear Mrs. Briggs, after what I have undergone within these six weeks. He doesn't know what it is to be ill, he hasn't the least idea of it; not the faintest conception.'-'My dear,' interposed his wife smiling, 'you talk as if it were almost a crime in Mr. Briggs not to have been as ill as we have been, instead of feeling thankful to Providence that both he and our dear Mrs. Briggs are in such blissful ignorance of real suffering.'-'My love,' returned the egotistical gentleman, in a low and pious voice, 'you mistake me;-I feel grateful-very grateful. I trust our friends may never purchase their experience as dearly as we have bought ours; I hope they never may!'

We happened to run into a self-absorbed couple the other day during a morning visit, and we quickly realized it when we asked the lady of the house about her health. She mentioned she hadn't been feeling well. "Oh, my dear!" said the self-absorbed lady, "don’t even mention not feeling well. We've been in such a state since we last saw you!" When the lady of the house noted that her husband hadn't been well either, the self-absorbed gentleman chimed in: "Never let Briggs complain about not feeling well—never let Briggs complain, my dear Mrs. Briggs, after what I've been through in the past six weeks. He has no idea what it means to be truly ill; not a clue." “My dear,” interrupted his wife with a smile, “you speak as if it’s almost a crime for Mr. Briggs not to have been as sick as we have, instead of being grateful to Providence that both he and our dear Mrs. Briggs are blissfully unaware of real suffering.” “My love,” replied the self-absorbed gentleman in a soft and pious voice, “you misunderstand me—I feel grateful—very grateful. I hope our friends never have to gain their experience as dearly as we have; I hope they never do!”

Having put down Mrs. Briggs upon this theme, and settled the question thus, the egotistical gentleman turned to us, and, after a few preliminary remarks, all tending towards and leading up to the point he had in his mind, inquired if we happened to be acquainted with the Dowager Lady Snorflerer. On our replying in the negative, he presumed we had often met Lord Slang, or beyond all doubt, that we were on intimate terms with Sir Chipkins Glogwog. Finding that we were equally unable to lay claim to either of these distinctions, he expressed great astonishment, and turning to his wife with a retrospective smile, inquired who it was that had told that capital story about the mashed potatoes. 'Who, my dear?' returned the egotistical lady, 'why Sir Chipkins, of course; how can you ask! Don't you remember his applying it to our cook, and saying that you and I were so like the Prince and Princess, that he could almost have sworn we were they?' 'To be sure, I remember that,' said the egotistical gentleman, 'but are you quite certain that didn't apply to the other anecdote about the Emperor of Austria and the pump?' 'Upon my word then, I think it did,' replied his wife. 'To be sure it did,' said the egotistical gentleman, 'it was Slang's story, I remember now, perfectly.' However, it turned out, a few seconds afterwards, that the egotistical gentleman's memory was rather treacherous, as he began to have a misgiving that the story had been told by the Dowager Lady Snorflerer the very last time they dined there; but there appearing, on further consideration, strong circumstantial evidence tending to show that this couldn't be, inasmuch as the Dowager Lady Snorflerer had been, on the occasion in question, wholly engrossed by the egotistical lady, the egotistical gentleman recanted this opinion; and after laying the story at the doors of a great many great people, happily left it at last with the Duke of Scuttlewig:-observing that it was not extraordinary he had forgotten his Grace hitherto, as it often happened that the names of those with whom we were upon the most familiar footing were the very last to present themselves to our thoughts.

After shutting down Mrs. Briggs on this topic and wrapping up the discussion, the self-absorbed man turned to us. After a few introductory comments that all pointed toward the topic he had in mind, he asked if we happened to know the Dowager Lady Snorflerer. When we replied that we didn’t, he assumed we must have met Lord Slang or, without a doubt, that we were close with Sir Chipkins Glogwog. Discovering that we could claim neither of these connections, he expressed great surprise. Turning to his wife with a nostalgic smile, he asked who had told that hilarious story about the mashed potatoes. “Who, my dear?” replied the self-absorbed lady. “Why, Sir Chipkins, of course; how can you even ask! Don’t you remember him applying it to our cook and saying that you and I were so much like the Prince and Princess that he could almost swear that we were them?” “Of course, I remember that,” said the self-absorbed man, “but are you sure that didn’t relate to the other anecdote about the Emperor of Austria and the pump?” “Honestly, I think it did,” his wife replied. “Absolutely it did,” said the self-absorbed man, “it was Slang’s story; I remember it perfectly now.” However, a few seconds later, it became clear that his memory was somewhat unreliable, as he began to doubt that the story had originated with the Dowager Lady Snorflerer during their last dinner there. But after considering the strong circumstantial evidence suggesting that couldn’t be true, since the Dowager Lady Snorflerer had been completely wrapped up with the self-absorbed lady at the time, the self-absorbed man reconsidered. After attributing the story to several other prominent individuals, he finally settled on blaming the Duke of Scuttlewig, noting that it wasn’t surprising he had forgotten his Grace until now, since it often happened that the names of those we were closest to were the last to come to mind.

It not only appeared that the egotistical couple knew everybody, but that scarcely any event of importance or notoriety had occurred for many years with which they had not been in some way or other connected. Thus we learned that when the well-known attempt upon the life of George the Third was made by Hatfield in Drury Lane theatre, the egotistical gentleman's grandfather sat upon his right hand and was the first man who collared him; and that the egotistical lady's aunt, sitting within a few boxes of the royal party, was the only person in the audience who heard his Majesty exclaim, 'Charlotte, Charlotte, don't be frightened, don't be frightened; they're letting off squibs, they're letting off squibs.' When the fire broke out, which ended in the destruction of the two Houses of Parliament, the egotistical couple, being at the time at a drawing-room window on Blackheath, then and there simultaneously exclaimed, to the astonishment of a whole party-'It's the House of Lords!' Nor was this a solitary instance of their peculiar discernment, for chancing to be (as by a comparison of dates and circumstances they afterwards found) in the same omnibus with Mr. Greenacre, when he carried his victim's head about town in a blue bag, they both remarked a singular twitching in the muscles of his countenance; and walking down Fish Street Hill, a few weeks since, the egotistical gentleman said to his lady-slightly casting up his eyes to the top of the Monument-'There's a boy up there, my dear, reading a Bible. It's very strange. I don't like it.-In five seconds afterwards, Sir,' says the egotistical gentleman, bringing his hands together with one violent clap-'the lad was over!'

It seemed like the self-absorbed couple knew everyone, and almost every significant or notorious event that had happened over the years was somehow connected to them. For example, we found out that during the well-known assassination attempt on King George III by Hatfield at the Drury Lane theater, the self-absorbed man's grandfather was sitting right next to him and was the first person to grab him. And the self-absorbed woman's aunt, who was sitting a few boxes away from the royal party, was the only one in the audience who heard His Majesty shout, "Charlotte, Charlotte, don't be scared, don't be scared; they're just letting off firecrackers!" When the fire broke out that ended up destroying the two Houses of Parliament, the self-absorbed couple, who were looking out from a drawing-room window in Blackheath at the time, both exclaimed in unison, shocking everyone around them, "It's the House of Lords!" This wasn’t their only instance of unusual insight; they later discovered, by comparing dates and details, that they were in the same bus as Mr. Greenacre when he was carting around his victim’s head in a blue bag, and they both noticed a strange twitching in his facial muscles. A few weeks ago, while walking down Fish Street Hill, the self-absorbed man commented to his lady, looking up at the top of the Monument, "There's a boy up there reading a Bible. That's odd. I don't like it." Then, just five seconds later, he abruptly clapped his hands together and said, "The boy is gone!"

Diversifying these topics by the introduction of many others of the same kind, and entertaining us between whiles with a minute account of what weather and diet agreed with them, and what weather and diet disagreed with them, and at what time they usually got up, and at what time went to bed, with many other particulars of their domestic economy too numerous to mention; the egotistical couple at length took their leave, and afforded us an opportunity of doing the same.

Diversifying these topics by introducing many others like them, and keeping us entertained in the meantime with detailed accounts of what weather and diets worked for them, what didn’t, what time they usually got up, what time they went to bed, and many other aspects of their daily life too numerous to mention; the self-centered couple finally said their goodbyes, giving us a chance to do the same.

Mr. and Mrs. Sliverstone are an egotistical couple of another class, for all the lady's egotism is about her husband, and all the gentleman's about his wife. For example:-Mr. Sliverstone is a clerical gentleman, and occasionally writes sermons, as clerical gentlemen do. If you happen to obtain admission at the street-door while he is so engaged, Mrs. Sliverstone appears on tip-toe, and speaking in a solemn whisper, as if there were at least three or four particular friends up-stairs, all upon the point of death, implores you to be very silent, for Mr. Sliverstone is composing, and she need not say how very important it is that he should not be disturbed. Unwilling to interrupt anything so serious, you hasten to withdraw, with many apologies; but this Mrs. Sliverstone will by no means allow, observing, that she knows you would like to see him, as it is very natural you should, and that she is determined to make a trial for you, as you are a great favourite. So you are led up-stairs-still on tip-toe-to the door of a little back room, in which, as the lady informs you in a whisper, Mr. Sliverstone always writes. No answer being returned to a couple of soft taps, the lady opens the door, and there, sure enough, is Mr. Sliverstone, with dishevelled hair, powdering away with pen, ink, and paper, at a rate which, if he has any power of sustaining it, would settle the longest sermon in no time. At first he is too much absorbed to be roused by this intrusion; but presently looking up, says faintly, 'Ah!' and pointing to his desk with a weary and languid smile, extends his hand, and hopes you'll forgive him. Then Mrs. Sliverstone sits down beside him, and taking his hand in hers, tells you how that Mr. Sliverstone has been shut up there ever since nine o'clock in the morning, (it is by this time twelve at noon,) and how she knows it cannot be good for his health, and is very uneasy about it. Unto this Mr. Sliverstone replies firmly, that 'It must be done;' which agonizes Mrs. Sliverstone still more, and she goes on to tell you that such were Mr. Sliverstone's labours last week-what with the buryings, marryings, churchings, christenings, and all together,-that when he was going up the pulpit stairs on Sunday evening, he was obliged to hold on by the rails, or he would certainly have fallen over into his own pew. Mr. Sliverstone, who has been listening and smiling meekly, says, 'Not quite so bad as that, not quite so bad!' he admits though, on cross-examination, that he was very near falling upon the verger who was following him up to bolt the door; but adds, that it was his duty as a Christian to fall upon him, if need were, and that he, Mr. Sliverstone, and (possibly the verger too) ought to glory in it.

Mr. and Mrs. Sliverstone are a self-centered couple from a different social class. Mrs. Sliverstone’s ego revolves entirely around her husband, while Mr. Sliverstone’s revolves around his wife. For example, Mr. Sliverstone is a clergyman and occasionally writes sermons, as clergymen do. If you happen to come in through the front door while he’s at it, Mrs. Sliverstone stands on tip-toe and, in a serious whisper as if several close friends upstairs are on their deathbeds, begs you to be very quiet because Mr. Sliverstone is composing, and she emphasizes how crucial it is that he not be disturbed. Wanting to avoid interrupting something so serious, you quickly apologize and step back; however, Mrs. Sliverstone insists you would want to see him, which is only natural, and she’s determined to let you, especially since you’re a great favorite of theirs. So, you are led upstairs, still on tip-toe, to a small back room where, as she whispers, Mr. Sliverstone always writes. After a couple of gentle knocks with no reply, she opens the door, and indeed, there’s Mr. Sliverstone, with messy hair, diligently writing away with pen, ink, and paper—at a pace that, if he can keep it up, should wrap up the longest sermon in no time. At first, he is too focused to notice your arrival, but after a moment he looks up, says faintly, “Ah!” and, with a tired smile, gestures to his desk and hopes you’ll forgive him for the interruption. Then Mrs. Sliverstone sits beside him and, holding his hand, tells you how Mr. Sliverstone has been locked away since nine o’clock that morning (it’s now noon), and she worries it can't be good for his health. Mr. Sliverstone firmly responds that “It must be done,” which makes Mrs. Sliverstone even more anxious, and she continues explaining how last week’s responsibilities—burials, weddings, church services, christenings, and everything else—were such that when he went up the pulpit stairs on Sunday evening, he had to hold onto the banister or he would’ve fallen right into his own pew. Mr. Sliverstone, listening and smiling mildly, says, “Not quite that bad, not quite that bad!” However, under questioning, he admits that he nearly toppled onto the verger who was following him to lock the door, but insists that it was his duty as a Christian to fall on him, if necessary, and that he, Mr. Sliverstone, and (possibly the verger too) should take pride in that.

This sentiment communicates new impulse to Mrs. Sliverstone, who launches into new praises of Mr. Sliverstone's worth and excellence, to which he listens in the same meek silence, save when he puts in a word of self-denial relative to some question of fact, as-'Not seventy-two christenings that week, my dear. Only seventy-one, only seventy-one.' At length his lady has quite concluded, and then he says, Why should he repine, why should he give way, why should he suffer his heart to sink within him? Is it he alone who toils and suffers? What has she gone through, he should like to know? What does she go through every day for him and for society?

This feeling instills new energy in Mrs. Sliverstone, who begins to praise Mr. Sliverstone's worth and excellence. He listens with the same humble silence, only interjecting occasionally with a note of self-denial about some fact, like, “Not seventy-two christenings that week, my dear. Only seventy-one, only seventy-one.” After she finishes, he reflects, why should he complain, why should he give in, why should he let his heart feel heavy? Is he the only one who struggles and suffers? What has she endured, he wonders? What does she deal with every day for him and for society?

With such an exordium Mr. Sliverstone launches out into glowing praises of the conduct of Mrs. Sliverstone in the production of eight young children, and the subsequent rearing and fostering of the same; and thus the husband magnifies the wife, and the wife the husband.

With such an introduction, Mr. Sliverstone starts by praising Mrs. Sliverstone for giving birth to eight children and for raising them. This way, the husband lifts up the wife, and the wife does the same for the husband.

This would be well enough if Mr. and Mrs. Sliverstone kept it to themselves, or even to themselves and a friend or two; but they do not. The more hearers they have, the more egotistical the couple become, and the more anxious they are to make believers in their merits. Perhaps this is the worst kind of egotism. It has not even the poor excuse of being spontaneous, but is the result of a deliberate system and malice aforethought. Mere empty-headed conceit excites our pity, but ostentatious hypocrisy awakens our disgust. THE COUPLE WHO CODDLE THEMSELVES

This would be fine if Mr. and Mrs. Sliverstone kept it to themselves, or even just shared it with a friend or two; but they don't. The more people listen, the more self-important they become, and the more desperate they are to convince others of their worth. This might be the worst kind of self-absorption. It lacks even the flimsy excuse of being spontaneous and is instead the outcome of a calculated plan and malicious intent. Plain self-importance can elicit our sympathy, but showy hypocrisy makes us feel disgusted. THE COUPLE WHO CODDLE THEMSELVES

Mrs. Merrywinkle's maiden name was Chopper. She was the only child of Mr. and Mrs. Chopper. Her father died when she was, as the play-books express it, 'yet an infant;' and so old Mrs. Chopper, when her daughter married, made the house of her son-in-law her home from that time henceforth, and set up her staff of rest with Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle.

Mrs. Merrywinkle's maiden name was Chopper. She was the only child of Mr. and Mrs. Chopper. Her father passed away when she was, as the storybooks say, 'still a baby'; and so, old Mrs. Chopper, when her daughter got married, made her son-in-law's house her home from that point on, and settled in with Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle.

Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle are a couple who coddle themselves; and the venerable Mrs. Chopper is an aider and abettor in the same.

Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle are a couple who spoil themselves, and the elderly Mrs. Chopper is a supporter in this.

Mr. Merrywinkle is a rather lean and long-necked gentleman, middle-aged and middle-sized, and usually troubled with a cold in the head. Mrs. Merrywinkle is a delicate-looking lady, with very light hair, and is exceedingly subject to the same unpleasant disorder. The venerable Mrs. Chopper-who is strictly entitled to the appellation, her daughter not being very young, otherwise than by courtesy, at the time of her marriage, which was some years ago-is a mysterious old lady who lurks behind a pair of spectacles, and is afflicted with a chronic disease, respecting which she has taken a vast deal of medical advice, and referred to a vast number of medical books, without meeting any definition of symptoms that at all suits her, or enables her to say, 'That's my complaint.' Indeed, the absence of authentic information upon the subject of this complaint would seem to be Mrs. Chopper's greatest ill, as in all other respects she is an uncommonly hale and hearty gentlewoman.

Mr. Merrywinkle is a thin, long-necked man, middle-aged and of average height, and often has a cold. Mrs. Merrywinkle is a fragile-looking woman with very light hair, and she frequently suffers from the same annoying issue. The elderly Mrs. Chopper—who definitely deserves that title since her daughter was not exactly young, except by courtesy, when she got married some years ago—is a mysterious old lady who hides behind a pair of glasses and suffers from a chronic illness. She has sought a lot of medical advice and consulted numerous medical books, but has never found a clear definition of her symptoms that fits her or allows her to say, 'That's my issue.' In fact, the lack of clear information about her condition seems to be Mrs. Chopper's biggest problem, as in every other way, she is an unusually strong and healthy woman.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Chopper wear an extraordinary quantity of flannel, and have a habit of putting their feet in hot water to an unnatural extent. They likewise indulge in chamomile tea and such-like compounds, and rub themselves on the slightest provocation with camphorated spirits and other lotions applicable to mumps, sore-throat, rheumatism, or lumbago.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Chopper wear an unusual amount of flannel and have a tendency to soak their feet in hot water way more than is normal. They also enjoy chamomile tea and similar drinks, and they rub themselves down at the slightest excuse with camphorated spirits and other lotions meant for mumps, sore throats, rheumatism, or lower back pain.

Mr. Merrywinkle's leaving home to go to business on a damp or wet morning is a very elaborate affair. He puts on wash-leather socks over his stockings, and India-rubber shoes above his boots, and wears under his waistcoat a cuirass of hare-skin. Besides these precautions, he winds a thick shawl round his throat, and blocks up his mouth with a large silk handkerchief. Thus accoutred, and furnished besides with a great-coat and umbrella, he braves the dangers of the streets; travelling in severe weather at a gentle trot, the better to preserve the circulation, and bringing his mouth to the surface to take breath, but very seldom, and with the utmost caution. His office-door opened, he shoots past his clerk at the same pace, and diving into his own private room, closes the door, examines the window-fastenings, and gradually unrobes himself: hanging his pocket-handkerchief on the fender to air, and determining to write to the newspapers about the fog, which, he says, 'has really got to that pitch that it is quite unbearable.'

Mr. Merrywinkle's departure for work on a damp or rainy morning is quite a production. He puts on leather socks over his stockings, rubber shoes over his boots, and wears a hare-skin vest under his waistcoat. In addition to these precautions, he wraps a thick scarf around his neck and covers his mouth with a large silk handkerchief. Dressed like this, along with a great coat and an umbrella, he faces the dangers of the streets; moving at a slow trot in bad weather to keep his blood circulating, only bringing his mouth above the surface to breathe very cautiously and rarely. When he reaches his office, he zips past his clerk at the same pace, dives into his private room, shuts the door, checks the window locks, and slowly begins to undress: hanging his handkerchief on the fender to dry and planning to write to the newspapers about the fog, which he claims "has really reached a level that is completely unbearable."

In this last opinion Mrs. Merrywinkle and her respected mother fully concur; for though not present, their thoughts and tongues are occupied with the same subject, which is their constant theme all day. If anybody happens to call, Mrs. Merrywinkle opines that they must assuredly be mad, and her first salutation is, 'Why, what in the name of goodness can bring you out in such weather? You know you must catch your death.' This assurance is corroborated by Mrs. Chopper, who adds, in further confirmation, a dismal legend concerning an individual of her acquaintance who, making a call under precisely parallel circumstances, and being then in the best health and spirits, expired in forty-eight hours afterwards, of a complication of inflammatory disorders. The visitor, rendered not altogether comfortable perhaps by this and other precedents, inquires very affectionately after Mr. Merrywinkle, but by so doing brings about no change of the subject; for Mr. Merrywinkle's name is inseparably connected with his complaints, and his complaints are inseparably connected with Mrs. Merrywinkle's; and when these are done with, Mrs. Chopper, who has been biding her time, cuts in with the chronic disorder-a subject upon which the amiable old lady never leaves off speaking until she is left alone, and very often not then.

In this final opinion, Mrs. Merrywinkle and her esteemed mother completely agree; even though they’re not present, their thoughts and conversations are focused on the same topic, which they discuss all day long. If anyone happens to visit, Mrs. Merrywinkle thinks they must be insane, and her first greeting is, “What on earth brings you out in this weather? You know you could get really sick.” This belief is supported by Mrs. Chopper, who adds a gloomy story about someone she knows who, after visiting under similar circumstances and being in perfect health and spirits, died within forty-eight hours from a mix of inflammatory diseases. The visitor, perhaps feeling a bit uncomfortable by this and other stories, kindly asks about Mr. Merrywinkle, but this doesn’t change the topic; Mr. Merrywinkle’s name is always linked to his ailments, and his ailments are always tied to Mrs. Merrywinkle’s. Once that’s covered, Mrs. Chopper, who has been waiting for her moment, jumps in with the ongoing health issue—a topic that the lovely old lady goes on about until she’s left alone, and often not even then.

But Mr. Merrywinkle comes home to dinner. He is received by Mrs. Merrywinkle and Mrs. Chopper, who, on his remarking that he thinks his feet are damp, turn pale as ashes and drag him up-stairs, imploring him to have them rubbed directly with a dry coarse towel. Rubbed they are, one by Mrs. Merrywinkle and one by Mrs. Chopper, until the friction causes Mr. Merrywinkle to make horrible faces, and look as if he had been smelling very powerful onions; when they desist, and the patient, provided for his better security with thick worsted stockings and list slippers, is borne down-stairs to dinner. Now, the dinner is always a good one, the appetites of the diners being delicate, and requiring a little of what Mrs. Merrywinkle calls 'tittivation;' the secret of which is understood to lie in good cookery and tasteful spices, and which process is so successfully performed in the present instance, that both Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle eat a remarkably good dinner, and even the afflicted Mrs. Chopper wields her knife and fork with much of the spirit and elasticity of youth. But Mr. Merrywinkle, in his desire to gratify his appetite, is not unmindful of his health, for he has a bottle of carbonate of soda with which to qualify his porter, and a little pair of scales in which to weigh it out. Neither in his anxiety to take care of his body is he unmindful of the welfare of his immortal part, as he always prays that for what he is going to receive he may be made truly thankful; and in order that he may be as thankful as possible, eats and drinks to the utmost.

But Mr. Merrywinkle comes home for dinner. He is greeted by Mrs. Merrywinkle and Mrs. Chopper, who, upon hearing him say he thinks his feet are damp, turn as pale as ghosts and rush him upstairs, begging him to have them dried right away with a rough towel. They rub his feet, one by Mrs. Merrywinkle and one by Mrs. Chopper, until the friction makes Mr. Merrywinkle make terrible faces, looking like he’s just smelled some strong onions; when they stop, the patient, now properly secured with thick woolen stockings and list slippers, is carried downstairs for dinner. The dinner is always good, with the diners having delicate appetites that require a little of what Mrs. Merrywinkle calls 'tittivation;' the secret of which is thought to be good cooking and flavorful spices. In this instance, the process is so well executed that both Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle enjoy a remarkably good dinner, and even the troubled Mrs. Chopper handles her knife and fork with a lot of youthful spirit and energy. But Mr. Merrywinkle, eager to satisfy his appetite, doesn’t forget about his health, as he has a bottle of carbonate of soda to mix with his porter and a small scale to measure it out. In his desire to take care of his body, he also looks after his soul, always praying that he may be truly thankful for what he’s about to receive; and to be as thankful as possible, he eats and drinks as much as he can.

Either from eating and drinking so much, or from being the victim of this constitutional infirmity, among others, Mr. Merrywinkle, after two or three glasses of wine, falls fast asleep; and he has scarcely closed his eyes, when Mrs. Merrywinkle and Mrs. Chopper fall asleep likewise. It is on awakening at tea-time that their most alarming symptoms prevail; for then Mr. Merrywinkle feels as if his temples were tightly bound round with the chain of the street-door, and Mrs. Merrywinkle as if she had made a hearty dinner of half-hundredweights, and Mrs. Chopper as if cold water were running down her back, and oyster-knives with sharp points were plunging of their own accord into her ribs. Symptoms like these are enough to make people peevish, and no wonder that they remain so until supper-time, doing little more than doze and complain, unless Mr. Merrywinkle calls out very loudly to a servant 'to keep that draught out,' or rushes into the passage to flourish his fist in the countenance of the twopenny-postman, for daring to give such a knock as he had just performed at the door of a private gentleman with nerves.

Either from overindulging in food and drink or because of this ongoing health issue, Mr. Merrywinkle falls fast asleep after just two or three glasses of wine. Barely has he closed his eyes when Mrs. Merrywinkle and Mrs. Chopper fall asleep too. When they wake up at tea time, their most alarming symptoms hit them; Mr. Merrywinkle feels as if his temples are tightly bound by the street-door chain, Mrs. Merrywinkle feels like she has just eaten an enormous meal, and Mrs. Chopper feels as if cold water is running down her back and sharp oyster knives are stabbing into her ribs. Symptoms like these are enough to make anyone irritable, so it's no surprise they stay that way until supper, doing little more than dozing and complaining, unless Mr. Merrywinkle yells loudly at a servant to "keep that draft out," or rushes into the hallway to confront the twopenny-postman with a fist, upset over the knock he gave at the door of a private gentleman with sensitive nerves.

Supper, coming after dinner, should consist of some gentle provocative; and therefore the tittivating art is again in requisition, and again-done honour to by Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle, still comforted and abetted by Mrs. Chopper. After supper, it is ten to one but the last- named old lady becomes worse, and is led off to bed with the chronic complaint in full vigour. Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle, having administered to her a warm cordial, which is something of the strongest, then repair to their own room, where Mr. Merrywinkle, with his legs and feet in hot water, superintends the mulling of some wine which he is to drink at the very moment he plunges into bed, while Mrs. Merrywinkle, in garments whose nature is unknown to and unimagined by all but married men, takes four small pills with a spasmodic look between each, and finally comes to something hot and fragrant out of another little saucepan, which serves as her composing-draught for the night.

Supper, following dinner, should be something light and enticing; so the delightful art of preparation is once again in play, and Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle are once more honoring it, still supported by Mrs. Chopper. After supper, it's a safe bet that the aforementioned old lady gets worse and is assisted to bed, with her ongoing health issue fully active. Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle, having given her a strong warm drink, then head to their own room, where Mr. Merrywinkle, with his legs and feet in hot water, oversees the mulling of some wine that he plans to drink the moment he gets into bed, while Mrs. Merrywinkle, in attire known only to and imagined by married individuals, takes four small pills, pausing with a grimace between each one, and finally prepares something hot and fragrant from another small saucepan, which acts as her soothing drink for the night.

There is another kind of couple who coddle themselves, and who do so at a cheaper rate and on more spare diet, because they are niggardly and parsimonious; for which reason they are kind enough to coddle their visitors too. It is unnecessary to describe them, for our readers may rest assured of the accuracy of these general principles:-that all couples who coddle themselves are selfish and slothful,-that they charge upon every wind that blows, every rain that falls, and every vapour that hangs in the air, the evils which arise from their own imprudence or the gloom which is engendered in their own tempers,-and that all men and women, in couples or otherwise, who fall into exclusive habits of self- indulgence, and forget their natural sympathy and close connexion with everybody and everything in the world around them, not only neglect the first duty of life, but, by a happy retributive justice, deprive themselves of its truest and best enjoyment. THE OLD COUPLE

There’s another type of couple who pamper themselves but do so on a tighter budget and a more minimal lifestyle because they are stingy and miserly; for this reason, they are also willing to pamper their guests. It’s unnecessary to go into detail about them, as our readers can trust these general principles: that all couples who indulge themselves are selfish and lazy, that they blame every little issue that comes their way—like every breeze that blows, every drop of rain that falls, and every mist that hangs in the air—for the problems caused by their own carelessness or the negativity created by their own attitudes, and that all people, whether in couples or not, who fall into exclusive habits of self-indulgence and forget their natural compassion and connection with everyone and everything around them, not only neglect the most basic duty of life but, through a sort of fitting karmic justice, miss out on its truest and greatest pleasures. THE OLD COUPLE

They are grandfather and grandmother to a dozen grown people and have great-grandchildren besides; their bodies are bent, their hair is grey, their step tottering and infirm. Is this the lightsome pair whose wedding was so merry, and have the young couple indeed grown old so soon!

They are grandparents to a dozen adults and have great-grandchildren too; their bodies are bent, their hair is grey, and their steps are unsteady and weak. Is this the cheerful couple whose wedding was so joyful, and have the young couple really aged so quickly?

It seems but yesterday-and yet what a host of cares and griefs are crowded into the intervening time which, reckoned by them, lengthens out into a century! How many new associations have wreathed themselves about their hearts since then! The old time is gone, and a new time has come for others-not for them. They are but the rusting link that feebly joins the two, and is silently loosening its hold and dropping asunder.

It feels like just yesterday—and yet, so many worries and sorrows have piled up in the time since, stretching it out to feel like a century! So many new connections have wrapped around their hearts since then! The old times are gone, and a new era has arrived for others—not for them. They are just the fading link that weakly connects the two, silently loosening its grip and starting to break apart.

It seems but yesterday-and yet three of their children have sunk into the grave, and the tree that shades it has grown quite old. One was an infant-they wept for him; the next a girl, a slight young thing too delicate for earth-her loss was hard indeed to bear. The third, a man. That was the worst of all, but even that grief is softened now.

It feels like just yesterday—and yet three of their children have passed away, and the tree that provides shade has grown old. One was a baby—they cried for him; the next was a girl, a fragile young thing too delicate for this world—her loss was truly difficult to endure. The third was a man. That was the hardest of all, but even that sorrow has lessened over time.

It seems but yesterday-and yet how the gay and laughing faces of that bright morning have changed and vanished from above ground! Faint likenesses of some remain about them yet, but they are very faint and scarcely to be traced. The rest are only seen in dreams, and even they are unlike what they were, in eyes so old and dim.

It feels like just yesterday—but how the cheerful and laughing faces from that bright morning have changed and disappeared! Some faint resemblances of a few still linger, but they're very subtle and hardly noticeable. The rest can only be seen in dreams, and even those are not like they used to be, in eyes that are so old and dull.

One or two dresses from the bridal wardrobe are yet preserved. They are of a quaint and antique fashion, and seldom seen except in pictures. White has turned yellow, and brighter hues have faded. Do you wonder, child? The wrinkled face was once as smooth as yours, the eyes as bright, the shrivelled skin as fair and delicate. It is the work of hands that have been dust these many years.

One or two dresses from the bridal wardrobe are still preserved. They have an old-fashioned and unique style, rarely seen except in photos. The white has turned yellow, and the brighter colors have faded. Do you wonder, my child? The wrinkled face used to be as smooth as yours, the eyes as bright, and the shriveled skin as fair and delicate. It all comes from hands that have been dust for many years.

Where are the fairy lovers of that happy day whose annual return comes upon the old man and his wife, like the echo of some village bell which has long been silent? Let yonder peevish bachelor, racked by rheumatic pains, and quarrelling with the world, let him answer to the question. He recollects something of a favourite playmate; her name was Lucy-so they tell him. He is not sure whether she was married, or went abroad, or died. It is a long while ago, and he don't remember.

Where are the fairy lovers from that joyful day whose yearly return hits the old man and his wife like the echo of a village bell that hasn’t rung in ages? Let that cranky bachelor over there, suffering from rheumatism and constantly bickering with the world, answer the question. He vaguely remembers a favorite childhood friend; her name was Lucy—that’s what they tell him. He’s not sure if she got married, moved away, or passed away. It’s been so long, and he just doesn’t remember.

Is nothing as it used to be; does no one feel, or think, or act, as in days of yore? Yes. There is an aged woman who once lived servant with the old lady's father, and is sheltered in an alms-house not far off. She is still attached to the family, and loves them all; she nursed the children in her lap, and tended in their sickness those who are no more. Her old mistress has still something of youth in her eyes; the young ladies are like what she was but not quite so handsome, nor are the gentlemen as stately as Mr. Harvey used to be. She has seen a great deal of trouble; her husband and her son died long ago; but she has got over that, and is happy now-quite happy.

Is nothing as it used to be? Does no one feel, think, or act like they did in the past? Yes. There’s an elderly woman who once served the old lady's father and now lives in a nearby retirement home. She still feels connected to the family and cares for them all; she took care of the children in her lap and looked after those who are no longer here when they were sick. Her old mistress still has a hint of youth in her eyes; the young ladies resemble her but aren't quite as beautiful, and the gentlemen aren’t as dignified as Mr. Harvey used to be. She has endured a lot of hardship; her husband and son passed away a long time ago, but she has moved past that and is happy now—really happy.

If ever her attachment to her old protectors were disturbed by fresher cares and hopes, it has long since resumed its former current. It has filled the void in the poor creature's heart, and replaced the love of kindred. Death has not left her alone, and this, with a roof above her head, and a warm hearth to sit by, makes her cheerful and contented. Does she remember the marriage of great-grandmamma? Ay, that she does, as well-as if it was only yesterday. You wouldn't think it to look at her now, and perhaps she ought not to say so of herself, but she was as smart a young girl then as you'd wish to see. She recollects she took a friend of hers up-stairs to see Miss Emma dressed for church; her name was-ah! she forgets the name, but she remembers that she was a very pretty girl, and that she married not long afterwards, and lived-it has quite passed out of her mind where she lived, but she knows she had a bad husband who used her ill, and that she died in Lambeth work-house. Dear, dear, in Lambeth workhouse!

If her bond with her old guardians was ever shaken by new worries and aspirations, it has long returned to its original state. It has filled the emptiness in the poor woman's heart and replaced the love of family. Death hasn’t left her isolated, and this, along with having a roof over her head and a warm fire to sit by, keeps her happy and satisfied. Does she remember her great-grandmother's wedding? Oh yes, she does, as clearly as if it were just yesterday. You wouldn’t think so by looking at her now, and maybe she shouldn’t say this about herself, but she was as lively a young woman as you could want back then. She recalls taking a friend of hers upstairs to see Miss Emma all dressed up for church; her name was—oh! she can't remember the name, but she knows she was a very pretty girl, who married not long after and lived—it has completely slipped her mind where she lived, but she knows she had an abusive husband who mistreated her, and that she died in the workhouse in Lambeth. Oh dear, in the Lambeth workhouse!

And the old couple-have they no comfort or enjoyment of existence? See them among their grandchildren and great-grandchildren; how garrulous they are, how they compare one with another, and insist on likenesses which no one else can see; how gently the old lady lectures the girls on points of breeding and decorum, and points the moral by anecdotes of herself in her young days-how the old gentleman chuckles over boyish feats and roguish tricks, and tells long stories of a 'barring-out' achieved at the school he went to: which was very wrong, he tells the boys, and never to be imitated of course, but which he cannot help letting them know was very pleasant too-especially when he kissed the master's niece. This last, however, is a point on which the old lady is very tender, for she considers it a shocking and indelicate thing to talk about, and always says so whenever it is mentioned, never failing to observe that he ought to be very penitent for having been so sinful. So the old gentleman gets no further, and what the schoolmaster's niece said afterwards (which he is always going to tell) is lost to posterity.

And the old couple—do they have no comfort or enjoyment in life? Look at them with their grandchildren and great-grandchildren; they're so chatty, comparing themselves to one another and insisting on similarities that no one else can see. The old lady gently lectures the girls on manners and decorum, sharing stories from her youth to make her point. The old gentleman laughs over boyhood adventures and mischievous tricks, telling long stories about a 'barring-out' at his school, which was wrong, he tells the boys, and definitely shouldn’t be copied, but he can’t help but let them know it was quite fun too—especially when he kissed the master's niece. However, this last part is something the old lady is very sensitive about because she thinks it’s a shocking and inappropriate topic to discuss, and she always says so whenever it comes up, never failing to mention that he should feel very sorry for having been so bad. So the old gentleman doesn’t get any further, and what the schoolmaster’s niece said afterward (which he always plans to share) is lost to future generations.

The old gentleman is eighty years old, to-day-'Eighty years old, Crofts, and never had a headache,' he tells the barber who shaves him (the barber being a young fellow, and very subject to that complaint). 'That's a great age, Crofts,' says the old gentleman. 'I don't think it's sich a wery great age, Sir,' replied the barber. 'Crofts,' rejoins the old gentleman, 'you're talking nonsense to me. Eighty not a great age?' 'It's a wery great age, Sir, for a gentleman to be as healthy and active as you are,' returns the barber; 'but my grandfather, Sir, he was ninety-four.' 'You don't mean that, Crofts?' says the old gentleman. 'I do indeed, Sir,' retorts the barber, 'and as wiggerous as Julius Caesar, my grandfather was.' The old gentleman muses a little time, and then says, 'What did he die of, Crofts?' 'He died accidentally, Sir,' returns the barber; 'he didn't mean to do it. He always would go a running about the streets-walking never satisfied his spirit-and he run against a post and died of a hurt in his chest.' The old gentleman says no more until the shaving is concluded, and then he gives Crofts half-a- crown to drink his health. He is a little doubtful of the barber's veracity afterwards, and telling the anecdote to the old lady, affects to make very light of it-though to be sure (he adds) there was old Parr, and in some parts of England, ninety-five or so is a common age, quite a common age.

The old gentleman is eighty years old today. “Eighty years old, Crofts, and I’ve never had a headache,” he tells the young barber who is shaving him, who seems to have that complaint often. “That’s quite an age, Crofts,” says the old gentleman. “I don’t think it’s such a big deal, Sir,” replies the barber. “Crofts,” says the old gentleman, “you’re talking nonsense. Eighty isn’t a big deal?” “It’s a pretty significant age, Sir, for a gentleman to be as healthy and active as you are,” the barber responds, “but my grandfather was ninety-four.” “You don’t mean that, Crofts?” says the old gentleman. “I truly do, Sir,” retorts the barber, “and he was as vigorous as Julius Caesar.” The old gentleman thinks for a moment, then asks, “What did he die from, Crofts?” “He died accidentally, Sir,” the barber answers, “he didn’t mean for it to happen. He always liked to run around the streets—walking never satisfied him—and he ran into a post and died from an injury to his chest.” The old gentleman stays quiet until the shaving is finished, then gives Crofts half-a-crown to drink to his health. He feels a bit skeptical about the barber’s honesty later and, when telling the story to the old lady, tries to downplay it—though he does add, there was old Parr, and in some parts of England, living to ninety-five is quite common.

This morning the old couple are cheerful but serious, recalling old times as well as they can remember them, and dwelling upon many passages in their past lives which the day brings to mind. The old lady reads aloud, in a tremulous voice, out of a great Bible, and the old gentleman with his hand to his ear, listens with profound respect. When the book is closed, they sit silent for a short space, and afterwards resume their conversation, with a reference perhaps to their dead children, as a subject not unsuited to that they have just left. By degrees they are led to consider which of those who survive are the most like those dearly-remembered objects, and so they fall into a less solemn strain, and become cheerful again.

This morning, the elderly couple is cheerful yet serious, reminiscing about the past as best as they can and reflecting on many moments in their lives that the day brings to mind. The old lady reads aloud in a quavery voice from a large Bible, while the old gentleman, with his hand to his ear, listens with deep respect. Once the book is closed, they sit in silence for a moment before picking up their conversation again, perhaps mentioning their deceased children as a topic fitting for what they just discussed. Gradually, they start to think about which of their living relatives resemble those cherished memories, and they shift into a lighter mood, becoming happy once more.

How many people in all, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and one or two intimate friends of the family, dine together to-day at the eldest son's to congratulate the old couple, and wish them many happy returns, is a calculation beyond our powers; but this we know, that the old couple no sooner present themselves, very sprucely and carefully attired, than there is a violent shouting and rushing forward of the younger branches with all manner of presents, such as pocket-books, pencil-cases, pen-wipers, watch-papers, pin-cushions, sleeve-buckles, worked-slippers, watch-guards, and even a nutmeg-grater: the latter article being presented by a very chubby and very little boy, who exhibits it in great triumph as an extraordinary variety. The old couple's emotion at these tokens of remembrance occasions quite a pathetic scene, of which the chief ingredients are a vast quantity of kissing and hugging, and repeated wipings of small eyes and noses with small square pocket-handkerchiefs, which don't come at all easily out of small pockets. Even the peevish bachelor is moved, and he says, as he presents the old gentleman with a queer sort of antique ring from his own finger, that he'll be de'ed if he doesn't think he looks younger than he did ten years ago.

How many people in total—grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and a couple of close family friends—are gathering today at the eldest son’s place to celebrate the old couple, wishing them many more happy years? That’s beyond our ability to calculate; but what we do know is that as soon as the old couple arrives, looking very sharp and carefully dressed, the younger family members rush forward, yelling with excitement and bringing all sorts of gifts like wallets, pencil cases, pen wipes, watch papers, pin cushions, embroidered slippers, watch chains, and even a nutmeg grater. The last one is presented by a very chubby little boy, who shows it off with great excitement as something really unique. The old couple is quite touched by these thoughtful gifts, leading to an emotional scene filled with lots of hugs and kisses, along with frequent handkerchief-wiping of tiny eyes and noses, which can be a struggle to retrieve from their little pockets. Even the grumpy bachelor feels a tug at his heart, and as he gifts the old gentleman a strange, old-fashioned ring from his own finger, he remarks that he’d be darned if the old guy doesn’t look younger than he did ten years ago.

But the great time is after dinner, when the dessert and wine are on the table, which is pushed back to make plenty of room, and they are all gathered in a large circle round the fire, for it is then-the glasses being filled, and everybody ready to drink the toast-that two great- grandchildren rush out at a given signal, and presently return, dragging in old Jane Adams leaning upon her crutched stick, and trembling with age and pleasure. Who so popular as poor old Jane, nurse and story- teller in ordinary to two generations; and who so happy as she, striving to bend her stiff limbs into a curtsey, while tears of pleasure steal down her withered cheeks!

But the best time is after dinner, when dessert and wine are on the table, which is pushed back to make plenty of space. Everyone gathers in a large circle around the fire, and just then—the glasses filled and everyone ready to toast—two great-grandchildren rush out at a signal and come back, dragging in old Jane Adams, leaning on her crutch and trembling with age and joy. Who is more beloved than poor old Jane, the nurse and storyteller to two generations? And who is happier than she, trying to bend her stiff limbs into a curtsy while tears of joy roll down her wrinkled cheeks!

The old couple sit side by side, and the old time seems like yesterday indeed. Looking back upon the path they have travelled, its dust and ashes disappear; the flowers that withered long ago, show brightly again upon its borders, and they grow young once more in the youth of those about them. CONCLUSION

The elderly couple sits together, and it feels like the past was just yesterday. Reflecting on the journey they've taken, the dust and ashes fade away; the flowers that dried up long ago bloom vividly again along its edges, and they feel young once more in the presence of those around them. CONCLUSION

We have taken for the subjects of the foregoing moral essays, twelve samples of married couples, carefully selected from a large stock on hand, open to the inspection of all comers. These samples are intended for the benefit of the rising generation of both sexes, and, for their more easy and pleasant information, have been separately ticketed and labelled in the manner they have seen.

We have chosen twelve examples of married couples for the moral essays above, carefully picked from a large selection available for anyone to see. These examples are meant to benefit the new generation of both genders, and to make their information easier and more enjoyable, they have been individually tagged and labeled as you’ve seen.

We have purposely excluded from consideration the couple in which the lady reigns paramount and supreme, holding such cases to be of a very unnatural kind, and like hideous births and other monstrous deformities, only to be discreetly and sparingly exhibited.

We have intentionally left out of the discussion couples where the woman is dominant and in complete control, considering such situations to be very unnatural, similar to grotesque births and other bizarre deformities that should only be shown discreetly and rarely.

And here our self-imposed task would have ended, but that to those young ladies and gentlemen who are yet revolving singly round the church, awaiting the advent of that time when the mysterious laws of attraction shall draw them towards it in couples, we are desirous of addressing a few last words.

And here our self-imposed task would have ended, but for those young ladies and gentlemen who are still single and circling around the church, waiting for the time when mysterious laws of attraction will pull them in as couples, we want to share a few final thoughts.

Before marriage and afterwards, let them learn to centre all their hopes of real and lasting happiness in their own fireside; let them cherish the faith that in home, and all the English virtues which the love of home engenders, lies the only true source of domestic felicity; let them believe that round the household gods, contentment and tranquillity cluster in their gentlest and most graceful forms; and that many weary hunters of happiness through the noisy world, have learnt this truth too late, and found a cheerful spirit and a quiet mind only at home at last.

Before and after marriage, let them focus all their hopes for real and lasting happiness on their own home; let them hold on to the belief that true domestic joy comes from home and the English values that love for home brings; let them trust that around their family, contentment and peace come together in their most gentle and graceful forms; and that many tired seekers of happiness in the noisy world have discovered this truth too late, finding a cheerful spirit and a calm mind only at home in the end.

How much may depend on the education of daughters and the conduct of mothers; how much of the brightest part of our old national character may be perpetuated by their wisdom or frittered away by their folly-how much of it may have been lost already, and how much more in danger of vanishing every day-are questions too weighty for discussion here, but well deserving a little serious consideration from all young couples nevertheless.

How much depends on the education of daughters and the behavior of mothers; how much of the best parts of our national character may be preserved by their wisdom or wasted by their mistakes—how much of it may have already been lost, and how much more is at risk of disappearing each day—are questions too important to discuss here, but still deserve some serious thought from all young couples.

To that one young couple on whose bright destiny the thoughts of nations are fixed, may the youth of England look, and not in vain, for an example. From that one young couple, blessed and favoured as they are, may they learn that even the glare and glitter of a court, the splendour of a palace, and the pomp and glory of a throne, yield in their power of conferring happiness, to domestic worth and virtue. From that one young couple may they learn that the crown of a great empire, costly and jewelled though it be, gives place in the estimation of a Queen to the plain gold ring that links her woman's nature to that of tens of thousands of her humble subjects, and guards in her woman's heart one secret store of tenderness, whose proudest boast shall be that it knows no Royalty save Nature's own, and no pride of birth but being the child of heaven!

To that one young couple whose bright future captivates the thoughts of nations, may the youth of England look to them as a true example. From that one young couple, blessed and favored as they are, may they learn that even the flash and glam of a royal court, the luxury of a palace, and the pomp and prestige of a throne can't compare to the happiness found in personal worth and virtue. From that one young couple, they may see that the crown of a great empire, no matter how expensive and adorned, pales in comparison to the simple gold ring that connects a Queen's heart to that of countless humble subjects, and keeps in her heart a treasured secret that proudly acknowledges no royalty but Nature's own, and no pride of birth except being a child of heaven!

So shall the highest young couple in the land for once hear the truth, when men throw up their caps, and cry with loving shouts-

So, at last, the top young couple in the land will hear the truth, when people toss their hats in the air and shout with joy—

God bless them.

Bless them.

THE MUDFOG AND OTHER SKETCHES PUBLIC LIFE OF MR. TULRUMBLE-ONCE MAYOR OF MUDFOG

Mudfog is a pleasant town-a remarkably pleasant town-situated in a charming hollow by the side of a river, from which river, Mudfog derives an agreeable scent of pitch, tar, coals, and rope-yarn, a roving population in oilskin hats, a pretty steady influx of drunken bargemen, and a great many other maritime advantages. There is a good deal of water about Mudfog, and yet it is not exactly the sort of town for a watering-place, either. Water is a perverse sort of element at the best of times, and in Mudfog it is particularly so. In winter, it comes oozing down the streets and tumbling over the fields,-nay, rushes into the very cellars and kitchens of the houses, with a lavish prodigality that might well be dispensed with; but in the hot summer weather it will dry up, and turn green: and, although green is a very good colour in its way, especially in grass, still it certainly is not becoming to water; and it cannot be denied that the beauty of Mudfog is rather impaired, even by this trifling circumstance. Mudfog is a healthy place-very healthy;-damp, perhaps, but none the worse for that. It's quite a mistake to suppose that damp is unwholesome: plants thrive best in damp situations, and why shouldn't men? The inhabitants of Mudfog are unanimous in asserting that there exists not a finer race of people on the face of the earth; here we have an indisputable and veracious contradiction of the vulgar error at once. So, admitting Mudfog to be damp, we distinctly state that it is salubrious.

Mudfog is a lovely town—a remarkably lovely town—situated in a charming hollow by a river. This river gives Mudfog a pleasant mix of scents like pitch, tar, coal, and rope, along with a wandering crowd in oilskin hats, a steady flow of tipsy bargemen, and many other maritime perks. There's a lot of water around Mudfog, but it's not really the type of place you’d think of as a resort. Water can be a tricky element at the best of times, and in Mudfog, it especially is. In winter, it seeps down the streets and spills over the fields—actually, it rushes into the very cellars and kitchens of the homes, with a generosity that could definitely be toned down. But in the hot summer, it dries up and turns green; and while green is a lovely color, especially in grass, it certainly doesn’t look great on water, and it's hard to deny that Mudfog’s beauty is somewhat diminished by this small detail. Mudfog is a healthy place—very healthy; damp, perhaps, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. It’s a common misconception that dampness is unhealthy: plants flourish in damp conditions, so why can’t people? The residents of Mudfog all agree that there isn’t a finer group of people anywhere on earth; this is a clear and honest challenge to the popular belief. So, while we acknowledge that Mudfog is damp, we firmly state that it is also healthful.

The town of Mudfog is extremely picturesque. Limehouse and Ratcliff Highway are both something like it, but they give you a very faint idea of Mudfog. There are a great many more public-houses in Mudfog-more than in Ratcliff Highway and Limehouse put together. The public buildings, too, are very imposing. We consider the town-hall one of the finest specimens of shed architecture, extant: it is a combination of the pig-sty and tea-garden-box orders; and the simplicity of its design is of surpassing beauty. The idea of placing a large window on one side of the door, and a small one on the other, is particularly happy. There is a fine old Doric beauty, too, about the padlock and scraper, which is strictly in keeping with the general effect.

The town of Mudfog is really charming. Limehouse and Ratcliff Highway are similar, but they don't come close to capturing the essence of Mudfog. There are way more pubs in Mudfog—more than in both Ratcliff Highway and Limehouse combined. The public buildings are quite impressive too. We think the town hall is one of the best examples of shed architecture around: it’s a mix of a pigsty and a tea garden box; and the straightforward design is remarkably beautiful. The idea of having a large window on one side of the door and a smaller one on the other is particularly clever. The old Doric charm of the padlock and scraper also fits perfectly with the overall look.

In this room do the mayor and corporation of Mudfog assemble together in solemn council for the public weal. Seated on the massive wooden benches, which, with the table in the centre, form the only furniture of the whitewashed apartment, the sage men of Mudfog spend hour after hour in grave deliberation. Here they settle at what hour of the night the public-houses shall be closed, at what hour of the morning they shall be permitted to open, how soon it shall be lawful for people to eat their dinner on church-days, and other great political questions; and sometimes, long after silence has fallen on the town, and the distant lights from the shops and houses have ceased to twinkle, like far-off stars, to the sight of the boatmen on the river, the illumination in the two unequal-sized windows of the town-hall, warns the inhabitants of Mudfog that its little body of legislators, like a larger and better- known body of the same genus, a great deal more noisy, and not a whit more profound, are patriotically dozing away in company, far into the night, for their country's good.

In this room, the mayor and city council of Mudfog gather in serious session for the public good. Sitting on the large wooden benches that, along with the table in the center, make up the only furniture in the whitewashed room, the wise men of Mudfog spend hour after hour in serious discussion. Here, they decide when the pubs will close at night, when they can open in the morning, how soon people can have dinner on Sundays, and other major political issues. Sometimes, long after silence has descended over the town and the distant lights from shops and homes have stopped twinkling like distant stars to the boatmen on the river, the light in the two differently-sized windows of the town hall signals the people of Mudfog that its small group of lawmakers, like a larger and more famous group of the same kind—much louder and not any deeper—are patriotically dozing off together late into the night for the good of their country.

Among this knot of sage and learned men, no one was so eminently distinguished, during many years, for the quiet modesty of his appearance and demeanour, as Nicholas Tulrumble, the well-known coal- dealer. However exciting the subject of discussion, however animated the tone of the debate, or however warm the personalities exchanged, (and even in Mudfog we get personal sometimes,) Nicholas Tulrumble was always the same. To say truth, Nicholas, being an industrious man, and always up betimes, was apt to fall asleep when a debate began, and to remain asleep till it was over, when he would wake up very much refreshed, and give his vote with the greatest complacency. The fact was, that Nicholas Tulrumble, knowing that everybody there had made up his mind beforehand, considered the talking as just a long botheration about nothing at all; and to the present hour it remains a question, whether, on this point at all events, Nicholas Tulrumble was not pretty near right.

Among this group of wise and knowledgeable men, no one stood out more over the years for his unassuming appearance and demeanor than Nicholas Tulrumble, the well-known coal dealer. No matter how exciting the topic of discussion, how heated the debate, or how personal the exchanges became, (and even in Mudfog, we can get personal sometimes,) Nicholas Tulrumble was always the same. To be honest, Nicholas, being a hardworking man who always woke up early, tended to fall asleep when a debate started and would stay asleep until it was over, at which point he would wake up feeling refreshed and vote with great satisfaction. The truth was that Nicholas Tulrumble, knowing that everyone there had already made up their minds, considered the talking to be just a long hassle about nothing at all; and to this day, it remains a question whether, on this point at least, Nicholas Tulrumble was pretty close to being right.

Time, which strews a man's head with silver, sometimes fills his pockets with gold. As he gradually performed one good office for Nicholas Tulrumble, he was obliging enough, not to omit the other. Nicholas began life in a wooden tenement of four feet square, with a capital of two and ninepence, and a stock in trade of three bushels and a-half of coals, exclusive of the large lump which hung, by way of sign-board, outside. Then he enlarged the shed, and kept a truck; then he left the shed, and the truck too, and started a donkey and a Mrs. Tulrumble; then he moved again and set up a cart; the cart was soon afterwards exchanged for a waggon; and so he went on like his great predecessor Whittington-only without a cat for a partner-increasing in wealth and fame, until at last he gave up business altogether, and retired with Mrs. Tulrumble and family to Mudfog Hall, which he had himself erected, on something which he attempted to delude himself into the belief was a hill, about a quarter of a mile distant from the town of Mudfog.

Time, which turns a man's hair gray, sometimes fills his pockets with cash. As he gradually did favors for Nicholas Tulrumble, he was kind enough not to neglect the other. Nicholas started out in a tiny wooden building that was four feet square, with just two shillings and nine pence to his name, and a stock of three and a half bushels of coal, not counting the big lump that served as his sign outside. Then he expanded the shed and got a truck; next, he left the shed and the truck behind and took on a donkey and a Mrs. Tulrumble; then he moved again and got a cart; the cart was soon swapped for a wagon; and so he continued just like his famous predecessor Whittington—only without a cat as a business partner—growing in wealth and reputation, until finally he gave up working altogether and retired with Mrs. Tulrumble and their family to Mudfog Hall, which he had built himself on what he tried to convince himself was a hill, about a quarter mile from the town of Mudfog.

About this time, it began to be murmured in Mudfog that Nicholas Tulrumble was growing vain and haughty; that prosperity and success had corrupted the simplicity of his manners, and tainted the natural goodness of his heart; in short, that he was setting up for a public character, and a great gentleman, and affected to look down upon his old companions with compassion and contempt. Whether these reports were at the time well-founded, or not, certain it is that Mrs. Tulrumble very shortly afterwards started a four-wheel chaise, driven by a tall postilion in a yellow cap,-that Mr. Tulrumble junior took to smoking cigars, and calling the footman a 'feller,'-and that Mr. Tulrumble from that time forth, was no more seen in his old seat in the chimney-corner of the Lighterman's Arms at night. This looked bad; but, more than this, it began to be observed that Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble attended the corporation meetings more frequently than heretofore; and he no longer went to sleep as he had done for so many years, but propped his eyelids open with his two forefingers; that he read the newspapers by himself at home; and that he was in the habit of indulging abroad in distant and mysterious allusions to 'masses of people,' and 'the property of the country,' and 'productive power,' and 'the monied interest:' all of which denoted and proved that Nicholas Tulrumble was either mad, or worse; and it puzzled the good people of Mudfog amazingly.

About this time, people in Mudfog started whispering that Nicholas Tulrumble was becoming arrogant and snobbish; that success had spoiled the simplicity of his behavior and affected the natural kindness of his heart; in short, that he was trying to become a public figure and a gentleman, looking down on his old friends with pity and disdain. Whether these claims were true or not, it's clear that Mrs. Tulrumble soon after got a four-wheeled carriage driven by a tall coachman in a yellow cap, that Mr. Tulrumble Jr. took up smoking cigars and called the footman a "feller," and that Mr. Tulrumble was no longer seen in his usual spot by the fireplace in the Lighterman's Arms at night. This was a bad sign; but even more concerning was that Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble began attending the corporation meetings more often than before; he no longer dozed off as he had for years, but kept his eyes open with his two forefingers; he read the newspapers alone at home; and he often made vague and mysterious references to "masses of people," "the property of the country," "productive power," and "the monied interest." All of this suggested and proved that Nicholas Tulrumble was either crazy or worse, and it left the good people of Mudfog utterly confused.

At length, about the middle of the month of October, Mr. Tulrumble and family went up to London; the middle of October being, as Mrs. Tulrumble informed her acquaintance in Mudfog, the very height of the fashionable season.

At last, around the middle of October, Mr. Tulrumble and his family went to London; the middle of October being, as Mrs. Tulrumble told her friends in Mudfog, the peak of the fashionable season.

Somehow or other, just about this time, despite the health-preserving air of Mudfog, the Mayor died. It was a most extraordinary circumstance; he had lived in Mudfog for eighty-five years. The corporation didn't understand it at all; indeed it was with great difficulty that one old gentleman, who was a great stickler for forms, was dissuaded from proposing a vote of censure on such unaccountable conduct. Strange as it was, however, die he did, without taking the slightest notice of the corporation; and the corporation were imperatively called upon to elect his successor. So, they met for the purpose; and being very full of Nicholas Tulrumble just then, and Nicholas Tulrumble being a very important man, they elected him, and wrote off to London by the very next post to acquaint Nicholas Tulrumble with his new elevation.

Somehow, around this time, despite the healthy air of Mudfog, the Mayor passed away. It was an absolutely bizarre situation; he had lived in Mudfog for eighty-five years. The corporation couldn't make sense of it at all; in fact, it took a lot of effort to convince one old gentleman, who was very particular about procedures, not to propose a vote of censure for such inexplicable behavior. Strange as it was, he did die without paying any attention to the corporation, and they were urgently required to elect his successor. So, they gathered for this purpose; and since they were very preoccupied with Nicholas Tulrumble at the time, and Nicholas Tulrumble was quite a significant figure, they elected him and sent off a letter to London by the next post to inform Nicholas Tulrumble of his new position.

Now, it being November time, and Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble being in the capital, it fell out that he was present at the Lord Mayor's show and dinner, at sight of the glory and splendour whereof, he, Mr. Tulrumble, was greatly mortified, inasmuch as the reflection would force itself on his mind, that, had he been born in London instead of in Mudfog, he might have been a Lord Mayor too, and have patronized the judges, and been affable to the Lord Chancellor, and friendly with the Premier, and coldly condescending to the Secretary to the Treasury, and have dined with a flag behind his back, and done a great many other acts and deeds which unto Lord Mayors of London peculiarly appertain. The more he thought of the Lord Mayor, the more enviable a personage he seemed. To be a King was all very well; but what was the King to the Lord Mayor! When the King made a speech, everybody knew it was somebody else's writing; whereas here was the Lord Mayor, talking away for half an hour- all out of his own head-amidst the enthusiastic applause of the whole company, while it was notorious that the King might talk to his parliament till he was black in the face without getting so much as a single cheer. As all these reflections passed through the mind of Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble, the Lord Mayor of London appeared to him the greatest sovereign on the face of the earth, beating the Emperor of Russia all to nothing, and leaving the Great Mogul immeasurably behind.

Now that it's November and Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble is in the capital, he attended the Lord Mayor's show and dinner. Seeing the glory and splendor of the event greatly embarrassed him, as he couldn't help but think that if he had been born in London instead of Mudfog, he might have been a Lord Mayor too. He could have supported the judges, been friendly with the Lord Chancellor, had a good relationship with the Premier, and looked down on the Secretary to the Treasury, all while dining with a flag behind him and doing many other things that are typically associated with Lord Mayors of London. The more he thought about the Lord Mayor, the more enviable he seemed. Being a King was nice and all, but what was a King compared to the Lord Mayor? When the King gave a speech, everyone knew it was written by someone else; meanwhile, the Lord Mayor spoke for half an hour, completely from his own mind, receiving enthusiastic applause from the entire crowd. It was well known that the King could talk to his parliament until he was blue in the face without getting a single cheer. As these thoughts went through Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble's mind, he saw the Lord Mayor of London as the greatest ruler on earth, surpassing the Emperor of Russia and leaving the Great Mogul far behind.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was pondering over these things, and inwardly cursing the fate which had pitched his coal-shed in Mudfog, when the letter of the corporation was put into his hand. A crimson flush mantled over his face as he read it, for visions of brightness were already dancing before his imagination.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was thinking about all this, secretly cursing the luck that had placed his coal shed in Mudfog, when the letter from the corporation was handed to him. A deep red flush spread across his face as he read it, because bright visions were already swirling in his mind.

'My dear,' said Mr. Tulrumble to his wife, 'they have elected me, Mayor of Mudfog.'

'My dear,' said Mr. Tulrumble to his wife, 'they've elected me Mayor of Mudfog.'

'Lor-a-mussy!' said Mrs. Tulrumble: 'why what's become of old Sniggs?'

'Lor-a-mussy!' said Mrs. Tulrumble: 'what happened to old Sniggs?'

'The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble,' said Mr. Tulrumble sharply, for he by no means approved of the notion of unceremoniously designating a gentleman who filled the high office of Mayor, as 'Old Sniggs,'-'The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble, is dead.'

'The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble,' Mr. Tulrumble said sharply, as he definitely didn’t support the idea of casually referring to a gentleman who held the important position of Mayor as 'Old Sniggs.' 'The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble, is dead.'

The communication was very unexpected; but Mrs. Tulrumble only ejaculated 'Lor-a-mussy!' once again, as if a Mayor were a mere ordinary Christian, at which Mr. Tulrumble frowned gloomily.

The communication was very unexpected; but Mrs. Tulrumble only exclaimed, 'Oh my goodness!' once again, as if a Mayor were just an ordinary person, at which Mr. Tulrumble frowned gloomily.

'What a pity 'tan't in London, ain't it?' said Mrs. Tulrumble, after a short pause; 'what a pity 'tan't in London, where you might have had a show.'

'What a pity it isn't in London, right?' said Mrs. Tulrumble, after a short pause; 'what a pity it isn't in London, where you could have had a performance.'

'I might have a show in Mudfog, if I thought proper, I apprehend,' said Mr. Tulrumble mysteriously.

'I could probably get a gig in Mudfog if I wanted to,' Mr. Tulrumble said mysteriously.

'Lor! so you might, I declare,' replied Mrs. Tulrumble.

'Wow! You could, I swear,' replied Mrs. Tulrumble.

'And a good one too,' said Mr. Tulrumble.

'Delightful!' exclaimed Mrs. Tulrumble.

'Awesome!' exclaimed Mrs. Tulrumble.

'One which would rather astonish the ignorant people down there,' said Mr. Tulrumble.

'One that would really surprise the clueless folks down there,' said Mr. Tulrumble.

'It would kill them with envy,' said Mrs. Tulrumble.

"It would make them extremely jealous," said Mrs. Tulrumble.

So it was agreed that his Majesty's lieges in Mudfog should be astonished with splendour, and slaughtered with envy, and that such a show should take place as had never been seen in that town, or in any other town before,-no, not even in London itself.

So everyone agreed that the king's subjects in Mudfog should be amazed by the spectacle and filled with envy, and that there should be a display like none ever seen in that town, or any other town before—not even in London itself.

On the very next day after the receipt of the letter, down came the tall postilion in a post-chaise,-not upon one of the horses, but inside-actually inside the chaise,-and, driving up to the very door of the town-hall, where the corporation were assembled, delivered a letter, written by the Lord knows who, and signed by Nicholas Tulrumble, in which Nicholas said, all through four sides of closely-written, gilt- edged, hot-pressed, Bath post letter paper, that he responded to the call of his fellow-townsmen with feelings of heartfelt delight; that he accepted the arduous office which their confidence had imposed upon him; that they would never find him shrinking from the discharge of his duty; that he would endeavour to execute his functions with all that dignity which their magnitude and importance demanded; and a great deal more to the same effect. But even this was not all. The tall postilion produced from his right-hand top-boot, a damp copy of that afternoon's number of the county paper; and there, in large type, running the whole length of the very first column, was a long address from Nicholas Tulrumble to the inhabitants of Mudfog, in which he said that he cheerfully complied with their requisition, and, in short, as if to prevent any mistake about the matter, told them over again what a grand fellow he meant to be, in very much the same terms as those in which he had already told them all about the matter in his letter.

The very next day after receiving the letter, the tall postilion arrived in a post-chaise—not riding on a horse, but actually inside the chaise. He drove right up to the town hall, where the town council was gathered, and delivered a letter, written by who knows who and signed by Nicholas Tulrumble. In the letter, which filled four sides of closely written, gilt-edged, hot-pressed Bath post letter paper, Nicholas expressed his heartfelt delight in responding to the call of his fellow townspeople. He accepted the challenging position that they entrusted to him, assured them that he would never shy away from his responsibilities, and promised to carry out his duties with the dignity that their importance required, along with much more in the same vein. But that wasn’t all. The tall postilion pulled out from his right-hand boot a damp copy of that afternoon's county paper, where, in bold type running the entire length of the first column, was a lengthy address from Nicholas Tulrumble to the residents of Mudfog. In it, he stated that he gladly accepted their request and essentially reiterated what a great person he planned to be, using very similar words to those in his letter.

The corporation stared at one another very hard at all this, and then looked as if for explanation to the tall postilion, but as the tall postilion was intently contemplating the gold tassel on the top of his yellow cap, and could have afforded no explanation whatever, even if his thoughts had been entirely disengaged, they contented themselves with coughing very dubiously, and looking very grave. The tall postilion then delivered another letter, in which Nicholas Tulrumble informed the corporation, that he intended repairing to the town-hall, in grand state and gorgeous procession, on the Monday afternoon next ensuing. At this the corporation looked still more solemn; but, as the epistle wound up with a formal invitation to the whole body to dine with the Mayor on that day, at Mudfog Hall, Mudfog Hill, Mudfog, they began to see the fun of the thing directly, and sent back their compliments, and they'd be sure to come.

The group stared at each other, trying to make sense of it all, and then turned to the tall postilion for an explanation. However, since the tall postilion was fixated on the gold tassel on his yellow cap and wouldn’t have been able to offer an explanation anyway, even if he had been paying attention, they settled for coughing uncertainly and looking quite serious. The tall postilion then handed over another letter in which Nicholas Tulrumble informed the group that he planned to go to the town hall in grand style and with a fancy procession on the following Monday afternoon. This made the group look even more serious, but as the letter ended with a formal invitation for everyone to have dinner with the Mayor on that day at Mudfog Hall, Mudfog Hill, Mudfog, they quickly grasped the humor of the situation and responded with their compliments, saying they would definitely attend.

Now there happened to be in Mudfog, as somehow or other there does happen to be, in almost every town in the British dominions, and perhaps in foreign dominions too-we think it very likely, but, being no great traveller, cannot distinctly say-there happened to be, in Mudfog, a merry-tempered, pleasant-faced, good-for-nothing sort of vagabond, with an invincible dislike to manual labour, and an unconquerable attachment to strong beer and spirits, whom everybody knew, and nobody, except his wife, took the trouble to quarrel with, who inherited from his ancestors the appellation of Edward Twigger, and rejoiced in the sobriquet of Bottle-nosed Ned. He was drunk upon the average once a day, and penitent upon an equally fair calculation once a month; and when he was penitent, he was invariably in the very last stage of maudlin intoxication. He was a ragged, roving, roaring kind of fellow, with a burly form, a sharp wit, and a ready head, and could turn his hand to anything when he chose to do it. He was by no means opposed to hard labour on principle, for he would work away at a cricket-match by the day together,-running, and catching, and batting, and bowling, and revelling in toil which would exhaust a galley-slave. He would have been invaluable to a fire-office; never was a man with such a natural taste for pumping engines, running up ladders, and throwing furniture out of two-pair-of-stairs' windows: nor was this the only element in which he was at home; he was a humane society in himself, a portable drag, an animated life-preserver, and had saved more people, in his time, from drowning, than the Plymouth life-boat, or Captain Manby's apparatus. With all these qualifications, notwithstanding his dissipation, Bottle-nosed Ned was a general favourite; and the authorities of Mudfog, remembering his numerous services to the population, allowed him in return to get drunk in his own way, without the fear of stocks, fine, or imprisonment. He had a general licence, and he showed his sense of the compliment by making the most of it.

Now, in Mudfog, just like in almost every town in the British Empire—and maybe even in foreign places too, though I can’t say for sure since I’m not much of a traveler—there was a cheerful, easygoing, useless kind of drifter who had a strong aversion to working and an unshakable love for strong beer and spirits. Everyone knew him, and no one, except for his wife, bothered to pick a fight with him. He was known as Edward Twigger, but he was more commonly called Bottle-nosed Ned. He was usually drunk about once a day and felt sorry for himself about once a month; when he did feel sorry, he was always at the very end of being overly emotional from drinking. He was a ragged, wandering, loud kind of guy, with a sturdy build, a sharp mind, and quick thinking, and he could do just about anything he wanted when he decided to put in some effort. He wasn’t against hard work on principle, since he’d happily spend a whole day playing cricket—running, catching, batting, and bowling, enjoying the effort that would tire even a galley slave. He would have been a real asset to a fire department; there was no one with such a natural knack for pumping engines, climbing ladders, and tossing furniture out of second-story windows. But that wasn’t the only place where he excelled; he was like a walking humane society, a portable lifeguard, and had rescued more people from drowning in his time than the Plymouth lifeboat or Captain Manby's equipment. Despite his drinking habits, Bottle-nosed Ned was a local favorite; the authorities in Mudfog, recalling all the times he helped the community, let him drink freely without fear of punishment. He had a general license, and he definitely appreciated it by taking full advantage.

We have been thus particular in describing the character and avocations of Bottle-nosed Ned, because it enables us to introduce a fact politely, without hauling it into the reader's presence with indecent haste by the head and shoulders, and brings us very naturally to relate, that on the very same evening on which Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble and family returned to Mudfog, Mr. Tulrumble's new secretary, just imported from London, with a pale face and light whiskers, thrust his head down to the very bottom of his neckcloth-tie, in at the tap-room door of the Lighterman's Arms, and inquiring whether one Ned Twigger was luxuriating within, announced himself as the bearer of a message from Nicholas Tulrumble, Esquire, requiring Mr. Twigger's immediate attendance at the hall, on private and particular business. It being by no means Mr. Twigger's interest to affront the Mayor, he rose from the fireplace with a slight sigh, and followed the light-whiskered secretary through the dirt and wet of Mudfog streets, up to Mudfog Hall, without further ado.

We’ve been careful in describing the character and activities of Bottle-nosed Ned because it lets us introduce a fact smoothly, without forcing it on the reader too abruptly, and it leads us naturally to mention that on the same evening that Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble and his family returned to Mudfog, Mr. Tulrumble's new secretary, just arrived from London with a pale face and light whiskers, poked his head into the tap-room of the Lighterman's Arms and asked if one Ned Twigger was inside. He announced himself as the messenger from Nicholas Tulrumble, Esquire, requesting Mr. Twigger’s immediate presence at the hall for private and important business. Since it was definitely not in Mr. Twigger's interest to offend the Mayor, he got up from the fireplace with a small sigh and followed the light-whiskered secretary through the mud and rain of Mudfog streets to Mudfog Hall, without any further delay.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was seated in a small cavern with a skylight, which he called his library, sketching out a plan of the procession on a large sheet of paper; and into the cavern the secretary ushered Ned Twigger.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was sitting in a small cave with a skylight, which he called his library, outlining a plan for the procession on a large sheet of paper; and into the cave, the secretary brought in Ned Twigger.

'Well, Twigger!' said Nicholas Tulrumble, condescendingly.

'Well, Twigger!' said Nicholas Tulrumble, in a patronizing way.

There was a time when Twigger would have replied, 'Well, Nick!' but that was in the days of the truck, and a couple of years before the donkey; so, he only bowed.

There was a time when Twigger would have said, 'Well, Nick!' but that was during the truck days, a couple of years before the donkey; so, he just bowed.

'I want you to go into training, Twigger,' said Mr. Tulrumble.

'I want you to start training, Twigger,' said Mr. Tulrumble.

'What for, sir?' inquired Ned, with a stare.

'What for, sir?' asked Ned, staring.

'Hush, hush, Twigger!' said the Mayor. 'Shut the door, Mr. Jennings. Look here, Twigger.'

'Hush, hush, Twigger!' said the Mayor. 'Close the door, Mr. Jennings. Listen, Twigger.'

As the Mayor said this, he unlocked a high closet, and disclosed a complete suit of brass armour, of gigantic dimensions.

As the Mayor said this, he opened a tall closet and revealed a complete suit of brass armor, of enormous size.

'I want you to wear this next Monday, Twigger,' said the Mayor.

'Bless your heart and soul, sir!' replied Ned, 'you might as well ask me to wear a seventy-four pounder, or a cast-iron boiler.'

'Bless your heart and soul, sir!' replied Ned, 'you might as well ask me to carry a seventy-four pound cannon or a cast-iron boiler.'

'Nonsense, Twigger, nonsense!' said the Mayor.

'I couldn't stand under it, sir,' said Twigger; 'it would make mashed potatoes of me, if I attempted it.'

'I can't handle it, sir,' said Twigger; 'it would turn me into mashed potatoes if I tried to do it.'

'Pooh, pooh, Twigger!' returned the Mayor. 'I tell you I have seen it done with my own eyes, in London, and the man wasn't half such a man as you are, either.'

'Pooh, pooh, Twigger!' replied the Mayor. 'I’m telling you, I’ve seen it done with my own eyes, in London, and the guy wasn’t even half the man you are.'

'I should as soon have thought of a man's wearing the case of an eight- day clock to save his linen,' said Twigger, casting a look of apprehension at the brass suit.

'I would just as soon think of a guy wearing the casing of an eight-day clock to protect his clothes,' said Twigger, glancing nervously at the brass suit.

'It's the easiest thing in the world,' rejoined the Mayor.

"It's the easiest thing in the world," the Mayor responded.

'It's nothing,' said Mr. Jennings.

"It's fine," said Mr. Jennings.

'When you're used to it,' added Ned.

'When you're used to it,' Ned added.

'You do it by degrees,' said the Mayor. 'You would begin with one piece to-morrow, and two the next day, and so on, till you had got it all on. Mr. Jennings, give Twigger a glass of rum. Just try the breast-plate, Twigger. Stay; take another glass of rum first. Help me to lift it, Mr. Jennings. Stand firm, Twigger! There!-it isn't half as heavy as it looks, is it?'

"You do it gradually," said the Mayor. "You start with one piece tomorrow, then two the next day, and so on, until you have it all on. Mr. Jennings, pour Twigger a glass of rum. Just try the breastplate, Twigger. Wait; have another glass of rum first. Help me lift it, Mr. Jennings. Hold steady, Twigger! There! It’s not nearly as heavy as it looks, is it?"

Twigger was a good strong, stout fellow; so, after a great deal of staggering, he managed to keep himself up, under the breastplate, and even contrived, with the aid of another glass of rum, to walk about in it, and the gauntlets into the bargain. He made a trial of the helmet, but was not equally successful, inasmuch as he tipped over instantly,-an accident which Mr. Tulrumble clearly demonstrated to be occasioned by his not having a counteracting weight of brass on his legs.

Twigger was a strong, sturdy guy; so, after a lot of wobbling, he managed to stay upright under the breastplate and even managed, with another shot of rum, to walk around in it, along with the gauntlets. He tried out the helmet, but that didn’t go as well, since he toppled over immediately—an incident that Mr. Tulrumble clearly showed was due to him not having a counterbalancing weight of brass on his legs.

'Now, wear that with grace and propriety on Monday next,' said Tulrumble, 'and I'll make your fortune.'

'Now, wear that with style and respect next Monday,' said Tulrumble, 'and I'll make you wealthy.'

'I'll try what I can do, sir,' said Twigger.

'I'll see what I can do, sir,' said Twigger.

'It must be kept a profound secret,' said Tulrumble.

'It has to be kept a deep secret,' said Tulrumble.

'Of course, sir,' replied Twigger.

"Sure thing, sir," replied Twigger.

'And you must be sober,' said Tulrumble; 'perfectly sober.' Mr. Twigger at once solemnly pledged himself to be as sober as a judge, and Nicholas Tulrumble was satisfied, although, had we been Nicholas, we should certainly have exacted some promise of a more specific nature; inasmuch as, having attended the Mudfog assizes in the evening more than once, we can solemnly testify to having seen judges with very strong symptoms of dinner under their wigs. However, that's neither here nor there.

'And you need to be sober,' said Tulrumble; 'completely sober.' Mr. Twigger immediately promised to be as sober as a judge, and Nicholas Tulrumble was satisfied, although if we were Nicholas, we would have definitely insisted on a more specific guarantee; considering we’ve been to the Mudfog court sessions in the evening more than once, we can honestly say that we’ve seen judges showing clear signs of having had dinner under their wigs. But that's not the point.

The next day, and the day following, and the day after that, Ned Twigger was securely locked up in the small cavern with the sky-light, hard at work at the armour. With every additional piece he could manage to stand upright in, he had an additional glass of rum; and at last, after many partial suffocations, he contrived to get on the whole suit, and to stagger up and down the room in it, like an intoxicated effigy from Westminster Abbey.

The next day, and the day after that, Ned Twigger was locked up in the small cave with the skylight, busy working on the armor. For every piece he could wear, he poured himself another glass of rum; and finally, after several near suffocations, he managed to put on the entire suit and stumbled around the room in it, like a drunken statue from Westminster Abbey.

Never was man so delighted as Nicholas Tulrumble; never was woman so charmed as Nicholas Tulrumble's wife. Here was a sight for the common people of Mudfog! A live man in brass armour! Why, they would go wild with wonder!

Never was a man as thrilled as Nicholas Tulrumble; never was a woman as enchanted as Nicholas Tulrumble's wife. Here was a sight for the everyday people of Mudfog! A living man in brass armor! They would go crazy with amazement!

The day-the Monday-arrived.

The day—Monday—arrived.

If the morning had been made to order, it couldn't have been better adapted to the purpose. They never showed a better fog in London on Lord Mayor's day, than enwrapped the town of Mudfog on that eventful occasion. It had risen slowly and surely from the green and stagnant water with the first light of morning, until it reached a little above the lamp-post tops; and there it had stopped, with a sleepy, sluggish obstinacy, which bade defiance to the sun, who had got up very blood- shot about the eyes, as if he had been at a drinking-party over-night, and was doing his day's work with the worst possible grace. The thick damp mist hung over the town like a huge gauze curtain. All was dim and dismal. The church steeples had bidden a temporary adieu to the world below; and every object of lesser importance-houses, barns, hedges, trees, and barges-had all taken the veil.

If the morning had been custom-made, it couldn't have been more perfectly suited for the occasion. They never had a better fog in London on Lord Mayor's Day than the one that enveloped the town of Mudfog that fateful day. It slowly rose from the green, stagnant water with the first light of morning, until it was just above the tops of the lamp-posts; and there it lingered, with a sleepy, sluggish stubbornness, bravely resisting the sun, who had risen looking quite bloodshot, as if he'd been out partying the night before, and was doing his job with the least amount of grace possible. The thick, damp mist clung to the town like a massive gauze curtain. Everything was dim and gloomy. The church steeples had temporarily said goodbye to the world below; and every less significant object—houses, barns, hedges, trees, and barges—had all donned a veil.

The church-clock struck one. A cracked trumpet from the front garden of Mudfog Hall produced a feeble flourish, as if some asthmatic person had coughed into it accidentally; the gate flew open, and out came a gentleman, on a moist-sugar coloured charger, intended to represent a herald, but bearing a much stronger resemblance to a court-card on horseback. This was one of the Circus people, who always came down to Mudfog at that time of the year, and who had been engaged by Nicholas Tulrumble expressly for the occasion. There was the horse, whisking his tail about, balancing himself on his hind-legs, and flourishing away with his fore-feet, in a manner which would have gone to the hearts and souls of any reasonable crowd. But a Mudfog crowd never was a reasonable one, and in all probability never will be. Instead of scattering the very fog with their shouts, as they ought most indubitably to have done, and were fully intended to do, by Nicholas Tulrumble, they no sooner recognized the herald, than they began to growl forth the most unqualified disapprobation at the bare notion of his riding like any other man. If he had come out on his head indeed, or jumping through a hoop, or flying through a red-hot drum, or even standing on one leg with his other foot in his mouth, they might have had something to say to him; but for a professional gentleman to sit astride in the saddle, with his feet in the stirrups, was rather too good a joke. So, the herald was a decided failure, and the crowd hooted with great energy, as he pranced ingloriously away.

The church clock struck one. A cracked trumpet from the front garden of Mudfog Hall let out a weak sound, like someone with asthma accidentally coughing into it; the gate swung open, and out came a man on a light-brown horse, meant to represent a herald but looking much more like a playing card on horseback. This was one of the circus performers who came to Mudfog at this time of year, hired by Nicholas Tulrumble specifically for the event. The horse was flicking its tail, balancing on its hind legs, and kicking with its front feet in a way that would have delighted any sensible crowd. But a Mudfog crowd was never sensible and likely never would be. Instead of cheering and clearing the fog with their shouts, as they definitely should have, and as Nicholas Tulrumble had hoped, the moment they recognized the herald, they started growling in protest at the very idea of him riding like a regular person. If he had come out on his head, or jumped through a hoop, or flown through a ring of fire, or even stood on one leg with his other foot in his mouth, they might have had something to say; but for a professional to sit in a saddle with his feet in the stirrups was just too much of a joke. So, the herald was a complete flop, and the crowd jeered energetically as he pranced away in shame.

On the procession came. We are afraid to say how many supernumeraries there were, in striped shirts and black velvet caps, to imitate the London watermen, or how many base imitations of running-footmen, or how many banners, which, owing to the heaviness of the atmosphere, could by no means be prevailed on to display their inscriptions: still less do we feel disposed to relate how the men who played the wind instruments, looking up into the sky (we mean the fog) with musical fervour, walked through pools of water and hillocks of mud, till they covered the powdered heads of the running-footmen aforesaid with splashes, that looked curious, but not ornamental; or how the barrel-organ performer put on the wrong stop, and played one tune while the band played another; or how the horses, being used to the arena, and not to the streets, would stand still and dance, instead of going on and prancing;-all of which are matters which might be dilated upon to great advantage, but which we have not the least intention of dilating upon, notwithstanding.

On the procession came. We’re hesitant to say how many extra people there were, wearing striped shirts and black velvet caps to mimic the London watermen, or how many poor copies of footmen there were, or how many banners, which, due to the heavy atmosphere, could not be persuaded to show their inscriptions. We’re even less inclined to describe how the men playing the wind instruments, looking up at the sky (we mean the fog) with musical passion, walked through puddles and piles of mud, splashing the powdered heads of the footmen with curious but not attractive stains; or how the barrel-organ player pulled the wrong lever and played one tune while the band played another; or how the horses, used to the arena and not the streets, would stand still and dance instead of moving forward and prancing—all of which could be explained in detail, but we have no intention of doing that, nonetheless.

Oh! it was a grand and beautiful sight to behold a corporation in glass coaches, provided at the sole cost and charge of Nicholas Tulrumble, coming rolling along, like a funeral out of mourning, and to watch the attempts the corporation made to look great and solemn, when Nicholas Tulrumble himself, in the four-wheel chaise, with the tall postilion, rolled out after them, with Mr. Jennings on one side to look like a chaplain, and a supernumerary on the other, with an old life-guardsman's sabre, to imitate the sword-bearer; and to see the tears rolling down the faces of the mob as they screamed with merriment. This was beautiful! and so was the appearance of Mrs. Tulrumble and son, as they bowed with grave dignity out of their coach-window to all the dirty faces that were laughing around them: but it is not even with this that we have to do, but with the sudden stopping of the procession at another blast of the trumpet, whereat, and whereupon, a profound silence ensued, and all eyes were turned towards Mudfog Hall, in the confident anticipation of some new wonder.

Oh! It was an impressive and beautiful sight to see a group in glass coaches, all paid for by Nicholas Tulrumble, rolling along like a funeral procession, and to watch the efforts the group made to look grand and serious, while Nicholas Tulrumble himself, in a four-wheel carriage with a tall postilion, followed behind, with Mr. Jennings on one side looking like a chaplain, and an extra person on the other, holding an old life-guardsman’s saber to mimic the sword-bearer; and to see the tears streaming down the faces of the crowd as they screamed with laughter. This was beautiful! So was the sight of Mrs. Tulrumble and her son, as they bowed with solemn dignity from their coach window to all the dirty faces around them that were laughing: but that’s not what we’re focusing on; instead, it’s the sudden stop of the procession at another blast of the trumpet, which brought a deep silence, and all eyes turned towards Mudfog Hall, eagerly anticipating some new spectacle.

'They won't laugh now, Mr. Jennings,' said Nicholas Tulrumble.

'They won’t laugh now, Mr. Jennings,' said Nicholas Tulrumble.

'I think not, sir,' said Mr. Jennings.

'I don't think so, sir,' said Mr. Jennings.

'See how eager they look,' said Nicholas Tulrumble. 'Aha! the laugh will be on our side now; eh, Mr. Jennings?'

'Look how excited they are,' said Nicholas Tulrumble. 'Aha! The joke will be on us now; right, Mr. Jennings?'

'No doubt of that, sir,' replied Mr. Jennings; and Nicholas Tulrumble, in a state of pleasurable excitement, stood up in the four-wheel chaise, and telegraphed gratification to the Mayoress behind.

'No doubt about it, sir,' responded Mr. Jennings; and Nicholas Tulrumble, feeling excited, stood up in the four-wheel carriage and signaled his pleasure to the Mayoress behind him.

While all this was going forward, Ned Twigger had descended into the kitchen of Mudfog Hall for the purpose of indulging the servants with a private view of the curiosity that was to burst upon the town; and, somehow or other, the footman was so companionable, and the housemaid so kind, and the cook so friendly, that he could not resist the offer of the first-mentioned to sit down and take something-just to drink success to master in.

While all this was happening, Ned Twigger had gone down to the kitchen of Mudfog Hall to show the servants a private glimpse of the curiosity that was about to hit the town; and somehow, the footman was so friendly, the housemaid so nice, and the cook so welcoming that he couldn't refuse the footman's invitation to sit down and have a drink—just to toast to the master's success.

So, down Ned Twigger sat himself in his brass livery on the top of the kitchen-table; and in a mug of something strong, paid for by the unconscious Nicholas Tulrumble, and provided by the companionable footman, drank success to the Mayor and his procession; and, as Ned laid by his helmet to imbibe the something strong, the companionable footman put it on his own head, to the immeasurable and unrecordable delight of the cook and housemaid. The companionable footman was very facetious to Ned, and Ned was very gallant to the cook and housemaid by turns. They were all very cosy and comfortable; and the something strong went briskly round.

So, Ned Twigger plopped himself down in his brass uniform on top of the kitchen table; and with a mug of something strong, paid for by the oblivious Nicholas Tulrumble and brought by the friendly footman, he toasted the Mayor and his parade. As Ned set aside his helmet to drink the strong stuff, the friendly footman put it on his own head, bringing immense and unforgettable joy to the cook and housemaid. The friendly footman joked around with Ned, while Ned was charming to the cook and housemaid in turn. They all felt cozy and comfortable, and the strong drink was passed around happily.

At last Ned Twigger was loudly called for, by the procession people: and, having had his helmet fixed on, in a very complicated manner, by the companionable footman, and the kind housemaid, and the friendly cook, he walked gravely forth, and appeared before the multitude.

At last, Ned Twigger was called for loudly by the crowd, and after having his helmet put on in a very complicated way by the friendly footman, the helpful housemaid, and the nice cook, he walked out with a serious expression and faced the crowd.

The crowd roared-it was not with wonder, it was not with surprise; it was most decidedly and unquestionably with laughter.

The crowd erupted—it wasn't out of amazement, it wasn't out of shock; it was definitely and undeniably with laughter.

'What!' said Mr. Tulrumble, starting up in the four-wheel chaise. 'Laughing? If they laugh at a man in real brass armour, they'd laugh when their own fathers were dying. Why doesn't he go into his place, Mr. Jennings? What's he rolling down towards us for? he has no business here!'

'What!' exclaimed Mr. Tulrumble, jumping up in the four-wheel carriage. 'Laughing? If they can laugh at a guy in real brass armor, they'd laugh while their own fathers were dying. Why isn't he going back to his place, Mr. Jennings? What's he rolling down towards us for? He has no business being here!'

'I am afraid, sir-' faltered Mr. Jennings.

'I’m afraid, sir-' faltered Mr. Jennings.

'Afraid of what, sir?' said Nicholas Tulrumble, looking up into the secretary's face.

"Afraid of what, sir?" Nicholas Tulrumble asked, looking up at the secretary's face.

'I am afraid he's drunk, sir,' replied Mr. Jennings.

'I think he’s drunk, sir,' replied Mr. Jennings.

Nicholas Tulrumble took one look at the extraordinary figure that was bearing down upon them; and then, clasping his secretary by the arm, uttered an audible groan in anguish of spirit.

Nicholas Tulrumble took one look at the extraordinary figure that was approaching them; and then, gripping his secretary by the arm, let out a loud groan out of anguish.

It is a melancholy fact that Mr. Twigger having full licence to demand a single glass of rum on the putting on of every piece of the armour, got, by some means or other, rather out of his calculation in the hurry and confusion of preparation, and drank about four glasses to a piece instead of one, not to mention the something strong which went on the top of it. Whether the brass armour checked the natural flow of perspiration, and thus prevented the spirit from evaporating, we are not scientific enough to know; but, whatever the cause was, Mr. Twigger no sooner found himself outside the gate of Mudfog Hall, than he also found himself in a very considerable state of intoxication; and hence his extraordinary style of progressing. This was bad enough, but, as if fate and fortune had conspired against Nicholas Tulrumble, Mr. Twigger, not having been penitent for a good calendar month, took it into his head to be most especially and particularly sentimental, just when his repentance could have been most conveniently dispensed with. Immense tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he was vainly endeavouring to conceal his grief by applying to his eyes a blue cotton pocket- handkerchief with white spots,-an article not strictly in keeping with a suit of armour some three hundred years old, or thereabouts.

It’s a sad fact that Mr. Twigger, who had full permission to ask for a single glass of rum every time he put on a piece of armor, somehow lost track of his drinking in the rush and chaos of getting ready. Instead of just one glass, he ended up drinking about four with each piece, not to mention whatever strong drink he poured on top of that. Whether the brass armor stopped him from sweating and made the alcohol less likely to evaporate, we can’t really say; we’re not scientists. But whatever the reason, as soon as Mr. Twigger stepped outside the gate of Mudfog Hall, he realized he was quite drunk, which explained his unusual way of moving. That was bad enough, but as if luck and fate were against Nicholas Tulrumble, Mr. Twigger, who hadn’t felt remorse in a whole month, suddenly decided to be overly sentimental right when he could have done without it. Huge tears rolled down his face, and he was struggling to hide his sorrow by dabbing at his eyes with a blue cotton handkerchief with white spots—definitely not something that matched a suit of armor that was around three hundred years old or so.

'Twigger, you villain!' said Nicholas Tulrumble, quite forgetting his dignity, 'go back.'

'Twigger, you jerk!' said Nicholas Tulrumble, completely losing his composure, 'go back.'

'Never,' said Ned. 'I'm a miserable wretch. I'll never leave you.'

'Never,' said Ned. 'I'm a miserable loser. I'll never leave you.'

The by-standers of course received this declaration with acclamations of 'That's right, Ned; don't!'

The onlookers of course responded to this statement with cheers of 'That's right, Ned; don't!'

'I don't intend it,' said Ned, with all the obstinacy of a very tipsy man. 'I'm very unhappy. I'm the wretched father of an unfortunate family; but I am very faithful, sir. I'll never leave you.' Having reiterated this obliging promise, Ned proceeded in broken words to harangue the crowd upon the number of years he had lived in Mudfog, the excessive respectability of his character, and other topics of the like nature.

"I don't mean to," said Ned, with all the stubbornness of a very drunk man. "I'm really unhappy. I'm the miserable father of an unfortunate family; but I am very loyal, sir. I'll never leave you." After repeating this kind promise, Ned went on in slurred speech to talk to the crowd about the many years he had lived in Mudfog, the great respectability of his character, and other similar topics.

'Here! will anybody lead him away?' said Nicholas: 'if they'll call on me afterwards, I'll reward them well.'

'Hey! Is anyone going to take him away?' said Nicholas. 'If they come back to me later, I'll make sure to reward them nicely.'

Two or three men stepped forward, with the view of bearing Ned off, when the secretary interposed.

Two or three men stepped forward, intending to take Ned away, when the secretary intervened.

'Take care! take care!' said Mr. Jennings. 'I beg your pardon, sir; but they'd better not go too near him, because, if he falls over, he'll certainly crush somebody.'

'Watch out! Watch out!' said Mr. Jennings. 'I’m sorry, sir; but they shouldn’t get too close to him, because if he falls, he’ll definitely crush someone.'

At this hint the crowd retired on all sides to a very respectful distance, and left Ned, like the Duke of Devonshire, in a little circle of his own.

At this hint, the crowd stepped back on all sides to a respectful distance, leaving Ned, much like the Duke of Devonshire, in his own little circle.

'But, Mr. Jennings,' said Nicholas Tulrumble, 'he'll be suffocated.'

'But, Mr. Jennings,' said Nicholas Tulrumble, 'he'll be choked.'

'I'm very sorry for it, sir,' replied Mr. Jennings; 'but nobody can get that armour off, without his own assistance. I'm quite certain of it from the way he put it on.'

'I'm really sorry about that, sir,' replied Mr. Jennings; 'but no one can get that armor off without some help from him. I'm sure of it based on how he put it on.'

Here Ned wept dolefully, and shook his helmeted head, in a manner that might have touched a heart of stone; but the crowd had not hearts of stone, and they laughed heartily.

Here Ned wept sadly and shook his helmeted head in a way that could have moved even a heart of stone; but the crowd didn't have hearts of stone, and they laughed heartily.

'Dear me, Mr. Jennings,' said Nicholas, turning pale at the possibility of Ned's being smothered in his antique costume-'Dear me, Mr. Jennings, can nothing be done with him?'

'Oh my, Mr. Jennings,' said Nicholas, turning pale at the thought of Ned being smothered in his old-fashioned costume—'Oh my, Mr. Jennings, can’t anything be done about him?'

'Nothing at all,' replied Ned, 'nothing at all. Gentlemen, I'm an unhappy wretch. I'm a body, gentlemen, in a brass coffin.' At this poetical idea of his own conjuring up, Ned cried so much that the people began to get sympathetic, and to ask what Nicholas Tulrumble meant by putting a man into such a machine as that; and one individual in a hairy waistcoat like the top of a trunk, who had previously expressed his opinion that if Ned hadn't been a poor man, Nicholas wouldn't have dared do it, hinted at the propriety of breaking the four-wheel chaise, or Nicholas's head, or both, which last compound proposition the crowd seemed to consider a very good notion.

"Nothing at all," Ned replied, "nothing at all. Gentlemen, I’m an unhappy wretch. I’m just a person, gentlemen, in a metal coffin." At this poetic thought of his own, Ned started crying so much that the people began to feel sympathetic and asked what Nicholas Tulrumble meant by putting a man into such a thing. One guy in a hairy vest that looked like the top of a trunk, who had already said that if Ned hadn’t been poor, Nicholas wouldn’t have dared to do it, suggested maybe breaking the four-wheel carriage, or Nicholas's head, or both, and the crowd seemed to think that was a really good idea.

It was not acted upon, however, for it had hardly been broached, when Ned Twigger's wife made her appearance abruptly in the little circle before noticed, and Ned no sooner caught a glimpse of her face and form, than from the mere force of habit he set off towards his home just as fast as his legs could carry him; and that was not very quick in the present instance either, for, however ready they might have been to carry him, they couldn't get on very well under the brass armour. So, Mrs. Twigger had plenty of time to denounce Nicholas Tulrumble to his face: to express her opinion that he was a decided monster; and to intimate that, if her ill-used husband sustained any personal damage from the brass armour, she would have the law of Nicholas Tulrumble for manslaughter. When she had said all this with due vehemence, she posted after Ned, who was dragging himself along as best he could, and deploring his unhappiness in most dismal tones.

It wasn’t acted upon, though it had barely been mentioned, when Ned Twigger’s wife suddenly showed up in the small group mentioned earlier. The moment Ned saw her face and figure, he instinctively took off toward home as fast as his legs could take him; and they didn’t go very fast this time either, because, no matter how eager they were to move, they struggled under the brass armor. So, Mrs. Twigger had plenty of time to confront Nicholas Tulrumble directly: to call him a complete monster; and to suggest that if her mistreated husband suffered any harm from the brass armor, she would take Nicholas Tulrumble to court for manslaughter. After delivering her passionate speech, she raced after Ned, who was trudging along as best he could, lamenting his miserable situation in the most mournful tones.

What a wailing and screaming Ned's children raised when he got home at last! Mrs. Twigger tried to undo the armour, first in one place, and then in another, but she couldn't manage it; so she tumbled Ned into bed, helmet, armour, gauntlets, and all. Such a creaking as the bedstead made, under Ned's weight in his new suit! It didn't break down though; and there Ned lay, like the anonymous vessel in the Bay of Biscay, till next day, drinking barley-water, and looking miserable: and every time he groaned, his good lady said it served him right, which was all the consolation Ned Twigger got.

What a loud wailing and screaming Ned's kids made when he finally got home! Mrs. Twigger tried to take off the armor, first in one spot, then in another, but she couldn’t do it; so she just tossed Ned into bed, armor, helmet, gauntlets, and all. The bed creaked under Ned's weight in his new suit! It didn't break, though; and there Ned lay, like a nameless ship in the Bay of Biscay, until the next day, drinking barley water and looking miserable: and every time he groaned, his wife said he got what he deserved, which was all the comfort Ned Twigger received.

Nicholas Tulrumble and the gorgeous procession went on together to the town-hall, amid the hisses and groans of all the spectators, who had suddenly taken it into their heads to consider poor Ned a martyr. Nicholas was formally installed in his new office, in acknowledgment of which ceremony he delivered himself of a speech, composed by the secretary, which was very long, and no doubt very good, only the noise of the people outside prevented anybody from hearing it, but Nicholas Tulrumble himself. After which, the procession got back to Mudfog Hall any how it could; and Nicholas and the corporation sat down to dinner.

Nicholas Tulrumble and the stunning parade headed to the town hall, while the crowd hissed and groaned, suddenly seeing poor Ned as a martyr. Nicholas was officially sworn into his new position, and in response, he gave a long speech written by the secretary, which was probably very good, but the noise from the crowd outside drowned it out, leaving only Nicholas Tulrumble able to hear it. After that, the procession returned to Mudfog Hall however they could manage, and Nicholas and the corporation sat down to dinner.

But the dinner was flat, and Nicholas was disappointed. They were such dull sleepy old fellows, that corporation. Nicholas made quite as long speeches as the Lord Mayor of London had done, nay, he said the very same things that the Lord Mayor of London had said, and the deuce a cheer the corporation gave him. There was only one man in the party who was thoroughly awake; and he was insolent, and called him Nick. Nick! What would be the consequence, thought Nicholas, of anybody presuming to call the Lord Mayor of London 'Nick!' He should like to know what the sword-bearer would say to that; or the recorder, or the toast-master, or any other of the great officers of the city. They'd nick him.

But the dinner was dull, and Nicholas felt let down. The members of the corporation were such boring, sleepy old guys. Nicholas gave speeches as long as the Lord Mayor of London, even repeating the same things, and not a single cheer came his way. There was only one person at the event who was fully awake, and he was rude, calling him "Nick." Nick! Nicholas thought about what would happen if anyone dared to call the Lord Mayor of London 'Nick!' He couldn't help but wonder what the sword-bearer, or the recorder, or the toast-master, or any of the other important city officials would think about that. They’d have a fit.

But these were not the worst of Nicholas Tulrumble's doings. If they had been, he might have remained a Mayor to this day, and have talked till he lost his voice. He contracted a relish for statistics, and got philosophical; and the statistics and the philosophy together, led him into an act which increased his unpopularity and hastened his downfall.

But these weren’t the worst of Nicholas Tulrumble's actions. If they had been, he might still be a Mayor today, talking until he lost his voice. He developed a taste for statistics and became philosophical; the combination of statistics and philosophy led him to do something that made him even more unpopular and sped up his downfall.

At the very end of the Mudfog High-street, and abutting on the river- side, stands the Jolly Boatmen, an old-fashioned low-roofed, bay- windowed house, with a bar, kitchen, and tap-room all in one, and a large fireplace with a kettle to correspond, round which the working men have congregated time out of mind on a winter's night, refreshed by draughts of good strong beer, and cheered by the sounds of a fiddle and tambourine: the Jolly Boatmen having been duly licensed by the Mayor and corporation, to scrape the fiddle and thumb the tambourine from time, whereof the memory of the oldest inhabitants goeth not to the contrary. Now Nicholas Tulrumble had been reading pamphlets on crime, and parliamentary reports,-or had made the secretary read them to him, which is the same thing in effect,-and he at once perceived that this fiddle and tambourine must have done more to demoralize Mudfog, than any other operating causes that ingenuity could imagine. So he read up for the subject, and determined to come out on the corporation with a burst, the very next time the licence was applied for.

At the very end of Mudfog High Street, right by the river, stands the Jolly Boatmen, an old-fashioned house with a low roof and bay windows, featuring a bar, kitchen, and tap room all in one, and a large fireplace complete with a kettle. Around this fireplace, the working men have gathered for ages on winter nights, enjoying pints of strong beer and the sounds of a fiddle and tambourine. The Jolly Boatmen has been officially licensed by the Mayor and the local government to play the fiddle and tambourine for as long as anyone can remember. Now, Nicholas Tulrumble had been reading pamphlets on crime and parliamentary reports—or had made the secretary read them to him, which amounts to the same thing—and he quickly realized that this fiddle and tambourine must have done more to harm Mudfog than any other cause anyone could think of. So, he researched the topic and decided to take action against the local government the next time the license was up for renewal.

The licensing day came, and the red-faced landlord of the Jolly Boatmen walked into the town-hall, looking as jolly as need be, having actually put on an extra fiddle for that night, to commemorate the anniversary of the Jolly Boatmen's music licence. It was applied for in due form, and was just about to be granted as a matter of course, when up rose Nicholas Tulrumble, and drowned the astonished corporation in a torrent of eloquence. He descanted in glowing terms upon the increasing depravity of his native town of Mudfog, and the excesses committed by its population. Then, he related how shocked he had been, to see barrels of beer sliding down into the cellar of the Jolly Boatmen week after week; and how he had sat at a window opposite the Jolly Boatmen for two days together, to count the people who went in for beer between the hours of twelve and one o'clock alone-which, by-the-bye, was the time at which the great majority of the Mudfog people dined. Then, he went on to state, how the number of people who came out with beer-jugs, averaged twenty-one in five minutes, which, being multiplied by twelve, gave two hundred and fifty-two people with beer-jugs in an hour, and multiplied again by fifteen (the number of hours during which the house was open daily) yielded three thousand seven hundred and eighty people with beer-jugs per day, or twenty-six thousand four hundred and sixty people with beer-jugs, per week. Then he proceeded to show that a tambourine and moral degradation were synonymous terms, and a fiddle and vicious propensities wholly inseparable. All these arguments he strengthened and demonstrated by frequent references to a large book with a blue cover, and sundry quotations from the Middlesex magistrates; and in the end, the corporation, who were posed with the figures, and sleepy with the speech, and sadly in want of dinner into the bargain, yielded the palm to Nicholas Tulrumble, and refused the music licence to the Jolly Boatmen.

The licensing day arrived, and the embarrassed landlord of the Jolly Boatmen walked into the town hall, looking as cheerful as he could, even having arranged for an extra musician that night to celebrate the anniversary of the Jolly Boatmen's music license. The application was submitted properly and was about to be approved as a routine matter when Nicholas Tulrumble stood up and overwhelmed the shocked officials with a flood of eloquence. He passionately discussed the worsening behavior in his hometown of Mudfog and the excesses of its residents. He then recounted how appalled he had been to see barrels of beer being delivered to the Jolly Boatmen week after week; he even spent two consecutive days at a window across from the pub, counting the number of people who went in for beer between twelve and one o'clock alone—which, by the way, was when most of the Mudfog residents had their meals. He continued on to say that the average number of people coming out with beer jugs was twenty-one every five minutes, which, multiplied by twelve, amounted to two hundred and fifty-two people with beer jugs in an hour, and when multiplied again by fifteen (the number of hours the pub was open each day) resulted in three thousand seven hundred and eighty people with beer jugs each day, or twenty-six thousand four hundred and sixty people with beer jugs each week. He then argued that a tambourine and moral decay were synonymous, and a fiddle and bad behavior were completely inseparable. He backed up all these points with frequent references to a large blue-covered book and various quotes from Middlesex magistrates; ultimately, the officials, overwhelmed by the statistics, drowsy from the speech, and quite hungry to boot, conceded to Nicholas Tulrumble and denied the music license to the Jolly Boatmen.

But although Nicholas triumphed, his triumph was short. He carried on the war against beer-jugs and fiddles, forgetting the time when he was glad to drink out of the one, and to dance to the other, till the people hated, and his old friends shunned him. He grew tired of the lonely magnificence of Mudfog Hall, and his heart yearned towards the Lighterman's Arms. He wished he had never set up as a public man, and sighed for the good old times of the coal-shop, and the chimney corner.

But even though Nicholas won, his victory was brief. He continued the battle against beer jugs and fiddles, forgetting the times when he enjoyed drinking from one and dancing to the other, until people began to resent him and his old friends avoided him. He became weary of the lonely grandeur of Mudfog Hall, and his heart longed for the Lighterman's Arms. He wished he had never tried to be a public figure and missed the good old days of the coal shop and the warmth of the fireplace.

At length old Nicholas, being thoroughly miserable, took heart of grace, paid the secretary a quarter's wages in advance, and packed him off to London by the next coach. Having taken this step, he put his hat on his head, and his pride in his pocket, and walked down to the old room at the Lighterman's Arms. There were only two of the old fellows there, and they looked coldly on Nicholas as he proffered his hand.

At last, old Nicholas, feeling completely miserable, mustered up some courage, paid the secretary a quarter's wages in advance, and sent him off to London on the next coach. After doing this, he put his hat on his head, tucked away his pride, and walked down to the old room at the Lighterman's Arms. Only two of the old guys were there, and they regarded Nicholas coldly as he reached out his hand.

'Are you going to put down pipes, Mr. Tulrumble?' said one.

'Are you going to install pipes, Mr. Tulrumble?' asked one.

'Or trace the progress of crime to 'bacca?' growled another.

'Or trace the rise of crime to tobacco?' growled another.

'Neither,' replied Nicholas Tulrumble, shaking hands with them both, whether they would or not. 'I've come down to say that I'm very sorry for having made a fool of myself, and that I hope you'll give me up the old chair, again.'

'Neither,' replied Nicholas Tulrumble, shaking hands with them both, whether they wanted to or not. 'I've come to say that I’m really sorry for making a fool of myself, and I hope you'll let me have the old chair back again.'

The old fellows opened their eyes, and three or four more old fellows opened the door, to whom Nicholas, with tears in his eyes, thrust out his hand too, and told the same story. They raised a shout of joy, that made the bells in the ancient church-tower vibrate again, and wheeling the old chair into the warm corner, thrust old Nicholas down into it, and ordered in the very largest-sized bowl of hot punch, with an unlimited number of pipes, directly.

The old guys opened their eyes, and three or four more old guys opened the door. Nicholas, with tears in his eyes, reached out his hand to them and told the same story. They cheered with joy, making the bells in the old church tower ring out again. They wheeled the old chair into the warm corner, settled old Nicholas into it, and immediately ordered the biggest bowl of hot punch and plenty of pipes.

The next day, the Jolly Boatmen got the licence, and the next night, old Nicholas and Ned Twigger's wife led off a dance to the music of the fiddle and tambourine, the tone of which seemed mightily improved by a little rest, for they never had played so merrily before. Ned Twigger was in the very height of his glory, and he danced hornpipes, and balanced chairs on his chin, and straws on his nose, till the whole company, including the corporation, were in raptures of admiration at the brilliancy of his acquirements.

The next day, the Jolly Boatmen got the license, and that night, old Nicholas and Ned Twigger's wife kicked off a dance to the music of the fiddle and tambourine, which sounded way better after a little break, since they had never played so joyfully before. Ned Twigger was at the peak of his glory, dancing hornpipes and balancing chairs on his chin and straws on his nose, until the entire crowd, including the corporation, was in awe of his impressive skills.

Mr. Tulrumble, junior, couldn't make up his mind to be anything but magnificent, so he went up to London and drew bills on his father; and when he had overdrawn, and got into debt, he grew penitent, and came home again.

Mr. Tulrumble Jr. couldn’t decide to be anything but impressive, so he went up to London and started drawing bills on his father. Once he had overdrawn and gotten into debt, he felt sorry for himself and went back home.

As to old Nicholas, he kept his word, and having had six weeks of public life, never tried it any more. He went to sleep in the town-hall at the very next meeting; and, in full proof of his sincerity, has requested us to write this faithful narrative. We wish it could have the effect of reminding the Tulrumbles of another sphere, that puffed-up conceit is not dignity, and that snarling at the little pleasures they were once glad to enjoy, because they would rather forget the times when they were of lower station, renders them objects of contempt and ridicule.

As for old Nicholas, he kept his promise, and after six weeks of public life, he never tried it again. He fell asleep in the town hall at the very next meeting; and, to show his sincerity, he has asked us to write this true account. We hope it serves to remind the Tulrumbles of another realm that inflated pride is not the same as dignity, and that sneering at the small pleasures they once happily enjoyed, just because they want to forget the times when they were of lower status, makes them objects of criticism and mockery.

This is the first time we have published any of our gleanings from this particular source. Perhaps, at some future period, we may venture to open the chronicles of Mudfog. FULL REPORT OF THE FIRST MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION for the advancement of everything

This is the first time we have shared any of our findings from this particular source. Maybe, at some point in the future, we will take the plunge and reveal the chronicles of Mudfog. FULL REPORT OF THE FIRST MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION for the advancement of everything

We have made the most unparalleled and extraordinary exertions to place before our readers a complete and accurate account of the proceedings at the late grand meeting of the Mudfog Association, holden in the town of Mudfog; it affords us great happiness to lay the result before them, in the shape of various communications received from our able, talented, and graphic correspondent, expressly sent down for the purpose, who has immortalized us, himself, Mudfog, and the association, all at one and the same time. We have been, indeed, for some days unable to determine who will transmit the greatest name to posterity; ourselves, who sent our correspondent down; our correspondent, who wrote an account of the matter; or the association, who gave our correspondent something to write about. We rather incline to the opinion that we are the greatest man of the party, inasmuch as the notion of an exclusive and authentic report originated with us; this may be prejudice: it may arise from a prepossession on our part in our own favour. Be it so. We have no doubt that every gentleman concerned in this mighty assemblage is troubled with the same complaint in a greater or less degree; and it is a consolation to us to know that we have at least this feeling in common with the great scientific stars, the brilliant and extraordinary luminaries, whose speculations we record.

We have made the most remarkable and extraordinary efforts to provide our readers with a complete and accurate account of the recent grand meeting of the Mudfog Association, held in the town of Mudfog. We're excited to present the results in the form of various communications received from our skilled, talented, and descriptive correspondent, who was specially sent for this purpose and has made us, himself, Mudfog, and the association famous all at once. For several days, we have found it hard to decide who will be remembered the most in history; ourselves, who sent our correspondent; our correspondent, who wrote about the event; or the association, which gave our correspondent something to report on. We tend to believe that we are the most important member of the group since the idea of an exclusive and authentic report came from us; this may be biased: it might stem from our own favor toward ourselves. So be it. We're sure that every gentleman involved in this significant gathering experiences the same feeling to some extent; it comforts us to know that we at least share this sentiment with the great scientific minds, the brilliant and extraordinary figures, whose theories we document.

We give our correspondent's letters in the order in which they reached us. Any attempt at amalgamating them into one beautiful whole, would only destroy that glowing tone, that dash of wildness, and rich vein of picturesque interest, which pervade them throughout.

We present our correspondent's letters in the order they arrived. Trying to merge them into a single polished piece would only ruin the vibrant tone, the touch of wildness, and the rich, engaging details that run through them all.

'Mudfog, Monday night, seven o'clock.

Mudfog, Monday night, 7 PM.

'We are in a state of great excitement here. Nothing is spoken of, but the approaching meeting of the association. The inn-doors are thronged with waiters anxiously looking for the expected arrivals; and the numerous bills which are wafered up in the windows of private houses, intimating that there are beds to let within, give the streets a very animated and cheerful appearance, the wafers being of a great variety of colours, and the monotony of printed inscriptions being relieved by every possible size and style of hand-writing. It is confidently rumoured that Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy have engaged three beds and a sitting-room at the Pig and Tinder-box. I give you the rumour as it has reached me; but I cannot, as yet, vouch for its accuracy. The moment I have been enabled to obtain any certain information upon this interesting point, you may depend upon receiving it.'

'We’re all really excited here. All anyone can talk about is the upcoming meeting of the association. The inn doors are crowded with waiters eagerly waiting for the expected guests, and the many signs posted in the windows of private homes, indicating that there are beds available, make the streets look lively and cheerful. The signs come in a mix of colors, and the dullness of printed messages is broken up by various sizes and styles of handwriting. It’s being widely talked about that Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy have booked three beds and a sitting room at the Pig and Tinder-box. I’m passing along the rumor as I’ve heard it, but I can’t confirm if it’s true just yet. As soon as I get any solid information on this intriguing topic, you can count on me to share it.'

'Half-past seven.

7:30.

I have just returned from a personal interview with the landlord of the Pig and Tinder-box. He speaks confidently of the probability of Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy taking up their residence at his house during the sitting of the association, but denies that the beds have been yet engaged; in which representation he is confirmed by the chambermaid-a girl of artless manners, and interesting appearance. The boots denies that it is at all likely that Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy will put up here; but I have reason to believe that this man has been suborned by the proprietor of the Original Pig, which is the opposition hotel. Amidst such conflicting testimony it is difficult to arrive at the real truth; but you may depend upon receiving authentic information upon this point the moment the fact is ascertained. The excitement still continues. A boy fell through the window of the pastrycook's shop at the corner of the High-street about half an hour ago, which has occasioned much confusion. The general impression is, that it was an accident. Pray heaven it may prove so!'

I just got back from a personal interview with the landlord of the Pig and Tinder-box. He confidently says that Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy are likely to stay at his place during the association's meeting, but he claims that the beds aren't booked yet; the chambermaid, a girl with simple manners and an interesting look, backs him up on this. The bootboy says it’s unlikely that the professors will stay here at all, but I suspect he’s been bribed by the owner of the Original Pig, which is the rival hotel. With such conflicting stories, it’s hard to get to the truth, but I promise to let you know authentic information as soon as I find out the facts. The excitement is still going strong. A boy just fell through the window of the pastry shop at the corner of High Street about half an hour ago, causing quite a stir. The general feeling is that it was an accident. Let's hope it turns out to be just that!

'Tuesday, noon.

Tuesday, 12 PM.

'At an early hour this morning the bells of all the churches struck seven o'clock; the effect of which, in the present lively state of the town, was extremely singular. While I was at breakfast, a yellow gig, drawn by a dark grey horse, with a patch of white over his right eyelid, proceeded at a rapid pace in the direction of the Original Pig stables; it is currently reported that this gentleman has arrived here for the purpose of attending the association, and, from what I have heard, I consider it extremely probable, although nothing decisive is yet known regarding him. You may conceive the anxiety with which we are all looking forward to the arrival of the four o'clock coach this afternoon.

'Early this morning, the bells of all the churches rang seven o'clock, which created a very unique atmosphere in the lively state of the town. While I was having breakfast, a yellow carriage, pulled by a dark grey horse with a white patch over his right eyelid, sped quickly towards the Original Pig stables. It's rumored that this man has come here to attend the association, and from what I've heard, I think it's quite likely, although we don't yet have any confirmed details about him. You can imagine the excitement we're all feeling as we eagerly await the four o'clock coach this afternoon.'

'Notwithstanding the excited state of the populace, no outrage has yet been committed, owing to the admirable discipline and discretion of the police, who are nowhere to be seen. A barrel-organ is playing opposite my window, and groups of people, offering fish and vegetables for sale, parade the streets. With these exceptions everything is quiet, and I trust will continue so.'

'Despite the excited mood of the people, no violence has occurred yet, thanks to the commendable discipline and caution of the police, who are nowhere in sight. A street performer is playing music outside my window, and groups of vendors selling fish and vegetables are walking through the streets. Aside from that, everything is calm, and I hope it stays that way.'

'Five o'clock.

5 o'clock.

'It is now ascertained, beyond all doubt, that Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy will not repair to the Pig and Tinder-box, but have actually engaged apartments at the Original Pig. This intelligence is exclusive; and I leave you and your readers to draw their own inferences from it. Why Professor Wheezy, of all people in the world, should repair to the Original Pig in preference to the Pig and Tinder-box, it is not easy to conceive. The professor is a man who should be above all such petty feelings. Some people here openly impute treachery, and a distinct breach of faith to Professors Snore and Doze; while others, again, are disposed to acquit them of any culpability in the transaction, and to insinuate that the blame rests solely with Professor Wheezy. I own that I incline to the latter opinion; and although it gives me great pain to speak in terms of censure or disapprobation of a man of such transcendent genius and acquirements, still I am bound to say that, if my suspicions be well founded, and if all the reports which have reached my ears be true, I really do not well know what to make of the matter.

It is now confirmed, without a doubt, that Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy will not be going to the Pig and Tinder-box, but have actually booked rooms at the Original Pig. This information is exclusive; I’ll let you and your readers draw their own conclusions from it. Why Professor Wheezy, of all people, would choose the Original Pig over the Pig and Tinder-box is hard to understand. The professor is someone who should rise above such trivial matters. Some people here are openly accusing Professors Snore and Doze of betrayal and a clear breach of trust, while others seem to believe they are not at fault and suggest that the blame lies entirely with Professor Wheezy. I must admit I lean toward the latter view; and while it pains me to criticize a man of such exceptional talent and skill, I must say that if my suspicions are correct, and if all the rumors I’ve heard are accurate, I honestly don’t know what to make of the situation.

'Mr. Slug, so celebrated for his statistical researches, arrived this afternoon by the four o'clock stage. His complexion is a dark purple, and he has a habit of sighing constantly. He looked extremely well, and appeared in high health and spirits. Mr. Woodensconce also came down in the same conveyance. The distinguished gentleman was fast asleep on his arrival, and I am informed by the guard that he had been so the whole way. He was, no doubt, preparing for his approaching fatigues; but what gigantic visions must those be that flit through the brain of such a man when his body is in a state of torpidity!

'Mr. Slug, well-known for his statistical research, arrived this afternoon by the four o'clock bus. His complexion is a dark purple, and he has a habit of sighing all the time. He looked great and seemed to be in good health and high spirits. Mr. Woodensconce also came down on the same bus. The distinguished gentleman was fast asleep upon arrival, and I was told by the guard that he had been sleeping the entire journey. He was probably getting ready for the upcoming exhaustion; but what huge visions must be racing through the mind of such a man while his body is in a state of lethargy!

'The influx of visitors increases every moment. I am told (I know not how truly) that two post-chaises have arrived at the Original Pig within the last half-hour, and I myself observed a wheelbarrow, containing three carpet bags and a bundle, entering the yard of the Pig and Tinder- box no longer ago than five minutes since. The people are still quietly pursuing their ordinary occupations; but there is a wildness in their eyes, and an unwonted rigidity in the muscles of their countenances, which shows to the observant spectator that their expectations are strained to the very utmost pitch. I fear, unless some very extraordinary arrivals take place to-night, that consequences may arise from this popular ferment, which every man of sense and feeling would deplore.'

The number of visitors keeps growing by the minute. I’ve been told (though I’m not sure how true it is) that two carriages have pulled up at the Original Pig in the last half hour, and I just saw a wheelbarrow come into the Pig and Tinderbox yard no more than five minutes ago, carrying three carpet bags and a bundle. The people are still quietly going about their usual activities, but there’s a wildness in their eyes and an unusual tension in their faces that shows anyone paying attention that their expectations are pushed to the limit. I worry that unless something really surprising happens tonight, there could be consequences from this crowd’s unrest that anyone with common sense and a conscience would regret.

'Twenty minutes past six.

6:20.

'I have just heard that the boy who fell through the pastrycook's window last night has died of the fright. He was suddenly called upon to pay three and sixpence for the damage done, and his constitution, it seems, was not strong enough to bear up against the shock. The inquest, it is said, will be held to-morrow.'

'I just heard that the boy who fell through the pastry chef's window last night died from the shock. He was suddenly asked to pay three and sixpence for the damage, and apparently, his health wasn’t strong enough to handle it. They say the inquest will be held tomorrow.'

'Three-quarters part seven.

Three-quarters of part seven.

'Professors Muff and Nogo have just driven up to the hotel door; they at once ordered dinner with great condescension. We are all very much delighted with the urbanity of their manners, and the ease with which they adapt themselves to the forms and ceremonies of ordinary life. Immediately on their arrival they sent for the head waiter, and privately requested him to purchase a live dog,-as cheap a one as he could meet with,-and to send him up after dinner, with a pie-board, a knife and fork, and a clean plate. It is conjectured that some experiments will be tried upon the dog to-night; if any particulars should transpire, I will forward them by express.'

'Professors Muff and Nogo have just pulled up to the hotel entrance; they immediately ordered dinner with a sense of superiority. We are all quite pleased with their polite manners and the way they easily fit into the usual social norms. Right after they arrived, they called the head waiter and quietly asked him to buy a live dog—preferably a cheap one—and to send it up after dinner, along with a pie board, a knife and fork, and a clean plate. It’s believed they’ll be conducting some experiments on the dog tonight; if I hear any updates, I’ll send them right away.'

'Half-past eight.

8:30.

'The animal has been procured. He is a pug-dog, of rather intelligent appearance, in good condition, and with very short legs. He has been tied to a curtain-peg in a dark room, and is howling dreadfully.'

'The animal has been obtained. He is a pug dog, looking fairly intelligent, in good shape, and with very short legs. He has been tied to a curtain hook in a dark room and is howling loudly.'

'Ten minutes to nine.

'Nine o'clock in ten minutes.'

'The dog has just been rung for. With an instinct which would appear almost the result of reason, the sagacious animal seized the waiter by the calf of the leg when he approached to take him, and made a desperate, though ineffectual resistance. I have not been able to procure admission to the apartment occupied by the scientific gentlemen; but, judging from the sounds which reached my ears when I stood upon the landing-place outside the door, just now, I should be disposed to say that the dog had retreated growling beneath some article of furniture, and was keeping the professors at bay. This conjecture is confirmed by the testimony of the ostler, who, after peeping through the keyhole, assures me that he distinctly saw Professor Nogo on his knees, holding forth a small bottle of prussic acid, to which the animal, who was crouched beneath an arm-chair, obstinately declined to smell. You cannot imagine the feverish state of irritation we are in, lest the interests of science should be sacrificed to the prejudices of a brute creature, who is not endowed with sufficient sense to foresee the incalculable benefits which the whole human race may derive from so very slight a concession on his part.'

'The dog has just been called. With an instinct that seems almost logical, the clever animal bit the waiter on the calf of the leg when he came to take him and put up a desperate, though useless, fight. I haven’t been able to get into the room where the scientists are, but based on the sounds I heard while standing on the landing outside the door just now, I would guess that the dog has retreated, growling, under a piece of furniture and is keeping the professors at a distance. This guess is supported by the stable hand, who, after looking through the keyhole, assures me that he clearly saw Professor Nogo on his knees, holding out a small bottle of prussic acid, which the dog, who was crouched under an armchair, stubbornly refused to sniff. You can't imagine the tense irritation we're feeling, worried that the interests of science might be sacrificed to the biases of a dumb animal who doesn’t have the sense to realize the immense benefits that all of humanity could gain from such a small concession on his part.'

'Nine o'clock.

9 o'clock.

'The dog's tail and ears have been sent down-stairs to be washed; from which circumstance we infer that the animal is no more. His forelegs have been delivered to the boots to be brushed, which strengthens the supposition.'

'The dog's tail and ears have been sent downstairs to be washed; from this, we assume that the animal is no longer alive. His front legs have been given to the shoemaker to be brushed, which supports this idea.'

'Half after ten.

10:30.

'My feelings are so overpowered by what has taken place in the course of the last hour and a half, that I have scarcely strength to detail the rapid succession of events which have quite bewildered all those who are cognizant of their occurrence. It appears that the pug-dog mentioned in my last was surreptitiously obtained,-stolen, in fact,-by some person attached to the stable department, from an unmarried lady resident in this town. Frantic on discovering the loss of her favourite, the lady rushed distractedly into the street, calling in the most heart-rending and pathetic manner upon the passengers to restore her, her Augustus,-for so the deceased was named, in affectionate remembrance of a former lover of his mistress, to whom he bore a striking personal resemblance, which renders the circumstances additionally affecting. I am not yet in a condition to inform you what circumstance induced the bereaved lady to direct her steps to the hotel which had witnessed the last struggles of her protACgAC. I can only state that she arrived there, at the very instant when his detached members were passing through the passage on a small tray. Her shrieks still reverberate in my ears! I grieve to say that the expressive features of Professor Muff were much scratched and lacerated by the injured lady; and that Professor Nogo, besides sustaining several severe bites, has lost some handfuls of hair from the same cause. It must be some consolation to these gentlemen to know that their ardent attachment to scientific pursuits has alone occasioned these unpleasant consequences; for which the sympathy of a grateful country will sufficiently reward them. The unfortunate lady remains at the Pig and Tinder-box, and up to this time is reported in a very precarious state.

'My emotions are overwhelmed by everything that has happened in the last hour and a half, and I barely have the energy to explain the whirlwind of events that have completely confused everyone who knows about them. It turns out that the pug dog I mentioned before was taken—actually stolen—by someone in the stable department from a local single woman. When she realized her beloved pet was gone, she dashed into the street, desperately calling out to passersby to help her find her Augustus—named in fond memory of a former lover who he resembled quite closely, which makes the situation even more heartbreaking. I'm not yet able to share what led the grieving woman to the hotel where her dear pet had his final moments. I can only say that she arrived just as his dismembered parts were being carried through the hallway on a small tray. Her screams still echo in my mind! I regret to inform you that Professor Muff’s face was quite scratched and bruised by the upset woman, and Professor Nogo not only suffered several serious bites but also lost clumps of hair from the same incident. It must be some comfort to these men to know that their deep dedication to scientific work is what caused these unfortunate events, which the gratitude of our nation will surely compensate. The unfortunate lady is still at the Pig and Tinder-box, and reports say she is in a very unstable condition.'

'I need scarcely tell you that this unlooked-for catastrophe has cast a damp and gloom upon us in the midst of our exhilaration; natural in any case, but greatly enhanced in this, by the amiable qualities of the deceased animal, who appears to have been much and deservedly respected by the whole of his acquaintance.'

'I hardly need to say that this unexpected disaster has brought a sense of sadness and gloom over us during what should have been a joyful time; a natural response in any situation, but made even more intense here due to the friendly nature of the deceased animal, who seemed to have been well-liked and truly respected by everyone who knew him.'

'Twelve o'clock.

12:00.

'I take the last opportunity before sealing my parcel to inform you that the boy who fell through the pastrycook's window is not dead, as was universally believed, but alive and well. The report appears to have had its origin in his mysterious disappearance. He was found half an hour since on the premises of a sweet-stuff maker, where a raffle had been announced for a second-hand seal-skin cap and a tambourine; and where-a sufficient number of members not having been obtained at first-he had patiently waited until the list was completed. This fortunate discovery has in some degree restored our gaiety and cheerfulness. It is proposed to get up a subscription for him without delay.

'I want to take this last chance before sealing my package to let you know that the boy who fell through the pastry chef's window is not dead, as everyone thought, but alive and well. The confusion seems to have started with his sudden disappearance. He was found half an hour ago at a candy maker's place, where they had announced a raffle for a second-hand seal-skin cap and a tambourine; and since there weren't enough entries at first, he patiently waited until the list was full. This lucky discovery has brought back some of our joy and cheerfulness. We plan to start a fundraiser for him right away.'

'Everybody is nervously anxious to see what to-morrow will bring forth. If any one should arrive in the course of the night, I have left strict directions to be called immediately. I should have sat up, indeed, but the agitating events of this day have been too much for me.

'Everyone is nervously anxious to see what tomorrow will bring. If anyone should arrive during the night, I’ve left strict instructions to be woken right away. I would have stayed up, but the stressful events of today have been too much for me.'

'No news yet of either of the Professors Snore, Doze, or Wheezy. It is very strange!'

'There's still no news about Professors Snore, Doze, or Wheezy. It's really weird!'

'Wednesday afternoon.

Wednesday afternoon.

'All is now over; and, upon one point at least, I am at length enabled to set the minds of your readers at rest. The three professors arrived at ten minutes after two o'clock, and, instead of taking up their quarters at the Original Pig, as it was universally understood in the course of yesterday that they would assuredly have done, drove straight to the Pig and Tinder-box, where they threw off the mask at once, and openly announced their intention of remaining. Professor Wheezy may reconcile this very extraordinary conduct with his notions of fair and equitable dealing, but I would recommend Professor Wheezy to be cautious how he presumes too far upon his well-earned reputation. How such a man as Professor Snore, or, which is still more extraordinary, such an individual as Professor Doze, can quietly allow himself to be mixed up with such proceedings as these, you will naturally inquire. Upon this head, rumour is silent; I have my speculations, but forbear to give utterance to them just now.'

'It’s all over now; and, at least on one thing, I can finally put your readers’ minds at ease. The three professors arrived at ten minutes past two, and instead of checking in at the Original Pig, as everyone thought they would yesterday, they drove straight to the Pig and Tinder-box, where they immediately dropped the pretense and openly declared their intention to stay. Professor Wheezy might think this unusual behavior is in line with his ideas of fairness, but I’d advise him to be careful about pushing his luck too far with his well-earned reputation. You might wonder how someone like Professor Snore, or even more surprisingly, someone like Professor Doze, can just go along with such actions. On this matter, gossip is quiet; I have my theories, but I'll hold off on sharing them for now.'

'Four o'clock.

4 PM.

'The town is filling fast; eighteenpence has been offered for a bed and refused. Several gentlemen were under the necessity last night of sleeping in the brick fields, and on the steps of doors, for which they were taken before the magistrates in a body this morning, and committed to prison as vagrants for various terms. One of these persons I understand to be a highly-respectable tinker, of great practical skill, who had forwarded a paper to the President of Section D. Mechanical Science, on the construction of pipkins with copper bottoms and safety- values, of which report speaks highly. The incarceration of this gentleman is greatly to be regretted, as his absence will preclude any discussion on the subject.

'The town is filling up quickly; eighteen pence has been offered for a bed and turned down. Several gentlemen had to sleep in the brick fields and on doorsteps last night, and this morning, they were brought before the magistrates as a group and sentenced to prison as vagrants for various lengths of time. I’ve heard that one of these individuals is a well-respected tinker with great practical skills, who had sent a paper to the President of Section D. Mechanical Science about constructing pipkins with copper bottoms and safety valves, which the report praises. It's really unfortunate that this gentleman is in jail, as his absence will prevent any discussion on the topic.'

'The bills are being taken down in all directions, and lodgings are being secured on almost any terms. I have heard of fifteen shillings a week for two rooms, exclusive of coals and attendance, but I can scarcely believe it. The excitement is dreadful. I was informed this morning that the civil authorities, apprehensive of some outbreak of popular feeling, had commanded a recruiting sergeant and two corporals to be under arms; and that, with the view of not irritating the people unnecessarily by their presence, they had been requested to take up their position before daybreak in a turnpike, distant about a quarter of a mile from the town. The vigour and promptness of these measures cannot be too highly extolled.

'The bills are being taken down everywhere, and people are securing accommodations on almost any terms. I've heard of fifteen shillings a week for two rooms, not including heating and service, but I can hardly believe it. The atmosphere is intense. I was told this morning that the local authorities, worried about a possible outburst of public sentiment, had ordered a recruiting sergeant and two corporals to be on alert; and to avoid irritating the crowd unnecessarily with their presence, they were asked to position themselves at a tollgate about a quarter of a mile from the town before dawn. The effectiveness and speed of these actions can't be praised enough.

'Intelligence has just been brought me, that an elderly female, in a state of inebriety, has declared in the open street her intention to "do" for Mr. Slug. Some statistical returns compiled by that gentleman, relative to the consumption of raw spirituous liquors in this place, are supposed to be the cause of the wretch's animosity. It is added that this declaration was loudly cheered by a crowd of persons who had assembled on the spot; and that one man had the boldness to designate Mr. Slug aloud by the opprobrious epithet of "Stick-in-the-mud!" It is earnestly to be hoped that now, when the moment has arrived for their interference, the magistrates will not shrink from the exercise of that power which is vested in them by the constitution of our common country.'

"Word just came to me that an elderly woman, who was drunk, publicly stated her intention to take action against Mr. Slug. Some statistics he compiled regarding the consumption of hard liquor in this area are believed to be the reason for her anger. It's reported that this announcement was met with loud cheers from a crowd that had gathered nearby; one man even had the nerve to call Mr. Slug a "stick-in-the-mud" out loud. It's really hoped that, now that the time has come for them to act, the magistrates won't shy away from using the authority granted to them by our country's constitution."

'Half-past ten.

10:30.

'The disturbance, I am happy to inform you, has been completely quelled, and the ringleader taken into custody. She had a pail of cold water thrown over her, previous to being locked up, and expresses great contrition and uneasiness. We are all in a fever of anticipation about to-morrow; but, now that we are within a few hours of the meeting of the association, and at last enjoy the proud consciousness of having its illustrious members amongst us, I trust and hope everything may go off peaceably. I shall send you a full report of to-morrow's proceedings by the night coach.'

'I'm happy to let you know that the disturbance has been completely settled, and the ringleader has been taken into custody. She had a bucket of cold water thrown on her before being locked up and shows great regret and anxiety. We're all on edge with excitement about tomorrow; but now that we're just hours away from the association's meeting and finally have its distinguished members with us, I trust things will go smoothly. I’ll send you a full report of tomorrow's events by the night coach.'

'Eleven o'clock.

11 o'clock.

'I open my letter to say that nothing whatever has occurred since I folded it up.'

'I open my letter to say that absolutely nothing has happened since I folded it up.'

'Thursday.

Thursday.

'The sun rose this morning at the usual hour. I did not observe anything particular in the aspect of the glorious planet, except that he appeared to me (it might have been a delusion of my heightened fancy) to shine with more than common brilliancy, and to shed a refulgent lustre upon the town, such as I had never observed before. This is the more extraordinary, as the sky was perfectly cloudless, and the atmosphere peculiarly fine. At half-past nine o'clock the general committee assembled, with the last year's president in the chair. The report of the council was read; and one passage, which stated that the council had corresponded with no less than three thousand five hundred and seventy- one persons, (all of whom paid their own postage,) on no fewer than seven thousand two hundred and forty-three topics, was received with a degree of enthusiasm which no efforts could suppress. The various committees and sections having been appointed, and the more formal business transacted, the great proceedings of the meeting commenced at eleven o'clock precisely. I had the happiness of occupying a most eligible position at that time, in 'SECTION A.-ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY. GREAT ROOM, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.

The sun rose this morning at the usual time. I didn't notice anything special about the appearance of the glorious planet, except that it seemed to me (it might have been just my heightened imagination) to shine more brightly than usual and cast a brilliant light over the town like I had never seen before. This is particularly surprising, as the sky was perfectly clear, and the atmosphere was especially nice. At 9:30 AM, the general committee gathered, with last year's president in charge. The council's report was read; one part of it mentioned that the council had communicated with no less than three thousand five hundred seventy-one people (all of whom paid their own postage) on no fewer than seven thousand two hundred forty-three topics, which was met with a level of enthusiasm that no amount of effort could contain. After the various committees and sections were appointed, and the more formal business was taken care of, the main proceedings of the meeting began at 11:00 AM sharp. I was happy to have a very good spot at that moment, in 'SECTION A. - ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY. GREAT ROOM, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.

President-Professor Snore. Vice-Presidents-Professors Doze and Wheezy.

President-Professor Snore. Vice Presidents-Professors Doze and Wheezy.

'The scene at this moment was particularly striking. The sun streamed through the windows of the apartments, and tinted the whole scene with its brilliant rays, bringing out in strong relief the noble visages of the professors and scientific gentlemen, who, some with bald heads, some with red heads, some with brown heads, some with grey heads, some with black heads, some with block heads, presented a coup d'oeil which no eye-witness will readily forget. In front of these gentlemen were papers and inkstands; and round the room, on elevated benches extending as far as the forms could reach, were assembled a brilliant concourse of those lovely and elegant women for which Mudfog is justly acknowledged to be without a rival in the whole world. The contrast between their fair faces and the dark coats and trousers of the scientific gentlemen I shall never cease to remember while Memory holds her seat.

The scene at this moment was particularly striking. The sun poured through the apartment windows, bathing the entire scene in its brilliant rays, highlighting the distinguished faces of the professors and scientific gentlemen. Some had bald heads, some had red heads, others had brown heads, grey heads, black heads, and some even had block heads, creating a view that no one who witnessed it will easily forget. In front of these gentlemen were papers and inkstands; and around the room, on raised benches stretching as far as the seating allowed, a dazzling group of beautiful and elegant women gathered, for which Mudfog is rightly considered unmatched in the whole world. The contrast between their radiant faces and the dark coats and trousers of the scientific gentlemen is something I will always remember while Memory holds her place.

'Time having been allowed for a slight confusion, occasioned by the falling down of the greater part of the platforms, to subside, the president called on one of the secretaries to read a communication entitled, "Some remarks on the industrious fleas, with considerations on the importance of establishing infant-schools among that numerous class of society; of directing their industry to useful and practical ends; and of applying the surplus fruits thereof, towards providing for them a comfortable and respectable maintenance in their old age."

'After a brief moment to let the confusion die down, caused by most of the platforms collapsing, the president asked one of the secretaries to read a message titled, "Some Thoughts on the Hardworking Fleas, with Ideas on the Importance of Establishing Infant Schools for this Large Segment of Society; Directing Their Labor Towards Useful and Practical Goals; and Using the Surplus from That Labor to Ensure They Have a Comfortable and Respectable Living in Their Old Age."'

'The author stated, that, having long turned his attention to the moral and social condition of these interesting animals, he had been induced to visit an exhibition in Regent-street, London, commonly known by the designation of "The Industrious Fleas." He had there seen many fleas, occupied certainly in various pursuits and avocations, but occupied, he was bound to add, in a manner which no man of well-regulated mind could fail to regard with sorrow and regret. One flea, reduced to the level of a beast of burden, was drawing about a miniature gig, containing a particularly small effigy of His Grace the Duke of Wellington; while another was staggering beneath the weight of a golden model of his great adversary Napoleon Bonaparte. Some, brought up as mountebanks and ballet-dancers, were performing a figure-dance (he regretted to observe, that, of the fleas so employed, several were females); others were in training, in a small card-board box, for pedestrians,-mere sporting characters-and two were actually engaged in the cold-blooded and barbarous occupation of duelling; a pursuit from which humanity recoiled with horror and disgust. He suggested that measures should be immediately taken to employ the labour of these fleas as part and parcel of the productive power of the country, which might easily be done by the establishment among them of infant schools and houses of industry, in which a system of virtuous education, based upon sound principles, should be observed, and moral precepts strictly inculcated. He proposed that every flea who presumed to exhibit, for hire, music, or dancing, or any species of theatrical entertainment, without a licence, should be considered a vagabond, and treated accordingly; in which respect he only placed him upon a level with the rest of mankind. He would further suggest that their labour should be placed under the control and regulation of the state, who should set apart from the profits, a fund for the support of superannuated or disabled fleas, their widows and orphans. With this view, he proposed that liberal premiums should be offered for the three best designs for a general almshouse; from which-as insect architecture was well known to be in a very advanced and perfect state-we might possibly derive many valuable hints for the improvement of our metropolitan universities, national galleries, and other public edifices.

The author mentioned that after a long time focusing on the moral and social condition of these fascinating creatures, he felt compelled to visit an exhibition on Regent Street, London, commonly referred to as "The Industrious Fleas." There, he observed many fleas engaged in various activities, but he must say that they were doing so in a way that no person with a well-balanced mind could see without feeling sorrow and regret. One flea, reduced to the status of a pack animal, was pulling a tiny cart that held a particularly small statue of His Grace the Duke of Wellington, while another was struggling under the weight of a golden model of his great opponent Napoleon Bonaparte. Some were raised as performers and ballet dancers, putting on a dance routine (he sadly noted that several of these fleas were female); others were being trained in a small cardboard box for foot races—mere sport—and two were actually engaged in the cold-blooded and brutal act of dueling; a pursuit that humanity recoiled from in horror and disgust. He suggested that immediate steps should be taken to utilize the labor of these fleas as part of the country's productive power, which could easily be achieved by setting up kindergartens and industrial houses for them, where a system of virtuous education based on solid principles could be implemented, and moral lessons rigorously taught. He proposed that any flea who dared to perform for pay—be it music, dancing, or any form of theatrical entertainment—without a license should be considered a vagrant and treated accordingly, putting them on the same level as the rest of humanity. He would also suggest that their labor be managed and regulated by the government, which should allocate a portion of the profits to support retired or disabled fleas, as well as their widows and orphans. To that end, he suggested that generous rewards be offered for the three best designs for a general almshouse; since insect architecture is famously advanced and well-developed, we might gain significant insights for improving our metropolitan universities, national galleries, and other public buildings.

'The President wished to be informed how the ingenious gentleman proposed to open a communication with fleas generally, in the first instance, so that they might be thoroughly imbued with a sense of the advantages they must necessarily derive from changing their mode of life, and applying themselves to honest labour. This appeared to him, the only difficulty.

'The President wanted to know how the clever man planned to talk to fleas in general, at first, so that they could fully understand the benefits they would gain from changing their way of life and focusing on honest work. This seemed to him to be the only challenge.'

'The Author submitted that this difficulty was easily overcome, or rather that there was no difficulty at all in the case. Obviously the course to be pursued, if Her Majesty's government could be prevailed upon to take up the plan, would be, to secure at a remunerative salary the individual to whom he had alluded as presiding over the exhibition in Regent-street at the period of his visit. That gentleman would at once be able to put himself in communication with the mass of the fleas, and to instruct them in pursuance of some general plan of education, to be sanctioned by Parliament, until such time as the more intelligent among them were advanced enough to officiate as teachers to the rest.

The Author argued that this challenge was easily addressed, or rather, there was no challenge at all in this situation. Clearly, the best approach, if the government could be convinced to support the plan, would be to hire the person he mentioned who managed the exhibition in Regent Street during his visit for a good salary. That individual would immediately be able to communicate with the large number of fleas and guide them according to a general educational plan approved by Parliament, until the smarter ones were skilled enough to teach the others.

'The President and several members of the section highly complimented the author of the paper last read, on his most ingenious and important treatise. It was determined that the subject should be recommended to the immediate consideration of the council.

The President and several section members praised the author of the last paper for his clever and significant work. They decided to recommend that the topic be given immediate attention by the council.

'Mr. Wigsby produced a cauliflower somewhat larger than a chaise- umbrella, which had been raised by no other artificial means than the simple application of highly carbonated soda-water as manure. He explained that by scooping out the head, which would afford a new and delicious species of nourishment for the poor, a parachute, in principle something similar to that constructed by M. Garnerin, was at once obtained; the stalk of course being kept downwards. He added that he was perfectly willing to make a descent from a height of not less than three miles and a quarter; and had in fact already proposed the same to the proprietors of Vauxhall Gardens, who in the handsomest manner at once consented to his wishes, and appointed an early day next summer for the undertaking; merely stipulating that the rim of the cauliflower should be previously broken in three or four places to ensure the safety of the descent.

Mr. Wigsby presented a cauliflower that was somewhat larger than a chaise umbrella, which had been grown using nothing more than the simple application of highly carbonated soda water as fertilizer. He explained that by scooping out the head, which would provide a new and delicious type of food for the poor, a parachute—similar in principle to the one created by M. Garnerin—was instantly obtained, with the stalk naturally kept pointed downwards. He added that he was completely willing to make a descent from a height of no less than three miles and a quarter; in fact, he had already proposed this to the owners of Vauxhall Gardens, who graciously agreed to his request and scheduled an early day next summer for the event, only stipulating that the rim of the cauliflower should be broken in three or four places beforehand to ensure a safe landing.

'The President congratulated the public on the grand gala in store for them, and warmly eulogised the proprietors of the establishment alluded to, for their love of science, and regard for the safety of human life, both of which did them the highest honour.

"The President congratulated the public on the grand gala coming up for them and warmly praised the owners of the establishment mentioned for their love of science and concern for human safety, both of which brought them great honor."

'A Member wished to know how many thousand additional lamps the royal property would be illuminated with, on the night after the descent.

'A Member wanted to know how many thousand extra lamps the royal property would be lit with on the night after the descent.

'Mr. Wigsby replied that the point was not yet finally decided; but he believed it was proposed, over and above the ordinary illuminations, to exhibit in various devices eight millions and a-half of additional lamps.

'Mr. Wigsby replied that the issue wasn't fully settled yet; however, he believed there was a plan to showcase an additional eight and a half million lamps, on top of the usual illuminations, through various designs.'

'The Member expressed himself much gratified with this announcement.

The Member said he was very pleased with this announcement.

'Mr. Blunderum delighted the section with a most interesting and valuable paper "on the last moments of the learned pig," which produced a very strong impression on the assembly, the account being compiled from the personal recollections of his favourite attendant. The account stated in the most emphatic terms that the animal's name was not Toby, but Solomon; and distinctly proved that he could have no near relatives in the profession, as many designing persons had falsely stated, inasmuch as his father, mother, brothers and sisters, had all fallen victims to the butcher at different times. An uncle of his indeed, had with very great labour been traced to a sty in Somers Town; but as he was in a very infirm state at the time, being afflicted with measles, and shortly afterwards disappeared, there appeared too much reason to conjecture that he had been converted into sausages. The disorder of the learned pig was originally a severe cold, which, being aggravated by excessive trough indulgence, finally settled upon the lungs, and terminated in a general decay of the constitution. A melancholy instance of a presentiment entertained by the animal of his approaching dissolution, was recorded. After gratifying a numerous and fashionable company with his performances, in which no falling off whatever was visible, he fixed his eyes on the biographer, and, turning to the watch which lay on the floor, and on which he was accustomed to point out the hour, deliberately passed his snout twice round the dial. In precisely four-and-twenty hours from that time he had ceased to exist!

Mr. Blunderum captivated the section with a fascinating and valuable paper "on the last moments of the learned pig," which made a strong impression on the audience, the account being based on the personal memories of his favorite attendant. The account emphasized that the animal's name was not Toby, but Solomon; and distinctly proved that he had no close relatives in the profession, as many deceptive individuals had falsely claimed, since his father, mother, brothers, and sisters had all fallen prey to the butcher at different times. An uncle of his had indeed been traced with great effort to a sty in Somers Town; but as he was in very poor health at the time, suffering from measles, and soon after disappeared, there was good reason to suspect that he had been turned into sausages. The learned pig's illness originated from a severe cold, which, worsened by too much feeding, eventually affected his lungs and led to the overall decline of his health. A sad example of the animal’s intuition about his imminent death was noted. After entertaining a large and fashionable crowd with his performances, showing no signs of decline, he fixed his gaze on the biographer, and, turning to the watch on the floor, which he usually pointed to for the time, deliberately circled his snout around the dial twice. Exactly twenty-four hours later, he had passed away!

'Professor Wheezy inquired whether, previous to his demise, the animal had expressed, by signs or otherwise, any wishes regarding the disposal of his little property.

'Professor Wheezy asked if, before his death, the animal had shown any signs or otherwise indicated any wishes about what should happen to his small belongings.'

'Mr. Blunderum replied, that, when the biographer took up the pack of cards at the conclusion of the performance, the animal grunted several times in a significant manner, and nodding his head as he was accustomed to do, when gratified. From these gestures it was understood that he wished the attendant to keep the cards, which he had ever since done. He had not expressed any wish relative to his watch, which had accordingly been pawned by the same individual.

'Mr. Blunderum replied that when the biographer picked up the deck of cards at the end of the performance, the animal grunted a few times meaningfully and nodded his head as he usually did when pleased. From these gestures, it was clear that he wanted the attendant to keep the cards, which he has done ever since. He hadn’t shown any desire regarding his watch, which has since been pawned by the same person.'

'The President wished to know whether any Member of the section had ever seen or conversed with the pig-faced lady, who was reported to have worn a black velvet mask, and to have taken her meals from a golden trough.

'The President wanted to know if any member of the group had ever seen or talked to the pig-faced lady, who was said to wear a black velvet mask and eat her meals from a golden trough.'

'After some hesitation a Member replied that the pig-faced lady was his mother-in-law, and that he trusted the President would not violate the sanctity of private life.

'After some hesitation, a member replied that the pig-faced lady was his mother-in-law, and he hoped the President would respect the sanctity of private life.'

'The President begged pardon. He had considered the pig-faced lady a public character. Would the honourable member object to state, with a view to the advancement of science, whether she was in any way connected with the learned pig?

'The President apologized. He had seen the pig-faced lady as a public figure. Would the honorable member mind stating, in the interest of advancing science, if she was in any way related to the learned pig?'

'The Member replied in the same low tone, that, as the question appeared to involve a suspicion that the learned pig might be his half-brother, he must decline answering it. 'SECTION B.-ANATOMY AND MEDICINE. COACH- HOUSE, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.

'The Member responded in the same quiet tone that, since the question seemed to suggest that the educated pig could be his half-brother, he had to refuse to answer it. 'SECTION B.-ANATOMY AND MEDICINE. COACH-HOUSE, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.'

President-Dr. Toorell. Vice-Presidents-Professors Muff and Nogo.

President Dr. Toorell. Vice Presidents Professors Muff and Nogo.

Dr. Kutankumagen (of Moscow) read to the section a report of a case which had occurred within his own practice, strikingly illustrative of the power of medicine, as exemplified in his successful treatment of a virulent disorder. He had been called in to visit the patient on the 1st of April, 1837. He was then labouring under symptoms peculiarly alarming to any medical man. His frame was stout and muscular, his step firm and elastic, his cheeks plump and red, his voice loud, his appetite good, his pulse full and round. He was in the constant habit of eating three meals per diem, and of drinking at least one bottle of wine, and one glass of spirituous liquors diluted with water, in the course of the four-and-twenty hours. He laughed constantly, and in so hearty a manner that it was terrible to hear him. By dint of powerful medicine, low diet, and bleeding, the symptoms in the course of three days perceptibly decreased. A rigid perseverance in the same course of treatment for only one week, accompanied with small doses of water-gruel, weak broth, and barley-water, led to their entire disappearance. In the course of a month he was sufficiently recovered to be carried down-stairs by two nurses, and to enjoy an airing in a close carriage, supported by soft pillows. At the present moment he was restored so far as to walk about, with the slight assistance of a crutch and a boy. It would perhaps be gratifying to the section to learn that he ate little, drank little, slept little, and was never heard to laugh by any accident whatever.

Dr. Kutankumagen from Moscow presented a case report to the group that showcased the effectiveness of medicine through his successful treatment of a severe illness. He was called to see the patient on April 1, 1837. The patient exhibited symptoms that were particularly alarming for any doctor. He was sturdy and muscular, walked with a firm and springy step, had plump red cheeks, a loud voice, a healthy appetite, and a strong, steady pulse. He regularly ate three meals a day and would drink at least a bottle of wine and a glass of spirits mixed with water over 24 hours. He laughed often and so robustly that it was unsettling to hear. Thanks to potent medications, a low diet, and bloodletting, his symptoms noticeably improved within three days. Sticking to the same treatment regimen for just one week, along with small amounts of rice water, light broth, and barley water, led to a complete recovery. Within a month, he was well enough to be carried downstairs by two nurses and take a ride in a closed carriage supported by soft pillows. At that moment, he had recovered sufficiently to walk around with a little help from a crutch and a boy. It might be pleasing for the group to know that he ate very little, drank very little, slept very little, and was never heard laughing under any circumstance.

'Dr. W. R. Fee, in complimenting the honourable member upon the triumphant cure he had effected, begged to ask whether the patient still bled freely?

'Dr. W. R. Fee, while praising the honorable member for the successful treatment he had achieved, wanted to know if the patient was still bleeding a lot?'

'Dr. Kutankumagen replied in the affirmative.

Dr. Kutankumagen responded yes.

'Dr. W. R. Fee.-And you found that he bled freely during the whole course of the disorder?

'Dr. W. R. Fee.-So, you noticed that he bled a lot throughout the entire illness?

'Dr. Kutankumagen.-Oh dear, yes; most freely.

'Dr. Kutankumagen.-Oh wow, yes; absolutely.'

'Dr. Neeshawts supposed, that if the patient had not submitted to be bled with great readiness and perseverance, so extraordinary a cure could never, in fact, have been accomplished. Dr. Kutankumagen rejoined, certainly not.

'Dr. Neeshawts assumed that if the patient hadn't agreed to be bled with such willingness and determination, such an extraordinary cure could never have actually been achieved. Dr. Kutankumagen replied, definitely not.'

'Mr. Knight Bell (M.R.C.S.) exhibited a wax preparation of the interior of a gentleman who in early life had inadvertently swallowed a door-key. It was a curious fact that a medical student of dissipated habits, being present at the post mortem examination, found means to escape unobserved from the room, with that portion of the coats of the stomach upon which an exact model of the instrument was distinctly impressed, with which he hastened to a locksmith of doubtful character, who made a new key from the pattern so shown to him. With this key the medical student entered the house of the deceased gentleman, and committed a burglary to a large amount, for which he was subsequently tried and executed.

'Mr. Knight Bell (M.R.C.S.) showed a wax model of the inside of a man who, in his youth, had accidentally swallowed a door key. It was an interesting detail that a medical student with a reckless lifestyle, present at the autopsy, found a way to leave the room unnoticed, taking with him a piece of the stomach lining that had a perfect imprint of the key. He quickly went to a shady locksmith, who replicated the key based on the impression. Using this key, the medical student broke into the deceased man's house and stole a significant amount of valuables, for which he was later tried and executed.'

'The President wished to know what became of the original key after the lapse of years. Mr. Knight Bell replied that the gentleman was always much accustomed to punch, and it was supposed the acid had gradually devoured it.

'The President wanted to know what happened to the original key after all these years. Mr. Knight Bell replied that the gentleman had always been quite into punching, and it was believed the acid had slowly eaten it away.'

'Dr. Neeshawts and several of the members were of opinion that the key must have lain very cold and heavy upon the gentleman's stomach.

'Dr. Neeshawts and several of the members believed that the key must have felt very cold and heavy on the gentleman's stomach.'

'Mr. Knight Bell believed it did at first. It was worthy of remark, perhaps, that for some years the gentleman was troubled with a night- mare, under the influence of which he always imagined himself a wine- cellar door.

'Mr. Knight Bell believed it did at first. It might be worth noting that for several years, the man was troubled by a nightmare, during which he always imagined himself as the door to a wine cellar.'

'Professor Muff related a very extraordinary and convincing proof of the wonderful efficacy of the system of infinitesimal doses, which the section were doubtless aware was based upon the theory that the very minutest amount of any given drug, properly dispersed through the human frame, would be productive of precisely the same result as a very large dose administered in the usual manner. Thus, the fortieth part of a grain of calomel was supposed to be equal to a five-grain calomel pill, and so on in proportion throughout the whole range of medicine. He had tried the experiment in a curious manner upon a publican who had been brought into the hospital with a broken head, and was cured upon the infinitesimal system in the incredibly short space of three months. This man was a hard drinker. He (Professor Muff) had dispersed three drops of rum through a bucket of water, and requested the man to drink the whole. What was the result? Before he had drunk a quart, he was in a state of beastly intoxication; and five other men were made dead drunk with the remainder.

'Professor Muff presented an incredibly convincing example of the amazing effectiveness of the system of infinitesimal doses, which the section likely knew was based on the idea that the tiniest amount of any drug, properly distributed throughout the body, would produce the same result as a large dose given in the usual way. For instance, the fortieth part of a grain of calomel was thought to be equivalent to a five-grain calomel pill, and this applied to the entire range of medicine. He conducted an interesting experiment on a bar owner who had been admitted to the hospital with a head injury, and he was cured using the infinitesimal method in just three months. This man was a heavy drinker. Professor Muff had diluted three drops of rum into a bucket of water and asked the man to drink it all. What happened? Before he even finished a quart, he was completely drunk, and five other men got dead drunk from the rest.'

'The President wished to know whether an infinitesimal dose of soda- water would have recovered them? Professor Muff replied that the twenty-fifth part of a teaspoonful, properly administered to each patient, would have sobered him immediately. The President remarked that this was a most important discovery, and he hoped the Lord Mayor and Court of Aldermen would patronize it immediately.

'The President wanted to know if a tiny dose of soda water would have helped them. Professor Muff responded that a 25th of a teaspoon, given to each patient correctly, would have sobered him up right away. The President noted that this was a very important discovery, and he hoped the Lord Mayor and Court of Aldermen would support it immediately.'

'A Member begged to be informed whether it would be possible to administer-say, the twentieth part of a grain of bread and cheese to all grown-up paupers, and the fortieth part to children, with the same satisfying effect as their present allowance.

'A Member asked to know if it would be possible to provide, say, one-twentieth of a grain of bread and cheese to all adult paupers, and one-fortieth to children, with the same satisfying effect as their current allowance.

'Professor Muff was willing to stake his professional reputation on the perfect adequacy of such a quantity of food to the support of human life-in workhouses; the addition of the fifteenth part of a grain of pudding twice a week would render it a high diet.

'Professor Muff was ready to put his professional reputation on the line for the idea that such a small amount of food was enough to support human life in workhouses; adding the fifteenth of a grain of pudding twice a week would make it a rich diet.'

'Professor Nogo called the attention of the section to a very extraordinary case of animal magnetism. A private watchman, being merely looked at by the operator from the opposite side of a wide street, was at once observed to be in a very drowsy and languid state. He was followed to his box, and being once slightly rubbed on the palms of the hands, fell into a sound sleep, in which he continued without intermission for ten hours. 'SECTION C.-STATISTICS. HAY-LOFT, ORIGINAL PIG.

'Professor Nogo drew the section's attention to a truly extraordinary case of animal magnetism. A private watchman, just being looked at by the operator from across a wide street, was immediately seen to be in a very drowsy and lethargic state. He was followed to his station, and after being gently rubbed on the palms of his hands, he fell into a deep sleep that lasted for ten hours straight. 'SECTION C.-STATISTICS. HAY-LOFT, ORIGINAL PIG.

President-Mr. Woodensconce. Vice-Presidents-Mr. Ledbrain and Mr. Timbered.

President - Mr. Woodensconce. Vice Presidents - Mr. Ledbrain and Mr. Timbered.

'Mr. Slug stated to the section the result of some calculations he had made with great difficulty and labour, regarding the state of infant education among the middle classes of London. He found that, within a circle of three miles from the Elephant and Castle, the following were the names and numbers of children's books principally in circulation:-

'Mr. Slug told the group about the results of some difficult calculations he had done about the state of early education among the middle classes in London. He found that, within a three-mile radius of the Elephant and Castle, the following were the names and numbers of children's books mostly in circulation:-'

'Jack the Giant-killer

Jack the Giant Slayer

7,943

Ditto and Bean-stalk

Ditto and Beanstalk

8,621

Ditto and Eleven Brothers

Ditto and Eleven Bros

2,845

Ditto and Jill

Ditto & Jill

1,998

Total

21,407

'He found that the proportion of Robinson Crusoes to Philip Quarlls was as four and a half to one; and that the preponderance of Valentine and Orsons over Goody Two Shoeses was as three and an eighth of the former to half a one of the latter; a comparison of Seven Champions with Simple Simons gave the same result. The ignorance that prevailed, was lamentable. One child, on being asked whether he would rather be Saint George of England or a respectable tallow-chandler, instantly replied, "Taint George of Ingling." Another, a little boy of eight years old, was found to be firmly impressed with a belief in the existence of dragons, and openly stated that it was his intention when he grew up, to rush forth sword in hand for the deliverance of captive princesses, and the promiscuous slaughter of giants. Not one child among the number interrogated had ever heard of Mungo Park,-some inquiring whether he was at all connected with the black man that swept the crossing; and others whether he was in any way related to the Regent's Park. They had not the slightest conception of the commonest principles of mathematics, and considered Sindbad the Sailor the most enterprising voyager that the world had ever produced.

He discovered that the ratio of Robinson Crusoes to Philip Quarlls was about four and a half to one; and that the dominance of Valentine and Orsons over Goody Two Shoes was three and an eighth of the former to half of the latter; a comparison of Seven Champions with Simple Simons showed the same result. The level of ignorance was distressing. One child, when asked if he would rather be Saint George of England or a respectable candle maker, quickly replied, "Taint George of Ingling." Another little boy, just eight years old, firmly believed in the existence of dragons and stated that when he grew up, he planned to rush out with a sword to rescue captive princesses and fight giants. Not one child among those questioned had ever heard of Mungo Park—some wondered if he was related to the black man who swept the crossing, and others asked if he had any connection to Regent's Park. They had no understanding of basic math principles and thought Sindbad the Sailor was the most adventurous traveler the world had ever seen.

'A Member strongly deprecating the use of all the other books mentioned, suggested that Jack and Jill might perhaps be exempted from the general censure, inasmuch as the hero and heroine, in the very outset of the tale, were depicted as going up a hill to fetch a pail of water, which was a laborious and useful occupation,-supposing the family linen was being washed, for instance.

'A Member strongly criticized the use of all the other books mentioned and suggested that Jack and Jill might be exempt from the general disapproval since the main characters, right at the beginning of the story, were shown going up a hill to fetch a pail of water, which was a hard and useful task—assuming, for example, that the family laundry was being done.

'Mr. Slug feared that the moral effect of this passage was more than counterbalanced by another in a subsequent part of the poem, in which very gross allusion was made to the mode in which the heroine was personally chastised by her mother

'Mr. Slug was concerned that the moral impact of this part was outweighed by another section later in the poem, where there was a pretty crude reference to how the heroine was punished by her mother.'

"'For laughing at Jack's disaster;"

"For laughing at Jack's mishap;"

besides, the whole work had this one great fault, it was not true.

besides, the whole work had one major flaw: it wasn't true.

'The President complimented the honourable member on the excellent distinction he had drawn. Several other Members, too, dwelt upon the immense and urgent necessity of storing the minds of children with nothing but facts and figures; which process the President very forcibly remarked, had made them (the section) the men they were.

'The President praised the honorable member for the excellent distinction he made. Several other Members also highlighted the great and urgent need to fill children's minds with nothing but facts and figures; a process that the President strongly emphasized had shaped them (the section) into the individuals they had become.'

'Mr. Slug then stated some curious calculations respecting the dogs'- meat barrows of London. He found that the total number of small carts and barrows engaged in dispensing provision to the cats and dogs of the metropolis was, one thousand seven hundred and forty-three. The average number of skewers delivered daily with the provender, by each dogs'-meat cart or barrow, was thirty-six. Now, multiplying the number of skewers so delivered by the number of barrows, a total of sixty-two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers daily would be obtained. Allowing that, of these sixty-two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers, the odd two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight were accidentally devoured with the meat, by the most voracious of the animals supplied, it followed that sixty thousand skewers per day, or the enormous number of twenty-one millions nine hundred thousand skewers annually, were wasted in the kennels and dustholes of London; which, if collected and warehoused, would in ten years' time afford a mass of timber more than sufficient for the construction of a first-rate vessel of war for the use of her Majesty's navy, to be called "The Royal Skewer," and to become under that name the terror of all the enemies of this island.

'Mr. Slug then shared some interesting calculations about the dogs'-meat carts in London. He discovered that there were a total of one thousand seven hundred and forty-three small carts and barrows dedicated to providing food for the cats and dogs of the city. Each dogs'-meat cart or barrow delivered an average of thirty-six skewers daily with the food. By multiplying the number of skewers delivered by the number of barrows, he determined that a total of sixty-two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers were distributed each day. Assuming that out of these sixty-two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers, about two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight were unintentionally eaten along with the meat by the hungriest animals, it was concluded that sixty thousand skewers a day, or an astonishing twenty-one million nine hundred thousand skewers each year, were wasted in the streets and alleyways of London. If collected and stored, these skewers would provide enough timber in ten years to build a top-quality warship for Her Majesty's navy, aptly named "The Royal Skewer," and serve as a formidable threat to all of this island's enemies.'

'Mr. X. Ledbrain read a very ingenious communication, from which it appeared that the total number of legs belonging to the manufacturing population of one great town in Yorkshire was, in round numbers, forty thousand, while the total number of chair and stool legs in their houses was only thirty thousand, which, upon the very favourable average of three legs to a seat, yielded only ten thousand seats in all. From this calculation it would appear,-not taking wooden or cork legs into the account, but allowing two legs to every person,-that ten thousand individuals (one-half of the whole population) were either destitute of any rest for their legs at all, or passed the whole of their leisure time in sitting upon boxes. 'SECTION D.-MECHANICAL SCIENCE. COACH-HOUSE, ORIGINAL PIG.

'Mr. X. Ledbrain shared a clever observation, suggesting that the total number of legs belonging to the working population of a large town in Yorkshire was roughly forty thousand, while the total number of legs on chairs and stools in their homes was only thirty thousand. This, based on a favorable average of three legs per seat, resulted in only ten thousand seats available in total. From this calculation, it seems—excluding wooden or cork legs and assuming two legs for each person—that ten thousand individuals (half the entire population) were either without any resting place for their legs or spent all their free time sitting on boxes. 'SECTION D.-MECHANICAL SCIENCE. COACH-HOUSE, ORIGINAL PIG.'

President-Mr. Carter. Vice-Presidents-Mr. Truck and Mr. Waghorn.

President - Mr. Carter. Vice Presidents - Mr. Truck and Mr. Waghorn.

'Professor Queerspeck exhibited an elegant model of a portable railway, neatly mounted in a green case, for the waistcoat pocket. By attaching this beautiful instrument to his boots, any Bank or public-office clerk could transport himself from his place of residence to his place of business, at the easy rate of sixty-five miles an hour, which, to gentlemen of sedentary pursuits, would be an incalculable advantage.

'Professor Queerspeck showed off a sleek model of a portable railway, nicely housed in a green case for pocket use. By attaching this stylish device to their shoes, any bank or office worker could travel from home to work at a smooth sixty-five miles per hour, which would be an immense benefit for people with desk jobs.'

'The President was desirous of knowing whether it was necessary to have a level surface on which the gentleman was to run.

The President wanted to know if it was needed to have a flat surface for the gentleman to run on.

'Professor Queerspeck explained that City gentlemen would run in trains, being handcuffed together to prevent confusion or unpleasantness. For instance, trains would start every morning at eight, nine, and ten o'clock, from Camden Town, Islington, Camberwell, Hackney, and various other places in which City gentlemen are accustomed to reside. It would be necessary to have a level, but he had provided for this difficulty by proposing that the best line that the circumstances would admit of, should be taken through the sewers which undermine the streets of the metropolis, and which, well lighted by jets from the gas pipes which run immediately above them, would form a pleasant and commodious arcade, especially in winter-time, when the inconvenient custom of carrying umbrellas, now so general, could be wholly dispensed with. In reply to another question, Professor Queerspeck stated that no substitute for the purposes to which these arcades were at present devoted had yet occurred to him, but that he hoped no fanciful objection on this head would be allowed to interfere with so great an undertaking.

'Professor Queerspeck explained that City workers would travel in groups, being handcuffed together to avoid confusion or issues. For example, groups would leave every morning at eight, nine, and ten o'clock from Camden Town, Islington, Camberwell, Hackney, and other places where City workers typically live. It was essential to have a flat route, but he had addressed this challenge by suggesting that the best path available would go through the sewers that run beneath the streets of the city, which, well-lit by gas jets above them, would create a nice and comfortable walkway, especially in winter when the annoying habit of carrying umbrellas, now so common, could be completely eliminated. In response to another question, Professor Queerspeck said that he hadn’t thought of any substitutes for what these walkways are currently used for, but he hoped that no unrealistic objections would be allowed to hinder such a significant project.'

'Mr. Jobba produced a forcing-machine on a novel plan, for bringing joint-stock railway shares prematurely to a premium. The instrument was in the form of an elegant gilt weather-glass, of most dazzling appearance, and was worked behind, by strings, after the manner of a pantomime trick, the strings being always pulled by the directors of the company to which the machine belonged. The quicksilver was so ingeniously placed, that when the acting directors held shares in their pockets, figures denoting very small expenses and very large returns appeared upon the glass; but the moment the directors parted with these pieces of paper, the estimate of needful expenditure suddenly increased itself to an immense extent, while the statements of certain profits became reduced in the same proportion. Mr. Jobba stated that the machine had been in constant requisition for some months past, and he had never once known it to fail.

'Mr. Jobba created a unique machine designed to artificially inflate the value of joint-stock railway shares. The device looked like a stylish gilded weather-glass that was incredibly eye-catching, operated from behind with strings, similar to a stage trick, with the strings always being pulled by the company's directors. The quicksilver was cleverly placed so that when the acting directors had shares tucked away in their pockets, the glass displayed figures showing minimal expenses and significant profits; however, the moment they sold those shares, the estimated necessary costs would dramatically rise, while the reported profits dropped correspondingly. Mr. Jobba mentioned that the machine had been in regular use for several months, and he had never seen it fail.'

'A Member expressed his opinion that it was extremely neat and pretty. He wished to know whether it was not liable to accidental derangement? Mr. Jobba said that the whole machine was undoubtedly liable to be blown up, but that was the only objection to it.

'A Member expressed his opinion that it was really neat and attractive. He wanted to know if it could accidentally get messed up. Mr. Jobba replied that the whole machine could definitely blow up, but that was the only downside to it.'

'Professor Nogo arrived from the anatomical section to exhibit a model of a safety fire-escape, which could be fixed at any time, in less than half an hour, and by means of which, the youngest or most infirm persons (successfully resisting the progress of the flames until it was quite ready) could be preserved if they merely balanced themselves for a few minutes on the sill of their bedroom window, and got into the escape without falling into the street. The Professor stated that the number of boys who had been rescued in the daytime by this machine from houses which were not on fire, was almost incredible. Not a conflagration had occurred in the whole of London for many months past to which the escape had not been carried on the very next day, and put in action before a concourse of persons.

'Professor Nogo arrived from the anatomy department to showcase a model of a safety fire escape that could be installed at any time, in less than half an hour. With this device, even the youngest or most fragile individuals could be saved, as long as they successfully held off the flames until it was ready, by just balancing on the windowsill of their bedroom for a few minutes and getting into the escape without falling into the street. The Professor mentioned that the number of boys rescued during the day by this device from non-burning houses was almost unbelievable. Not a single fire had happened in all of London for many months without the escape being demonstrated the very next day and put into action in front of a crowd.'

'The President inquired whether there was not some difficulty in ascertaining which was the top of the machine, and which the bottom, in cases of pressing emergency.

'The President asked if there was any difficulty in determining which part of the machine was the top and which was the bottom in urgent situations.'

'Professor Nogo explained that of course it could not be expected to act quite as well when there was a fire, as when there was not a fire; but in the former case he thought it would be of equal service whether the top were up or down.'

'Professor Nogo explained that, of course, it couldn’t be expected to operate as well when there was a fire as it would when there wasn’t; however, in the case of a fire, he believed it would be equally helpful whether the top was up or down.'

With the last section our correspondent concludes his most able and faithful Report, which will never cease to reflect credit upon him for his scientific attainments, and upon us for our enterprising spirit. It is needless to take a review of the subjects which have been discussed; of the mode in which they have been examined; of the great truths which they have elicited. They are now before the world, and we leave them to read, to consider, and to profit.

With the final section, our correspondent wraps up his impressive and reliable report, which will always bring him credit for his scientific knowledge and us for our adventurous spirit. There's no need to go over the topics we've discussed, how they were analyzed, or the significant truths they've revealed. They are now out in the open for the world to read, reflect on, and benefit from.

The place of meeting for next year has undergone discussion, and has at length been decided, regard being had to, and evidence being taken upon, the goodness of its wines, the supply of its markets, the hospitality of its inhabitants, and the quality of its hotels. We hope at this next meeting our correspondent may again be present, and that we may be once more the means of placing his communications before the world. Until that period we have been prevailed upon to allow this number of our Miscellany to be retailed to the public, or wholesaled to the trade, without any advance upon our usual price.

The location for next year's meeting has been discussed and finally decided, taking into account the quality of the wines, the availability of goods in the markets, the hospitality of the local residents, and the standard of the hotels. We hope that our correspondent can be present at this next meeting and that we can once again share his messages with the world. Until then, we have agreed to allow this issue of our Miscellany to be sold to the public or distributed to retailers at our regular price.

We have only to add, that the committees are now broken up, and that Mudfog is once again restored to its accustomed tranquillity,-that Professors and Members have had balls, and soirACes, and suppers, and great mutual complimentations, and have at length dispersed to their several homes,-whither all good wishes and joys attend them, until next year!

We just want to mention that the committees have been disbanded, and Mudfog has returned to its usual calm. Professors and Members enjoyed parties, social gatherings, and dinners, and exchanged many compliments before finally going back to their respective homes, taking with them all our best wishes and happiness until next year!

Signed Boz. FULL REPORT OF THE SECOND MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION for the advancement of everything

In October last, we did ourselves the immortal credit of recording, at an enormous expense, and by dint of exertions unnpralleled in the history of periodical publication, the proceedings of the Mudfog Association for the Advancement of Everything, which in that month held its first great half-yearly meeting, to the wonder and delight of the whole empire. We announced at the conclusion of that extraordinary and most remarkable Report, that when the Second Meeting of the Society should take place, we should be found again at our post, renewing our gigantic and spirited endeavours, and once more making the world ring with the accuracy, authenticity, immeasurable superiority, and intense remarkability of our account of its proceedings. In redemption of this pledge, we caused to be despatched per steam to Oldcastle (at which place this second meeting of the Society was held on the 20th instant), the same superhumanly-endowed gentleman who furnished the former report, and who,-gifted by nature with transcendent abilities, and furnished by us with a body of assistants scarcely inferior to himself,-has forwarded a series of letters, which, for faithfulness of description, power of language, fervour of thought, happiness of expression, and importance of subject-matter, have no equal in the epistolary literature of any age or country. We give this gentleman's correspondence entire, and in the order in which it reached our office.

In October last year, we earned the timeless honor of documenting, at great expense and through efforts unmatched in the history of magazines, the activities of the Mudfog Association for the Advancement of Everything, which held its first significant semi-annual meeting that month, to the amazement and joy of the entire country. We stated at the end of that extraordinary and remarkable Report that when the Second Meeting of the Society occurred, we would be there again, renewing our massive and energetic efforts, and once more making sure the world noticed the accuracy, authenticity, unmatched excellence, and incredible significance of our account of its proceedings. To fulfill this promise, we sent by steam to Oldcastle (where this second meeting of the Society was held on the 20th of this month) the same exceptionally talented gentleman who prepared the previous report, who—blessed by nature with extraordinary abilities, and supported by a team of assistants nearly as skilled as he is—has provided a series of letters that, for their faithful description, powerful language, passionate thought, effective expression, and significant subject matter, have no equals in the correspondence literature of any era or region. We present this gentleman's correspondence in full, and in the order it arrived at our office.

'Saloon of Steamer, Thursday night, half-past eight.

'Saloon of Steamer, Thursday night, 8:30 PM.

'When I left New Burlington Street this evening in the hackney cabriolet, number four thousand two hundred and eighty-five, I experienced sensations as novel as they were oppressive. A sense of the importance of the task I had undertaken, a consciousness that I was leaving London, and, stranger still, going somewhere else, a feeling of loneliness and a sensation of jolting, quite bewildered my thoughts, and for a time rendered me even insensible to the presence of my carpet-bag and hat-box. I shall ever feel grateful to the driver of a Blackwall omnibus who, by thrusting the pole of his vehicle through the small door of the cabriolet, awakened me from a tumult of imaginings that are wholly indescribable. But of such materials is our imperfect nature composed!

'When I left New Burlington Street this evening in the hackney cab, number four thousand two hundred and eighty-five, I felt emotions that were both new and overwhelming. I sensed the weight of the task I was undertaking, realized I was leaving London, and even more strangely, heading somewhere else. I felt a loneliness and a sense of bouncing around that left me confused, making me temporarily oblivious to my carpet bag and hat box. I will always be grateful to the driver of a Blackwall bus who, by accidentally jamming the pole of his vehicle through the small door of the cab, pulled me out of a whirlwind of thoughts that I can't fully describe. But that's just how our imperfect nature works!'

'I am happy to say that I am the first passenger on board, and shall thus be enabled to give you an account of all that happens in the order of its occurrence. The chimney is smoking a good deal, and so are the crew; and the captain, I am informed, is very drunk in a little house upon deck, something like a black turnpike. I should infer from all I hear that he has got the steam up.

'I’m pleased to say that I’m the first passenger on board, so I’ll be able to give you a rundown of everything that happens as it occurs. The chimney is puffing out quite a bit of smoke, and so are the crew; and I’ve been told that the captain is really drunk in a little cabin up on deck, something like a dark toll booth. From what I’ve gathered, it seems like he’s got the steam going.'

'You will readily guess with what feelings I have just made the discovery that my berth is in the same closet with those engaged by Professor Woodensconce, Mr. Slug, and Professor Grime. Professor Woodensconce has taken the shelf above me, and Mr. Slug and Professor Grime the two shelves opposite. Their luggage has already arrived. On Mr. Slug's bed is a long tin tube of about three inches in diameter, carefully closed at both ends. What can this contain? Some powerful instrument of a new construction, doubtless.'

'You can probably guess how I feel after discovering that my bed is in the same closet as those used by Professor Woodensconce, Mr. Slug, and Professor Grime. Professor Woodensconce has taken the shelf above me, while Mr. Slug and Professor Grime occupy the two shelves opposite. Their luggage has already been delivered. On Mr. Slug's bed is a long tin tube, about three inches in diameter, securely sealed at both ends. What could this possibly hold? Surely a powerful instrument of some new design.'

'Ten minutes past nine.

9:10.

'Nobody has yet arrived, nor has anything fresh come in my way except several joints of beef and mutton, from which I conclude that a good plain dinner has been provided for to-morrow. There is a singular smell below, which gave me some uneasiness at first; but as the steward says it is always there, and never goes away, I am quite comfortable again. I learn from this man that the different sections will be distributed at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache, and the Boot-jack and Countenance. If this intelligence be true (and I have no reason to doubt it), your readers will draw such conclusions as their different opinions may suggest.

'No one has arrived yet, and nothing new has come my way except for several cuts of beef and mutton, which makes me think that a nice simple dinner has been prepared for tomorrow. There’s a strange smell downstairs that made me a bit uneasy at first, but since the steward says it’s always there and never goes away, I’m feeling completely fine again. I found out from him that the different sections will be distributed at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache, and the Boot-jack and Countenance. If this information is accurate (and I have no reason to doubt it), your readers will come to their own conclusions based on their individual opinions.'

'I write down these remarks as they occur to me, or as the facts come to my knowledge, in order that my first impressions may lose nothing of their original vividness. I shall despatch them in small packets as opportunities arise.'

'I jot down these thoughts as they come to me or as I learn new information, so that my initial impressions don’t fade away. I’ll send them out in small batches whenever I get the chance.'

'Half past nine.

9:30.

'Some dark object has just appeared upon the wharf. I think it is a travelling carriage.'

'Some dark object has just shown up at the wharf. I think it’s a traveling carriage.'

'A quarter to ten.

9:45.

'No, it isn't.'

'No, it's not.'

'Half-past ten.

10:30.

The passengers are pouring in every instant. Four omnibuses full have just arrived upon the wharf, and all is bustle and activity. The noise and confusion are very great. Cloths are laid in the cabins, and the steward is placing blue plates-full of knobs of cheese at equal distances down the centre of the tables. He drops a great many knobs; but, being used to it, picks them up again with great dexterity, and, after wiping them on his sleeve, throws them back into the plates. He is a young man of exceedingly prepossessing appearance-either dirty or a mulatto, but I think the former.

The passengers are arriving constantly. Four buses completely packed have just come to the dock, and everything is busy and chaotic. The noise and disorder are overwhelming. Tablecloths are spread in the cabins, and the steward is setting out blue plates filled with lumps of cheese evenly down the center of the tables. He drops quite a few lumps, but since he’s used to it, he picks them up with surprising skill and, after wiping them on his sleeve, puts them back on the plates. He’s a young man with a very attractive appearance—either dirty or mixed race, but I think it’s the former.

'An interesting old gentleman, who came to the wharf in an omnibus, has just quarrelled violently with the porters, and is staggering towards the vessel with a large trunk in his arms. I trust and hope that he may reach it in safety; but the board he has to cross is narrow and slippery. Was that a splash? Gracious powers!

'An interesting old man, who arrived at the dock in a bus, just got into a heated argument with the porters and is now stumbling toward the ship with a big trunk in his arms. I really hope he makes it there safely, but the board he needs to walk across is narrow and slick. Was that a splash? Oh my goodness!'

'I have just returned from the deck. The trunk is standing upon the extreme brink of the wharf, but the old gentleman is nowhere to be seen. The watchman is not sure whether he went down or not, but promises to drag for him the first thing to-morrow morning. May his humane efforts prove successful!

'I just got back from the deck. The trunk is sitting right at the edge of the wharf, but the old man is nowhere to be found. The watchman isn’t sure if he went down or not, but he promises to search for him first thing tomorrow morning. I hope his kind efforts are successful!'

'Professor Nogo has this moment arrived with his nightcap on under his hat. He has ordered a glass of cold brandy and water, with a hard biscuit and a basin, and has gone straight to bed. What can this mean?

'Professor Nogo has just arrived with his nightcap on under his hat. He ordered a glass of cold brandy and water, along with a hard biscuit and a bowl, and went straight to bed. What could this mean?'

'The three other scientific gentlemen to whom I have already alluded have come on board, and have all tried their beds, with the exception of Professor Woodensconce, who sleeps in one of the top ones, and can't get into it. Mr. Slug, who sleeps in the other top one, is unable to get out of his, and is to have his supper handed up by a boy. I have had the honour to introduce myself to these gentlemen, and we have amicably arranged the order in which we shall retire to rest; which it is necessary to agree upon, because, although the cabin is very comfortable, there is not room for more than one gentleman to be out of bed at a time, and even he must take his boots off in the passage.

The three other scientists I mentioned earlier have come on board and have all tried their beds, except for Professor Woodensconce, who sleeps in one of the top bunks and can't get into it. Mr. Slug, who sleeps in the other top bunk, is unable to get out of his and will have his supper handed up by a boy. I have had the honor of introducing myself to these gentlemen, and we’ve amicably decided the order in which we’ll go to bed; this is necessary because, although the cabin is quite comfortable, there’s only enough room for one person to be out of bed at a time, and even then, he has to take his boots off in the passage.

'As I anticipated, the knobs of cheese were provided for the passengers' supper, and are now in course of consumption. Your readers will be surprised to hear that Professor Woodensconce has abstained from cheese for eight years, although he takes butter in considerable quantities. Professor Grime having lost several teeth, is unable, I observe, to eat his crusts without previously soaking them in his bottled porter. How interesting are these peculiarities!'

'As I expected, the cheese rounds were served for the passengers' supper, and they are being enjoyed now. Your readers might be surprised to learn that Professor Woodensconce hasn’t eaten cheese in eight years, although he consumes a lot of butter. I notice that Professor Grime, having lost several teeth, can't eat his crusts without soaking them in his bottled porter first. How interesting these quirks are!'

'Half-past eleven.

11:30.

'Professors Woodensconce and Grime, with a degree of good humour that delights us all, have just arranged to toss for a bottle of mulled port. There has been some discussion whether the payment should be decided by the first toss or the best out of three. Eventually the latter course has been determined on. Deeply do I wish that both gentlemen could win; but that being impossible, I own that my personal aspirations (I speak as an individual, and do not compromise either you or your readers by this expression of feeling) are with Professor Woodensconce. I have backed that gentleman to the amount of eighteenpence.'

Professors Woodensconce and Grime, in a spirit that entertains us all, have just decided to flip a coin for a bottle of mulled port. There was some debate about whether the outcome should be based on the first toss or the best out of three. In the end, they went with the latter option. I really wish both gentlemen could win; however, since that’s not possible, I admit that my personal preference (I’m speaking for myself and don’t mean to put you or your readers in a bind with this opinion) is with Professor Woodensconce. I’ve placed a bet of eighteen pence on him.

'Twenty minutes to twelve.

'Twenty minutes until noon.

'Professor Grime has inadvertently tossed his half-crown out of one of the cabin-windows, and it has been arranged that the steward shall toss for him. Bets are offered on any side to any amount, but there are no takers.

'Professor Grime has accidentally thrown his half-crown out of one of the cabin windows, and it's been decided that the steward will toss for him. Bets are being placed on any side for any amount, but no one is taking them.'

'Professor Woodensconce has just called "woman;" but the coin having lodged in a beam, is a long time coming down again. The interest and suspense of this one moment are beyond anything that can be imagined.'

'Professor Woodensconce has just called out "woman;" but the coin, stuck in a beam, is taking forever to come down again. The excitement and anticipation of this one moment are beyond anything you could imagine.'

'Twelve o'clock.

12:00.

'The mulled port is smoking on the table before me, and Professor Grime has won. Tossing is a game of chance; but on every ground, whether of public or private character, intellectual endowments, or scientific attainments, I cannot help expressing my opinion that Professor Woodensconce ought to have come off victorious. There is an exultation about Professor Grime incompatible, I fear, with true greatness.'

The mulled port is steaming on the table in front of me, and Professor Grime has won. Tossing is a game of chance, but in every way, whether it’s public or private matters, intellectual gifts, or scientific achievements, I can't help but say that Professor Woodensconce should have emerged as the winner. There’s a smugness about Professor Grime that I worry is at odds with true greatness.

'A quarter past twelve.

12:15.

'Professor Grime continues to exult, and to boast of his victory in no very measured terms, observing that he always does win, and that he knew it would be a "head" beforehand, with many other remarks of a similar nature. Surely this gentleman is not so lost to every feeling of decency and propriety as not to feel and know the superiority of Professor Woodensconce? Is Professor Grime insane? or does he wish to be reminded in plain language of his true position in society, and the precise level of his acquirements and abilities? Professor Grime will do well to look to this.'

'Professor Grime keeps celebrating and bragging about his victory in a rather exaggerated way, claiming that he always wins and that he knew it would be a "head" long before it happened, along with many other similar comments. Surely, this guy isn’t so out of touch with decency and appropriateness that he doesn’t recognize Professor Woodensconce’s superiority? Is Professor Grime out of his mind? Or is he looking for someone to bluntly remind him of his true standing in society and exactly where he ranks in terms of skills and knowledge? Professor Grime should really pay attention to this.'

'One o'clock.

1:00.

'I am writing in bed. The small cabin is illuminated by the feeble light of a flickering lamp suspended from the ceiling; Professor Grime is lying on the opposite shelf on the broad of his back, with his mouth wide open. The scene is indescribably solemn. The rippling of the tide, the noise of the sailors' feet overhead, the gruff voices on the river, the dogs on the shore, the snoring of the passengers, and a constant creaking of every plank in the vessel, are the only sounds that meet the ear. With these exceptions, all is profound silence.

'I’m writing in bed. The small cabin is lit by the weak light of a flickering lamp hanging from the ceiling; Professor Grime is lying on the opposite shelf on his back, with his mouth wide open. The scene is incredibly solemn. The sound of the tide, the noise of the sailors' feet overhead, the rough voices on the river, the dogs on the shore, the snoring of the passengers, and the constant creaking of every plank in the boat are the only sounds you can hear. Aside from those, everything is in deep silence.'

'My curiosity has been within the last moment very much excited. Mr. Slug, who lies above Professor Grime, has cautiously withdrawn the curtains of his berth, and, after looking anxiously out, as if to satisfy himself that his companions are asleep, has taken up the tin tube of which I have before spoken, and is regarding it with great interest. What rare mechanical combination can be contained in that mysterious case? It is evidently a profound secret to all.'

'My curiosity has been really piqued at this moment. Mr. Slug, who is above Professor Grime, has carefully pulled back the curtains of his bunk and, after checking to make sure his companions are asleep, has picked up the tin tube I mentioned before and is examining it with intense interest. What kind of rare mechanical combination could be in that mysterious container? It’s clearly a deep secret to everyone.'

'A quarter past one.

1:15.

'The behaviour of Mr. Slug grows more and more mysterious. He has unscrewed the top of the tube, and now renews his observations upon his companions, evidently to make sure that he is wholly unobserved. He is clearly on the eve of some great experiment. Pray heaven that it be not a dangerous one; but the interests of science must be promoted, and I am prepared for the worst.'

'Mr. Slug's behavior is becoming increasingly mysterious. He has taken the lid off the tube and is now continuing to watch his companions, clearly trying to ensure that he isn’t seen. He seems to be on the brink of some significant experiment. I hope it's not a dangerous one; but the pursuit of science must go on, and I’m ready for whatever happens.'

'Five minutes later.

Five minutes later.

'He has produced a large pair of scissors, and drawn a roll of some substance, not unlike parchment in appearance, from the tin case. The experiment is about to begin. I must strain my eyes to the utmost, in the attempt to follow its minutest operation.'

'He has taken out a large pair of scissors and pulled a roll of something that looks a bit like parchment from the tin case. The experiment is about to start. I have to focus my eyes as hard as I can to try to keep up with every tiny detail of what’s happening.'

'Twenty minutes before two.

1:40 PM.

'I have at length been enabled to ascertain that the tin tube contains a few yards of some celebrated plaster, recommended-as I discover on regarding the label attentively through my eye-glass-as a preservative against sea-sickness. Mr. Slug has cut it up into small portions, and is now sticking it over himself in every direction.'

'I have finally figured out that the tin tube has a few yards of some famous plaster, which I found out from looking closely at the label through my eyeglass. It’s supposed to help prevent sea sickness. Mr. Slug has chopped it into small pieces and is now applying it all over himself in every direction.'

'Three o'clock.

3 PM.

'Precisely a quarter of an hour ago we weighed anchor, and the machinery was suddenly put in motion with a noise so appalling, that Professor Woodensconce (who had ascended to his berth by means of a platform of carpet-bags arranged by himself on geometrical principals) darted from his shelf head foremost, and, gaining his feet with all the rapidity of extreme terror, ran wildly into the ladies' cabin, under the impression that we were sinking, and uttering loud cries for aid. I am assured that the scene which ensued baffles all description. There were one hundred and forty-seven ladies in their respective berths at the time.

'Exactly fifteen minutes ago, we set sail, and the machinery suddenly roared to life with a noise so terrifying that Professor Woodensconce (who had climbed to his bunk using a stack of carpet bags he arranged himself with geometric precision) leaped out of his bed headfirst and, regaining his footing with incredible speed due to sheer panic, dashed into the ladies' cabin, convinced we were sinking, and shouted for help. I’ve been told that the chaos that followed is beyond description. There were one hundred and forty-seven women in their respective beds at that moment.'

'Mr. Slug has remarked, as an additional instance of the extreme ingenuity of the steam-engine as applied to purposes of navigation, that in whatever part of the vessel a passenger's berth may be situated, the machinery always appears to be exactly under his pillow. He intends stating this very beautiful, though simple discovery, to the association.'

'Mr. Slug has pointed out, as another example of the remarkable cleverness of the steam engine for navigation, that no matter where a passenger's cabin is located on the ship, the machinery always seems to be right beneath their pillow. He plans to share this very nice, yet simple, observation with the association.'

'Half-past ten.

10:30.

'We are still in smooth water; that is to say, in as smooth water as a steam-vessel ever can be, for, as Professor Woodensconce (who has just woke up) learnedly remarks, another great point of ingenuity about a steamer is, that it always carries a little storm with it. You can scarcely conceive how exciting the jerking pulsation of the ship becomes. It is a matter of positive difficulty to get to sleep.'

'We are still in calm waters; in fact, as calm as a steamship can be, because, as Professor Woodensconce (who has just woken up) wisely points out, another clever thing about a steamer is that it always brings a bit of turbulence with it. You can hardly imagine how thrilling the rhythmic jolting of the ship is. It’s genuinely hard to fall asleep.'

'Friday afternoon, six o'clock.

Friday at 6 PM.

'I regret to inform you that Mr. Slug's plaster has proved of no avail. He is in great agony, but has applied several large, additional pieces notwithstanding. How affecting is this extreme devotion to science and pursuit of knowledge under the most trying circumstances!

'I’m sorry to say that Mr. Slug's plaster hasn’t worked at all. He’s in a lot of pain but has put on several large extra pieces anyway. It’s really touching to see such dedication to science and the pursuit of knowledge in such difficult circumstances!'

'We were extremely happy this morning, and the breakfast was one of the most animated description. Nothing unpleasant occurred until noon, with the exception of Doctor Foxey's brown silk umbrella and white hat becoming entangled in the machinery while he was explaining to a knot of ladies the construction of the steam-engine. I fear the gravy soup for lunch was injudicious. We lost a great many passengers almost immediately afterwards.'

'We were really happy this morning, and breakfast was described in one of the most lively ways. Nothing unpleasant happened until noon, except for Doctor Foxey's brown silk umbrella and white hat getting caught in the machinery while he was explaining the steam engine to a group of ladies. I worry the gravy soup for lunch was a bad choice. We lost a lot of passengers right after that.'

'Half-past six.

6:30.

'I am again in bed. Anything so heart-rending as Mr. Slug's sufferings it has never yet been my lot to witness.'

'I’m back in bed again. I’ve never seen anything as heartbreaking as Mr. Slug’s suffering.'

'Seven o'clock.

7 o'clock.

'A messenger has just come down for a clean pocket-handkerchief from Professor Woodensconce's bag, that unfortunate gentleman being quite unable to leave the deck, and imploring constantly to be thrown overboard. From this man I understand that Professor Nogo, though in a state of utter exhaustion, clings feebly to the hard biscuit and cold brandy and water, under the impression that they will yet restore him. Such is the triumph of mind over matter.

'A messenger has just come down for a clean handkerchief from Professor Woodensconce's bag, that unfortunate man being totally unable to leave the deck and constantly begging to be thrown overboard. From this guy, I learned that Professor Nogo, despite being completely worn out, weakly clings to the hard biscuit and cold brandy and water, thinking they will somehow bring him back to life. Such is the victory of the mind over the body.'

'Professor Grime is in bed, to all appearance quite well; but he will eat, and it is disagreeable to see him. Has this gentleman no sympathy with the sufferings of his fellow-creatures? If he has, on what principle can he call for mutton-chops-and smile?'

'Professor Grime is in bed, looking perfectly fine; but he refuses to eat, and it’s uncomfortable to watch him. Doesn’t this man have any compassion for the struggles of others? If he does, how can he ask for mutton chops—and smile?'

'Black Boy and Stomach-ache, Oldcastle, Saturday noon.

'Black Boy and Stomach-ache, Oldcastle, Saturday noon.'

'You will be happy to learn that I have at length arrived here in safety. The town is excessively crowded, and all the private lodgings and hotels are filled with savans of both sexes. The tremendous assemblage of intellect that one encounters in every street is in the last degree overwhelming.

'You’ll be happy to know that I’ve finally arrived here safely. The town is incredibly crowded, and all the private accommodations and hotels are packed with scholars of both genders. The amazing variety of intellect one encounters on every street is truly overwhelming.'

'Notwithstanding the throng of people here, I have been fortunate enough to meet with very comfortable accommodation on very reasonable terms, having secured a sofa in the first-floor passage at one guinea per night, which includes permission to take my meals in the bar, on condition that I walk about the streets at all other times, to make room for other gentlemen similarly situated. I have been over the outhouses intended to be devoted to the reception of the various sections, both here and at the Boot-jack and Countenance, and am much delighted with the arrangements. Nothing can exceed the fresh appearance of the saw- dust with which the floors are sprinkled. The forms are of unplaned deal, and the general effect, as you can well imagine, is extremely beautiful.'

'Despite the crowd of people here, I’ve been lucky enough to find comfortable accommodation at a reasonable price, having secured a sofa in the first-floor hallway for one guinea a night, which includes permission to eat my meals in the bar, as long as I spend the rest of the time walking around the streets to make space for other gentlemen in a similar situation. I’ve checked out the outbuildings intended for various sections, both here and at the Boot-jack and Countenance, and I’m very pleased with the arrangements. Nothing beats the fresh look of the sawdust sprinkled on the floors. The benches are made of rough timber, and the overall effect, as you can imagine, is quite beautiful.'

'Half-past nine.

9:30.

'The number and rapidity of the arrivals are quite bewildering. Within the last ten minutes a stage-coach has driven up to the door, filled inside and out with distinguished characters, comprising Mr. Muddlebranes, Mr. Drawley, Professor Muff, Mr. X. Misty, Mr. X. X. Misty, Mr. Purblind, Professor Rummun, The Honourable and Reverend Mr. Long Eers, Professor John Ketch, Sir William Joltered, Doctor Buffer, Mr. Smith (of London), Mr. Brown (of Edinburgh), Sir Hookham Snivey, and Professor Pumpkinskull. The ten last-named gentlemen were wet through, and looked extremely intelligent.'

The number and speed of the arrivals are pretty overwhelming. In just the last ten minutes, a stagecoach pulled up to the door, packed inside and out with notable people, including Mr. Muddlebranes, Mr. Drawley, Professor Muff, Mr. X. Misty, Mr. X. X. Misty, Mr. Purblind, Professor Rummun, The Honourable and Reverend Mr. Long Eers, Professor John Ketch, Sir William Joltered, Doctor Buffer, Mr. Smith (of London), Mr. Brown (of Edinburgh), Sir Hookham Snivey, and Professor Pumpkinskull. The last ten gentlemen were soaked and looked exceptionally smart.

'Sunday, two o'clock, p.m.

Sunday, 2 PM.

'The Honourable and Reverend Mr. Long Eers, accompanied by Sir William Joltered, walked and drove this morning. They accomplished the former feat in boots, and the latter in a hired fly. This has naturally given rise to much discussion.

'The Honorable and Reverend Mr. Long Eers, along with Sir William Joltered, walked and drove this morning. They managed the walking part in boots and the driving part in a rented carriage. This has understandably sparked a lot of discussion.'

'I have just learnt that an interview has taken place at the Boot-jack and Countenance between Sowster, the active and intelligent beadle of this place, and Professor Pumpkinskull, who, as your readers are doubtless aware, is an influential member of the council. I forbear to communicate any of the rumours to which this very extraordinary proceeding has given rise until I have seen Sowster, and endeavoured to ascertain the truth from him.'

'I just found out that an interview happened at the Boot-jack and Countenance between Sowster, the sharp and capable beadle of this place, and Professor Pumpkinskull, who, as your readers probably know, is a significant member of the council. I won’t share any of the rumors that this unusual event has sparked until I talk to Sowster and try to find out the truth from him.'

'Half-past six.

6:30.

'I engaged a donkey-chaise shortly after writing the above, and proceeded at a brisk trot in the direction of Sowster's residence, passing through a beautiful expanse of country, with red brick buildings on either side, and stopping in the marketplace to observe the spot where Mr. Kwakley's hat was blown off yesterday. It is an uneven piece of paving, but has certainly no appearance which would lead one to suppose that any such event had recently occurred there. From this point I proceeded-passing the gas-works and tallow-melter's-to a lane which had been pointed out to me as the beadle's place of residence; and before I had driven a dozen yards further, I had the good fortune to meet Sowster himself advancing towards me.

'I hired a donkey cart shortly after writing the above and set off at a brisk trot toward Sowster's place, passing through a lovely countryside with red brick buildings on both sides. I stopped in the marketplace to check out the spot where Mr. Kwakley's hat had blown off yesterday. The paving is uneven, but it definitely doesn’t look like anything unusual had happened there recently. From that point, I continued past the gas works and the tallow melting factory to a lane that had been pointed out to me as the beadle's home. Just as I was driving a few yards further, I was lucky enough to run into Sowster himself coming toward me.

'Sowster is a fat man, with a more enlarged development of that peculiar conformation of countenance which is vulgarly termed a double chin than I remember to have ever seen before. He has also a very red nose, which he attributes to a habit of early rising-so red, indeed, that but for this explanation I should have supposed it to proceed from occasional inebriety. He informed me that he did not feel himself at liberty to relate what had passed between himself and Professor Pumpkinskull, but had no objection to state that it was connected with a matter of police regulation, and added with peculiar significance "Never wos sitch times!"

'Sowster is a heavyset man, with an unusually prominent double chin that I don't think I've ever seen before. He also has a very red nose, which he claims is from getting up early—it's so red that, without this explanation, I would have thought it came from drinking too much. He told me he couldn’t share what was said between him and Professor Pumpkinskull, but he was okay with saying it was related to something about police regulations, and he added with particular emphasis, "Never were such times!"

'You will easily believe that this intelligence gave me considerable surprise, not wholly unmixed with anxiety, and that I lost no time in waiting on Professor Pumpkinskull, and stating the object of my visit. After a few moments' reflection, the Professor, who, I am bound to say, behaved with the utmost politeness, openly avowed (I mark the passage in italics) that he had requested Sowster to attend on the Monday morning at the Boot-jack and Countenance, to keep off the boys; and that he had further desired that the under-beadle might be stationed, with the same object, at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache!

You'll easily see that this news surprised me quite a bit, not without some anxiety, and I wasted no time in visiting Professor Pumpkinskull to explain the reason for my visit. After a moment of thought, the Professor, who I must say was extremely polite, openly admitted (I emphasize this) that he had asked Sowster to be at the Boot-jack and Countenance on Monday morning to keep the boys away; and that he had also requested the under-beadle to be stationed, for the same reason, at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache!

'Now I leave this unconstitutional proceeding to your comments and the consideration of your readers. I have yet to learn that a beadle, without the precincts of a church, churchyard, or work-house, and acting otherwise than under the express orders of churchwardens and overseers in council assembled, to enforce the law against people who come upon the parish, and other offenders, has any lawful authority whatever over the rising youth of this country. I have yet to learn that a beadle can be called out by any civilian to exercise a domination and despotism over the boys of Britain. I have yet to learn that a beadle will be permitted by the commissioners of poor law regulation to wear out the soles and heels of his boots in illegal interference with the liberties of people not proved poor or otherwise criminal. I have yet to learn that a beadle has power to stop up the Queen's highway at his will and pleasure, or that the whole width of the street is not free and open to any man, boy, or woman in existence, up to the very walls of the houses-ay, be they Black Boys and Stomach-aches, or Boot-jacks and Countenances, I care not.'

'Now I leave this unconstitutional action for your comments and for your readers to consider. I still need to find out how a beadle, outside of a church, churchyard, or workhouse, and acting outside the direct orders of churchwardens and overseers in a meeting, has any legal authority over the young people of this country. I still need to learn how a beadle can be called by any civilian to exert control and oppression over the boys of Britain. I still need to find out if a beadle is allowed by the poor law commissioners to waste his boots on illegal interference with the rights of people who haven't been proven to be poor or criminal. I still need to know if a beadle has the power to block the Queen's highway at will, or whether the entire street is not free and accessible to every man, boy, or woman who exists, even if they are Black Boys and Stomach-aches, or Boot-jacks and Countenances, I don't care.'

'Nine o'clock.

9:00 AM.

'I have procured a local artist to make a faithful sketch of the tyrant Sowster, which, as he has acquired this infamous celebrity, you will no doubt wish to have engraved for the purpose of presenting a copy with every copy of your next number. I enclose it.

'I have hired a local artist to create an accurate sketch of the tyrant Sowster, which, since he has gained such notorious fame, you’ll probably want to have engraved to include a copy with each issue of your next publication. I’m enclosing it.'

[Picture which cannot be reproduced]

[Image that cannot be reproduced]

The under-beadle has consented to write his life, but it is to be strictly anonymous.

The under-beadle has agreed to write about his life, but it will be completely anonymous.

'The accompanying likeness is of course from the life, and complete in every respect. Even if I had been totally ignorant of the man's real character, and it had been placed before me without remark, I should have shuddered involuntarily. There is an intense malignity of expression in the features, and a baleful ferocity of purpose in the ruffian's eye, which appals and sickens. His whole air is rampant with cruelty, nor is the stomach less characteristic of his demoniac propensities.'

'The accompanying picture is definitely lifelike and complete in every way. Even if I had no idea about the man’s true character, and it was shown to me without any comments, I would have shuddered involuntarily. There’s an intense evilness in his expression and a threatening fierceness in the ruffian's eyes that is unsettling and nauseating. His entire demeanor radiates cruelty, and his appearance is equally indicative of his monstrous tendencies.'

'Monday.

Monday.

'The great day has at length arrived. I have neither eyes, nor ears, nor pens, nor ink, nor paper, for anything but the wonderful proceedings that have astounded my senses. Let me collect my energies and proceed to the account. 'SECTION A.-ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY. FRONT PARLOUR, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

'The big day has finally arrived. I don’t have eyes, ears, pens, ink, or paper for anything except the amazing events that have blown me away. Let me gather my thoughts and start the account. 'SECTION A.-ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY. FRONT PARLOUR, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

President-Sir William Joltered. Vice-Presidents-Mr. Muddlebranes and Mr. Drawley.

President - Sir William Joltered. Vice Presidents - Mr. Muddlebranes and Mr. Drawley.

'Mr. X. X. Misty communicated some remarks on the disappearance of dancing-bears from the streets of London, with observations on the exhibition of monkeys as connected with barrel-organs. The writer had observed, with feelings of the utmost pain and regret, that some years ago a sudden and unaccountable change in the public taste took place with reference to itinerant bears, who, being discountenanced by the populace, gradually fell off one by one from the streets of the metropolis, until not one remained to create a taste for natural history in the breasts of the poor and uninstructed. One bear, indeed,-a brown and ragged animal,-had lingered about the haunts of his former triumphs, with a worn and dejected visage and feeble limbs, and had essayed to wield his quarter-staff for the amusement of the multitude; but hunger, and an utter want of any due recompense for his abilities, had at length driven him from the field, and it was only too probable that he had fallen a sacrifice to the rising taste for grease. He regretted to add that a similar, and no less lamentable, change had taken place with reference to monkeys. These delightful animals had formerly been almost as plentiful as the organs on the tops of which they were accustomed to sit; the proportion in the year 1829 (it appeared by the parliamentary return) being as one monkey to three organs. Owing, however, to an altered taste in musical instruments, and the substitution, in a great measure, of narrow boxes of music for organs, which left the monkeys nothing to sit upon, this source of public amusement was wholly dried up. Considering it a matter of the deepest importance, in connection with national education, that the people should not lose such opportunities of making themselves acquainted with the manners and customs of two most interesting species of animals, the author submitted that some measures should be immediately taken for the restoration of these pleasing and truly intellectual amusements.

'Mr. X. X. Misty shared some thoughts on the disappearance of dancing bears from the streets of London, along with comments on the exhibition of monkeys related to barrel-organs. The writer noticed, with great pain and regret, that several years ago there was a sudden and inexplicable shift in public taste regarding itinerant bears, who, being rejected by the crowds, slowly vanished one by one from the city streets, until none were left to inspire a love for natural history in the hearts of the poor and uneducated. One bear, a brown and scruffy creature, had hung around the sites of his past glories, with a worn-out and sad face and weak limbs, trying to entertain the crowd with his quarter-staff. However, hunger and a complete lack of proper rewards for his efforts eventually forced him to leave, and it was all too likely that he had fallen victim to the growing preference for grease. He regretted to mention that a similar, equally unfortunate change had occurred with respect to monkeys. These charming animals used to be almost as common as the organs they sat atop; the ratio in 1829 (as shown by the parliamentary return) was one monkey for every three organs. However, due to a shift in taste for musical instruments, which saw a significant replacement of organ music with small music boxes that gave the monkeys nowhere to sit, this source of public entertainment completely dried up. Considering it of utmost importance, in the context of national education, that the public should not miss out on learning about the habits and customs of these two fascinating species, the author suggested that immediate actions should be taken to restore these enjoyable and genuinely intellectual amusements.'

'The President inquired by what means the honourable member proposed to attain this most desirable end?

The President asked how the respected member suggested achieving this very desirable goal?

'The Author submitted that it could be most fully and satisfactorily accomplished, if Her Majesty's Government would cause to be brought over to England, and maintained at the public expense, and for the public amusement, such a number of bears as would enable every quarter of the town to be visited-say at least by three bears a week. No difficulty whatever need be experienced in providing a fitting place for the reception of these animals, as a commodious bear-garden could be erected in the immediate neighbourhood of both Houses of Parliament; obviously the most proper and eligible spot for such an establishment.

The Author suggested that this could be best and most effectively achieved if the government brought over and maintained a number of bears in England at public expense for everyone's enjoyment. This would allow each part of the town to be visited by at least three bears a week. There would be no issue finding a suitable location for these animals, as a spacious bear garden could be built nearby both Houses of Parliament, which is clearly the most appropriate and suitable location for such a venture.

'Professor Mull doubted very much whether any correct ideas of natural history were propagated by the means to which the honourable member had so ably adverted. On the contrary, he believed that they had been the means of diffusing very incorrect and imperfect notions on the subject. He spoke from personal observation and personal experience, when he said that many children of great abilities had been induced to believe, from what they had observed in the streets, at and before the period to which the honourable gentleman had referred, that all monkeys were born in red coats and spangles, and that their hats and feathers also came by nature. He wished to know distinctly whether the honourable gentleman attributed the want of encouragement the bears had met with to the decline of public taste in that respect, or to a want of ability on the part of the bears themselves?

'Professor Mull was very skeptical about whether any accurate ideas of natural history were being promoted by the methods the honorable member mentioned so skillfully. On the contrary, he believed these methods only spread very incorrect and incomplete ideas on the topic. He spoke from his own observations and experiences when he said that many talented children had come to believe, based on what they saw in the streets, both during and before the time the honorable gentleman referred to, that all monkeys were born in red coats and sparkles, and that their hats and feathers were also natural. He wanted to know explicitly whether the honorable gentleman thought the lack of support for the bears was due to a decline in public taste regarding them, or because of a lack of skill on the bears' part?'

'Mr. X. X. Misty replied, that he could not bring himself to believe but that there must be a great deal of floating talent among the bears and monkeys generally; which, in the absence of any proper encouragement, was dispersed in other directions.

'Mr. X. X. Misty replied that he couldn't believe there wasn't a lot of untapped talent among the bears and monkeys in general; which, without any proper encouragement, was being used in other ways.'

'Professor Pumpkinskull wished to take that opportunity of calling the attention of the section to a most important and serious point. The author of the treatise just read had alluded to the prevalent taste for bears'-grease as a means of promoting the growth of hair, which undoubtedly was diffused to a very great and (as it appeared to him) very alarming extent. No gentleman attending that section could fail to be aware of the fact that the youth of the present age evinced, by their behaviour in the streets, and at all places of public resort, a considerable lack of that gallantry and gentlemanly feeling which, in more ignorant times, had been thought becoming. He wished to know whether it were possible that a constant outward application of bears'- grease by the young gentlemen about town had imperceptibly infused into those unhappy persons something of the nature and quality of the bear. He shuddered as he threw out the remark; but if this theory, on inquiry, should prove to be well founded, it would at once explain a great deal of unpleasant eccentricity of behaviour, which, without some such discovery, was wholly unaccountable.

'Professor Pumpkinskull wanted to take this opportunity to draw the section’s attention to a very important and serious issue. The author of the recently read treatise had mentioned the widespread trend of using bears' grease to promote hair growth, which was undoubtedly prevalent to a significant and, in his opinion, quite alarming degree. No gentleman present at this section could be unaware of the fact that today’s youth, as seen by their behavior in the streets and at all public places, showed a considerable lack of gallantry and gentlemanly conduct that was once considered appropriate in less enlightened times. He wanted to know if it was possible that the constant external use of bears' grease by young gentlemen around town had subtly infused these unfortunate individuals with something of the nature and character of a bear. He felt uneasy as he proposed this idea; but if this theory proves to be true upon investigation, it would instantly explain a lot of the unpleasant and eccentric behavior, which, without such a discovery, would be completely unexplainable.'

'The President highly complimented the learned gentleman on his most valuable suggestion, which produced the greatest effect upon the assembly; and remarked that only a week previous he had seen some young gentlemen at a theatre eyeing a box of ladies with a fierce intensity, which nothing but the influence of some brutish appetite could possibly explain. It was dreadful to reflect that our youth were so rapidly verging into a generation of bears.

The President praised the educated man for his extremely valuable suggestion, which had a huge impact on the gathering. He noted that just a week earlier, he had seen some young men at a theater staring at a box of ladies with an intense gaze that could only be explained by some base desire. It was frightening to think that our youth were quickly becoming like a generation of animals.

'After a scene of scientific enthusiasm it was resolved that this important question should be immediately submitted to the consideration of the council.

'After an enthusiastic discussion about science, it was decided that this important question should be brought to the council for consideration right away.'

'The President wished to know whether any gentleman could inform the section what had become of the dancing-dogs?

'The President wanted to know if anyone could tell the group what happened to the dancing dogs?'

'A Member replied, after some hesitation, that on the day after three glee-singers had been committed to prison as criminals by a late most zealous police-magistrate of the metropolis, the dogs had abandoned their professional duties, and dispersed themselves in different quarters of the town to gain a livelihood by less dangerous means. He was given to understand that since that period they had supported themselves by lying in wait for and robbing blind men's poodles.

'A Member replied, after some hesitation, that on the day after three glee-singers had been thrown into prison as criminals by a particularly zealous police magistrate in the city, the dogs had abandoned their jobs and spread out across different parts of town to make a living through less risky means. He was led to believe that since then, they had been surviving by lurking and stealing from blind men's poodles.'

'Mr. Flummery exhibited a twig, claiming to be a veritable branch of that noble tree known to naturalists as the Shakspeare, which has taken root in every land and climate, and gathered under the shade of its broad green boughs the great family of mankind. The learned gentleman remarked that the twig had been undoubtedly called by other names in its time; but that it had been pointed out to him by an old lady in Warwickshire, where the great tree had grown, as a shoot of the genuine Shakspeare, by which name he begged to introduce it to his countrymen.

Mr. Flummery displayed a twig, claiming it was a true branch of that noble tree known to scientists as the Shakspeare, which has taken root in every country and climate, gathering under the shade of its wide green branches the entire family of humanity. The learned gentleman noted that the twig had undoubtedly been called by different names over time; however, an old lady in Warwickshire, where the great tree had grown, had pointed it out to him as a shoot of the genuine Shakspeare, and with that name, he wished to introduce it to his fellow countrymen.

'The President wished to know what botanical definition the honourable gentleman could afford of the curiosity.

'The President wanted to know what botanical definition the honorable gentleman could provide for the curiosity.

'Mr. Flummery expressed his opinion that it was a decided plant. 'SECTION B.-DISPLAY OF MODELS AND MECHANICAL SCIENCE. LARGE ROOM, BOOT- JACK AND COUNTENANCE.

'Mr. Flummery stated his belief that it was definitely a setup. 'SECTION B.-DISPLAY OF MODELS AND MECHANICAL SCIENCE. LARGE ROOM, BOOT- JACK AND COUNTENANCE.

President-Mr. Mallett. Vice-Presidents-Messrs. Leaver and Scroo.

President - Mr. Mallett. Vice Presidents - Messrs. Leaver and Scroo.

'Mr. Crinkles exhibited a most beautiful and delicate machine, of little larger size than an ordinary snuff-box, manufactured entirely by himself, and composed exclusively of steel, by the aid of which more pockets could be picked in one hour than by the present slow and tedious process in four-and-twenty. The inventor remarked that it had been put into active operation in Fleet Street, the Strand, and other thoroughfares, and had never been once known to fail.

'Mr. Crinkles showed off a beautiful and delicate machine, about the size of a regular snuff box, that he had made entirely by himself and was made completely of steel. With this machine, more pockets could be picked in one hour than by the current slow and tedious method in a full day. The inventor mentioned that it had already been actively used in Fleet Street, the Strand, and other busy streets, and it had never failed even once.'

'After some slight delay, occasioned by the various members of the section buttoning their pockets,

'After a brief delay, caused by the different members of the group buttoning their pockets,

'The President narrowly inspected the invention, and declared that he had never seen a machine of more beautiful or exquisite construction. Would the inventor be good enough to inform the section whether he had taken any and what means for bringing it into general operation?

'The President closely looked over the invention and said he had never seen a machine with such beautiful or exceptional design. Would the inventor kindly let the section know if he had taken any steps to bring it into widespread use?'

'Mr. Crinkles stated that, after encountering some preliminary difficulties, he had succeeded in putting himself in communication with Mr. Fogle Hunter, and other gentlemen connected with the swell mob, who had awarded the invention the very highest and most unqualified approbation. He regretted to say, however, that these distinguished practitioners, in common with a gentleman of the name of Gimlet-eyed Tommy, and other members of a secondary grade of the profession whom he was understood to represent, entertained an insuperable objection to its being brought into general use, on the ground that it would have the inevitable effect of almost entirely superseding manual labour, and throwing a great number of highly-deserving persons out of employment.

Mr. Crinkles said that, after facing some initial challenges, he managed to get in touch with Mr. Fogle Hunter and other guys involved with the high-profile crime gang, who praised the invention with the utmost approval. He regretted to admit, though, that these respected professionals, along with a guy named Gimlet-eyed Tommy and others from a lower tier of the field that he was thought to represent, had a major objection to it being used widely, since they believed it would almost completely replace manual labor and leave many deserving people without jobs.

'The President hoped that no such fanciful objections would be allowed to stand in the way of such a great public improvement.

The President hoped that no such unrealistic objections would prevent such a significant public improvement.

'Mr. Crinkles hoped so too; but he feared that if the gentlemen of the swell mob persevered in their objection, nothing could be done.

'Mr. Crinkles hoped so too; but he was worried that if the members of the upscale gang kept insisting on their objection, nothing could be done.

'Professor Grime suggested, that surely, in that case, Her Majesty's Government might be prevailed upon to take it up.

'Professor Grime suggested that, in that case, Her Majesty's Government could definitely be persuaded to take it up.

'Mr. Crinkles said, that if the objection were found to be insuperable he should apply to Parliament, which he thought could not fail to recognise the utility of the invention.

'Mr. Crinkles said that if the objection was found to be impossible to overcome, he would go to Parliament, which he believed would definitely see the value of the invention.'

'The President observed that, up to this time Parliament had certainly got on very well without it; but, as they did their business on a very large scale, he had no doubt they would gladly adopt the improvement. His only fear was that the machine might be worn out by constant working.

'The President noted that, so far, Parliament had been managing quite well without it; however, since they conducted their affairs on a very large scale, he was sure they would be eager to embrace the upgrade. His only concern was that the machine might get worn out from constant use.'

'Mr. Coppernose called the attention of the section to a proposition of great magnitude and interest, illustrated by a vast number of models, and stated with much clearness and perspicuity in a treatise entitled "Practical Suggestions on the necessity of providing some harmless and wholesome relaxation for the young noblemen of England." His proposition was, that a space of ground of not less than ten miles in length and four in breadth should be purchased by a new company, to be incorporated by Act of Parliament, and inclosed by a brick wall of not less than twelve feet in height. He proposed that it should be laid out with highway roads, turnpikes, bridges, miniature villages, and every object that could conduce to the comfort and glory of Four-in-hand Clubs, so that they might be fairly presumed to require no drive beyond it. This delightful retreat would be fitted up with most commodious and extensive stables, for the convenience of such of the nobility and gentry as had a taste for ostlering, and with houses of entertainment furnished in the most expensive and handsome style. It would be further provided with whole streets of door-knockers and bell-handles of extra size, so constructed that they could be easily wrenched off at night, and regularly screwed on again, by attendants provided for the purpose, every day. There would also be gas lamps of real glass, which could be broken at a comparatively small expense per dozen, and a broad and handsome foot pavement for gentlemen to drive their cabriolets upon when they were humorously disposed-for the full enjoyment of which feat live pedestrians would be procured from the workhouse at a very small charge per head. The place being inclosed, and carefully screened from the intrusion of the public, there would be no objection to gentlemen laying aside any article of their costume that was considered to interfere with a pleasant frolic, or, indeed, to their walking about without any costume at all, if they liked that better. In short, every facility of enjoyment would be afforded that the most gentlemanly person could possibly desire. But as even these advantages would be incomplete unless there were some means provided of enabling the nobility and gentry to display their prowess when they sallied forth after dinner, and as some inconvenience might be experienced in the event of their being reduced to the necessity of pummelling each other, the inventor had turned his attention to the construction of an entirely new police force, composed exclusively of automaton figures, which, with the assistance of the ingenious Signor Gagliardi, of Windmill-street, in the Haymarket, he had succeeded in making with such nicety, that a policeman, cab-driver, or old woman, made upon the principle of the models exhibited, would walk about until knocked down like any real man; nay, more, if set upon and beaten by six or eight noblemen or gentlemen, after it was down, the figure would utter divers groans, mingled with entreaties for mercy, thus rendering the illusion complete, and the enjoyment perfect. But the invention did not stop even here; for station-houses would be built, containing good beds for noblemen and gentlemen during the night, and in the morning they would repair to a commodious police office, where a pantomimic investigation would take place before the automaton magistrates,-quite equal to life,-who would fine them in so many counters, with which they would be previously provided for the purpose. This office would be furnished with an inclined plane, for the convenience of any nobleman or gentleman who might wish to bring in his horse as a witness; and the prisoners would be at perfect liberty, as they were now, to interrupt the complainants as much as they pleased, and to make any remarks that they thought proper. The charge for these amusements would amount to very little more than they already cost, and the inventor submitted that the public would be much benefited and comforted by the proposed arrangement.

'Mr. Coppernose drew the attention of the group to a proposal of significant importance and interest, illustrated by numerous models, and clearly explained in a document titled "Practical Suggestions on the Necessity of Providing Some Harmless and Wholesome Relaxation for the Young Noblemen of England." He proposed that a plot of land measuring at least ten miles in length and four miles in width should be purchased by a new company, to be established by an Act of Parliament, and enclosed by a brick wall no less than twelve feet high. He suggested that it should be developed with roads, tollways, bridges, miniature villages, and any feature that could contribute to the comfort and enjoyment of Four-in-hand Clubs, ensuring that they wouldn't need to drive beyond its confines. This delightful retreat would be equipped with spacious and high-quality stables for those nobles and gentry who had an interest in stable management, along with fancy inns furnished in an elegant style. It would also include entire streets of oversized door knockers and bell handles, designed to be easily removed at night and then reattached daily by staff assigned for this purpose. There would also be gas lamps made of real glass, which could be replaced at a relatively minor cost per dozen, and a wide, attractive footpath for gentlemen to drive their cabriolets upon when in a playful mood. To fully enjoy this experience, live pedestrians would be hired from the workhouse at a very low rate per person. Since the area would be enclosed and carefully protected from public access, there would be no issue with gentlemen shedding any part of their outfit that detracted from a fun outing, or even strolling without any clothes at all if they preferred. In short, every possible enjoyment would be provided that the most refined person could want. However, since these advantages would be incomplete without a way for the nobility and gentry to showcase their bravado after dinner, and considering the potential inconvenience if they were forced to resolve their differences physically, the inventor focused on creating an entirely new police force made up exclusively of automaton figures. With the help of the clever Signor Gagliardi from Windmill Street in the Haymarket, he successfully crafted models so realistic that a policeman, cab driver, or old woman would walk around until knocked down like any real person. Moreover, if they were set upon and beaten by six or eight noblemen or gentlemen while on the ground, the figure would emit various groans and pleas for mercy, thereby completing the illusion and enhancing the enjoyment. The invention didn’t stop there; station houses would be constructed, providing comfortable beds for noblemen and gentlemen overnight, and in the morning, they would visit a convenient police office where a pantomime investigation would happen before the automaton magistrates—so lifelike it was almost indistinguishable from reality—who would impose fines in counters that they would be given beforehand. This office would include a ramp for any nobleman or gentleman who wanted to bring in their horse as a witness; and the prisoners would have the same freedom to interrupt complainants and make any comments they deemed appropriate. The cost for these amusements would be just a bit more than what they currently paid, and the inventor suggested that the public would greatly benefit from and appreciate this proposed arrangement.'

'Professor Nogo wished to be informed what amount of automaton police force it was proposed to raise in the first instance.

'Professor Nogo wanted to know how many robotic police officers were being planned to be created initially.'

'Mr. Coppernose replied, that it was proposed to begin with seven divisions of police of a score each, lettered from A to G inclusive. It was proposed that not more than half this number should be placed on active duty, and that the remainder should be kept on shelves in the police office ready to be called out at a moment's notice.

'Mr. Coppernose replied that it was suggested to start with seven divisions of police, each made up of twenty officers, labeled from A to G. It was proposed that no more than half of this number should be on active duty, while the rest would be kept on standby in the police office, ready to be deployed at a moment's notice.'

'The President, awarding the utmost merit to the ingenious gentleman who had originated the idea, doubted whether the automaton police would quite answer the purpose. He feared that noblemen and gentlemen would perhaps require the excitement of thrashing living subjects.

'The President, giving high praise to the clever man who came up with the idea, questioned whether the robot police would really do the job. He worried that nobles and gentlemen might still want the thrill of beating real people.'

'Mr. Coppernose submitted, that as the usual odds in such cases were ten noblemen or gentlemen to one policeman or cab-driver, it could make very little difference in point of excitement whether the policeman or cab- driver were a man or a block. The great advantage would be, that a policeman's limbs might be all knocked off, and yet he would be in a condition to do duty next day. He might even give his evidence next morning with his head in his hand, and give it equally well.

'Mr. Coppernose pointed out that since the usual odds in such situations were ten noblemen or gentlemen to one policeman or cab driver, it wouldn’t really affect the excitement whether the policeman or cab driver was a person or a statue. The big advantage would be that a policeman could lose all his limbs and still be able to work the next day. He could even testify the next morning with his head in his hand and do it just as well.'

'Professor Muff.-Will you allow me to ask you, sir, of what materials it is intended that the magistrates' heads shall be composed?

'Professor Muff.-Will you let me ask you, sir, what materials are intended for the magistrates' heads?'

'Mr. Coppernose.-The magistrates will have wooden heads of course, and they will be made of the toughest and thickest materials that can possibly be obtained.

'Mr. Coppernose.-The magistrates will be total blockheads, of course, and they will be made of the toughest and thickest materials available.'

'Professor Muff.-I am quite satisfied. This is a great invention.

'Professor Muff.-I’m really pleased. This is an amazing invention.

'Professor Nogo.-I see but one objection to it. It appears to me that the magistrates ought to talk.

'Professor Nogo.-I only see one issue with it. It seems to me that the magistrates should speak up.'

'Mr. Coppernose no sooner heard this suggestion than he touched a small spring in each of the two models of magistrates which were placed upon the table; one of the figures immediately began to exclaim with great volubility that he was sorry to see gentlemen in such a situation, and the other to express a fear that the policeman was intoxicated.

'Mr. Coppernose barely heard this suggestion when he pressed a small spring on each of the two models of magistrates that were on the table; one of the figures immediately started to loudly lament that he was sorry to see gentlemen in such a situation, while the other expressed concern that the policeman was drunk.'

'The section, as with one accord, declared with a shout of applause that the invention was complete; and the President, much excited, retired with Mr. Coppernose to lay it before the council. On his return,

'The section, in unison, announced with a round of applause that the invention was finished; and the President, quite thrilled, went with Mr. Coppernose to present it to the council. Upon his return,

'Mr. Tickle displayed his newly-invented spectacles, which enabled the wearer to discern, in very bright colours, objects at a great distance, and rendered him wholly blind to those immediately before him. It was, he said, a most valuable and useful invention, based strictly upon the principle of the human eye.

'Mr. Tickle showed off his new glasses, which let the wearer see objects far away in vibrant colors while completely blinding them to anything right in front of them. He claimed it was a really valuable and useful invention, based entirely on how the human eye works.'

'The President required some information upon this point. He had yet to learn that the human eye was remarkable for the peculiarities of which the honourable gentleman had spoken.

The President needed some information on this point. He still needed to understand that the human eye was notable for the peculiar features the honorable gentleman had mentioned.

'Mr. Tickle was rather astonished to hear this, when the President could not fail to be aware that a large number of most excellent persons and great statesmen could see, with the naked eye, most marvellous horrors on West India plantations, while they could discern nothing whatever in the interior of Manchester cotton mills. He must know, too, with what quickness of perception most people could discover their neighbour's faults, and how very blind they were to their own. If the President differed from the great majority of men in this respect, his eye was a defective one, and it was to assist his vision that these glasses were made.

'Mr. Tickle was quite surprised to hear this, especially since the President must be aware that a large number of excellent individuals and prominent statesmen could easily see some truly shocking things on West India plantations, while they noticed nothing at all inside the cotton mills of Manchester. He also had to know how quickly most people could see their neighbor's faults but were completely blind to their own. If the President was different from the vast majority of people in this regard, then his eyesight must be flawed, and these glasses were made to help with that.'

'Mr. Blank exhibited a model of a fashionable annual, composed of copper-plates, gold leaf, and silk boards, and worked entirely by milk and water.

'Mr. Blank showcased a model of a trendy annual, made of copper plates, gold leaf, and silk boards, and created entirely using milk and water.'

'Mr. Prosee, after examining the machine, declared it to be so ingeniously composed, that he was wholly unable to discover how it went on at all.

'Mr. Prosee, after looking over the machine, said it was so cleverly designed that he couldn't figure out how it worked at all.

'Mr. Blank.-Nobody can, and that is the beauty of it. 'SECTION C.-ANATOMY AND MEDICINE. BAR ROOM, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

'Mr. Blank.-No one can, and that’s the beauty of it. 'SECTION C.-ANATOMY AND MEDICINE. BAR ROOM, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

President-Dr. Soemup. Vice-Presidents-Messrs. Pessell and Mortair.

President-Dr. Soemup. Vice Presidents-Messrs. Pessell and Mortair.

'Dr. Grummidge stated to the section a most interesting case of monomania, and described the course of treatment he had pursued with perfect success. The patient was a married lady in the middle rank of life, who, having seen another lady at an evening party in a full suit of pearls, was suddenly seized with a desire to possess a similar equipment, although her husband's finances were by no means equal to the necessary outlay. Finding her wish ungratified, she fell sick, and the symptoms soon became so alarming, that he (Dr. Grummidge) was called in. At this period the prominent tokens of the disorder were sullenness, a total indisposition to perform domestic duties, great peevishness, and extreme languor, except when pearls were mentioned, at which times the pulse quickened, the eyes grew brighter, the pupils dilated, and the patient, after various incoherent exclamations, burst into a passion of tears, and exclaimed that nobody cared for her, and that she wished herself dead. Finding that the patient's appetite was affected in the presence of company, he began by ordering a total abstinence from all stimulants, and forbidding any sustenance but weak gruel; he then took twenty ounces of blood, applied a blister under each ear, one upon the chest, and another on the back; having done which, and administered five grains of calomel, he left the patient to her repose. The next day she was somewhat low, but decidedly better, and all appearances of irritation were removed. The next day she improved still further, and on the next again. On the fourth there was some appearance of a return of the old symptoms, which no sooner developed themselves, than he administered another dose of calomel, and left strict orders that, unless a decidedly favourable change occurred within two hours, the patient's head should be immediately shaved to the very last curl. From that moment she began to mend, and, in less than four-and-twenty hours was perfectly restored. She did not now betray the least emotion at the sight or mention of pearls or any other ornaments. She was cheerful and good-humoured, and a most beneficial change had been effected in her whole temperament and condition.

Dr. Grummidge presented a very interesting case of monomania to the group and explained the treatment he used with complete success. The patient was a married woman from a middle-class background who, after seeing another woman at an evening party in a full set of pearls, suddenly became obsessed with wanting a similar set, even though her husband couldn’t afford it. Unable to fulfill her desire, she became ill, and her symptoms quickly became alarming, prompting Dr. Grummidge to be called in. At that time, her main symptoms were sullen behavior, an unwillingness to take care of household responsibilities, irritability, and extreme fatigue, except when pearls were mentioned. At those moments, her pulse would race, her eyes would brighten, her pupils would widen, and she would break into tears, claiming that nobody cared about her and that she wished she were dead. Seeing that her appetite was affected when she was around others, he prescribed complete abstinence from all stimulants and restricted her diet to weak gruel. He then took twenty ounces of blood, applied blisters under both ears, one on her chest, and another on her back. After that, he administered five grains of calomel and left her to rest. The next day, she was feeling a bit down but significantly better, and all signs of irritation had disappeared. The following day, she continued to improve, and by the third day, she was even better. On the fourth day, some symptoms reappeared, but as soon as they did, he gave her another dose of calomel and instructed that unless there was a clearly positive change within two hours, her hair should be shaved down to the last curl. From that moment on, she began to improve, and within less than twenty-four hours, she was fully restored. At that point, she showed no emotion at the sight of pearls or any other jewelry. She was cheerful and in good spirits, and a very positive change had taken place in her overall temperament and condition.

'Mr. Pipkin (M.R.C.S.) read a short but most interesting communication in which he sought to prove the complete belief of Sir William Courtenay, otherwise Thorn, recently shot at Canterbury, in the Homoeopathic system. The section would bear in mind that one of the Homoeopathic doctrines was, that infinitesimal doses of any medicine which would occasion the disease under which the patient laboured, supposing him to be in a healthy state, would cure it. Now, it was a remarkable circumstance-proved in the evidence-that the deceased Thorn employed a woman to follow him about all day with a pail of water, assuring her that one drop (a purely homoeopathic remedy, the section would observe), placed upon his tongue, after death, would restore him. What was the obvious inference? That Thorn, who was marching and countermarching in osier beds, and other swampy places, was impressed with a presentiment that he should be drowned; in which case, had his instructions been complied with, he could not fail to have been brought to life again instantly by his own prescription. As it was, if this woman, or any other person, had administered an infinitesimal dose of lead and gunpowder immediately after he fell, he would have recovered forthwith. But unhappily the woman concerned did not possess the power of reasoning by analogy, or carrying out a principle, and thus the unfortunate gentleman had been sacrificed to the ignorance of the peasantry. 'SECTION D.-STATISTICS. OUT-HOUSE, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH- ACHE.

'Mr. Pipkin (M.R.C.S.) presented a brief but fascinating communication where he aimed to demonstrate Sir William Courtenay, also known as Thorn, who was recently shot in Canterbury, fully believed in the Homoeopathic system. The section should remember that one of the Homoeopathic principles was that tiny doses of any medicine that would cause the illness the patient was experiencing, assuming they were healthy, would cure it. Now, it was a noteworthy fact - supported by evidence - that the late Thorn had a woman follow him around all day with a pail of water, insisting that one drop (a purely homoeopathic remedy, as the section would note) placed on his tongue after death would bring him back to life. What’s the clear conclusion? That Thorn, who was moving back and forth in reed beds and other muddy areas, had a feeling that he was going to drown; if his directions had been followed, he would have surely been revived instantly by his own treatment. However, if this woman, or anyone else, had given an infinitesimal dose of lead and gunpowder right after he fell, he would have recovered immediately. Unfortunately, the woman involved did not have the ability to reason by analogy or apply a principle, and thus the unfortunate gentleman was a victim of the ignorance of the local people. 'SECTION D.-STATISTICS. OUT-HOUSE, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.'

President-Mr. Slug. Vice-Presidents-Messrs. Noakes and Styles.

President - Mr. Slug. Vice Presidents - Messrs. Noakes and Styles.

'Mr. Kwakley stated the result of some most ingenious statistical inquiries relative to the difference between the value of the qualification of several members of Parliament as published to the world, and its real nature and amount. After reminding the section that every member of Parliament for a town or borough was supposed to possess a clear freehold estate of three hundred pounds per annum, the honourable gentleman excited great amusement and laughter by stating the exact amount of freehold property possessed by a column of legislators, in which he had included himself. It appeared from this table, that the amount of such income possessed by each was 0 pounds, 0 shillings, and 0 pence, yielding an average of the same. (Great laughter.) It was pretty well known that there were accommodating gentlemen in the habit of furnishing new members with temporary qualifications, to the ownership of which they swore solemnly-of course as a mere matter of form. He argued from these data that it was wholly unnecessary for members of Parliament to possess any property at all, especially as when they had none the public could get them so much cheaper. 'SUPPLEMENTARY SECTION, E.-UMBUGOLOGY AND DITCHWATERISICS.

'Mr. Kwakley shared the results of some very clever statistical research on the difference between the stated qualifications of several members of Parliament and their actual value. He reminded everyone that each member representing a town or borough was supposed to have a clear freehold estate worth three hundred pounds a year. The honorable gentleman caused a lot of amusement by revealing the exact amount of freehold property owned by a column of lawmakers, including himself. According to this table, each of them had 0 pounds, 0 shillings, and 0 pence in income, resulting in an average of the same. (Great laughter.) It was fairly well known that some accommodating individuals often provided new members with temporary qualifications, which they would swear to solemnly—as just a formality. He argued from this evidence that it was completely unnecessary for members of Parliament to own any property at all, especially since having none meant it would cost the public much less to have them.' SUPPLEMENTARY SECTION, E.-UMBUGOLOGY AND DITCHWATERISICS.

President-Mr. Grub. Vice Presidents-Messrs. Dull and Dummy.

President: Mr. Grub. Vice Presidents: Messrs. Dull and Dummy.

'A paper was read by the secretary descriptive of a bay pony with one eye, which had been seen by the author standing in a butcher's cart at the corner of Newgate Market. The communication described the author of the paper as having, in the prosecution of a mercantile pursuit, betaken himself one Saturday morning last summer from Somers Town to Cheapside; in the course of which expedition he had beheld the extraordinary appearance above described. The pony had one distinct eye, and it had been pointed out to him by his friend Captain Blunderbore, of the Horse Marines, who assisted the author in his search, that whenever he winked this eye he whisked his tail (possibly to drive the flies off), but that he always winked and whisked at the same time. The animal was lean, spavined, and tottering; and the author proposed to constitute it of the family of Fitfordogsmeataurious. It certainly did occur to him that there was no case on record of a pony with one clearly-defined and distinct organ of vision, winking and whisking at the same moment.

A paper was read by the secretary about a bay pony with one eye, which the author had seen standing in a butcher's cart at the corner of Newgate Market. The paper described how the author, while pursuing a business venture, had gone one Saturday morning last summer from Somers Town to Cheapside; during this trip, he came across the unusual sight mentioned above. The pony had one clear eye, and it was brought to his attention by his friend Captain Blunderbore of the Horse Marines, who helped the author in his search, that whenever the pony winked this eye, it also flicked its tail (possibly to shoo away flies), but it always winked and flicked at the same time. The animal appeared thin, spavined, and unsteady; and the author suggested it belonged to the family of Fitfordogsmeataurious. He realized that there was no record of a pony with one clearly-defined and distinct eye, winking and flicking at the same time.

'Mr. Q. J. Snuffletoffle had heard of a pony winking his eye, and likewise of a pony whisking his tail, but whether they were two ponies or the same pony he could not undertake positively to say. At all events, he was acquainted with no authenticated instance of a simultaneous winking and whisking, and he really could not but doubt the existence of such a marvellous pony in opposition to all those natural laws by which ponies were governed. Referring, however, to the mere question of his one organ of vision, might he suggest the possibility of this pony having been literally half asleep at the time he was seen, and having closed only one eye.

Mr. Q. J. Snuffletoffle had heard about a pony winking its eye and also about a pony flicking its tail, but he couldn’t say for sure if these were two different ponies or the same one. In any case, he didn’t know of any verified instance of a pony simultaneously winking and flicking its tail, and he really had to doubt the existence of such an amazing pony that would defy all the natural laws that ponies follow. However, regarding the simple matter of its one eye, could he suggest the possibility that this pony was actually half asleep when it was seen and had closed just one eye?

'The President observed that, whether the pony was half asleep or fast asleep, there could be no doubt that the association was wide awake, and therefore that they had better get the business over, and go to dinner. He had certainly never seen anything analogous to this pony, but he was not prepared to doubt its existence; for he had seen many queerer ponies in his time, though he did not pretend to have seen any more remarkable donkeys than the other gentlemen around him.

'The President noted that, whether the pony was half asleep or completely out cold, there was no question that the group was fully alert, so it would be best to wrap up the business and head to dinner. He had definitely never seen anything quite like this pony, but he was open to believing it existed; after all, he had encountered many stranger ponies in his time, although he didn’t claim to have seen any more impressive donkeys than the other gentlemen around him.'

'Professor John Ketch was then called upon to exhibit the skull of the late Mr. Greenacre, which he produced from a blue bag, remarking, on being invited to make any observations that occurred to him, "that he'd pound it as that 'ere 'spectable section had never seed a more gamerer cove nor he vos."

'Professor John Ketch was then asked to show the skull of the late Mr. Greenacre, which he took out of a blue bag. When invited to share his thoughts, he remarked, "I’d bet that this respectable crowd has never seen a braver guy than he was."

'A most animated discussion upon this interesting relic ensued; and, some difference of opinion arising respecting the real character of the deceased gentleman, Mr. Blubb delivered a lecture upon the cranium before him, clearly showing that Mr. Greenacre possessed the organ of destructiveness to a most unusual extent, with a most remarkable development of the organ of carveativeness. Sir Hookham Snivey was proceeding to combat this opinion, when Professor Ketch suddenly interrupted the proceedings by exclaiming, with great excitement of manner, "Walker!"

A lively discussion about this intriguing relic broke out, and when some disagreement arose regarding the true nature of the deceased gentleman, Mr. Blubb gave a lecture on the skull in front of him, convincingly demonstrating that Mr. Greenacre had an unusually large organ of destructiveness and a remarkable development of the organ of carveativeness. Sir Hookham Snivey was about to challenge this view when Professor Ketch suddenly interrupted the conversation, exclaiming with great enthusiasm, "Walker!"

'The President begged to call the learned gentleman to order.

'The President requested that the educated gentleman be brought to order.'

'Professor Ketch.-"Order be blowed! you've got the wrong un, I tell you. It ain't no 'ed at all; it's a coker-nut as my brother-in-law has been a-carvin', to hornament his new baked tatur-stall wots a-comin' down 'ere vile the 'sociation's in the town. Hand over, vill you?"

'Professor Ketch.-"Forget about order! You've got the wrong one, I'm telling you. It’s not a head at all; it's a coconut that my brother-in-law has been carving to decorate his new baked potato stand that’s coming down here while the association is in town. Hand it over, will you?"

'With these words, Professor Ketch hastily repossessed himself of the cocoa-nut, and drew forth the skull, in mistake for which he had exhibited it. A most interesting conversation ensued; but as there appeared some doubt ultimately whether the skull was Mr. Greenacre's, or a hospital patient's, or a pauper's, or a man's, or a woman's, or a monkey's, no particular result was obtained.'

'With these words, Professor Ketch quickly took back the coconut and pulled out the skull, which he had mistakenly shown earlier. An intriguing conversation followed; however, there was some uncertainty about whether the skull belonged to Mr. Greenacre, a hospital patient, a pauper, a man, a woman, or even a monkey, so no definitive conclusion was reached.'

'I cannot,' says our talented correspondent in conclusion, 'I cannot close my account of these gigantic researches and sublime and noble triumphs without repeating a bon mot of Professor Woodensconce's, which shows how the greatest minds may occasionally unbend when truth can be presented to listening ears, clothed in an attractive and playful form. I was standing by, when, after a week of feasting and feeding, that learned gentleman, accompanied by the whole body of wonderful men, entered the hall yesterday, where a sumptuous dinner was prepared; where the richest wines sparkled on the board, and fat bucks-propitiatory sacrifices to learning-sent forth their savoury odours. "Ah!" said Professor Woodensconce, rubbing his hands, "this is what we meet for; this is what inspires us; this is what keeps us together, and beckons us onward; this is the spread of science, and a glorious spread it is."' THE PANTOMIME OF LIFE

'I can't,' says our talented correspondent in conclusion, 'I can't wrap up my account of these enormous researches and amazing triumphs without mentioning a clever remark from Professor Woodensconce, which illustrates how even the greatest minds can relax when truth is presented to eager listeners in an enjoyable and playful way. I was there when, after a week of feasting and indulging, that learned gentleman, along with a group of remarkable men, entered the hall yesterday, where a lavish dinner was set up; where the finest wines sparkled on the table, and rich meats—sacrifices made to learning—filled the air with their delicious aromas. "Ah!" said Professor Woodensconce, rubbing his hands, "this is why we gather; this is what inspires us; this is what unites us, and drives us forward; this is the advancement of science, and what a magnificent advancement it is."' THE PANTOMIME OF LIFE

Before we plunge headlong into this paper, let us at once confess to a fondness for pantomimes-to a gentle sympathy with clowns and pantaloons-to an unqualified admiration of harlequins and columbines-to a chaste delight in every action of their brief existence, varied and many-coloured as those actions are, and inconsistent though they occasionally be with those rigid and formal rules of propriety which regulate the proceedings of meaner and less comprehensive minds. We revel in pantomimes-not because they dazzle one's eyes with tinsel and gold leaf; not because they present to us, once again, the well-beloved chalked faces, and goggle eyes of our childhood; not even because, like Christmas-day, and Twelfth-night, and Shrove-Tuesday, and one's own birthday, they come to us but once a year;-our attachment is founded on a graver and a very different reason. A pantomime is to us, a mirror of life; nay, more, we maintain that it is so to audiences generally, although they are not aware of it, and that this very circumstance is the secret cause of their amusement and delight.

Before we dive into this paper, let’s admit right away that we have a soft spot for pantomimes—we feel a gentle connection to clowns and pantaloons, an unreserved admiration for harlequins and columbines, and a pure joy in every moment of their short lives, which are as varied and colorful as they are, even if they sometimes clash with the strict rules of propriety that govern the actions of less imaginative minds. We love pantomimes—not because they dazzled our eyes with glitter and gold; not just because they bring back the cherished chalked faces and goofy eyes from our childhood; not even because, like Christmas, Twelfth Night, Shrove Tuesday, and our birthdays, they only come around once a year—our attachment is rooted in a deeper and completely different reason. To us, a pantomime is a reflection of life; in fact, we argue that this holds true for audiences in general, even if they don’t realize it, and this very fact is the hidden reason for their enjoyment and happiness.

Let us take a slight example. The scene is a street: an elderly gentleman, with a large face and strongly marked features, appears. His countenance beams with a sunny smile, and a perpetual dimple is on his broad, red cheek. He is evidently an opulent elderly gentleman, comfortable in circumstances, and well-to-do in the world. He is not unmindful of the adornment of his person, for he is richly, not to say gaudily, dressed; and that he indulges to a reasonable extent in the pleasures of the table may be inferred from the joyous and oily manner in which he rubs his stomach, by way of informing the audience that he is going home to dinner. In the fulness of his heart, in the fancied security of wealth, in the possession and enjoyment of all the good things of life, the elderly gentleman suddenly loses his footing, and stumbles. How the audience roar! He is set upon by a noisy and officious crowd, who buffet and cuff him unmercifully. They scream with delight! Every time the elderly gentleman struggles to get up, his relentless persecutors knock him down again. The spectators are convulsed with merriment! And when at last the elderly gentleman does get up, and staggers away, despoiled of hat, wig, and clothing, himself battered to pieces, and his watch and money gone, they are exhausted with laughter, and express their merriment and admiration in rounds of applause.

Let’s consider a simple example. The setting is a street: an older man, with a prominent face and distinct features, appears. His face is lit up with a warm smile, and there’s a constant dimple on his wide, rosy cheek. He clearly looks like a well-off older gentleman, comfortable in his situation and successful in life. He takes care in his appearance, as he is dressed lavishly, if not a bit showily; and it’s evident that he enjoys good food, judging by the cheerful and greasy way he rubs his stomach, signaling that he’s heading home for dinner. Filled with happiness, in the imagined safety of his wealth, and savoring all of life’s pleasures, the elderly gentleman suddenly loses his balance and stumbles. The audience erupts with laughter! A loud, pushy crowd surrounds him, playfully shoving and hitting him without mercy. They cheer with delight! Every time the elderly gentleman tries to get up, his relentless attackers knock him down again. The spectators are doubled over with laughter! And when the elderly gentleman finally manages to get up and stumbles away, stripped of his hat, wig, and clothes, looking battered and missing his watch and money, the crowd is left breathless from laughing and shows their enjoyment and admiration with loud applause.

Is this like life? Change the scene to any real street;-to the Stock Exchange, or the City banker's; the merchant's counting-house, or even the tradesman's shop. See any one of these men fall,-the more suddenly, and the nearer the zenith of his pride and riches, the better. What a wild hallo is raised over his prostrate carcase by the shouting mob; how they whoop and yell as he lies humbled beneath them! Mark how eagerly they set upon him when he is down; and how they mock and deride him as he slinks away. Why, it is the pantomime to the very letter.

Is this what life is like? Picture any real street—like the Stock Exchange, or a city banker's office; a merchant's counting house, or even a tradesman's shop. Watch as any of these men fall—the more suddenly and the closer they are to the peak of their pride and wealth, the better. What a wild cheer arises over his fallen body from the shouting crowd; how they whoop and holler as he lies defeated beneath them! Notice how eagerly they pounce on him when he’s down, and how they mock and ridicule him as he tries to crawl away. It’s like a performance right out of a play.

Of all the pantomimic dramatis personae, we consider the pantaloon the most worthless and debauched. Independent of the dislike one naturally feels at seeing a gentleman of his years engaged in pursuits highly unbecoming his gravity and time of life, we cannot conceal from ourselves the fact that he is a treacherous, worldly-minded old villain, constantly enticing his younger companion, the clown, into acts of fraud or petty larceny, and generally standing aside to watch the result of the enterprise. If it be successful, he never forgets to return for his share of the spoil; but if it turn out a failure, he generally retires with remarkable caution and expedition, and keeps carefully aloof until the affair has blown over. His amorous propensities, too, are eminently disagreeable; and his mode of addressing ladies in the open street at noon-day is down-right improper, being usually neither more nor less than a perceptible tickling of the aforesaid ladies in the waist, after committing which, he starts back, manifestly ashamed (as well he may be) of his own indecorum and temerity; continuing, nevertheless, to ogle and beckon to them from a distance in a very unpleasant and immoral manner.

Of all the characters in pantomime, we find the pantaloon to be the most worthless and corrupt. Apart from the natural distaste one feels seeing a man of his age involved in activities that are totally inappropriate for his seriousness and stage in life, we can't ignore the fact that he's a deceitful, self-serving old scoundrel, always trying to lead his younger friend, the clown, into schemes of fraud or petty theft, while he usually just hangs back to see how it turns out. If the plan works out, he never forgets to come back for his share of the loot; but if it fails, he typically retreats with great care and speed, staying far away until things settle down. His romantic advances are also extremely off-putting, and the way he approaches women in the street in broad daylight is downright inappropriate, usually involving a noticeable touch on the women's waist, after which he jumps back, clearly embarrassed (as he should be) about his own indecency and boldness; yet he still continues to stare and signal to them from a distance in a really uncomfortable and immoral way.

Is there any man who cannot count a dozen pantaloons in his own social circle? Is there any man who has not seen them swarming at the west end of the town on a sunshiny day or a summer's evening, going through the last-named pantomimic feats with as much liquorish energy, and as total an absence of reserve, as if they were on the very stage itself? We can tell upon our fingers a dozen pantaloons of our acquaintance at this moment-capital pantaloons, who have been performing all kinds of strange freaks, to the great amusement of their friends and acquaintance, for years past; and who to this day are making such comical and ineffectual attempts to be young and dissolute, that all beholders are like to die with laughter.

Is there any guy who can’t count a dozen clownish characters in his own social circle? Is there any guy who hasn’t seen them crowding at the west end of town on a sunny day or a summer evening, going through silly antics with all the enthusiastic energy and no sense of restraint, as if they were on stage? We can easily name a dozen of these characters right now—great ones, who have been acting out all kinds of bizarre stunts, entertaining their friends and acquaintances for years; and who to this day are making such funny and pointless attempts to appear young and wild that everyone watching is about to burst out laughing.

Take that old gentleman who has just emerged from the CafAC de l'Europe in the Haymarket, where he has been dining at the expense of the young man upon town with whom he shakes hands as they part at the door of the tavern. The affected warmth of that shake of the hand, the courteous nod, the obvious recollection of the dinner, the savoury flavour of which still hangs upon his lips, are all characteristics of his great prototype. He hobbles away humming an opera tune, and twirling his cane to and fro, with affected carelessness. Suddenly he stops-'tis at the milliner's window. He peeps through one of the large panes of glass; and, his view of the ladies within being obstructed by the India shawls, directs his attentions to the young girl with the band-box in her hand, who is gazing in at the window also. See! he draws beside her. He coughs; she turns away from him. He draws near her again; she disregards him. He gleefully chucks her under the chin, and, retreating a few steps, nods and beckons with fantastic grimaces, while the girl bestows a contemptuous and supercilious look upon his wrinkled visage. She turns away with a flounce, and the old gentleman trots after her with a toothless chuckle. The pantaloon to the life!

Take that old guy who just walked out of the Café de l'Europe in the Haymarket, where he had dinner on the young man's tab with whom he shakes hands as they part at the tavern door. The exaggerated warmth of that handshake, the polite nod, the clear memory of the dinner, the tasty flavor still lingering on his lips, are all traits of his classic self. He hobbles away humming an opera tune and twirling his cane back and forth with feigned nonchalance. Suddenly, he stops—it's at the milliner's window. He peeks through one of the large glass panes; since his view of the ladies inside is blocked by the Indian shawls, he focuses on the young girl holding a hatbox, who is also looking into the window. Look! He steps up next to her. He coughs; she turns away from him. He moves closer again; she ignores him. He playfully pokes her under the chin and, stepping back a few paces, nods and gestures with silly faces while the girl gives him a scornful and condescending look on his wrinkled face. She turns away with a huff, and the old guy trots after her with a toothless chuckle. The quintessential clown!

But the close resemblance which the clowns of the stage bear to those of every-day life is perfectly extraordinary. Some people talk with a sigh of the decline of pantomime, and murmur in low and dismal tones the name of Grimaldi. We mean no disparagement to the worthy and excellent old man when we say that this is downright nonsense. Clowns that beat Grimaldi all to nothing turn up every day, and nobody patronizes them-more's the pity!

But the close resemblance between the clowns on stage and those in everyday life is truly remarkable. Some people sigh about the decline of pantomime and mention Grimaldi in hushed, gloomy tones. We don’t mean to disrespect the talented and amazing old man when we say that this is utter nonsense. Clowns who outshine Grimaldi show up every day, yet nobody supports them—what a shame!

'I know who you mean,' says some dirty-faced patron of Mr. Osbaldistone's, laying down the Miscellany when he has got thus far, and bestowing upon vacancy a most knowing glance; 'you mean C. J. Smith as did Guy Fawkes, and George Barnwell at the Garden.' The dirty-faced gentleman has hardly uttered the words, when he is interrupted by a young gentleman in no shirt-collar and a Petersham coat. 'No, no,' says the young gentleman; 'he means Brown, King, and Gibson, at the 'Delphi.' Now, with great deference both to the first-named gentleman with the dirty face, and the last-named gentleman in the non-existing shirt- collar, we do not mean either the performer who so grotesquely burlesqued the Popish conspirator, or the three unchangeables who have been dancing the same dance under different imposing titles, and doing the same thing under various high-sounding names for some five or six years last past. We have no sooner made this avowal, than the public, who have hitherto been silent witnesses of the dispute, inquire what on earth it is we do mean; and, with becoming respect, we proceed to tell them.

"I know who you’re talking about," says a scruffy-looking patron of Mr. Osbaldistone's, putting down the Miscellany after getting this far, and giving a knowing look to the empty space; "you mean C. J. Smith who did Guy Fawkes, and George Barnwell at the Garden." The scruffy gentleman has barely finished speaking when he’s interrupted by a young guy without a shirt collar and wearing a Petersham coat. "No, no," the young man says; "he means Brown, King, and Gibson at the 'Delphi.'" Now, with all due respect to both the first gentleman with the dirty face and the last gentleman without a collar, we don’t mean either the performer who comically mocked the Catholic conspirator or the three regulars who have been performing the same act under various fancy titles for the last five or six years. As soon as we make this clarification, the audience, who have been silent observers of the debate, asks what the heck we actually mean; so, with proper respect, we go on to explain.

It is very well known to all playgoers and pantomime-seers, that the scenes in which a theatrical clown is at the very height of his glory are those which are described in the play-bills as 'Cheesemonger's shop and Crockery warehouse,' or 'Tailor's shop, and Mrs. Queertable's boarding-house,' or places bearing some such title, where the great fun of the thing consists in the hero's taking lodgings which he has not the slightest intention of paying for, or obtaining goods under false pretences, or abstracting the stock-in-trade of the respectable shopkeeper next door, or robbing warehouse porters as they pass under his window, or, to shorten the catalogue, in his swindling everybody he possibly can, it only remaining to be observed that, the more extensive the swindling is, and the more barefaced the impudence of the swindler, the greater the rapture and ecstasy of the audience. Now it is a most remarkable fact that precisely this sort of thing occurs in real life day after day, and nobody sees the humour of it. Let us illustrate our position by detailing the plot of this portion of the pantomime-not of the theatre, but of life.

It’s well known to all theatergoers and pantomime fans that the scenes where a theatrical clown shines the most are those described in playbills as ‘Cheesemonger’s shop and Crockery warehouse,’ or ‘Tailor’s shop, and Mrs. Queertable’s boarding-house,’ or similar titles. The main fun comes from the hero renting a place he has no intention of paying for, getting goods under false pretenses, stealing from the respectable shopkeeper next door, robbing warehouse workers as they pass by his window, or, to summarize, cheating everyone he can. It’s worth noting that the more extensive the cheating and the bolder the swindler's actions, the more thrilled and ecstatic the audience becomes. Interestingly, this kind of thing happens in real life day after day, and yet no one finds it funny. Let’s illustrate our point by outlining the plot of this part of the pantomime—not of the theater, but of real life.

The Honourable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, attended by his livery servant Do'em-a most respectable servant to look at, who has grown grey in the service of the captain's family-views, treats for, and ultimately obtains possession of, the unfurnished house, such a number, such a street. All the tradesmen in the neighbourhood are in agonies of competition for the captain's custom; the captain is a good-natured, kind-hearted, easy man, and, to avoid being the cause of disappointment to any, he most handsomely gives orders to all. Hampers of wine, baskets of provisions, cart-loads of furniture, boxes of jewellery, supplies of luxuries of the costliest description, flock to the house of the Honourable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, where they are received with the utmost readiness by the highly respectable Do'em; while the captain himself struts and swaggers about with that compound air of conscious superiority and general blood-thirstiness which a military captain should always, and does most times, wear, to the admiration and terror of plebeian men. But the tradesmen's backs are no sooner turned, than the captain, with all the eccentricity of a mighty mind, and assisted by the faithful Do'em, whose devoted fidelity is not the least touching part of his character, disposes of everything to great advantage; for, although the articles fetch small sums, still they are sold considerably above cost price, the cost to the captain having been nothing at all. After various manoeuvres, the imposture is discovered, Fitz-Fiercy and Do'em are recognized as confederates, and the police office to which they are both taken is thronged with their dupes.

The Honorable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, accompanied by his servant Do'em—a very respectable-looking man who has grown gray serving the captain's family—looks over, negotiates for, and eventually secures the unfurnished house at a certain number on a certain street. All the local tradespeople are in a frenzy competing for the captain's business; he's a good-natured, kind-hearted, easy-going guy, and to avoid disappointing anyone, he generously places orders with all of them. Hampers filled with wine, baskets of food, truckloads of furniture, boxes of jewelry, and supplies of the most expensive luxuries pour into the home of the Honorable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, where they are met with utmost eagerness by the highly respectable Do'em. Meanwhile, the captain struts around with a mix of self-importance and an aggressive demeanor that a military captain often sports, inspiring awe and fear in ordinary men. But as soon as the tradespeople leave, the captain, with all the eccentricity of a brilliant mind and with the help of his loyal Do'em—whose unwavering loyalty is one of his most touching traits—sells everything off for a nice profit. Though the items don't sell for much, they are sold well above their cost to the captain, which was nothing at all. After a series of clever maneuvers, the scam is uncovered, and Fitz-Fiercy and Do'em are recognized as partners in crime, ending up at the police station, which is crowded with their victims.

Who can fail to recognize in this, the exact counterpart of the best portion of a theatrical pantomime-Fitz-Whisker Fiercy by the clown; Do'em by the pantaloon; and supernumeraries by the tradesmen? The best of the joke, too, is, that the very coal-merchant who is loudest in his complaints against the person who defrauded him, is the identical man who sat in the centre of the very front row of the pit last night and laughed the most boisterously at this very same thing,-and not so well done either. Talk of Grimaldi, we say again! Did Grimaldi, in his best days, ever do anything in this way equal to Da Costa?

Who can fail to see that this is just like the best part of a theatrical performance—the clown is Fitz-Whisker Fiercy; the pantaloon is Do'em; and the tradesmen are the extras? The funniest part is that the very coal merchant who complains the loudest about being cheated is the same guy who sat front and center in the pit last night, laughing the hardest at this exact thing—and it wasn’t even that well done. We ask again, what about Grimaldi? Did Grimaldi, at his peak, ever pull off anything as good as Da Costa?

The mention of this latter justly celebrated clown reminds us of his last piece of humour, the fraudulently obtaining certain stamped acceptances from a young gentleman in the army. We had scarcely laid down our pen to contemplate for a few moments this admirable actor's performance of that exquisite practical joke, than a new branch of our subject flashed suddenly upon us. So we take it up again at once.

The mention of this famously celebrated clown reminds us of his final joke, which involved tricking a young army officer into giving him some stamped acceptances. We had barely put down our pens to think for a moment about this great actor's take on that clever prank when a new aspect of our topic suddenly came to mind. So, we dive back into it right away.

All people who have been behind the scenes, and most people who have been before them, know, that in the representation of a pantomime, a good many men are sent upon the stage for the express purpose of being cheated, or knocked down, or both. Now, down to a moment ago, we had never been able to understand for what possible purpose a great number of odd, lazy, large-headed men, whom one is in the habit of meeting here, and there, and everywhere, could ever have been created. We see it all, now. They are the supernumeraries in the pantomime of life; the men who have been thrust into it, with no other view than to be constantly tumbling over each other, and running their heads against all sorts of strange things. We sat opposite to one of these men at a supper-table, only last week. Now we think of it, he was exactly like the gentlemen with the pasteboard heads and faces, who do the corresponding business in the theatrical pantomimes; there was the same broad stolid simper-the same dull leaden eye-the same unmeaning, vacant stare; and whatever was said, or whatever was done, he always came in at precisely the wrong place, or jostled against something that he had not the slightest business with. We looked at the man across the table again and again; and could not satisfy ourselves what race of beings to class him with. How very odd that this never occurred to us before!

All the people who have been behind the scenes, and most who’ve come before them, know that in a pantomime, quite a few men are sent on stage just to get cheated, knocked down, or both. Up until a moment ago, we had never understood what purpose a bunch of peculiar, lazy, large-headed men, whom you see here, there, and everywhere, could possibly serve. But now it all makes sense. They are the extras in the pantomime of life; men who are thrown into it with no other purpose than to constantly trip over each other and bump their heads into all sorts of odd things. Just last week, we sat across from one of these men at a dinner table. Looking back, he was just like the characters with cardboard heads and faces who do the same job in theatrical pantomimes; he had the same broad, blank smirk, the same dull, leaden eyes, and the same empty, vacant stare. No matter what was said or done, he always came in at exactly the wrong moment or bumped into things he had no business with. We looked at the man across the table again and again, unable to figure out what kind of beings he belonged with. How strange that we never thought of this before!

We will frankly own that we have been much troubled with the harlequin. We see harlequins of so many kinds in the real living pantomime, that we hardly know which to select as the proper fellow of him of the theatres. At one time we were disposed to think that the harlequin was neither more nor less than a young man of family and independent property, who had run away with an opera-dancer, and was fooling his life and his means away in light and trivial amusements. On reflection, however, we remembered that harlequins are occasionally guilty of witty, and even clever acts, and we are rather disposed to acquit our young men of family and independent property, generally speaking, of any such misdemeanours. On a more mature consideration of the subject, we have arrived at the conclusion that the harlequins of life are just ordinary men, to be found in no particular walk or degree, on whom a certain station, or particular conjunction of circumstances, confers the magic wand. And this brings us to a few words on the pantomime of public and political life, which we shall say at once, and then conclude-merely premising in this place that we decline any reference whatever to the columbine, being in no wise satisfied of the nature of her connection with her parti-coloured lover, and not feeling by any means clear that we should be justified in introducing her to the virtuous and respectable ladies who peruse our lucubrations.

We’ll honestly admit that we’ve been quite troubled by the harlequin. We see so many different kinds of harlequins in the real-life spectacle that it’s hard to pick one that matches the theatrical version. At one point, we thought that a harlequin was just a young man from a wealthy family who had run away with an opera dancer, wasting his life and resources on frivolous entertainment. However, on further reflection, we realized that harlequins sometimes engage in witty, even clever actions, leading us to believe that young men from good families typically aren’t guilty of such shenanigans. After giving this topic more thought, we’ve concluded that life’s harlequins are just ordinary men found in all walks of life, who, due to their position or a unique set of circumstances, are granted a kind of magical influence. This leads us to briefly touch on the pantomime of public and political life, which we will discuss now and then wrap up—just noting here that we won’t refer to the columbine, as we’re not at all clear about the nature of her relationship with her colorful partner, and we don’t feel it would be proper to introduce her to the respectable ladies who read our writings.

We take it that the commencement of a Session of Parliament is neither more nor less than the drawing up of the curtain for a grand comic pantomime, and that his Majesty's most gracious speech on the opening thereof may be not inaptly compared to the clown's opening speech of 'Here we are!' 'My lords and gentlemen, here we are!' appears, to our mind at least, to be a very good abstract of the point and meaning of the propitiatory address of the ministry. When we remember how frequently this speech is made, immediately after the change too, the parallel is quite perfect, and still more singular.

We believe that the start of a Parliament session is just like lifting the curtain for a big comic show, and the king's welcoming speech at the opening can be compared to the clown's opening line of 'Here we are!' 'My lords and gentlemen, here we are!' seems to us to be a pretty good summary of what the government is trying to say. Considering how often this speech is delivered, especially right after a change, the comparison is spot on and even more interesting.

Perhaps the cast of our political pantomime never was richer than at this day. We are particularly strong in clowns. At no former time, we should say, have we had such astonishing tumblers, or performers so ready to go through the whole of their feats for the amusement of an admiring throng. Their extreme readiness to exhibit, indeed, has given rise to some ill-natured reflections; it having been objected that by exhibiting gratuitously through the country when the theatre is closed, they reduce themselves to the level of mountebanks, and thereby tend to degrade the respectability of the profession. Certainly Grimaldi never did this sort of thing; and though Brown, King, and Gibson have gone to the Surrey in vacation time, and Mr. C. J. Smith has ruralised at Sadler's Wells, we find no theatrical precedent for a general tumbling through the country, except in the gentleman, name unknown, who threw summersets on behalf of the late Mr. Richardson, and who is no authority either, because he had never been on the regular boards.

Perhaps the lineup of our political show has never been more interesting than it is today. We definitely have a lot of clowns. At no previous time, we would say, have we had such amazing acrobats, or performers so eager to showcase their skills for the entertainment of an adoring crowd. Their eagerness to perform, in fact, has led to some unpleasant comments; it has been noted that by performing for free around the country when the theater is closed, they lower themselves to the status of tricksters, which could damage the reputation of the profession. Grimaldi certainly never did anything like this; and although Brown, King, and Gibson have appeared at the Surrey during their break, and Mr. C. J. Smith has taken a rural performance at Sadler's Wells, we find no theatrical precedent for a general performance tour except for the gentleman, name unknown, who performed stunts on behalf of the late Mr. Richardson, and he is not a proper reference either, since he had never been on the established stage.

But, laying aside this question, which after all is a mere matter of taste, we may reflect with pride and gratification of heart on the proficiency of our clowns as exhibited in the season. Night after night will they twist and tumble about, till two, three, and four o'clock in the morning; playing the strangest antics, and giving each other the funniest slaps on the face that can possibly be imagined, without evincing the smallest tokens of fatigue. The strange noises, the confusion, the shouting and roaring, amid which all this is done, too, would put to shame the most turbulent sixpenny gallery that ever yelled through a boxing-night.

But, setting aside this question, which is really just a matter of personal preference, we can take pride and feel great about the skill of our clowns displayed this season. Night after night, they will twist and tumble around until two, three, or four in the morning; doing the wildest stunts and giving each other the funniest face slaps you can imagine, without showing the slightest sign of exhaustion. The strange noises, the chaos, the shouting and cheering happening alongside all this would outdo the loudest rowdy crowd you’d find at any cheap boxing match.

It is especially curious to behold one of these clowns compelled to go through the most surprising contortions by the irresistible influence of the wand of office, which his leader or harlequin holds above his head. Acted upon by this wonderful charm he will become perfectly motionless, moving neither hand, foot, nor finger, and will even lose the faculty of speech at an instant's notice; or on the other hand, he will become all life and animation if required, pouring forth a torrent of words without sense or meaning, throwing himself into the wildest and most fantastic contortions, and even grovelling on the earth and licking up the dust. These exhibitions are more curious than pleasing; indeed, they are rather disgusting than otherwise, except to the admirers of such things, with whom we confess we have no fellow-feeling.

It’s especially interesting to see one of these clowns forced to perform the most surprising twists and turns by the uncontrollable power of the office's wand held above his head by his leader or harlequin. Under this amazing spell, he can become completely still, not moving any hand, foot, or finger, and even lose the ability to speak at a moment’s notice; or, on the flip side, he can become full of life and energy if needed, overflowing with a stream of nonsensical words, throwing himself into wild and bizarre contortions, and even crawling on the ground and licking up the dirt. These performances are more strange than enjoyable; in fact, they are rather off-putting to most, except for those who admire such acts, with whom we honestly admit we have no shared feelings.

Strange tricks-very strange tricks-are also performed by the harlequin who holds for the time being the magic wand which we have just mentioned. The mere waving it before a man's eyes will dispossess his brains of all the notions previously stored there, and fill it with an entirely new set of ideas; one gentle tap on the back will alter the colour of a man's coat completely; and there are some expert performers, who, having this wand held first on one side and then on the other, will change from side to side, turning their coats at every evolution, with so much rapidity and dexterity, that the quickest eye can scarcely detect their motions. Occasionally, the genius who confers the wand, wrests it from the hand of the temporary possessor, and consigns it to some new performer; on which occasions all the characters change sides, and then the race and the hard knocks begin anew.

Strange tricks—really strange tricks—are also done by the harlequin who currently holds the magic wand we just talked about. Just waving it in front of someone will wipe their mind clean of all their previous thoughts and fill it with an entirely new set of ideas; a gentle tap on the back will completely change the color of someone’s coat; and there are some skilled performers who, by holding this wand first on one side and then the other, switch sides, turning their coats during every move, with such speed and skill that even the sharpest eyes can barely catch their motions. Occasionally, the genius who gives out the wand takes it back from the temporary holder and hands it to a new performer; in these moments, all the characters switch sides, and then the race and the rough and tumble start all over again.

We might have extended this chapter to a much greater length-we might have carried the comparison into the liberal professions-we might have shown, as was in fact our original purpose, that each is in itself a little pantomime with scenes and characters of its own, complete; but, as we fear we have been quite lengthy enough already, we shall leave this chapter just where it is. A gentleman, not altogether unknown as a dramatic poet, wrote thus a year or two ago-

We could have made this chapter much longer—we could have compared it to the liberal professions—we could have demonstrated, as we originally intended, that each one is like a little play with its own scenes and characters, fully formed; however, since we think we've already been lengthy enough, we’ll leave this chapter as it is. A gentleman, who is somewhat known as a dramatic poet, wrote this a year or two ago—

'All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players:'

'All the world is a stage, and everyone is just an actor:'

and we, tracking out his footsteps at the scarcely-worth-mentioning little distance of a few millions of leagues behind, venture to add, by way of new reading, that he meant a Pantomime, and that we are all actors in The Pantomime of Life. SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A LION

and we, following his trail at the barely worth mentioning distance of a few million leagues behind, dare to suggest, as a fresh interpretation, that he was referring to a Pantomime, and that we are all performers in The Pantomime of Life. SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A LION

We have a great respect for lions in the abstract. In common with most other people, we have heard and read of many instances of their bravery and generosity. We have duly admired that heroic self-denial and charming philanthropy which prompts them never to eat people except when they are hungry, and we have been deeply impressed with a becoming sense of the politeness they are said to display towards unmarried ladies of a certain state. All natural histories teem with anecdotes illustrative of their excellent qualities; and one old spelling-book in particular recounts a touching instance of an old lion, of high moral dignity and stern principle, who felt it his imperative duty to devour a young man who had contracted a habit of swearing, as a striking example to the rising generation.

We have a lot of respect for lions in theory. Like most people, we've heard and read many stories about their bravery and kindness. We admire their heroic self-control and charming generosity, which leads them to only eat humans when they're hungry, and we're also quite impressed by the politeness they're said to show toward unmarried women of a certain background. All natural histories are filled with stories that highlight their wonderful traits; and one old spelling book, in particular, tells a touching story about an old lion of high moral standing and strong principles who felt it was his duty to eat a young man who had developed a habit of swearing, as a powerful lesson for the younger generation.

All this is extremely pleasant to reflect upon, and, indeed, says a very great deal in favour of lions as a mass. We are bound to state, however, that such individual lions as we have happened to fall in with have not put forth any very striking characteristics, and have not acted up to the chivalrous character assigned them by their chroniclers. We never saw a lion in what is called his natural state, certainly; that is to say, we have never met a lion out walking in a forest, or crouching in his lair under a tropical sun, waiting till his dinner should happen to come by, hot from the baker's. But we have seen some under the influence of captivity, and the pressure of misfortune; and we must say that they appeared to us very apathetic, heavy-headed fellows.

All of this is really nice to think about, and it definitely says a lot in favor of lions as a group. However, we have to say that the individual lions we've come across haven't shown any particularly impressive traits, and they haven't lived up to the noble image created by their storytellers. We've never seen a lion in what you would call their natural state; that is, we’ve never spotted a lion casually walking through a forest or lying in its den under the tropical sun, waiting for its dinner to pass by, fresh from the oven. But we have seen some in captivity and under unfortunate circumstances, and we have to say they seemed pretty dull and sluggish.

The lion at the Zoological Gardens, for instance. He is all very well; he has an undeniable mane, and looks very fierce; but, Lord bless us! what of that? The lions of the fashionable world look just as ferocious, and are the most harmless creatures breathing. A box-lobby lion or a Regent-street animal will put on a most terrible aspect, and roar, fearfully, if you affront him; but he will never bite, and, if you offer to attack him manfully, will fairly turn tail and sneak off. Doubtless these creatures roam about sometimes in herds, and, if they meet any especially meek-looking and peaceably-disposed fellow, will endeavour to frighten him; but the faintest show of a vigorous resistance is sufficient to scare them even then. These are pleasant characteristics, whereas we make it matter of distinct charge against the Zoological lion and his brethren at the fairs, that they are sleepy, dreamy, sluggish quadrupeds.

The lion at the zoo, for example. He looks impressive with his undeniable mane and fierce appearance; but honestly, what does it matter? The lions in high society look just as intimidating, yet they are the most harmless creatures alive. A lion in a theater lobby or a trendy spot will feign a menacing look and roar loudly if you challenge him; but he won't actually bite and will instead run away if you confront him bravely. Sure, these creatures might hang out in groups, and if they come across someone who seems particularly meek and peaceful, they might try to scare him; but even the slightest show of strong resistance is enough to frighten them off. These traits are quite endearing, while we criticize the zoo lion and his counterparts at the fairs for being sleepy, dazed, and lazy.

We do not remember to have ever seen one of them perfectly awake, except at feeding-time. In every respect we uphold the biped lions against their four-footed namesakes, and we boldly challenge controversy upon the subject.

We don’t recall ever seeing one of them fully awake, except during mealtime. In every way, we stand by the two-legged lions over their four-legged counterparts, and we confidently welcome any debate on the matter.

With these opinions it may be easily imagined that our curiosity and interest were very much excited the other day, when a lady of our acquaintance called on us and resolutely declined to accept our refusal of her invitation to an evening party; 'for,' said she, 'I have got a lion coming.' We at once retracted our plea of a prior engagement, and became as anxious to go, as we had previously been to stay away.

With these opinions, it’s easy to imagine how curious and interested we were the other day when a lady we know visited us and confidently refused to accept our excuse of not being able to attend her evening party; 'because,' she said, 'I have a lion coming.' We immediately withdrew our excuse of a prior commitment and became as eager to go as we had been to avoid it before.

We went early, and posted ourselves in an eligible part of the drawing- room, from whence we could hope to obtain a full view of the interesting animal. Two or three hours passed, the quadrilles began, the room filled; but no lion appeared. The lady of the house became inconsolable,-for it is one of the peculiar privileges of these lions to make solemn appointments and never keep them,-when all of a sudden there came a tremendous double rap at the street-door, and the master of the house, after gliding out (unobserved as he flattered himself) to peep over the banisters, came into the room, rubbing his hands together with great glee, and cried out in a very important voice, 'My dear, Mr.-(naming the lion) has this moment arrived.'

We arrived early and set ourselves up in a good spot in the living room where we could expect to catch a complete view of the fascinating character. A couple of hours passed, the dances started, the room filled up; but no lion showed up. The hostess became distraught—because it’s one of these lions' special quirks to make grand promises and never follow through—when suddenly there was a loud double knock at the front door. The host, thinking he had slipped out unnoticed to peek over the banister, came into the room, rubbing his hands together in delight, and exclaimed in a very serious tone, "My dear, Mr.—(naming the lion) has just arrived."

Upon this, all eyes were turned towards the door, and we observed several young ladies, who had been laughing and conversing previously with great gaiety and good humour, grow extremely quiet and sentimental; while some young gentlemen, who had been cutting great figures in the facetious and small-talk way, suddenly sank very obviously in the estimation of the company, and were looked upon with great coldness and indifference. Even the young man who had been ordered from the music shop to play the pianoforte was visibly affected, and struck several false notes in the excess of his excitement.

As this happened, everyone turned their attention to the door, and we noticed several young women, who had been laughing and chatting cheerfully before, becoming very quiet and reflective; while some young men, who had been showing off with jokes and small talk, suddenly dropped significantly in the group's favor and were regarded with noticeable coldness and indifference. Even the young man who had been sent from the music shop to play the piano was clearly affected, hitting several wrong notes out of sheer excitement.

All this time there was a great talking outside, more than once accompanied by a loud laugh, and a cry of 'Oh! capital! excellent!' from which we inferred that the lion was jocose, and that these exclamations were occasioned by the transports of his keeper and our host. Nor were we deceived; for when the lion at last appeared, we overheard his keeper, who was a little prim man, whisper to several gentlemen of his acquaintance, with uplifted hands, and every expression of half- suppressed admiration, that-(naming the lion again) was in such cue to- night!

All this time, there was a lot of chatter outside, occasionally accompanied by loud laughter and shouts of “Oh! Amazing! Excellent!” From this, we figured that the lion was being funny and that these reactions came from his keeper and our host. We weren't mistaken; when the lion finally showed up, we overheard his keeper, a short, prim man, whispering to some gentlemen he knew, with raised hands and a look of barely contained admiration, that—(mentioning the lion again)—he was really on point tonight!

The lion was a literary one. Of course, there were a vast number of people present who had admired his roarings, and were anxious to be introduced to him; and very pleasant it was to see them brought up for the purpose, and to observe the patient dignity with which he received all their patting and caressing. This brought forcibly to our mind what we had so often witnessed at country fairs, where the other lions are compelled to go through as many forms of courtesy as they chance to be acquainted with, just as often as admiring parties happen to drop in upon them.

The lion was quite the literary figure. Naturally, there were a ton of people there who had admired his roars and were eager to be introduced to him; it was really nice to see them brought over for that reason and to watch the calm dignity with which he accepted all their petting and affection. This strongly reminded us of what we often saw at county fairs, where the other lions have to go through whatever polite gestures they know whenever fans come to visit them.

While the lion was exhibiting in this way, his keeper was not idle, for he mingled among the crowd, and spread his praises most industriously. To one gentleman he whispered some very choice thing that the noble animal had said in the very act of coming up-stairs, which, of course, rendered the mental effort still more astonishing; to another he murmured a hasty account of a grand dinner that had taken place the day before, where twenty-seven gentlemen had got up all at once to demand an extra cheer for the lion; and to the ladies he made sundry promises of interceding to procure the majestic brute's sign-manual for their albums. Then, there were little private consultations in different corners, relative to the personal appearance and stature of the lion; whether he was shorter than they had expected to see him, or taller, or thinner, or fatter, or younger, or older; whether he was like his portrait, or unlike it; and whether the particular shade of his eyes was black, or blue, or hazel, or green, or yellow, or mixture. At all these consultations the keeper assisted; and, in short, the lion was the sole and single subject of discussion till they sat him down to whist, and then the people relapsed into their old topics of conversation-themselves and each other.

While the lion was showing off like this, his keeper was busy too, mingling with the crowd and enthusiastically sharing compliments about the magnificent creature. To one man, he whispered some impressive thing that the noble animal had supposedly said while coming up the stairs, making the mental feat seem even more remarkable; to another, he quickly recounted a lavish dinner from the previous day, where twenty-seven gentlemen had all stood up at once to cheer the lion; and to the ladies, he made various promises to try and get the majestic beast's autograph for their albums. Then, there were little private chats in different corners about the lion’s appearance and size; whether he was shorter or taller than they'd expected, thinner or fatter, younger or older; whether he resembled his portrait, or not; and what color his eyes were—black, blue, hazel, green, yellow, or a mix. Throughout these discussions, the keeper chimed in; in short, the lion was the one and only topic until they settled down to play whist, after which people slipped back into their usual conversations about themselves and one another.

We must confess that we looked forward with no slight impatience to the announcement of supper; for if you wish to see a tame lion under particularly favourable circumstances, feeding-time is the period of all others to pitch upon. We were therefore very much delighted to observe a sensation among the guests, which we well knew how to interpret, and immediately afterwards to behold the lion escorting the lady of the house down-stairs. We offered our arm to an elderly female of our acquaintance, who-dear old soul!-is the very best person that ever lived, to lead down to any meal; for, be the room ever so small, or the party ever so large, she is sure, by some intuitive perception of the eligible, to push and pull herself and conductor close to the best dishes on the table;-we say we offered our arm to this elderly female, and, descending the stairs shortly after the lion, were fortunate enough to obtain a seat nearly opposite him.

We have to admit that we were eagerly waiting for the announcement of supper; if you want to see a tame lion at its best, feeding time is definitely the moment to choose. So, we were really excited to notice a stir among the guests, which we instantly understood, and right after that, we saw the lion leading the lady of the house downstairs. We offered our arm to an older lady we knew, who—such a dear soul!—is the best person to bring to any meal; no matter how small the room or how large the gathering, she has this instinctive way of navigating herself and her companion right to the best dishes on the table. We say we offered our arm to this older lady and, following the lion down the stairs, were lucky enough to grab a seat almost directly across from him.

Of course the keeper was there already. He had planted himself at precisely that distance from his charge which afforded him a decent pretext for raising his voice, when he addressed him, to so loud a key, as could not fail to attract the attention of the whole company, and immediately began to apply himself seriously to the task of bringing the lion out, and putting him through the whole of his manoeuvres. Such flashes of wit as he elicited from the lion! First of all, they began to make puns upon a salt-cellar, and then upon the breast of a fowl, and then upon the trifle; but the best jokes of all were decidedly on the lobster salad, upon which latter subject the lion came out most vigorously, and, in the opinion of the most competent authorities, quite outshone himself. This is a very excellent mode of shining in society, and is founded, we humbly conceive, upon the classic model of the dialogues between Mr. Punch and his friend the proprietor, wherein the latter takes all the up-hill work, and is content to pioneer to the jokes and repartees of Mr. P. himself, who never fails to gain great credit and excite much laughter thereby. Whatever it be founded on, however, we recommend it to all lions, present and to come; for in this instance it succeeded to admiration, and perfectly dazzled the whole body of hearers.

Of course the keeper was already there. He had positioned himself at just the right distance from the lion, giving him a good reason to raise his voice loud enough to grab the whole audience's attention. He immediately got to work, trying to bring the lion out and get him to perform his tricks. The clever quips he got from the lion were remarkable! They started with puns about a salt shaker, then about the breast of a chicken, and finally about the dessert; but the best jokes were definitely about the lobster salad, which the lion tackled with enthusiasm and, according to many experts, truly outdid himself. This is a fantastic way to stand out in social situations and is based, we believe, on the classic interactions between Mr. Punch and his friend the owner, where the latter does most of the heavy lifting and sets up the jokes and clever comebacks for Mr. P., who always manages to get a lot of applause and laughter in return. Whatever its origins, we wholeheartedly recommend this approach to all lions, both present and future; in this case, it was a huge success and completely dazzled the entire audience.

When the salt-cellar, and the fowl's breast, and the trifle, and the lobster salad were all exhausted, and could not afford standing-room for another solitary witticism, the keeper performed that very dangerous feat which is still done with some of the caravan lions, although in one instance it terminated fatally, of putting his head in the animal's mouth, and placing himself entirely at its mercy. Boswell frequently presents a melancholy instance of the lamentable results of this achievement, and other keepers and jackals have been terribly lacerated for their daring. It is due to our lion to state, that he condescended to be trifled with, in the most gentle manner, and finally went home with the showman in a hack cab: perfectly peaceable, but slightly fuddled.

When the salt shaker, the chicken breast, the dessert, and the lobster salad were all gone, leaving no room for another joke, the keeper attempted a very risky stunt that's still performed with some circus lions, even though it has ended badly in some cases. He put his head in the lion's mouth and put himself completely at its mercy. Boswell often highlights the sad outcomes of this stunt, and other keepers and tricksters have been seriously injured for their boldness. It’s worth mentioning that our lion was kind enough to be playful in a gentle way and eventually left with the showman in a cab: totally calm, but a bit tipsy.

Being in a contemplative mood, we were led to make some reflections upon the character and conduct of this genus of lions as we walked homewards, and we were not long in arriving at the conclusion that our former impression in their favour was very much strengthened and confirmed by what we had recently seen. While the other lions receive company and compliments in a sullen, moody, not to say snarling manner, these appear flattered by the attentions that are paid them; while those conceal themselves to the utmost of their power from the vulgar gaze, these court the popular eye, and, unlike their brethren, whom nothing short of compulsion will move to exertion, are ever ready to display their acquirements to the wondering throng. We have known bears of undoubted ability who, when the expectations of a large audience have been wound up to the utmost pitch, have peremptorily refused to dance; well-taught monkeys, who have unaccountably objected to exhibit on the slack wire; and elephants of unquestioned genius, who have suddenly declined to turn the barrel-organ; but we never once knew or heard of a biped lion, literary or otherwise,-and we state it as a fact which is highly creditable to the whole species,-who, occasion offering, did not seize with avidity on any opportunity which was afforded him, of performing to his heart's content on the first violin. MR. ROBERT BOLTON: THE 'GENTLEMAN CONNECTED WITH THE PRESS'

Being in a thoughtful mood, we started to reflect on the character and behavior of this type of lions as we walked home, and we quickly concluded that our previous positive impression of them was greatly reinforced by what we had just witnessed. While other lions take company and compliments in a gloomy, moody, and often snarling way, these lions seem pleased by the attention they receive; while others try to hide from the public gaze, these seek the spotlight and, unlike their counterparts, who require a lot of persuasion to do anything, are always eager to show off their skills to the amazed crowd. We've known bears with clear talent who, when a large audience's expectations rise to the highest levels, have stubbornly refused to dance; well-trained monkeys who have surprisingly declined to perform on the slack wire; and elephants with undeniable talent who have suddenly backed out of turning the barrel-organ; but we have never known or heard of a biped lion, whether a writer or not—and we say this as a point of pride for the entire species—who, when the opportunity arose, did not eagerly take any chance to perform to his heart's content on the first violin. MR. ROBERT BOLTON: THE 'GENTLEMAN CONNECTED WITH THE PRESS'

In the parlour of the Green Dragon, a public-house in the immediate neighbourhood of Westminster Bridge, everybody talks politics, every evening, the great political authority being Mr. Robert Bolton, an individual who defines himself as 'a gentleman connected with the press,' which is a definition of peculiar indefiniteness. Mr. Robert Bolton's regular circle of admirers and listeners are an undertaker, a greengrocer, a hairdresser, a baker, a large stomach surmounted by a man's head, and placed on the top of two particularly short legs, and a thin man in black, name, profession, and pursuit unknown, who always sits in the same position, always displays the same long, vacant face, and never opens his lips, surrounded as he is by most enthusiastic conversation, except to puff forth a volume of tobacco smoke, or give vent to a very snappy, loud, and shrill hem! The conversation sometimes turns upon literature, Mr. Bolton being a literary character, and always upon such news of the day as is exclusively possessed by that talented individual. I found myself (of course, accidentally) in the Green Dragon the other evening, and, being somewhat amused by the following conversation, preserved it.

In the lounge of the Green Dragon, a pub right by Westminster Bridge, everyone talks politics every evening, with Mr. Robert Bolton being the main political authority. He describes himself as "a gentleman connected with the press," which is a rather vague description. Mr. Bolton's usual group of fans and listeners includes an undertaker, a greengrocer, a hairdresser, a baker, a large man with a big stomach and short legs, and a thin man in black, whose name, job, and purpose are unknown. He always sits in the same spot, has the same long, blank expression, and never speaks, except to exhale a cloud of tobacco smoke or make a sharp, loud "hem!" The conversation occasionally shifts to literature, since Mr. Bolton fancies himself a literary figure, and it always revolves around news he exclusively has. I found myself (of course, by chance) at the Green Dragon the other evening and was somewhat entertained by the following conversation, which I recorded.

'Can you lend me a ten-pound note till Christmas?' inquired the hairdresser of the stomach.

'Can you lend me a ten-pound note until Christmas?' asked the hairdresser of the stomach.

'Where's your security, Mr. Clip?'

'My stock in trade,-there's enough of it, I'm thinking, Mr. Thicknesse. Some fifty wigs, two poles, half-a-dozen head blocks, and a dead Bruin.'

'My stock in trade—there's plenty of it, I think, Mr. Thicknesse. Some fifty wigs, two poles, half a dozen head blocks, and a dead bear.'

'No, I won't, then,' growled out Thicknesse. 'I lends nothing on the security of the whigs or the Poles either. As for whigs, they're cheats; as for the Poles, they've got no cash. I never have nothing to do with blockheads, unless I can't awoid it (ironically), and a dead bear's about as much use to me as I could be to a dead bear.'

'No, I won't do that,' Thicknesse snarled. 'I won't lend anything based on the trustworthiness of the Whigs or the Poles. As for the Whigs, they're dishonest; and the Poles have no money. I never deal with fools unless I absolutely have to (ironically), and a dead bear is about as useful to me as I would be to a dead bear.'

'Well, then,' urged the other, 'there's a book as belonged to Pope, Byron's Poems, valued at forty pounds, because it's got Pope's identical scratch on the back; what do you think of that for security?'

'Well, then,' the other urged, 'there's a book that belonged to Pope, Byron's Poems, worth forty pounds, because it has Pope's actual scratch on the back; what do you think of that as security?'

'Well, to be sure!' cried the baker. 'But how d'ye mean, Mr. Clip?'

'Well, for sure!' exclaimed the baker. 'But what do you mean, Mr. Clip?'

'Mean! why, that it's got the hottergruff of Pope.

'Mean! Well, that it's got the hot attitude of Pope.

"Steal not this book, for fear of hangman's rope; For it belongs to Alexander Pope."

"Don't steal this book, or you might end up on the gallows; it belongs to Alexander Pope."

All that's written on the inside of the binding of the book; so, as my son says, we're bound to believe it.'

All that's written on the inside of the book's binding; so, as my son says, we have to believe it.

'Well, sir,' observed the undertaker, deferentially, and in a half- whisper, leaning over the table, and knocking over the hairdresser's grog as he spoke, 'that argument's very easy upset.'

'Well, sir,' the undertaker said respectfully, leaning over the table in a low voice and accidentally spilling the hairdresser's drink as he spoke, 'that argument is pretty easy to counter.'

'Perhaps, sir,' said Clip, a little flurried, 'you'll pay for the first upset afore you thinks of another.'

'Maybe, sir,' said Clip, a bit flustered, 'you'll cover the cost of the first mess-up before you consider another.'

'Now,' said the undertaker, bowing amicably to the hairdresser, 'I think, I says I think-you'll excuse me, Mr. Clip, I think, you see, that won't go down with the present company-unfortunately, my master had the honour of making the coffin of that ere Lord's housemaid, not no more nor twenty year ago. Don't think I'm proud on it, gentlemen; others might be; but I hate rank of any sort. I've no more respect for a Lord's footman than I have for any respectable tradesman in this room. I may say no more nor I have for Mr. Clip! (bowing). Therefore, that ere Lord must have been born long after Pope died. And it's a logical interference to defer, that they neither of them lived at the same time. So what I mean is this here, that Pope never had no book, never seed, felt, never smelt no book (triumphantly) as belonged to that ere Lord. And, gentlemen, when I consider how patiently you have 'eared the ideas what I have expressed, I feel bound, as the best way to reward you for the kindness you have exhibited, to sit down without saying anything more-partickler as I perceive a worthier visitor nor myself is just entered. I am not in the habit of paying compliments, gentlemen; when I do, therefore, I hope I strikes with double force.'

'Now,' said the undertaker, bowing kindly to the hairdresser, 'I think, I mean, you’ll excuse me, Mr. Clip, I think, you see, that won’t sit well with the people here—unfortunately, my boss had the honor of making the coffin for that Lord’s housemaid, not more than twenty years ago. Don’t think I’m proud of it, gentlemen; others might be; but I can’t stand social rank. I have no more respect for a Lord’s footman than I do for any respectable tradesman in this room. I could say the same for Mr. Clip! (bowing). So, that Lord must have been born long after Pope died. It’s a logical assumption to suggest that they didn’t live at the same time. What I mean is this: Pope never owned a book, never saw, touched, or smelled a book (triumphantly) that belonged to that Lord. And, gentlemen, when I think about how patiently you’ve listened to my thoughts, I feel the need, as a way to reward you for your kindness, to sit down without saying anything more—especially since I see a more important visitor than myself has just arrived. I’m not one to give compliments, gentlemen; when I do, I hope it has double impact.'

'Ah, Mr. Murgatroyd! what's all this about striking with double force?' said the object of the above remark, as he entered. 'I never excuse a man's getting into a rage during winter, even when he's seated so close to the fire as you are. It is very injudicious to put yourself into such a perspiration. What is the cause of this extreme physical and mental excitement, sir?'

'Oh, Mr. Murgatroyd! What's this about hitting with double strength?' said the subject of the comment as he walked in. 'I never see the point in a man losing his temper in the winter, even when he's sitting as close to the fire as you are. It's pretty unwise to work yourself up into such a sweat. What's causing this intense physical and mental agitation, sir?'

Such was the very philosophical address of Mr. Robert Bolton, a shorthand-writer, as he termed himself-a bit of equivoque passing current among his fraternity, which must give the uninitiated a vast idea of the establishment of the ministerial organ, while to the initiated it signifies that no one paper can lay claim to the enjoyment of their services. Mr. Bolton was a young man, with a somewhat sickly and very dissipated expression of countenance. His habiliments were composed of an exquisite union of gentility, slovenliness, assumption, simplicity, newness, and old age. Half of him was dressed for the winter, the other half for the summer. His hat was of the newest cut, the D'Orsay; his trousers had been white, but the inroads of mud and ink, etc., had given them a pie-bald appearance; round his throat he wore a very high black cravat, of the most tyrannical stiffness; while his tout ensemble was hidden beneath the enormous folds of an old brown poodle-collared great-coat, which was closely buttoned up to the aforesaid cravat. His fingers peeped through the ends of his black kid gloves, and two of the toes of each foot took a similar view of society through the extremities of his high-lows. Sacred to the bare walls of his garret be the mysteries of his interior dress! He was a short, spare man, of a somewhat inferior deportment. Everybody seemed influenced by his entry into the room, and his salutation of each member partook of the patronizing. The hairdresser made way for him between himself and the stomach. A minute afterwards he had taken possession of his pint and pipe. A pause in the conversation took place. Everybody was waiting, anxious for his first observation.

Such was the highly philosophical speech of Mr. Robert Bolton, a shorthand writer, as he called himself—a bit of jargon that was common among his peers, which must give those unfamiliar a grand idea of how the ministerial organ operates, while for those in the know, it indicates that no single publication can claim the benefit of their services. Mr. Bolton was a young man with a somewhat sickly and very disheveled look. His clothing was an odd mix of elegance, messiness, pretense, simplicity, newness, and oldness. One half of him was dressed for winter, and the other for summer. His hat was of the latest fashion, the D'Orsay; his trousers had been white, but mud, ink, and other stains had given them a patchy look; around his neck, he wore a very high black cravat that was extremely stifling; meanwhile, his entire outfit was concealed beneath the large folds of an old brown greatcoat with a poodle collar, which was tightly buttoned up to the aforementioned cravat. His fingers poked out from the ends of his black leather gloves, and two of the toes on each foot peeked out through the openings of his high shoes. Let the bare walls of his attic keep the secrets of his inner wear! He was a short, thin man with an inferior demeanor. Everyone seemed affected by his entrance into the room, and his greeting of each person had an air of condescension. The hairdresser made way for him between himself and his stomach. A minute later, he had settled in with his pint and pipe. A pause in the conversation ensued. Everyone was waiting, eager for his first remark.

'Horrid murder in Westminster this morning,' observed Mr. Bolton.

'Horrible murder in Westminster this morning,' noted Mr. Bolton.

Everybody changed their positions. All eyes were fixed upon the man of paragraphs.

Everybody switched their spots. All eyes were on the man of paragraphs.

'A baker murdered his son by boiling him in a copper,' said Mr. Bolton.

'A baker killed his son by boiling him in a copper pot,' said Mr. Bolton.

'Good heavens!' exclaimed everybody, in simultaneous horror.

"Good heavens!" everyone exclaimed in shock.

'Boiled him, gentlemen!' added Mr. Bolton, with the most effective emphasis; 'boiled him!'

'Boiled him, gentlemen!' Mr. Bolton added with strong emphasis; 'boiled him!'

'And the particulars, Mr. B.,' inquired the hairdresser, 'the particulars?'

'And the details, Mr. B.,' asked the hairdresser, 'the details?'

Mr. Bolton took a very long draught of porter, and some two or three dozen whiffs of tobacco, doubtless to instil into the commercial capacities of the company the superiority of a gentlemen connected with the press, and then said-

Mr. Bolton took a long drink of porter and had a couple of dozen puffs of tobacco, probably to impress the business minds in the company with the status of a gentleman connected to the press, and then said—

'The man was a baker, gentlemen.' (Every one looked at the baker present, who stared at Bolton.) 'His victim, being his son, also was necessarily the son of a baker. The wretched murderer had a wife, whom he was frequently in the habit, while in an intoxicated state, of kicking, pummelling, flinging mugs at, knocking down, and half-killing while in bed, by inserting in her mouth a considerable portion of a sheet or blanket.'

'The man was a baker, gentlemen.' (Everyone looked at the baker present, who stared at Bolton.) 'His victim, being his son, was also the son of a baker. The miserable murderer had a wife, whom he frequently abused while drunk, kicking, hitting, throwing mugs at, knocking down, and nearly killing in bed by stuffing a large piece of a sheet or blanket in her mouth.'

The speaker took another draught, everybody looked at everybody else, and exclaimed, 'Horrid!'

The speaker took another sip, everyone looked at each other and exclaimed, 'Gross!'

'It appears in evidence, gentlemen,' continued Mr. Bolton, 'that, on the evening of yesterday, Sawyer the baker came home in a reprehensible state of beer. Mrs. S., connubially considerate, carried him in that condition up-stairs into his chamber, and consigned him to their mutual couch. In a minute or two she lay sleeping beside the man whom the morrow's dawn beheld a murderer!' (Entire silence informed the reporter that his picture had attained the awful effect he desired.) 'The son came home about an hour afterwards, opened the door, and went up to bed. Scarcely (gentlemen, conceive his feelings of alarm), scarcely had he taken off his indescribables, when shrieks (to his experienced ear maternal shrieks) scared the silence of surrounding night. He put his indescribables on again, and ran down-stairs. He opened the door of the parental bed-chamber. His father was dancing upon his mother. What must have been his feelings! In the agony of the minute he rushed at his male parent as he was about to plunge a knife into the side of his female. The mother shrieked. The father caught the son (who had wrested the knife from the paternal grasp) up in his arms, carried him down-stairs, shoved him into a copper of boiling water among some linen, closed the lid, and jumped upon the top of it, in which position he was found with a ferocious countenance by the mother, who arrived in the melancholy wash-house just as he had so settled himself.

'It seems, gentlemen,' Mr. Bolton continued, 'that last night, Sawyer the baker came home in an unacceptable state of drunkenness. Mrs. S., being a considerate wife, helped him upstairs in that condition and put him to bed. In a minute or two, she was sleeping next to the man who would be revealed as a murderer at dawn!' (Complete silence signaled to the reporter that he had achieved the shocking effect he aimed for.) 'The son came home about an hour later, opened the door, and went to bed. Just imagine his feelings of fear; scarcely had he taken off his clothes when he heard screams (to his experienced ear, maternal screams) shatter the silence of the night. He quickly got dressed again and ran downstairs. He opened the door to his parents' bedroom. His father was on top of his mother. What must he have felt! In that moment of agony, he charged at his father as he was about to stab his mother. The mother screamed. The father grabbed the son (who had wrested the knife from his grasp), picked him up, rushed him downstairs, tossed him into a tub of boiling water with some laundry, closed the lid, and jumped on top of it, in which position he was found looking fierce by the mother, who arrived in the grim laundry room just as he had settled himself there.'

'"Where's my boy?" shrieked the mother.

'"Where's my son?" yelled the mother.

'"In that copper, boiling," coolly replied the benign father.

"In that boiling copper," the kind father replied calmly.

'Struck by the awful intelligence, the mother rushed from the house, and alarmed the neighbourhood. The police entered a minute afterwards. The father, having bolted the wash-house door, had bolted himself. They dragged the lifeless body of the boiled baker from the cauldron, and, with a promptitude commendable in men of their station, they immediately carried it to the station-house. Subsequently, the baker was apprehended while seated on the top of a lamp-post in Parliament Street, lighting his pipe.'

'Hit by the terrible news, the mother rushed out of the house and alerted the neighbors. The police arrived a minute later. The father, having locked the wash-house door, had locked himself in. They pulled the lifeless body of the boiled baker from the cauldron and, with commendable promptness for officers of their rank, took it straight to the station. Later, the baker was found sitting on top of a lamp post on Parliament Street, lighting his pipe.'

The whole horrible ideality of the Mysteries of Udolpho, condensed into the pithy effect of a ten-line paragraph, could not possibly have so affected the narrator's auditory. Silence, the purest and most noble of all kinds of applause, bore ample testimony to the barbarity of the baker, as well as to Bolton's knack of narration; and it was only broken after some minutes had elapsed by interjectional expressions of the intense indignation of every man present. The baker wondered how a British baker could so disgrace himself and the highly honourable calling to which he belonged; and the others indulged in a variety of wonderments connected with the subject; among which not the least wonderment was that which was awakened by the genius and information of Mr. Robert Bolton, who, after a glowing eulogium on himself, and his unspeakable influence with the daily press, was proceeding, with a most solemn countenance, to hear the pros and cons of the Pope autograph question, when I took up my hat, and left. FAMILIAR EPISTLE FROM A PARENT TO A CHILD aged two years and two months

The entire dreadful essence of the Mysteries of Udolpho, summed up in a powerful ten-line paragraph, could not have impacted the narrator's hearing as much. Silence, the purest and most admirable form of applause, clearly showed the baker's barbarity and Bolton's storytelling talent. It was only broken after a few minutes by the spontaneous expressions of intense outrage from everyone present. The baker was baffled by how a British baker could so disgrace himself and the respected profession he belonged to; the others expressed various thoughts related to the matter. Among these, the most notable was the awe inspired by Mr. Robert Bolton's brilliance and knowledge, who, after praising himself and his incredible influence on the daily press, was about to solemnly discuss the pros and cons of the Pope autograph question when I picked up my hat and left. FAMILIAR EPISTLE FROM A PARENT TO A CHILD aged two years and two months

My Child,

My Kid,

To recount with what trouble I have brought you up-with what an anxious eye I have regarded your progress,-how late and how often I have sat up at night working for you,-and how many thousand letters I have received from, and written to your various relations and friends, many of whom have been of a querulous and irritable turn,-to dwell on the anxiety and tenderness with which I have (as far as I possessed the power) inspected and chosen your food; rejecting the indigestible and heavy matter which some injudicious but well-meaning old ladies would have had you swallow, and retaining only those light and pleasant articles which I deemed calculated to keep you free from all gross humours, and to render you an agreeable child, and one who might be popular with society in general,-to dilate on the steadiness with which I have prevented your annoying any company by talking politics-always assuring you that you would thank me for it yourself some day when you grew older,-to expatiate, in short, upon my own assiduity as a parent, is beside my present purpose, though I cannot but contemplate your fair appearance-your robust health, and unimpeded circulation (which I take to be the great secret of your good looks) without the liveliest satisfaction and delight.

To share how much effort I’ve put into raising you—how closely I’ve watched your development—how late and often I’ve stayed up at night working for you—and how many thousands of letters I’ve received from and sent to your various relatives and friends, many of whom have been quite difficult and irritable—it’s unnecessary to dwell on the concern and care with which I’ve (as much as I could) selected your food; rejecting heavy and hard-to-digest items that some well-meaning but misguided older ladies insisted you eat, and keeping only the light and enjoyable options I believed would keep you free from bad humors and make you a pleasant child who could fit in well with society overall. It’s also not my intention to discuss how consistently I’ve prevented you from annoying others by talking about politics—always telling you that one day you’d appreciate it when you got older. In short, while I won’t elaborate on my dedication as a parent, I can’t help but feel immense satisfaction and joy when I see your cheerful appearance, good health, and smooth circulation (which I believe is the secret to your great looks).

It is a trite observation, and one which, young as you are, I have no doubt you have often heard repeated, that we have fallen upon strange times, and live in days of constant shiftings and changes. I had a melancholy instance of this only a week or two since. I was returning from Manchester to London by the Mail Train, when I suddenly fell into another train-a mixed train-of reflection, occasioned by the dejected and disconsolate demeanour of the Post-Office Guard. We were stopping at some station where they take in water, when he dismounted slowly from the little box in which he sits in ghastly mockery of his old condition with pistol and blunderbuss beside him, ready to shoot the first highwayman (or railwayman) who shall attempt to stop the horses, which now travel (when they travel at all) inside and in a portable stable invented for the purpose,-he dismounted, I say, slowly and sadly, from his post, and looking mournfully about him as if in dismal recollection of the old roadside public-house the blazing fire-the glass of foaming ale-the buxom handmaid and admiring hangers-on of tap-room and stable, all honoured by his notice; and, retiring a little apart, stood leaning against a signal-post, surveying the engine with a look of combined affliction and disgust which no words can describe. His scarlet coat and golden lace were tarnished with ignoble smoke; flakes of soot had fallen on his bright green shawl-his pride in days of yore-the steam condensed in the tunnel from which we had just emerged, shone upon his hat like rain. His eye betokened that he was thinking of the coachman; and as it wandered to his own seat and his own fast-fading garb, it was plain to see that he felt his office and himself had alike no business there, and were nothing but an elaborate practical joke.

It's a pretty common observation, and one that, despite your youth, I’m sure you’ve heard many times before, that we’re living in strange times, in an era of constant change. Just a week or two ago, I experienced a rather sad example of this. I was on the Mail Train, heading back from Manchester to London, when I suddenly started reflecting on things, inspired by the sad and hopeless demeanor of the Post-Office Guard. We had stopped at a station to take on water when he got off slowly from his little box, a grim reminder of his former role with a pistol and blunderbuss at his side, ready to take on the first highwayman (or railwayman) trying to stop the horses, which now travel (when they do at all) inside a portable stable designed for that purpose. He climbed down, I say, slowly and sadly from his post, looking around mournfully as if remembering the old roadside pub with its blazing fire, a glass of foaming ale, the cheerful barmaid, and the enthusiastic patrons—in short, everything that once caught his attention. Stepping aside a bit, he leaned against a signal post, gazing at the engine with an expression of deep grief and disgust that words can't quite capture. His bright red coat and gold trim were tarnished by the dirty smoke; flakes of soot had landed on his once-proud bright green shawl, and the steam from the tunnel we had just exited dripped on his hat like rain. His eyes showed he was thinking about the coachman, and as they drifted towards his own seat and quickly fading attire, it was clear he felt that both he and his role were out of place, as if they were nothing more than a cruel joke.

As we whirled away, I was led insensibly into an anticipation of those days to come, when mail-coach guards shall no longer be judges of horse- flesh-when a mail-coach guard shall never even have seen a horse-when stations shall have superseded stables, and corn shall have given place to coke. 'In those dawning times,' thought I, 'exhibition-rooms shall teem with portraits of Her Majesty's favourite engine, with boilers after Nature by future Landseers. Some Amburgh, yet unborn, shall break wild horses by his magic power; and in the dress of a mail-coach guard exhibit his trained animals in a mock mail-coach. Then, shall wondering crowds observe how that, with the exception of his whip, it is all his eye; and crowned heads shall see them fed on oats, and stand alone unmoved and undismayed, while counters flee affrighted when the coursers neigh!'

As we sped away, I found myself unknowingly looking forward to the days ahead when mail-coach guards won't judge horses anymore—when a mail-coach guard might never have even seen a horse—when stations will have replaced stables, and grain will have been swapped for coal. 'In those early times,' I thought, 'exhibition halls will be filled with portraits of Her Majesty's favorite engine, with boilers inspired by nature from future artists. Some yet-to-be-born magician will tame wild horses with his incredible skill; dressed as a mail-coach guard, he'll show off his trained animals in a mock mail-coach. Then, amazed crowds will see that, except for his whip, it's all about his gaze; and kings and queens will watch them being fed oats, standing calm and unbothered, while counters run away in fear when the horses neigh!'

Such, my child, were the reflections from which I was only awakened then, as I am now, by the necessity of attending to matters of present though minor importance. I offer no apology to you for the digression, for it brings me very naturally to the subject of change, which is the very subject of which I desire to treat.

Such, my child, were the thoughts that only pulled me away then, as they do now, by the need to focus on present matters, even if they seem minor. I don’t owe you an apology for this tangent, as it leads me seamlessly to the topic of change, which is what I really want to discuss.

In fact, my child, you have changed hands. Henceforth I resign you to the guardianship and protection of one of my most intimate and valued friends, Mr. Ainsworth, with whom, and with you, my best wishes and warmest feelings will ever remain. I reap no gain or profit by parting from you, nor will any conveyance of your property be required, for, in this respect, you have always been literally 'Bentley's' Miscellany, and never mine.

In fact, my child, you have changed hands. From now on, I am giving you over to the care and protection of one of my closest and most valued friends, Mr. Ainsworth, with whom, and with you, my best wishes and warmest feelings will always stay. I gain nothing from parting with you, nor will any transfer of your property be necessary, because, in this regard, you have always truly belonged to 'Bentley's' Miscellany, and never to me.

Unlike the driver of the old Manchester mail, I regard this altered state of things with feelings of unmingled pleasure and satisfaction.

Unlike the driver of the old Manchester mail, I view this changed situation with pure pleasure and satisfaction.

Unlike the guard of the new Manchester mail, your guard is at home in his new place, and has roystering highwaymen and gallant desperadoes ever within call. And if I might compare you, my child, to an engine; (not a Tory engine, nor a Whig engine, but a brisk and rapid locomotive;) your friends and patrons to passengers; and he who now stands towards you in loco parentis as the skilful engineer and supervisor of the whole, I would humbly crave leave to postpone the departure of the train on its new and auspicious course for one brief instant, while, with hat in hand, I approach side by side with the friend who travelled with me on the old road, and presume to solicit favour and kindness in behalf of him and his new charge, both for their sakes and that of the old coachman,

Unlike the guard of the new Manchester mail, your guard is settled in his new role, with rowdy highwaymen and daring outlaws always within reach. If I may liken you, my child, to a machine—(not a Tory machine, nor a Whig machine, but a lively and fast locomotive); your friends and supporters to passengers; and he who currently stands by you in loco parentis as the skilled engineer and overseer of it all, I would like to respectfully request a moment's pause before the train departs on its new and promising journey. I would like to approach, hat in hand, alongside the friend who traveled with me on the old road, and humbly ask for favor and kindness on behalf of him and his new charge, for their sakes and that of the old coachman.

Boz.

FOOTNOTES:

122 (return)
[ This paper was written before the practice of exhibiting Members of Parliament, like other curiosities, for the small charge of half-a-crown, was abolished.]

122 (return)
[ This paper was written before the practice of showcasing Members of Parliament, like other curiosities, for a small fee of two shillings and sixpence, was ended.]

161 (return)
[ The regulations of the prison relative to the confinement of prisoners during the day, their sleeping at night, their taking their meals, and other matters of gaol economy, have been all altered-greatly for the better-since this sketch was first published. Even the construction of the prison itself has been changed.]

161 (return)
[ The rules of the prison regarding how prisoners are confined during the day, their sleeping arrangements at night, mealtimes, and other aspects of prison management have all been significantly improved since this account was first published. Even the design of the prison itself has been modified.]

165 (return)
[ These two men were executed shortly afterwards. The other was respited during his Majesty's pleasure.]

165 (return)
[ These two men were executed soon after. The other was given a reprieve at the king's discretion.]

429 (return)
[ [In its original form.]

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CONTENTS

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TABLES OF CONTENTS OF VOLUMES

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

In Prose, Being A Ghost Story Of Christmas

By Charles Dickens

With Illustrations By John Leech

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

A TALE OF TWO CITIES

A Story Of The French Revolution

By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

MASTER HUMPHREY’S CLOCK

By Charles Dickens

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

AND PICTURES FROM ITALY

By Charles Dickens

With 8 Illustrations By Marcus Stone

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

AMERICAN NOTES FOR GENERAL CIRCULATION

By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP

By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

DAVID COPPERFIELD

By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

HARD TIMES

By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

DOMBEY AND SON

By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

REPRINTED PIECES

By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

OUR MUTUAL FRIEND

Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

THE MUDFOG AND OTHER SKETCHES

By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER

By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

SKETCHES OF YOUNG COUPLES

By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

BARNABY RUDGE

A Tale Of The Riots Of ‘Eighty by Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

SKETCHES OF YOUNG GENTLEMEN

By By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

LITTLE DORRIT,

by Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF NICHOLAS NICKLEBY,

by Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT

by Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

BLEAK HOUSE

By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

THREE GHOST STORIES

By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

GREAT EXPECTATIONS

[1867 Edition]

by Charles Dickens

Click on the ## before each title to view a linked
table of contents for each of the twelve volumes.

A Tale Of The Riots Of ‘Eighty

by Charles Dickens

LIFE AND ADVENTURES
OF MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT