Reprinted Pieces ..................................................................................................................................................1

Charles Dickens.......................................................................................................................................1

THE LONG VOYAGE ............................................................................................................................1

THE BEGGINGLETTER WRITER.....................................................................................................6

A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR ........................................................................................................10

OUR ENGLISH WATERINGPLACE ................................................................................................12

OUR FRENCH WATERINGPLACE.................................................................................................17

BILLSTICKING ..................................................................................................................................23

'BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON ....................................................................................................30

LYING AWAKE...................................................................................................................................33

THE GHOST OF ART..........................................................................................................................36

'I'LL GROW ONE. AND, MARK MY WORDS, IT SHALL HAUNT YOU!'..................................39

OUT OF TOWN....................................................................................................................................41

OUT OF THE SEASON ........................................................................................................................44

A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT..............................................................................................49

THE NOBLE SAVAGE........................................................................................................................52

A FLIGHT.............................................................................................................................................55

THE DETECTIVE POLICE ..................................................................................................................60

THREE 'DETECTIVE' ANECDOTES.................................................................................................70

ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD...............................................................................................75

DOWN WITH THE TIDE .....................................................................................................................82

A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE ............................................................................................................87

PRINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE ........................................................................................................92

A PLATED ARTICLE..........................................................................................................................94

OUR HONOURABLE FRIEND...........................................................................................................99

OUR SCHOOL....................................................................................................................................102

OUR VESTRY....................................................................................................................................106

MEN OF MOONEYMOUNT.............................................................................................................106

A FELLOW PARISHIONER. .............................................................................................................106

OUR BORE.........................................................................................................................................109

A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.............................................................................................113

WHEN the wind is blowing and the sleet or rain is driving against the dark windows, I love to sit by the fire,

thinking of what I have read in books of voyage and travel. Such books have had a strong fascination for my

mind from my earliest childhood; and I wonder it should have come to pass that I never have been round the

Sitting on my ruddy hearth in the twilight of New Year's Eve, I find incidents of travel rise around me from

all the latitudes and longitudes of the globe. They observe no order or sequence, but appear and vanish as

they will 'come like shadows, so depart.' Columbus, alone upon the sea with his disaffected crew, looks

over the waste of waters from his high station on the poop of his ship, and sees the first uncertain glimmer of

the light, 'rising and falling with the waves, like a torch in the bark of some fisherman,' which is the shining

star of a new world. Bruce is caged in Abyssinia, surrounded by the gory horrors which shall often startle him

out of his sleep at home when years have passed away. Franklin, come to the end of his unhappy overland

journey would that it had been his last! lies perishing of hunger with his brave companions: each

emaciated figure stretched upon its miserable bed without the power to rise: all, dividing the weary days

between their prayers, their remembrances of the dear ones at home, and conversation on the pleasures of

eating; the lastnamed topic being ever present to them, likewise, in their dreams. All the African travellers,

wayworn, solitary and sad, submit themselves again to drunken, murderous, manselling despots, of the

lowest order of humanity; and Mungo Park, fainting under a tree and succoured by a woman, gratefully

remembers how his Good Samaritan has always come to him in woman's shape, the wide world over.

A shadow on the wall in which my mind's eye can discern some traces of a rocky seacoast, recalls to me a

fearful story of travel derived from that unpromising narrator of such stories, a parliamentary bluebook. A

convict is its chief figure, and this man escapes with other prisoners from a penal settlement. It is an island,

and they seize a boat, and get to the main land. Their way is by a rugged and precipitous seashore, and they

have no earthly hope of ultimate escape, for the party of soldiers despatched by an easier course to cut them

off, must inevitably arrive at their distant bourne long before them, and retake them if by any hazard they

survive the horrors of the way. Famine, as they all must have foreseen, besets them early in their course.

Some of the party die and are eaten; some are murdered by the rest and eaten. This one awful creature eats his

fill, and sustains his strength, and lives on to be recaptured and taken back. The unrelateable experiences

through which he has passed have been so tremendous, that he is not hanged as he might be, but goes back to

his old chainedgang work. A little time, and he tempts one other prisoner away, seizes another boat, and

flies once more necessarily in the old hopeless direction, for he can take no other. He is soon cut off, and

met by the pursuing party face to face, upon the beach. He is alone. In his former journey he acquired an

inappeasable relish for his dreadful food. He urged the new man away, expressly to kill him and eat him. In

the pockets on one side of his coarse convict dress, are portions of the man's body, on which he is regaling;

in the pockets on the other side is an untouched store of salted pork (stolen before he left the island) for which

he has no appetite. He is taken back, and he is hanged. But I shall never see that seabeach on the wall or in

the fire, without him, solitary monster, eating as he prowls along, while the sea rages and rises at him.

Captain Bligh (a worse man to be entrusted with arbitrary power there could scarcely be) is handed over the

side of the Bounty, and turned adrift on the wide ocean in an open boat, by order of Fletcher Christian, one of

his officers, at this very minute. Another flash of my fire, and 'Thursday October Christian,' five andtwenty

years of age, son of the dead and gone Fletcher by a savage mother, leaps aboard His Majesty's ship Briton,

hoveto off Pitcairn's Island; says his simple grace before eating, in good English; and knows that a pretty

little animal on board is called a dog, because in his childhood he had heard of such strange creatures from

his father and the other mutineers, grown grey under the shade of the breadfruit trees, speaking of their lost

See the Halsewell, East Indiaman outward bound, driving madly on a January night towards the rocks near

Seacombe, on the island of Purbeck! The captain's two dear daughters are aboard, and five other ladies. The

ship has been driving many hours, has seven feet water in her hold, and her mainmast has been cut away. The

description of her loss, familiar to me from my early boyhood, seems to be read aloud as she rushes to her

'About two in the morning of Friday the sixth of January, the ship still driving, and approaching very fast to

the shore, Mr. Henry Meriton, the second mate, went again into the cuddy, where the captain then was.

Another conversation taking place, Captain Pierce expressed extreme anxiety for the preservation of his

beloved daughters, and earnestly asked the officer if he could devise any method of saving them. On his

answering with great concern, that he feared it would be impossible, but that their only chance would be to

wait for morning, the captain lifted up his hands in silent and distressful ejaculation.

'At this dreadful moment, the ship struck, with such violence as to dash the heads of those standing in the

cuddy against the deck above them, and the shock was accompanied by a shriek of horror that burst at one

'Many of the seamen, who had been remarkably inattentive and remiss in their duty during great part of the

storm, now poured upon deck, where no exertions of the officers could keep them, while their assistance

might have been useful. They had actually skulked in their hammocks, leaving the working of the pumps and

other necessary labours to the officers of the ship, and the soldiers, who had made uncommon exertions.

Roused by a sense of their danger, the same seamen, at this moment, in frantic exclamations, demanded of

heaven and their fellowsufferers that succour which their own efforts, timely made, might possibly have

'The ship continued to beat on the rocks; and soon bilging, fell with her broadside towards the shore. When

she struck, a number of the men climbed up the ensignstaff, under an apprehension of her immediately

'Mr. Meriton, at this crisis, offered to these unhappy beings the best advice which could be given; he

recommended that all should come to the side of the ship lying lowest on the rocks, and singly to take the

'Having thus provided, to the utmost of his power, for the safety of the desponding crew, he returned to the

roundhouse, where, by this time, all the passengers and most of the officers had assembled. The latter were

employed in offering consolation to the unfortunate ladies; and, with unparalleled magnanimity, suffering

their compassion for the fair and amiable companions of their misfortunes to prevail over the sense of their

'In this charitable work of comfort, Mr. Meriton now joined, by assurances of his opinion, that, the ship

would hold together till the morning, when all would be safe. Captain Pierce, observing one of the young

gentlemen loud in his exclamations of terror, and frequently cry that the ship was parting, cheerfully bid him

be quiet, remarking that though the ship should go to pieces, he would not, but would be safe enough.

'It is difficult to convey a correct idea of the scene of this deplorable catastrophe, without describing the place

where it happened. The Haleswell struck on the rocks at a part of the shore where the cliff is of vast height,

and rises almost perpendicular from its base. But at this particular spot, the foot of the cliff is excavated into a

cavern of ten or twelve yards in depth, and of breadth equal to the length of a large ship. The sides of the

cavern are so nearly upright, as to be of extremely difficult access; and the bottom is strewed with sharp and

uneven rocks, which seem, by some convulsion of the earth, to have been detached from its roof.

'The ship lay with her broadside opposite to the mouth of this cavern, with her whole length stretched almost

from side to side of it. But when she struck, it was too dark for the unfortunate persons on board to discover

'In addition to the company already in the roundhouse, they had admitted three black women and two

soldiers' wives; who, with the husband of one of them, had been allowed to come in, though the seamen, who

had tumultuously demanded entrance to get the lights, had been opposed and kept out by Mr. Rogers and Mr.

Brimer, the third and fifth mates. The numbers there were, therefore, now increased to near fifty. Captain

Pierce sat on a chair, a cot, or some other moveable, with a daughter on each side, whom he alternately

pressed to his affectionate breast. The rest of the melancholy assembly were seated on the deck, which was

strewed with musical instruments, and the wreck of furniture and other articles.

'Here also Mr. Meriton, after having cut several waxcandles in pieces, and stuck them up in various parts of

the roundhouse, and lighted up all the glass lanthorns he could find, took his seat, intending to wait the

approach of dawn; and then assist the partners of his dangers to escape. But, observing that the poor ladies

appeared parched and exhausted, he brought a basket of oranges and prevailed on some of them to refresh

themselves by sucking a little of the juice. At this time they were all tolerably composed, except Miss

'But on Mr. Meriton's return to the company, he perceived a considerable alteration in the appearance of the

ship; the sides were visibly giving way; the deck seemed to be lifting, and he discovered other strong

indications that she could not hold much longer together. On this account, he attempted to go forward to look

out, but immediately saw that the ship had separated in the middle, and that the forepart having changed its

position, lay rather further out towards the sea. In such an emergency, when the next moment might plunge

him into eternity, he determined to seize the present opportunity, and follow the example of the crew and the

soldiers, who were now quitting the ship in numbers, and making their way to the shore, though quite

'Among other expedients, the ensignstaff had been unshipped, and attempted to be laid between the ship's

side and some of the rocks, but without success, for it snapped asunder before it reached them. However, by

the light of a lanthorn, which a seaman handed through the skylight of the roundhouse to the deck, Mr.

Meriton discovered a spar which appeared to be laid from the ship's side to the rocks, and on this spar he

'Accordingly, lying down upon it, he thrust himself forward; however, he soon found that it had no

communication with the rock; he reached the end of it, and then slipped off, receiving a very violent bruise in

his fall, and before he could recover his legs, he was washed off by the surge. He now supported himself by

swimming, until a returning wave dashed him against the back part of the cavern. Here he laid hold of a small

projection in the rock, but was so much benumbed that he was on the point of quitting it, when a seaman,

who had already gained a footing, extended his hand, and assisted him until he could secure himself a little on

the rock; from which he clambered on a shelf still higher, and out of the reach of the surf.

'Mr. Rogers, the third mate, remained with the captain and the unfortunate ladies and their companions nearly

twenty minutes after Mr. Meriton had quitted the ship. Soon after the latter left the roundhouse, the captain

asked what was become of him, to which Mr. Rogers replied, that he was gone on deck to see what could be

done. After this, a heavy sea breaking over the ship, the ladies exclaimed, "Oh, poor Meriton! he is drowned;

had he stayed with us he would have been safe!" and they all, particularly Miss Mary Pierce, expressed great

'The sea was now breaking in at the fore part of the ship, and reached as far as the mainmast. Captain Pierce

gave Mr. Rogers a nod, and they took a lamp and went together into the sterngallery, where, after viewing

the rocks for some time, Captain Pierce asked Mr. Rogers if he thought there was any possibility of saving

the girls; to which he replied, he feared there was none; for they could only discover the black face of the

perpendicular rock, and not the cavern which afforded shelter to those who escaped. They then returned to the

roundhouse, where Mr. Rogers hung up the lamp, and Captain Pierce sat down between his two daughters.

'The sea continuing to break in very fast, Mr. Macmanus, a midshipman, and Mr. Schutz, a passenger, asked

Mr. Rogers what they could do to escape. "Follow me," he replied, and they all went into the sterngallery,

and from thence to the upperquarter gallery on the poop. While there, a very heavy sea fell on board, and

the roundhouse gave way; Mr. Rogers heard the ladies shriek at intervals, as if the water reached them; the

'Mr. Brimer had followed him to the poop, where they remained together about five minutes, when on the

breaking of this heavy sea, they jointly seized a hencoop. The same wave which proved fatal to some of

those below, carried him and his companion to the rock, on which they were violently dashed and miserably

'Here on the rock were twentyseven men; but it now being low water, and as they were convinced that on

the flowing of the tide all must be washed off, many attempted to get to the back or the sides of the cavern,

beyond the reach of the returning sea. Scarcely more than six, besides Mr. Rogers and Mr. Brimer,

'Mr. Rogers, on gaining this station, was so nearly exhausted, that had his exertions been protracted only a

few minutes longer, he must have sunk under them. He was now prevented from joining Mr. Meriton, by at

least twenty men between them, none of whom could move, without the imminent peril of his life.

'They found that a very considerable number of the crew, seamen and soldiers, and some petty officers, were

in the same situation as themselves, though many who had reached the rocks below, perished in attempting to

ascend. They could yet discern some part of the ship, and in their dreary station solaced themselves with the

hopes of its remaining entire until daybreak; for, in the midst of their own distress, the sufferings of the

females on board affected them with the most poignant anguish; and every sea that broke inspired them with

'But, alas, their apprehensions were too soon realised! Within a very few minutes of the time that Mr. Rogers

gained the rock, an universal shriek, which long vibrated in their ears, in which the voice of female distress

was lamentably distinguished, announced the dreadful catastrophe. In a few moments all was hushed, except

the roaring of the winds and the dashing of the waves; the wreck was buried in the deep, and not an atom of it

The most beautiful and affecting incident I know, associated with a shipwreck, succeeds this dismal story for

a winter night. The Grosvenor, East Indiaman, homeward bound, goes ashore on the coast of Caffraria. It is

resolved that the officers, passengers, and crew, in number one hundred and thirtyfive souls, shall

endeavour to penetrate on foot, across trackless deserts, infested by wild beasts and cruel savages, to the

Dutch settlements at the Cape of Good Hope. With this forlorn object before them, they finally separate into

There is a solitary child among the passengers a little boy of seven years old who has no relation there; and

when the first party is moving away he cries after some member of it who has been kind to him. The crying

of a child might be supposed to be a little thing to men in such great extremity; but it touches them, and he is

From which time forth, this child is sublimely made a sacred charge. He is pushed, on a little raft, across

broad rivers by the swimming sailors; they carry him by turns through the deep sand and long grass (he

patiently walking at all other times); they share with him such putrid fish as they find to eat; they lie down

and wait for him when the rough carpenter, who becomes his especial friend, lags behind. Beset by lions and

tigers, by savages, by thirst, by hunger, by death in a crowd of ghastly shapes, they never O Father of all

mankind, thy name be blessed for it! forget this child. The captain stops exhausted, and his faithful

coxswain goes back and is seen to sit down by his side, and neither of the two shall be any more beheld until

the great last day; but, as the rest go on for their lives, they take the child with them. The carpenter dies of

poisonous berries eaten in starvation; and the steward, succeeding to the command of the party, succeeds to

God knows all he does for the poor baby; how he cheerfully carries him in his arms when he himself is weak

and ill; how he feeds him when he himself is griped with want; how he folds his ragged jacket round him,

lays his little worn face with a woman's tenderness upon his sunburnt breast, soothes him in his sufferings,

sings to him as he limps along, unmindful of his own parched and bleeding feet. Divided for a few days from

the rest, they dig a grave in the sand and bury their good friend the cooper these two companions alone in

the wilderness and then the time comes when they both are ill, and beg their wretched partners in despair,

reduced and few in number now, to wait by them one day. They wait by them one day, they wait by them two

days. On the morning of the third, they move very softly about, in making their preparations for the

resumption of their journey; for, the child is sleeping by the fire, and it is agreed with one consent that he

shall not be disturbed until the last moment. The moment comes, the fire is dying and the child is dead.

His faithful friend, the steward, lingers but a little while behind him. His grief is great, he staggers on for a

few days, lies down in the desert, and dies. But he shall be reunited in his immortal spirit who can doubt

it! with the child, when he and the poor carpenter shall be raised up with the words, 'Inasmuch as ye have

As I recall the dispersal and disappearance of nearly all the participators in this once famous shipwreck (a

mere handful being recovered at last), and the legends that were long afterwards revived from time to time

among the English officers at the Cape, of a white woman with an infant, said to have been seen weeping

outside a savage hut far in the interior, who was whisperingly associated with the remembrance of the

missing ladies saved from the wrecked vessel, and who was often sought but never found, thoughts of another

Thoughts of a voyager unexpectedly summoned from home, who travelled a vast distance, and could never

return. Thoughts of this unhappy wayfarer in the depths of his sorrow, in the bitterness of his anguish, in the

helplessness of his self reproach, in the desperation of his desire to set right what he had left wrong, and do

For, there were many, many things he had neglected. Little matters while he was at home and surrounded by

them, but things of mighty moment when he was at an immeasurable distance. There were many many

blessings that he had inadequately felt, there were many trivial injuries that he had not forgiven, there was

love that he had but poorly returned, there was friendship that he had too lightly prized: there were a million

kind words that he might have spoken, a million kind looks that he might have given, uncountable slight easy

deeds in which he might have been most truly great and good. O for a day (he would exclaim), for but one

day to make amends! But the sun never shone upon that happy day, and out of his remote captivity he never

Why does this traveller's fate obscure, on New Year's Eve, the other histories of travellers with which my

mind was filled but now, and cast a solemn shadow over me! Must I one day make his journey? Even so.

Who shall say, that I may not then be tortured by such late regrets: that I may not then look from my exile on

my empty place and undone work? I stand upon a seashore, where the waves are years. They break and fall,

and I may little heed them; but, with every wave the sea is rising, and I know that it will float me on this

THE amount of money he annually diverts from wholesome and useful purposes in the United Kingdom,

would be a setoff against the Window Tax. He is one of the most shameless frauds and impositions of this

time. In his idleness, his mendacity, and the immeasurable harm he does to the deserving, dirtying the

stream of true benevolence, and muddling the brains of foolish justices, with inability to distinguish between

the base coin of distress, and the true currency we have always among us, he is more worthy of Norfolk

Island than threefourths of the worst characters who are sent there. Under any rational system, he would

I, the writer of this paper, have been, for some time, a chosen receiver of Begging Letters. For fourteen years,

my house has been made as regular a Receiving House for such communications as any one of the great

branch PostOffices is for general correspondence. I ought to know something of the BeggingLetter Writer.

He has besieged my door at all hours of the day and night; he has fought my servant; he has lain in ambush

for me, going out and coming in; he has followed me out of town into the country; he has appeared at

provincial hotels, where I have been staying for only a few hours; he has written to me from immense

distances, when I have been out of England. He has fallen sick; he has died and been buried; he has come to

life again, and again departed from this transitory scene: he has been his own son, his own mother, his own

baby, his idiot brother, his uncle, his aunt, his aged grandfather. He has wanted a greatcoat, to go to India in;

a pound to set him up in life for ever; a pair of boots to take him to the coast of China; a hat to get him into a

permanent situation under Government. He has frequently been exactly sevenandsixpence short of

independence. He has had such openings at Liverpool posts of great trust and confidence in merchants'

houses, which nothing but sevenand sixpence was wanting to him to secure that I wonder he is not

The natural phenomena of which he has been the victim, are of a most astounding nature. He has had two

children who have never grown up; who have never had anything to cover them at night; who have been

continually driving him mad, by asking in vain for food; who have never come out of fevers and measles

(which, I suppose, has accounted for his fuming his letters with tobacco smoke, as a disinfectant); who have

never changed in the least degree through fourteen long revolving years. As to his wife, what that suffering

woman has undergone, nobody knows. She has always been in an interesting situation through the same long

period, and has never been confined yet. His devotion to her has been unceasing. He has never cared for

himself; HE could have perished he would rather, in short but was it not his Christian duty as a man, a

husband, and a father, to write begging letters when he looked at her? (He has usually remarked that he

He has been the sport of the strangest misfortunes. What his brother has done to him would have broken

anybody else's heart. His brother went into business with him, and ran away with the money; his brother got

him to be security for an immense sum and left him to pay it; his brother would have given him employment

to the tune of hundreds ayear, if he would have consented to write letters on a Sunday; his brother

enunciated principles incompatible with his religious views, and he could not (in consequence) permit his

brother to provide for him. His landlord has never shown a spark of human feeling. When he put in that

execution I don't know, but he has never taken it out. The broker's man has grown grey in possession. They

He has been attached to every conceivable pursuit. He has been in the army, in the navy, in the church, in the

law; connected with the press, the fine arts, public institutions, every description and grade of business. He

has been brought up as a gentleman; he has been at every college in Oxford and Cambridge; he can quote

Latin in his letters (but generally misspells some minor English word); he can tell you what Shakespeare says

about begging, better than you know it. It is to be observed, that in the midst of his afflictions he always reads

the newspapers; and rounds off his appeal with some allusion, that may be supposed to be in my way, to the

His life presents a series of inconsistencies. Sometimes he has never written such a letter before. He blushes

with shame. That is the first time; that shall be the last. Don't answer it, and let it be understood that, then, he

will kill himself quietly. Sometimes (and more frequently) he HAS written a few such letters. Then he

encloses the answers, with an intimation that they are of inestimable value to him, and a request that they may

be carefully returned. He is fond of enclosing something verses, letters, pawnbrokers' duplicates, anything

to necessitate an answer. He is very severe upon 'the pampered minion of fortune,' who refused him the

He writes in a variety of styles; sometimes in low spirits; sometimes quite jocosely. When he is in low spirits

he writes downhill and repeats words these little indications being expressive of the perturbation of his

mind. When he is more vivacious, he is frank with me; he is quite the agreeable rattle. I know what human

nature is, who better? Well! He had a little money once, and he ran through it as many men have done

before him. He finds his old friends turn away from him now many men have done that before him too!

Shall he tell me why he writes to me? Because he has no kind of claim upon me. He puts it on that ground

plainly; and begs to ask for the loan (as I know human nature) of two sovereigns, to be repaid next Tuesday

Sometimes, when he is sure that I have found him out, and that there is no chance of money, he writes to

inform me that I have got rid of him at last. He has enlisted into the Company's service, and is off directly

but he wants a cheese. He is informed by the serjeant that it is essential to his prospects in the regiment that

he should take out a single Gloucester cheese, weighing from twelve to fifteen pounds. Eight or nine shillings

would buy it. He does not ask for money, after what has passed; but if he calls at nine, tomorrow morning

may he hope to find a cheese? And is there anything he can do to show his gratitude in Bengal?

Once he wrote me rather a special letter, proposing relief in kind. He had got into a little trouble by leaving

parcels of mud done up in brown paper, at people's houses, on pretence of being a Railway Porter, in which

character he received carriage money. This sportive fancy he expiated in the House of Correction. Not long

after his release, and on a Sunday morning, he called with a letter (having first dusted himself all over), in

which he gave me to understand that, being resolved to earn an honest livelihood, he had been travelling

about the country with a cart of crockery. That he had been doing pretty well until the day before, when his

horse had dropped down dead near Chatham, in Kent. That this had reduced him to the unpleasant necessity

of getting into the shafts himself, and drawing the cart of crockery to London a somewhat exhausting pull

of thirty miles. That he did not venture to ask again for money; but that if I would have the goodness TO

At another time my friend (I am describing actual experiences) introduced himself as a literary gentleman in

the last extremity of distress. He had had a play accepted at a certain Theatre which was really open; its

representation was delayed by the indisposition of a leading actor who was really ill; and he and his were in

a state of absolute starvation. If he made his necessities known to the Manager of the Theatre, he put it to me

to say what kind of treatment he might expect? Well! we got over that difficulty to our mutual satisfaction. A

little while afterwards he was in some other strait. I think Mrs. Southcote, his wife, was in extremity and we

adjusted that point too. A little while afterwards he had taken a new house, and was going headlong to ruin

for want of a waterbutt. I had my misgivings about the water butt, and did not reply to that epistle. But a

little while afterwards, I had reason to feel penitent for my neglect. He wrote me a few brokenhearted lines,

informing me that the dear partner of his sorrows died in his arms last night at nine o'clock!

I despatched a trusty messenger to comfort the bereaved mourner and his poor children; but the messenger

went so soon, that the play was not ready to be played out; my friend was not at home, and his wife was in a

most delightful state of health. He was taken up by the Mendicity Society (informally it afterwards appeared),

and I presented myself at a London PoliceOffice with my testimony against him. The Magistrate was

wonderfully struck by his educational acquirements, deeply impressed by the excellence of his letters,

exceedingly sorry to see a man of his attainments there, complimented him highly on his powers of

composition, and was quite charmed to have the agreeable duty of discharging him. A collection was made

for the 'poor fellow,' as he was called in the reports, and I left the court with a comfortable sense of being

universally regarded as a sort of monster. Next day comes to me a friend of mine, the governor of a large

prison. 'Why did you ever go to the PoliceOffice against that man,' says he, 'without coming to me first? I

know all about him and his frauds. He lodged in the house of one of my warders, at the very time when he

first wrote to you; and then he was eating springlamb at eighteenpence a pound, and early asparagus at I

don't know how much a bundle!' On that very same day, and in that very same hour, my injured gentleman

wrote a solemn address to me, demanding to know what compensation I proposed to make him for his having

passed the night in a 'loathsome dungeon.' And next morning an Irish gentleman, a member of the same

fraternity, who had read the case, and was very well persuaded I should be chary of going to that

PoliceOffice again, positively refused to leave my door for less than a sovereign, and, resolved to besiege

me into compliance, literally 'sat down' before it for ten mortal hours. The garrison being well provisioned, I

remained within the walls; and he raised the siege at midnight with a prodigious alarum on the bell.

The BeggingLetter Writer often has an extensive circle of acquaintance. Whole pages of the 'Court Guide'

are ready to be references for him. Noblemen and gentlemen write to say there never was such a man for

probity and virtue. They have known him time out of mind, and there is nothing they wouldn't do for him.

Somehow, they don't give him that one pound ten he stands in need of; but perhaps it is not enough they

want to do more, and his modesty will not allow it. It is to be remarked of his trade that it is a very fascinating

one. He never leaves it; and those who are near to him become smitten with a love of it, too, and sooner or

later set up for themselves. He employs a messenger man, woman, or child. That messenger is certain

ultimately to become an independent BeggingLetter Writer. His sons and daughters succeed to his calling,

and write beggingletters when he is no more. He throws off the infection of beggingletter writing, like the

contagion of disease. What Sydney Smith so happily called 'the dangerous luxury of dishonesty' is more

He always belongs to a CorrespondingSociety of BeggingLetter Writers. Any one who will, may ascertain

this fact. Give money today in recognition of a beggingletter, no matter how unlike a common

beggingletter, and for the next fortnight you will have a rush of such communications. Steadily refuse to

give; and the beggingletters become Angels' visits, until the Society is from some cause or other in a dull

way of business, and may as well try you as anybody else. It is of little use inquiring into the BeggingLetter

Writer's circumstances. He may be sometimes accidentally found out, as in the case already mentioned

(though that was not the first inquiry made); but apparent misery is always a part of his trade, and real misery

very often is, in the intervals of springlamb and early asparagus. It is naturally an incident of his dissipated

That the calling is a successful one, and that large sums of money are gained by it, must be evident to

anybody who reads the Police Reports of such cases. But, prosecutions are of rare occurrence, relatively to

the extent to which the trade is carried on. The cause of this is to be found (as no one knows better than the

BeggingLetter Writer, for it is a part of his speculation) in the aversion people feel to exhibit themselves as

having been imposed upon, or as having weakly gratified their consciences with a lazy, flimsy substitute for

the noblest of all virtues. There is a man at large, at the moment when this paper is preparing for the press (on

the 29th of April, 1850), and never once taken up yet, who, within these twelvemonths, has been probably the

most audacious and the most successful swindler that even this trade has ever known. There has been

something singularly base in this fellow's proceedings; it has been his business to write to all sorts and

conditions of people, in the names of persons of high reputation and unblemished honour, professing to be in

distress the general admiration and respect for whom has ensured a ready and generous reply.

Now, in the hope that the results of the real experience of a real person may do something more to induce

reflection on this subject than any abstract treatise and with a personal knowledge of the extent to which the

BeggingLetter Trade has been carried on for some time, and has been for some time constantly increasing

the writer of this paper entreats the attention of his readers to a few concluding words. His experience is a

type of the experience of many; some on a smaller, some on an infinitely larger scale. All may judge of the

Long doubtful of the efficacy of such assistance in any case whatever, and able to recall but one, within his

whole individual knowledge, in which he had the least afterreason to suppose that any good was done by it,

he was led, last autumn, into some serious considerations. The beggingletters flying about by every post,

made it perfectly manifest that a set of lazy vagabonds were interposed between the general desire to do

something to relieve the sickness and misery under which the poor were suffering, and the suffering poor

themselves. That many who sought to do some little to repair the social wrongs, inflicted in the way of

preventible sickness and death upon the poor, were strengthening those wrongs, however innocently, by

wasting money on pestilent knaves cumbering society. That imagination, soberly following one of these

knaves into his life of punishment in jail, and comparing it with the life of one of these poor in a cholera

stricken alley, or one of the children of one of these poor, soothed in its dying hour by the late lamented Mr.

Drouet, contemplated a grim farce, impossible to be presented very much longer before God or man. That

the crowning miracle of all the miracles summed up in the New Testament, after the miracle of the blind

seeing, and the lame walking, and the restoration of the dead to life, was the miracle that the poor had the

Gospel preached to them. That while the poor were unnaturally and unnecessarily cut off by the thousand, in

the prematurity of their age, or in the rottenness of their youth for of flower or blossom such youth has none

the Gospel was NOT preached to them, saving in hollow and unmeaning voices. That of all wrongs, this

was the first mighty wrong the Pestilence warned us to set right. And that no Post Office Order to any

amount, given to a BeggingLetter Writer for the quieting of an uneasy breast, would be presentable on the

The poor never write these letters. Nothing could be more unlike their habits. The writers are public robbers;

and we who support them are parties to their depredations. They trade upon every circumstance within their

knowledge that affects us, public or private, joyful or sorrowful; they pervert the lessons of our lives; they

change what ought to be our strength and virtue into weakness, and encouragement of vice. There is a plain

remedy, and it is in our own hands. We must resolve, at any sacrifice of feeling, to be deaf to such appeals,

There are degrees in murder. Life must be held sacred among us in more ways than one sacred, not merely

from the murderous weapon, or the subtle poison, or the cruel blow, but sacred from preventible diseases,

distortions, and pains. That is the first great end we have to set against this miserable imposition. Physical life

respected, moral life comes next. What will not content a BeggingLetter Writer for a week, would educate a

score of children for a year. Let us give all we can; let us give more than ever. Let us do all we can; let us do

more than ever. But let us give, and do, with a high purpose; not to endow the scum of the earth, to its own

THERE was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and thought of a number of things. He had a

sister, who was a child too, and his constant companion. These two used to wonder all day long. They

wondered at the beauty of the flowers; they wondered at the height and blueness of the sky; they wondered at

the depth of the bright water; they wondered at the goodness and the power of GOD who made the lovely

They used to say to one another, sometimes, Supposing all the children upon earth were to die, would the

flowers, and the water, and the sky be sorry? They believed they would be sorry. For, said they, the buds are

the children of the flowers, and the little playful streams that gambol down the hillsides are the children of

the water; and the smallest bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night, must surely be the

children of the stars; and they would all be grieved to see their playmates, the children of men, no more.

There was one clear shining star that used to come out in the sky before the rest, near the church spire, above

the graves. It was larger and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night they watched

for it, standing hand in hand at a window. Whoever saw it first cried out, 'I see the star!' And often they cried

out both together, knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So they grew to be such friends with it,

that, before lying down in their beds, they always looked out once again, to bid it good night; and when they

But while she was still very young, oh, very, very young, the sister drooped, and came to be so weak that she

could no longer stand in the window at night; and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and when he

saw the star, turned round and said to the patient pale face on the bed, 'I see the star!' and then a smile would

come upon the face, and a little weak voice used to say, 'God bless my brother and the star!'

And so the time came all too soon! when the child looked out alone, and when there was no face on the bed;

and when there was a little grave among the graves, not there before; and when the star made long rays down

Now, these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a shining way from earth to Heaven, that

when the child went to his solitary bed, he dreamed about the star; and dreamed that, lying where he was, he

saw a train of people taken up that sparkling road by angels. And the star, opening, showed him a great world

All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon the people who were carried up into the

star; and some came out from the long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's necks, and kissed

them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of light, and were so happy in their company, that

But, there were many angels who did not go with them, and among them one he knew. The patient face that

once had lain upon the bed was glorified and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all the host.

His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to the leader among those who had brought

She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his arms, and cried, 'O, sister, I am here! Take

me!' and then she turned her beaming eyes upon him, and it was night; and the star was shining into the room,

From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as on the home he was to go to, when his time should

come; and he thought that he did not belong to the earth alone, but to the star too, because of his sister's angel

There was a baby born to be a brother to the child; and while he was so little that he never yet had spoken

Again the child dreamed of the open star, and of the company of angels, and the train of people, and the rows

As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he cried, 'O, sister, I am here! Take me!' And she turned

He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books when an old servant came to him and said:

Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said his sister's angel to the leader.

A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the mother was reunited to her two children.

And he stretched out his arms and cried, 'O, mother, sister, and brother, I am here! Take me!' And they

He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning grey, and he was sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with

And the man who had been the child saw his daughter, newly lost to him, a celestial creature among those

three, and he said, 'My daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around my mother's neck, and

at her feet there is the baby of old time, and I can bear the parting from her, GOD be praised!'

Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was wrinkled, and his steps were slow and

feeble, and his back was bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried, as

And he said, 'I am. My age is falling from me like a garment, and I move towards the star as a child. And O,

my Father, now I thank thee that it has so often opened, to receive those dear ones who await me!'

IN the Autumntime of the year, when the great metropolis is so much hotter, so much noisier, so much more

dusty or so much more watercarted, so much more crowded, so much more disturbing and distracting in all

respects, than it usually is, a quiet seabeach becomes indeed a blessed spot. Half awake and half asleep, this

idle morning in our sunny window on the edge of a chalkcliff in the oldfashioned wateringplace to which

The place seems to respond. Sky, sea, beach, and village, lie as still before us as if they were sitting for the

picture. It is dead lowwater. A ripple plays among the ripening corn upon the cliff, as if it were faintly

trying from recollection to imitate the sea; and the world of butterflies hovering over the crop of radishseed

are as restless in their little way as the gulls are in their larger manner when the wind blows. But the ocean

lies winking in the sunlight like a drowsy lion its glassy waters scarcely curve upon the shore the

fishingboats in the tiny harbour are all stranded in the mud our two colliers (our wateringplace has a

maritime trade employing that amount of shipping) have not an inch of water within a quarter of a mile of

them, and turn, exhausted, on their sides, like faint fish of an antediluvian species. Rusty cables and chains,

ropes and rings, undermost parts of posts and piles and confused timberdefences against the waves, lie

strewn about, in a brown litter of tangled seaweed and fallen cliff which looks as if a family of giants had

been making tea here for ages, and had observed an untidy custom of throwing their tealeaves on the shore.

In truth, our wateringplace itself has been left somewhat high and dry by the tide of years. Concerned as we

are for its honour, we must reluctantly admit that the time when this pretty little semicircular sweep of

houses, tapering off at the end of the wooden pier into a point in the sea, was a gay place, and when the

lighthouse overlooking it shone at daybreak on company dispersing from public balls, is but dimly traditional

now. There is a bleak chamber in our wateringplace which is yet called the Assembly 'Rooms,' and

understood to be available on hire for balls or concerts; and, some few seasons since, an ancient little

gentleman came down and stayed at the hotel, who said that he had danced there, in bygone ages, with the

Honourable Miss Peepy, well known to have been the Beauty of her day and the cruel occasion of

innumerable duels. But he was so old and shrivelled, and so very rheumatic in the legs, that it demanded

more imagination than our wateringplace can usually muster, to believe him; therefore, except the Master of

the 'Rooms' (who to this hour wears knee breeches, and who confirmed the statement with tears in his eyes),

nobody did believe in the little lame old gentleman, or even in the Honourable Miss Peepy, long deceased.

As to subscription balls in the Assembly Rooms of our watering place now, redhot cannon balls are less

improbable. Sometimes, a misguided wanderer of a Ventriloquist, or an Infant Phenomenon, or a juggler, or

somebody with an Orrery that is several stars behind the time, takes the place for a night, and issues bills with

the name of his last town lined out, and the name of ours ignominiously written in, but you may be sure this

never happens twice to the same unfortunate person. On such occasions the discoloured old Billiard Table

that is seldom played at (unless the ghost of the Honourable Miss Peepy plays at pool with other ghosts) is

pushed into a corner, and benches are solemnly constituted into front seats, back seats, and reserved seats

which are much the same after you have paid and a few dull candles are lighted wind permitting and

the performer and the scanty audience play out a short match which shall make the other most lowspirited

which is usually a drawn game. After that, the performer instantly departs with maledictory expressions, and

But the most wonderful feature of our Assembly Rooms, is, that an annual sale of 'Fancy and other China,' is

announced here with mysterious constancy and perseverance. Where the china comes from, where it goes to,

why it is annually put up to auction when nobody ever thinks of bidding for it, how it comes to pass that it is

always the same china, whether it would not have been cheaper, with the sea at hand, to have thrown it away,

say in eighteen hundred and thirty, are standing enigmas. Every year the bills come out, every year the Master

of the Rooms gets into a little pulpit on a table, and offers it for sale, every year nobody buys it, every year it

is put away somewhere till next year, when it appears again as if the whole thing were a new idea. We have a

faint remembrance of an unearthly collection of clocks, purporting to be the work of Parisian and Genevese

artists chiefly biliousfaced clocks, supported on sickly white crutches, with their pendulums dangling like

lame legs to which a similar course of events occurred for several years, until they seemed to lapse away, of

Attached to our Assembly Rooms is a library. There is a wheel of fortune in it, but it is rusty and dusty, and

never turns. A large doll, with moveable eyes, was put up to be raffled for, by five andtwenty members at

two shillings, seven years ago this autumn, and the list is not full yet. We are rather sanguine, now, that the

raffle will come off next year. We think so, because we only want nine members, and should only want eight,

but for number two having grown up since her name was entered, and withdrawn it when she was married.

Down the street, there is a toyship of considerable burden, in the same condition. Two of the boys who were

entered for that raffle have gone to India in real ships, since; and one was shot, and died in the arms of his

This is the library for the Minerva Press. If you want that kind of reading, come to our wateringplace. The

leaves of the romances, reduced to a condition very like curlpaper, are thickly studded with notes in pencil:

sometimes complimentary, sometimes jocose. Some of these commentators, like commentators in a more

extensive way, quarrel with one another. One young gentleman who sarcastically writes 'O!!!' after every

sentimental passage, is pursued through his literary career by another, who writes 'Insulting Beast!' Miss Julia

Mills has read the whole collection of these books. She has left marginal notes on the pages, as 'Is not this

truly touching? J. M.' 'How thrilling! J. M.' 'Entranced here by the Magician's potent spell. J. M.' She has also

italicised her favourite traits in the description of the hero, as 'his hair, which was DARK and WAVY,

clustered in RICH PROFUSION around a MARBLE BROW, whose lofty paleness bespoke the intellect

within.' It reminds her of another hero. She adds, 'How like B. L. Can this be mere coincidence? J. M.'

You would hardly guess which is the main street of our watering place, but you may know it by its being

always stopped up with donkeychaises. Whenever you come here, and see harnessed donkeys eating clover

out of barrows drawn completely across a narrow thoroughfare, you may be quite sure you are in our High

Street. Our Police you may know by his uniform, likewise by his never on any account interfering with

anybody especially the tramps and vagabonds. In our fancy shops we have a capital collection of damaged

goods, among which the flies of countless summers 'have been roaming.' We are great in obsolete seals, and

in faded pin cushions, and in rickety campstools, and in exploded cutlery, and in miniature vessels, and in

stunted little telescopes, and in objects made of shells that pretend not to be shells. Diminutive spades,

barrows, and baskets, are our principal articles of commerce; but even they don't look quite new somehow.

They always seem to have been offered and refused somewhere else, before they came down to our

Yet, it must not be supposed that our wateringplace is an empty place, deserted by all visitors except a few

staunch persons of approved fidelity. On the contrary, the chances are that if you came down here in August

or September, you wouldn't find a house to lay your head in. As to finding either house or lodging of which

you could reduce the terms, you could scarcely engage in a more hopeless pursuit. For all this, you are to

observe that every season is the worst season ever known, and that the householding population of our

wateringplace are ruined regularly every autumn. They are like the farmers, in regard that it is surprising

how much ruin they will bear. We have an excellent hotel capital baths, warm, cold, and shower

firstrate bathingmachines and as good butchers, bakers, and grocers, as heart could desire. They all do

business, it is to be presumed, from motives of philanthropy but it is quite certain that they are all being

ruined. Their interest in strangers, and their politeness under ruin, bespeak their amiable nature. You would

say so, if you only saw the baker helping a new comer to find suitable apartments.

So far from being at a discount as to company, we are in fact what would be popularly called rather a nobby

place. Some tiptop 'Nobbs' come down occasionally even Dukes and Duchesses. We have known such

carriages to blaze among the donkeychaises, as made beholders wink. Attendant on these equipages come

resplendent creatures in plush and powder, who are sure to be stricken disgusted with the indifferent

accommodation of our wateringplace, and who, of an evening (particularly when it rains), may be seen very

much out of drawing, in rooms far too small for their fine figures, looking discontentedly out of little back

windows into byestreets. The lords and ladies get on well enough and quite goodhumouredly: but if you

want to see the gorgeous phenomena who wait upon them at a perfect nonplus, you should come and look at

the resplendent creatures with little back parlours for servants' halls, and turnup bedsteads to sleep in, at our

We have a pier a queer old wooden pier, fortunately without the slightest pretensions to architecture, and

very picturesque in consequence. Boats are hauled up upon it, ropes are coiled all over it; lobsterpots, nets,

masts, oars, spars, sails, ballast, and rickety capstans, make a perfect labyrinth of it. For ever hovering about

this pier, with their hands in their pockets, or leaning over the rough bulwark it opposes to the sea, gazing

through telescopes which they carry about in the same profound receptacles, are the Boatmen of our

wateringplace. Looking at them, you would say that surely these must be the laziest boatmen in the world.

They lounge about, in obstinate and inflexible pantaloons that are apparently made of wood, the whole season

through. Whether talking together about the shipping in the Channel, or gruffly unbending over mugs of beer

at the public house, you would consider them the slowest of men. The chances are a thousand to one that

you might stay here for ten seasons, and never see a boatman in a hurry. A certain expression about his loose

hands, when they are not in his pockets, as if he were carrying a considerable lump of iron in each, without

any inconvenience, suggests strength, but he never seems to use it. He has the appearance of perpetually

strolling running is too inappropriate a word to be thought of to seed. The only subject on which he seems

to feel any approach to enthusiasm, is pitch. He pitches everything he can lay hold of, the pier, the palings,

his boat, his house, when there is nothing else left he turns to and even pitches his hat, or his

roughweather clothing. Do not judge him by deceitful appearances. These are among the bravest and most

skilful mariners that exist. Let a gale arise and swell into a storm, let a sea run that might appal the stoutest

heart that ever beat, let the Lightboat on these dangerous sands throw up a rocket in the night, or let them

hear through the angry roar the signal guns of a ship in distress, and these men spring up into activity so

dauntless, so valiant, and heroic, that the world cannot surpass it. Cavillers may object that they chiefly live

upon the salvage of valuable cargoes. So they do, and God knows it is no great living that they get out of the

deadly risks they run. But put that hope of gain aside. Let these rough fellows be asked, in any storm, who

volunteers for the lifeboat to save some perishing souls, as poor and emptyhanded as themselves, whose

lives the perfection of human reason does not rate at the value of a farthing each; and that boat will be

manned, as surely and as cheerfully, as if a thousand pounds were told down on the weatherbeaten pier. For

this, and for the recollection of their comrades whom we have known, whom the raging sea has engulfed

before their children's eyes in such brave efforts, whom the secret sand has buried, we hold the boatmen of

our wateringplace in our love and honour, and are tender of the fame they well deserve.

So many children are brought down to our wateringplace that, when they are not out of doors, as they

usually are in fine weather, it is wonderful where they are put: the whole village seeming much too small to

hold them under cover. In the afternoons, you see no end of salt and sandy little boots drying on upper

windowsills. At bathingtime in the morning, the little bay reechoes with every shrill variety of shriek and

splash after which, if the weather be at all fresh, the sands teem with small blue mottled legs. The sands are

the children's great resort. They cluster there, like ants: so busy burying their particular friends, and making

castles with infinite labour which the next tide overthrows, that it is curious to consider how their play, to the

It is curious, too, to observe a natural ease of approach that there seems to be between the children and the

boatmen. They mutually make acquaintance, and take individual likings, without any help. You will come

upon one of those slow heavy fellows sitting down patiently mending a little ship for a mite of a boy, whom

he could crush to death by throwing his lightest pair of trousers on him. You will be sensible of the oddest

contrast between the smooth little creature, and the rough man who seems to be carved out of hardgrained

wood between the delicate hand expectantly held out, and the immense thumb and finger that can hardly

feel the rigging of thread they mend between the small voice and the gruff growl and yet there is a natural

propriety in the companionship: always to be noted in confidence between a child and a person who has any

We have a preventive station at our wateringplace, and much the same thing may be observed in a lesser

degree, because of their official character of the coast blockade; a steady, trusty, well conditioned,

wellconducted set of men, with no misgiving about looking you full in the face, and with a quiet

thoroughgoing way of passing along to their duty at night, carrying huge sou'wester clothing in reserve,

that is fraught with all good prepossession. They are handy fellows neat about their houses industrious at

gardening would get on with their wives, one thinks, in a desert island and people it, too, soon.

As to the naval officer of the station, with his hearty fresh face, and his blue eye that has pierced all kinds of

weather, it warms our hearts when he comes into church on a Sunday, with that bright mixture of blue coat,

buff waistcoat, black neckkerchief, and gold epaulette, that is associated in the minds of all Englishmen

with brave, unpretending, cordial, national service. We like to look at him in his Sunday state; and if we were

First Lord (really possessing the indispensable qualification for the office of knowing nothing whatever about

We have a church, bytheby, of course a hideous temple of flint, like a great petrified haystack. Our chief

clerical dignitary, who, to his honour, has done much for education both in time and money, and has

established excellent schools, is a sound, shrewd, healthy gentleman, who has got into little occasional

difficulties with the neighbouring farmers, but has had a pestilent trick of being right. Under a new

regulation, he has yielded the church of our wateringplace to another clergyman. Upon the whole we get on

in church well. We are a little bilious sometimes, about these days of fraternisation, and about nations

arriving at a new and more unprejudiced knowledge of each other (which our Christianity don't quite

There are two dissenting chapels, besides, in our small watering place; being in about the proportion of a

hundred and twenty guns to a yacht. But the dissension that has torn us lately, has not been a religious one. It

has arisen on the novel question of Gas. Our wateringplace has been convulsed by the agitation, Gas or No

Gas. It was never reasoned why No Gas, but there was a great No Gas party. Broadsides were printed and

stuck about a startling circumstance in our wateringplace. The No Gas party rested content with chalking

'No Gas!' and 'Down with Gas!' and other such angry warwhoops, on the few back gates and scraps of wall

which the limits of our wateringplace afford; but the Gas party printed and posted bills, wherein they took

the high ground of proclaiming against the No Gas party, that it was said Let there be light and there was

light; and that not to have light (that is gaslight) in our wateringplace, was to contravene the great decree.

Whether by these thunderbolts or not, the No Gas party were defeated; and in this present season we have had

our handful of shops illuminated for the first time. Such of the No Gas party, however, as have got shops,

remain in opposition and burn tallow exhibiting in their windows the very picture of the sulkiness that

punishes itself, and a new illustration of the old adage about cutting off your nose to be revenged on your

Other population than we have indicated, our wateringplace has none. There are a few old usedup boatmen

who creep about in the sunlight with the help of sticks, and there is a poor imbecile shoemaker who wanders

his lonely life away among the rocks, as if he were looking for his reason which he will never find.

Sojourners in neighbouring wateringplaces come occasionally in flys to stare at us, and drive away again as

if they thought us very dull; Italian boys come, Punch comes, the Fantoccini come, the Tumblers come, the

Ethiopians come; Gleesingers come at night, and hum and vibrate (not always melodiously) under our

windows. But they all go soon, and leave us to ourselves again. We once had a travelling Circus and

Wombwell's Menagerie at the same time. They both know better than ever to try it again; and the Menagerie

had nearly razed us from the face of the earth in getting the elephant away his caravan was so large, and the

wateringplace so small. We have a fine sea, wholesome for all people; profitable for the body, profitable for

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand. And the

Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never

Yet it is not always so, for the speech of the sea is various, and wants not abundant resource of cheerfulness,

hope, and lusty encouragement. And since I have been idling at the window here, the tide has risen. The boats

are dancing on the bubbling water; the colliers are afloat again; the whitebordered waves rush in; the

the radiant sails are gliding past the shore, and shining on the far horizon; all the sea is sparkling, heaving,

HAVING earned, by many years of fidelity, the right to be sometimes inconstant to our English

wateringplace, we have dallied for two or three seasons with a French wateringplace: once solely known to

us as a town with a very long street, beginning with an abattoir and ending with a steamboat, which it

seemed our fate to behold only at daybreak on winter mornings, when (in the days before continental

railroads), just sufficiently awake to know that we were most uncomfortably asleep, it was our destiny always

to clatter through it, in the coupe of the diligence from Paris, with a sea of mud behind us, and a sea of

tumbling waves before. In relation to which latter monster, our mind's eye now recalls a worthy Frenchman

in a sealskin cap with a braided hood over it, once our travelling companion in the coupe aforesaid, who,

waking up with a pale and crumpled visage, and looking ruefully out at the grim row of breakers enjoying

themselves fanatically on an instrument of torture called 'the Bar,' inquired of us whether we were ever sick at

sea? Both to prepare his mind for the abject creature we were presently to become, and also to afford him

consolation, we replied, 'Sir, your servant is always sick when it is possible to be so.' He returned, altogether

uncheered by the bright example, 'Ah, Heaven, but I am always sick, even when it is IMpossible to be so.'

The means of communication between the French capital and our French wateringplace are wholly changed

since those days; but, the Channel remains unbridged as yet, and the old floundering and knocking about go

on there. It must be confessed that saving in reasonable (and therefore rare) seaweather, the act of arrival at

our French wateringplace from England is difficult to be achieved with dignity. Several little circumstances

combine to render the visitor an object of humiliation. In the first place, the steamer no sooner touches the

port, than all the passengers fall into captivity: being boarded by an overpowering force of Customhouse

officers, and marched into a gloomy dungeon. In the second place, the road to this dungeon is fenced off with

ropes breasthigh, and outside those ropes all the English in the place who have lately been seasick and are

now well, assemble in their best clothes to enjoy the degradation of their dilapidated fellowcreatures. 'Oh,

my gracious! how ill this one has been!' 'Here's a damp one coming next!' 'HERE'S a pale one!' 'Oh! Ain't he

green in the face, this next one!' Even we ourself (not deficient in natural dignity) have a lively remembrance

of staggering up this detested lane one September day in a gale of wind, when we were received like an

irresistible comic actor, with a burst of laughter and applause, occasioned by the extreme imbecility of our

We were coming to the third place. In the third place, the captives, being shut up in the gloomy dungeon, are

strained, two or three at a time, into an inner cell, to be examined as to passports; and across the doorway of

communication, stands a military creature making a bar of his arm. Two ideas are generally present to the

British mind during these ceremonies; first, that it is necessary to make for the cell with violent struggles, as

if it were a lifeboat and the dungeon a ship going down; secondly, that the military creature's arm is a

national affront, which the government at home ought instantly to 'take up.' The British mind and body

becoming heated by these fantasies, delirious answers are made to inquiries, and extravagant actions

performed. Thus, Johnson persists in giving Johnson as his baptismal name, and substituting for his ancestral

designation the national 'Dam!' Neither can he by any means be brought to recognise the distinction between

a portmanteaukey and a passport, but will obstinately persevere in tendering the one when asked for the

other. This brings him to the fourth place, in a state of mere idiotcy; and when he is, in the fourth place, cast

out at a little door into a howling wilderness of touters, he becomes a lunatic with wild eyes and floating hair

until rescued and soothed. If friendless and unrescued, he is generally put into a railway omnibus and taken to

But, our French wateringplace, when it is once got into, is a very enjoyable place. It has a varied and

beautiful country around it, and many characteristic and agreeable things within it. To be sure, it might have

fewer bad smells and less decaying refuse, and it might be better drained, and much cleaner in many parts,

and therefore infinitely more healthy. Still, it is a bright, airy, pleasant, cheerful town; and if you were to

walk down either of its three wellpaved main streets, towards five o'clock in the afternoon, when delicate

odours of cookery fill the air, and its hotel windows (it is full of hotels) give glimpses of long tables set out

for dinner, and made to look sumptuous by the aid of napkins folded fanwise, you would rightly judge it to

We have an old walled town, rich in cool public wells of water, on the top of a hill within and above the

present businesstown; and if it were some hundreds of miles further from England, instead of being, on a

clear day, within sight of the grass growing in the crevices of the chalkcliffs of Dover, you would long ago

have been bored to death about that town. It is more picturesque and quaint than half the innocent places

which tourists, following their leader like sheep, have made impostors of. To say nothing of its houses with

grave courtyards, its queer bycorners, and its many windowed streets white and quiet in the sunlight, there

is an ancient belfry in it that would have been in all the Annuals and Albums, going and gone, these hundred

years if it had but been more expensive to get at. Happily it has escaped so well, being only in our French

wateringplace, that you may like it of your own accord in a natural manner, without being required to go

into convulsions about it. We regard it as one of the later blessings of our life, that BILKINS, the only

authority on Taste, never took any notice that we can find out, of our French wateringplace. Bilkins never

wrote about it, never pointed out anything to be seen in it, never measured anything in it, always left it alone.

For which relief, Heaven bless the town and the memory of the immortal Bilkins likewise!

There is a charming walk, arched and shaded by trees, on the old walls that form the four sides of this High

Town, whence you get glimpses of the streets below, and changing views of the other town and of the river,

and of the hills and of the sea. It is made more agreeable and peculiar by some of the solemn houses that are

rooted in the deep streets below, bursting into a fresher existence atop, and having doors and windows, and

even gardens, on these ramparts. A child going in at the courtyard gate of one of these houses, climbing up

the many stairs, and coming out at the fourthfloor window, might conceive himself another Jack, alighting

on enchanted ground from another beanstalk. It is a place wonderfully populous in children; English

children, with governesses reading novels as they walk down the shady lanes of trees, or nursemaids

interchanging gossip on the seats; French children with their smiling bonnes in snowwhite caps, and

themselves if little boys in straw headgear like beehives, workbaskets and church hassocks. Three

years ago, there were three weazen old men, one bearing a frayed red ribbon in his threadbare buttonhole,

always to be found walking together among these children, before dinner time. If they walked for an

appetite, they doubtless lived en pension were contracted for otherwise their poverty would have made it

a rash action. They were stooping, bleareyed, dull old men, slipshod and shabby, in longskirted

shortwaisted coats and meagre trousers, and yet with a ghost of gentility hovering in their company. They

spoke little to each other, and looked as if they might have been politically discontented if they had had

vitality enough. Once, we overheard redribbon feebly complain to the other two that somebody, or

something, was 'a Robber;' and then they all three set their mouths so that they would have ground their teeth

if they had had any. The ensuing winter gathered red ribbon unto the great company of faded ribbons, and

next year the remaining two were there getting themselves entangled with hoops and dolls familiar

mysteries to the children probably in the eyes of most of them, harmless creatures who had never been like

children, and whom children could never be like. Another winter came, and another old man went, and so,

this present year, the last of the triumvirate, left off walking it was no good, now and sat by himself on a

little solitary bench, with the hoops and the dolls as lively as ever all about him.

In the Place d'Armes of this town, a little decayed market is held, which seems to slip through the old

gateway, like water, and go rippling down the hill, to mingle with the murmuring market in the lower town,

and get lost in its movement and bustle. It is very agreeable on an idle summer morning to pursue this

marketstream from the hilltop. It begins, dozingly and dully, with a few sacks of corn; starts into a

surprising collection of boots and shoes; goes brawling down the hill in a diversified channel of old cordage,

old iron, old crockery, old clothes, civil and military, old rags, new cotton goods, flaming prints of saints,

little lookingglasses, and incalculable lengths of tape; dives into a backway, keeping out of sight for a little

while, as streams will, or only sparkling for a moment in the shape of a market drinking shop; and suddenly

reappears behind the great church, shooting itself into a bright confusion of whitecapped women and blue

bloused men, poultry, vegetables, fruits, flowers, pots, pans, prayingchairs, soldiers, country butter,

umbrellas and other sun shades, girlporters waiting to be hired with baskets at their backs, and one weazen

little old man in a cocked hat, wearing a cuirass of drinkingglasses and carrying on his shoulder a crimson

temple fluttering with flags, like a glorified pavior's rammer without the handle, who rings a little bell in all

parts of the scene, and cries his cooling drink Hola, Hola, Hooo! in a shrill cracked voice that somehow

makes itself heard, above all the chaffering and vending hum. Early in the afternoon, the whole course of the

stream is dry. The prayingchairs are put back in the church, the umbrellas are folded up, the unsold goods

are carried away, the stalls and stands disappear, the square is swept, the hackney coaches lounge there to be

hired, and on all the country roads (if you walk about, as much as we do) you will see the peasant women,

always neatly and comfortably dressed, riding home, with the pleasantest saddlefurniture of clean

milkpails, bright butterkegs, and the like, on the jolliest little donkeys in the world.

We have another market in our French wateringplace that is to say, a few wooden hutches in the open

street, down by the Port devoted to fish. Our fishingboats are famous everywhere; and our fishing people,

though they love lively colours, and taste is neutral (see Bilkins), are among the most picturesque people we

ever encountered. They have not only a quarter of their own in the town itself, but they occupy whole villages

of their own on the neighbouring cliffs. Their churches and chapels are their own; they consort with one

another, they intermarry among themselves, their customs are their own, and their costume is their own and

never changes. As soon as one of their boys can walk, he is provided with a long bright red nightcap; and one

of their men would as soon think of going afloat without his head, as without that indispensable appendage to

it. Then, they wear the noblest boots, with the hugest tops flapping and bulging over anyhow; above which,

they encase themselves in such wonderful overalls and petticoat trousers, made to all appearance of tarry old

sails, so additionally stiffened with pitch and salt, that the wearers have a walk of their own, and go straddling

and swinging about among the boats and barrels and nets and rigging, a sight to see. Then, their younger

women, by dint of going down to the sea barefoot, to fling their baskets into the boats as they come in with

the tide, and bespeak the first fruits of the haul with propitiatory promises to love and marry that dear

fisherman who shall fill that basket like an Angel, have the finest legs ever carved by Nature in the brightest

mahogany, and they walk like Juno. Their eyes, too, are so lustrous that their long gold earrings turn dull

beside those brilliant neighbours; and when they are dressed, what with these beauties, and their fine fresh

faces, and their many petticoats striped petticoats, red petticoats, blue petticoats, always clean and smart,

and never too long and their homemade stockings, mulberrycoloured, blue, brown, purple, lilac which

the older women, taking care of the Dutchlooking children, sit in all sorts of places knitting, knitting,

knitting from morning to night and what with their little saucy bright blue jackets, knitted too, and fitting

close to their handsome figures; and what with the natural grace with which they wear the commonest cap, or

fold the commonest handkerchief round their luxuriant hair we say, in a word and out of breath, that taking

all these premises into our consideration, it has never been a matter of the least surprise to us that we have

never once met, in the cornfields, on the dusty roads, by the breezy windmills, on the plots of short sweet

grass overhanging the sea anywhere a young fisherman and fisherwoman of our French wateringplace

together, but the arm of that fisherman has invariably been, as a matter of course and without any absurd

attempt to disguise so plain a necessity, round the neck or waist of that fisherwoman. And we have had no

doubt whatever, standing looking at their uphill streets, house rising above house, and terrace above terrace,

and bright garments here and there lying sunning on rough stone parapets, that the pleasant mist on all such

objects, caused by their being seen through the brown nets hung across on poles to dry, is, in the eyes of

every true young fisherman, a mist of love and beauty, setting off the goddess of his heart.

Moreover it is to be observed that these are an industrious people, and a domestic people, and an honest

people. And though we are aware that at the bidding of Bilkins it is our duty to fall down and worship the

Neapolitans, we make bold very much to prefer the fishing people of our French wateringplace especially

since our last visit to Naples within these twelvemonths, when we found only four conditions of men

remaining in the whole city: to wit, lazzaroni, priests, spies, and soldiers, and all of them beggars; the paternal

But we can never henceforth separate our French wateringplace from our own landlord of two summers, M.

Loyal Devasseur, citizen and towncouncillor. Permit us to have the pleasure of presenting M. Loyal

His own family name is simply Loyal; but, as he is married, and as in that part of France a husband always

adds to his own name the family name of his wife, he writes himself Loyal Devasseur. He owns a compact

little estate of some twenty or thirty acres on a lofty hillside, and on it he has built two country houses,

which he lets furnished. They are by many degrees the best houses that are so let near our French

wateringplace; we have had the honour of living in both, and can testify. The entrancehall of the first we

inhabited was ornamented with a plan of the estate, representing it as about twice the size of Ireland;

insomuch that when we were yet new to the property (M. Loyal always speaks of it as 'La propriete') we went

three miles straight on end in search of the bridge of Austerlitz which we afterwards found to be

immediately outside the window. The Chateau of the Old Guard, in another part of the grounds, and,

according to the plan, about two leagues from the little diningroom, we sought in vain for a week, until,

happening one evening to sit upon a bench in the forest (forest in the plan), a few yards from the housedoor,

we observed at our feet, in the ignominious circumstances of being upside down and greenly rotten, the Old

Guard himself: that is to say, the painted effigy of a member of that distinguished corps, seven feet high, and

in the act of carrying arms, who had had the misfortune to be blown down in the previous winter. It will be

perceived that M. Loyal is a staunch admirer of the great Napoleon. He is an old soldier himself captain of

the National Guard, with a handsome gold vase on his chimneypiece presented to him by his company

and his respect for the memory of the illustrious general is enthusiastic. Medallions of him, portraits of him,

busts of him, pictures of him, are thickly sprinkled all over the property. During the first month of our

occupation, it was our affliction to be constantly knocking down Napoleon: if we touched a shelf in a dark

corner, he toppled over with a crash; and every door we opened, shook him to the soul. Yet M. Loyal is not a

man of mere castles in the air, or, as he would say, in Spain. He has a specially practical, contriving, clever,

skilful eye and hand. His houses are delightful. He unites French elegance and English comfort, in a happy

manner quite his own. He has an extraordinary genius for making tasteful little bedrooms in angles of his

roofs, which an Englishman would as soon think of turning to any account as he would think of cultivating

the Desert. We have ourself reposed deliciously in an elegant chamber of M. Loyal's construction, with our

head as nearly in the kitchen chimneypot as we can conceive it likely for the head of any gentleman, not by

profession a Sweep, to be. And, into whatsoever strange nook M. Loyal's genius penetrates, it, in that nook,

infallibly constructs a cupboard and a row of pegs. In either of our houses, we could have put away the

Aforetime, M. Loyal was a tradesman in the town. You can transact business with no present tradesman in

the town, and give your card 'chez M. Loyal,' but a brighter face shines upon you directly. We doubt if there

is, ever was, or ever will be, a man so universally pleasant in the minds of people as M. Loyal is in the minds

of the citizens of our French wateringplace. They rub their hands and laugh when they speak of him. Ah, but

he is such a good child, such a brave boy, such a generous spirit, that Monsieur Loyal! It is the honest truth.

M. Loyal's nature is the nature of a gentleman. He cultivates his ground with his own hands (assisted by one

little labourer, who falls into a fit now and then); and he digs and delves from morn to eve in prodigious

perspirations 'works always,' as he says but, cover him with dust, mud, weeds, water, any stains you will,

you never can cover the gentleman in M. Loyal. A portly, upright, broadshouldered, brownfaced man,

whose soldierly bearing gives him the appearance of being taller than he is, look into the bright eye of M.

Loyal, standing before you in his workingblouse and cap, not particularly well shaved, and, it may be, very

earthy, and you shall discern in M. Loyal a gentleman whose true politeness is ingrain, and confirmation of

whose word by his bond you would blush to think of. Not without reason is M. Loyal when he tells that story,

in his own vivacious way, of his travelling to Fulham, near London, to buy all these hundreds and hundreds

of trees you now see upon the Property, then a bare, bleak hill; and of his sojourning in Fulham three months;

and of his jovial evenings with the marketgardeners; and of the crowning banquet before his departure,

when the marketgardeners rose as one man, clinked their glasses all together (as the custom at Fulham is),

M. Loyal has an agreeable wife, but no family; and he loves to drill the children of his tenants, or run races

with them, or do anything with them, or for them, that is goodnatured. He is of a highly convivial

temperament, and his hospitality is unbounded. Billet a soldier on him, and he is delighted. Fiveandthirty

soldiers had M. Loyal billeted on him this present summer, and they all got fat and redfaced in two days. It

became a legend among the troops that whosoever got billeted on M. Loyal rolled in clover; and so it fell out

that the fortunate man who drew the billet 'M. Loyal Devasseur' always leaped into the air, though in heavy

marching order. M. Loyal cannot bear to admit anything that might seem by any implication to disparage the

military profession. We hinted to him once, that we were conscious of a remote doubt arising in our mind,

whether a sou a day for pocketmoney, tobacco, stockings, drink, washing, and social pleasures in general,

left a very large margin for a soldier's enjoyment. Pardon! said Monsieur Loyal, rather wincing. It was not a

fortune, but a la bonne heure it was better than it used to be! What, we asked him on another occasion,

were all those neighbouring peasants, each living with his family in one room, and each having a soldier

(perhaps two) billeted on him every other night, required to provide for those soldiers? 'Faith!' said M. Loyal,

reluctantly; a bed, monsieur, and fire to cook with, and a candle. And they share their supper with those

soldiers. It is not possible that they could eat alone.' 'And what allowance do they get for this?' said we.

Monsieur Loyal drew himself up taller, took a step back, laid his hand upon his breast, and said, with

majesty, as speaking for himself and all France, 'Monsieur, it is a contribution to the State!'

It is never going to rain, according to M. Loyal. When it is impossible to deny that it is now raining in

torrents, he says it will be fine charming magnificent tomorrow. It is never hot on the Property, he

contends. Likewise it is never cold. The flowers, he says, come out, delighting to grow there; it is like

Paradise this morning; it is like the Garden of Eden. He is a little fanciful in his language: smilingly

observing of Madame Loyal, when she is absent at vespers, that she is 'gone to her salvation' allee a son

salut. He has a great enjoyment of tobacco, but nothing would induce him to continue smoking face to face

with a lady. His short black pipe immediately goes into his breast pocket, scorches his blouse, and nearly sets

him on fire. In the Town Council and on occasions of ceremony, he appears in a full suit of black, with a

waistcoat of magnificent breadth across the chest, and a shirtcollar of fabulous proportions. Good M. Loyal!

Under blouse or waistcoat, he carries one of the gentlest hearts that beat in a nation teeming with gentle

people. He has had losses, and has been at his best under them. Not only the loss of his way by night in the

Fulham times when a bad subject of an Englishman, under pretence of seeing him home, took him into all

the night publichouses, drank 'arfanarf' in every one at his expense, and finally fled, leaving him

shipwrecked at Cleefeeway, which we apprehend to be Ratcliffe Highway but heavier losses than that.

Long ago a family of children and a mother were left in one of his houses without money, a whole year. M.

Loyal anything but as rich as we wish he had been had not the heart to say 'you must go;' so they stayed

on and stayed on, and payingtenants who would have come in couldn't come in, and at last they managed to

get helped home across the water; and M. Loyal kissed the whole group, and said, 'Adieu, my poor infants!'

and sat down in their deserted salon and smoked his pipe of peace. 'The rent, M. Loyal?' 'Eh! well! The

rent!' M. Loyal shakes his head. 'Le bon Dieu,' says M. Loyal presently, 'will recompense me,' and he laughs

and smokes his pipe of peace. May he smoke it on the Property, and not be recompensed, these fifty years!

There are public amusements in our French wateringplace, or it would not be French. They are very

popular, and very cheap. The seabathing which may rank as the most favoured daylight entertainment,

inasmuch as the French visitors bathe all day long, and seldom appear to think of remaining less than an hour

at a time in the water is astoundingly cheap. Omnibuses convey you, if you please, from a convenient part

of the town to the beach and back again; you have a clean and comfortable bathingmachine, dress, linen,

and all appliances; and the charge for the whole is halfa franc, or fivepence. On the pier, there is usually a

guitar, which seems presumptuously enough to set its tinkling against the deep hoarseness of the sea, and

there is always some boy or woman who sings, without any voice, little songs without any tune: the strain we

have most frequently heard being an appeal to 'the sportsman' not to bag that choicest of game, the swallow.

For bathing purposes, we have also a subscription establishment with an esplanade, where people lounge

about with telescopes, and seem to get a good deal of weariness for their money; and we have also an

association of individual machine proprietors combined against this formidable rival. M. Feroce, our own

particular friend in the bathing line, is one of these. How he ever came by his name we cannot imagine. He is

as gentle and polite a man as M. Loyal Devasseur himself; immensely stout withal; and of a beaming aspect.

M. Feroce has saved so many people from drowning, and has been decorated with so many medals in

consequence, that his stoutness seems a special dispensation of Providence to enable him to wear them; if his

girth were the girth of an ordinary man, he could never hang them on, all at once. It is only on very great

occasions that M. Feroce displays his shining honours. At other times they lie by, with rolls of manuscript

testifying to the causes of their presentation, in a huge glass case in the red sofa'd salon of his private

residence on the beach, where M. Feroce also keeps his family pictures, his portraits of himself as he appears

both in bathing life and in private life, his little boats that rock by clockwork, and his other ornamental

Then, we have a commodious and gay Theatre or had, for it is burned down now where the opera was

always preceded by a vaudeville, in which (as usual) everybody, down to the little old man with the large hat

and the little cane and tassel, who always played either my Uncle or my Papa, suddenly broke out of the

dialogue into the mildest vocal snatches, to the great perplexity of unaccustomed strangers from Great

Britain, who never could make out when they were singing and when they were talking and indeed it was

pretty much the same. But, the caterers in the way of entertainment to whom we are most beholden, are the

Society of Welldoing, who are active all the summer, and give the proceeds of their good works to the poor.

Some of the most agreeable fetes they contrive, are announced as 'Dedicated to the children;' and the taste

with which they turn a small public enclosure into an elegant garden beautifully illuminated; and the

thoroughgoing heartiness and energy with which they personally direct the childish pleasures; are

supremely delightful. For fivepence a head, we have on these occasions donkey races with English 'Jokeis,'

and other rustic sports; lotteries for toys; roundabouts, dancing on the grass to the music of an admirable

band, fire balloons and fireworks. Further, almost every week all through the summer never mind, now,

on what day of the week there is a fete in some adjoining village (called in that part of the country a

Ducasse), where the people really THE PEOPLE dance on the green turf in the open air, round a little

orchestra, that seems itself to dance, there is such an airy motion of flags and streamers all about it. And we

do not suppose that between the Torrid Zone and the North Pole there are to be found male dancers with such

astonishingly loose legs, furnished with so many joints in wrong places, utterly unknown to Professor Owen,

as those who here disport themselves. Sometimes, the fete appertains to a particular trade; you will see among

the cheerful young women at the joint Ducasse of the milliners and tailors, a wholesome knowledge of the art

of making common and cheap things uncommon and pretty, by good sense and good taste, that is a practical

lesson to any rank of society in a whole island we could mention. The oddest feature of these agreeable

scenes is the everlasting Roundabout (we preserve an English word wherever we can, as we are writing the

English language), on the wooden horses of which machine grownup people of all ages are wound round

and round with the utmost solemnity, while the proprietor's wife grinds an organ, capable of only one tune, in

As to the boardinghouses of our French wateringplace, they are Legion, and would require a distinct

treatise. It is not without a sentiment of national pride that we believe them to contain more bores from the

shores of Albion than all the clubs in London. As you walk timidly in their neighbourhood, the very

neckcloths and hats of your elderly compatriots cry to you from the stones of the streets, 'We are Bores

avoid us!' We have never overheard at street corners such lunatic scraps of political and social discussion as

among these dear countrymen of ours. They believe everything that is impossible and nothing that is true.

They carry rumours, and ask questions, and make corrections and improvements on one another, staggering

to the human intellect. And they are for ever rushing into the English library, propounding such

incomprehensible paradoxes to the fair mistress of that establishment, that we beg to recommend her to her

The English form a considerable part of the population of our French wateringplace, and are deservedly

addressed and respected in many ways. Some of the surfaceaddresses to them are odd enough, as when a

laundress puts a placard outside her house announcing her possession of that curious British instrument, a

'Mingle;' or when a tavernkeeper provides accommodation for the celebrated English game of 'Nokemdon.'

But, to us, it is not the least pleasant feature of our French wateringplace that a long and constant fusion of

the two great nations there, has taught each to like the other, and to learn from the other, and to rise superior

to the absurd prejudices that have lingered among the weak and ignorant in both countries equally.

Drumming and trumpeting of course go on for ever in our French wateringplace. Flagflying is at a

premium, too; but, we cheerfully avow that we consider a flag a very pretty object, and that we take such

outward signs of innocent liveliness to our heart of hearts. The people, in the town and in the country, are a

busy people who work hard; they are sober, temperate, goodhumoured, lighthearted, and generally

remarkable for their engaging manners. Few just men, not immoderately bilious, could see them in their

recreations without very much respecting the character that is so easily, so harmlessly, and so simply,

IF I had an enemy whom I hated which Heaven forbid! and if I knew of something which sat heavy on

his conscience, I think I would introduce that something into a PostingBill, and place a large impression in

the hands of an active sticker. I can scarcely imagine a more terrible revenge. I should haunt him, by this

means, night and day. I do not mean to say that I would publish his secret, in red letters two feet high, for all

the town to read: I would darkly refer to it. It should be between him, and me, and the PostingBill. Say, for

example, that, at a certain period of his life, my enemy had surreptitiously possessed himself of a key. I

would then embark my capital in the lock business, and conduct that business on the advertising principle. In

all my placards and advertisements, I would throw up the line SECRET KEYS. Thus, if my enemy passed an

uninhabited house, he would see his conscience glaring down on him from the parapets, and peeping up at

him from the cellars. If he took a dead wall in his walk, it would be alive with reproaches. If he sought refuge

in an omnibus, the panels thereof would become Belshazzar's palace to him. If he took boat, in a wild

endeavour to escape, he would see the fatal words lurking under the arches of the bridges over the Thames. If

he walked the streets with downcast eyes, he would recoil from the very stones of the pavement, made

eloquent by lampblack lithograph. If he drove or rode, his way would be blocked up by enormous vans,

each proclaiming the same words over and over again from its whole extent of surface. Until, having

gradually grown thinner and paler, and having at last totally rejected food, he would miserably perish, and I

should be revenged. This conclusion I should, no doubt, celebrate by laughing a hoarse laugh in three

syllables, and folding my arms tight upon my chest agreeably to most of the examples of glutted animosity

that I have had an opportunity of observing in connexion with the Drama which, bytheby, as involving a

good deal of noise, appears to me to be occasionally confounded with the Drummer.

The foregoing reflections presented themselves to my mind, the other day, as I contemplated (being newly

come to London from the East Riding of Yorkshire, on a househunting expedition for next May), an old

warehouse which rotting paste and rotting paper had brought down to the condition of an old cheese. It would

have been impossible to say, on the most conscientious survey, how much of its front was brick and mortar,

and how much decaying and decayed plaster. It was so thickly encrusted with fragments of bills, that no

ship's keel after a long voyage could be half so foul. All traces of the broken windows were billed out, the

doors were billed across, the waterspout was billed over. The building was shored up to prevent its tumbling

into the street; and the very beams erected against it were less wood than paste and paper, they had been so

continually posted and reposted. The forlorn dregs of old posters so encumbered this wreck, that there was no

hold for new posters, and the stickers had abandoned the place in despair, except one enterprising man who

had hoisted the last masquerade to a clear spot near the level of the stack of chimneys where it waved and

drooped like a shattered flag. Below the rusty cellargrating, crumpled remnants of old bills torn down,

rotted away in wasting heaps of fallen leaves. Here and there, some of the thick rind of the house had peeled

off in strips, and fluttered heavily down, littering the street; but, still, below these rents and gashes, layers of

decomposing posters showed themselves, as if they were interminable. I thought the building could never

even be pulled down, but in one adhesive heap of rottenness and poster. As to getting in I don't believe that

if the Sleeping Beauty and her Court had been so billed up, the young Prince could have done it.

Knowing all the posters that were yet legible, intimately, and pondering on their ubiquitous nature, I was led

into the reflections with which I began this paper, by considering what an awful thing it would be, ever to

have wronged say M. JULLIEN for example and to have his avenging name in characters of fire

incessantly before my eyes. Or to have injured MADAME TUSSAUD, and undergo a similar retribution. Has

any man a selfreproachful thought associated with pills, or ointment? What an avenging spirit to that man is

PROFESSOR HOLLOWAY! Have I sinned in oil? CABBURN pursues me. Have I a dark remembrance

associated with any gentlemanly garments, bespoke or ready made? MOSES and SON are on my track. Did I

ever aim a blow at a defenceless fellowcreature's head? That head eternally being measured for a wig, or

that worse head which was bald before it used the balsam, and hirsute afterwards enforcing the benevolent

moral, 'Better to be bald as a Dutch cheese than come to this,' undoes me. Have I no sore places in my mind

which MECHI touches which NICOLL probes which no registered article whatever lacerates? Does no

discordant note within me thrill responsive to mysterious watchwords, as 'Revalenta Arabica,' or 'Number

Lifting up my eyes, as I was musing to this effect, I beheld advancing towards me (I was then on Cornhill,

near to the Royal Exchange), a solemn procession of three advertising vans, of first class dimensions, each

drawn by a very little horse. As the cavalcade approached, I was at a loss to reconcile the careless deportment

of the drivers of these vehicles, with the terrific announcements they conducted through the city, which being

a summary of the contents of a Sunday newspaper, were of the most thrilling kind. Robbery, fire, murder, and

the ruin of the United Kingdom each discharged in a line by itself, like a separate broadside of redhot

shot were among the least of the warnings addressed to an unthinking people. Yet, the Ministers of Fate

who drove the awful cars, leaned forward with their arms upon their knees in a state of extreme lassitude, for

want of any subject of interest. The first man, whose hair I might naturally have expected to see standing on

end, scratched his head one of the smoothest I ever beheld with profound indifference. The second

Pausing to dwell upon this apathy, it appeared to me, as the fatal cars came by me, that I descried in the

second car, through the portal in which the charioteer was seated, a figure stretched upon the floor. At the

same time, I thought I smelt tobacco. The latter impression passed quickly from me; the former remained.

Curious to know whether this prostrate figure was the one impressible man of the whole capital who had been

stricken insensible by the terrors revealed to him, and whose form had been placed in the car by the

charioteer, from motives of humanity, I followed the procession. It turned into Leadenhallmarket, and halted

at a publichouse. Each driver dismounted. I then distinctly heard, proceeding from the second car, where I

The driver entering the publichouse with his fellows, apparently for purposes of refreshment, I could not

refrain from mounting on the shaft of the second vehicle, and looking in at the portal. I then beheld, reclining

on his back upon the floor, on a kind of mattress or divan, a little man in a shootingcoat. The exclamation

'Dear me' which irresistibly escaped my lips caused him to sit upright, and survey me. I found him to be a

goodlooking little man of about fifty, with a shining face, a tight head, a bright eye, a moist wink, a quick

He looked at me, and I looked at him, until the driver displaced me by handing in a pint of beer, a pipe, and

what I understand is called 'a screw' of tobacco an object which has the appearance of a curlpaper taken

'I beg your pardon,' said I, when the removed person of the driver again admitted of my presenting my face at

the portal. 'But excuse my curiosity, which I inherit from my mother do you live here?'

'That's good, too!' returned the little man, composedly laying aside a pipe he had smoked out, and filling the

He shook his head, as he calmly lighted his pipe by means of a German tinderbox, and replied, 'This is my

carriage. When things are flat, I take a ride sometimes, and enjoy myself. I am the inventor of these wans.'

His pipe was now alight. He drank his beer all at once, and he smoked and he smiled at me.

'Might I be permitted to inscribe your name upon the tablets of my memory?' I asked.

'There's not much odds in the name,' returned the little man, ' no name particular I am the King of the

The monarch informed me, with a smile, that he had never been crowned or installed with any public

ceremonies, but that he was peaceably acknowledged as King of the BillStickers in right of being the oldest

and most respected member of 'the old school of billsticking.' He likewise gave me to understand that there

was a Lord Mayor of the BillStickers, whose genius was chiefly exercised within the limits of the city. He

made some allusion, also, to an inferior potentate, called 'Turkeylegs;' but I did not understand that this

gentleman was invested with much power. I rather inferred that he derived his title from some peculiarity of

'My father,' pursued the King of the BillStickers, 'was Engineer, Beadle, and BillSticker to the parish of St.

Andrew's, Holborn, in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. My father stuck bills at the time of

'You must be acquainted with the whole subject of billsticking, from that time to the present!' said I.

'You misunderstand me,' I replied, soothingly. 'Not that sort of collector at all: a collector of facts.'

'Oh, if it's only facts,' cried the King of the BillStickers, recovering his goodhumour, and banishing the

great mistrust that had suddenly fallen upon him, 'come in and welcome! If it had been income, or winders, I

Readily complying with the invitation, I squeezed myself in at the small aperture. His Majesty, graciously

handing me a little three legged stool on which I took my seat in a corner, inquired if I smoked.

'Pipe and a screw!' said His Majesty to the attendant charioteer. 'Do you prefer a dry smoke, or do you

As unmitigated tobacco produces most disturbing effects upon my system (indeed, if I had perfect moral

courage, I doubt if I should smoke at all, under any circumstances), I advocated moisture, and begged the

Sovereign of the BillStickers to name his usual liquor, and to concede to me the privilege of paying for it.

After some delicate reluctance on his part, we were provided, through the instrumentality of the attendant

charioteer, with a can of cold rumandwater, flavoured with sugar and lemon. We were also furnished with

a tumbler, and I was provided with a pipe. His Majesty, then observing that we might combine business with

conversation, gave the word for the car to proceed; and, to my great delight, we jogged away at a foot pace.

I say to my great delight, because I am very fond of novelty, and it was a new sensation to be jolting through

the tumult of the city in that secluded Temple, partly open to the sky, surrounded by the roar without, and

seeing nothing but the clouds. Occasionally, blows from whips fell heavily on the Temple's walls, when by

stopping up the road longer than usual, we irritated carters and coachmen to madness; but they fell harmless

upon us within and disturbed not the serenity of our peaceful retreat. As I looked upward, I felt, I should

imagine, like the Astronomer Royal. I was enchanted by the contrast between the freezing nature of our

external mission on the blood of the populace, and the perfect composure reigning within those sacred

precincts: where His Majesty, reclining easily on his left arm, smoked his pipe and drank his rumandwater

from his own side of the tumbler, which stood impartially between us. As I looked down from the clouds and

caught his royal eye, he understood my reflections. 'I have an idea,' he observed, with an upward glance, 'of

training scarlet runners across in the season, making a arbour of it, and sometimes taking tea in the same,

We were both silent, contemplating the vastness of the subject. I remembered a surprising fancy of dear

THOMAS HOOD'S, and wondered whether this monarch ever sighed to repair to the great wall of China, and

'The facts of billsticking,' pursued His Majesty, in a benignant manner, 'as known to myself, air as

following. When my father was Engineer, Beadle, and BillSticker to the parish of St. Andrew's, Holborn, he

employed women to post bills for him. He employed women to post bills at the time of the riots of London.

He died at the age of seventyfive year, and was buried by the murdered Eliza Grimwood, over in the

As this was somewhat in the nature of a royal speech, I listened with deference and silently. His Majesty,

taking a scroll from his pocket, proceeded, with great distinctness, to pour out the following flood of

'"The bills being at that period mostly proclamations and declarations, and which were only a demy size, the

manner of posting the bills (as they did not use brushes) was by means of a piece of wood which they called a

'dabber.' Thus things continued till such time as the State Lottery was passed, and then the printers began to

print larger bills, and men were employed instead of women, as the State Lottery Commissioners then began

to send men all over England to post bills, and would keep them out for six or eight months at a time, and

they were called by the London bill stickers 'TRAMPERS,' their wages at the time being ten shillings per

day, besides expenses. They used sometimes to be stationed in large towns for five or six months together,

distributing the schemes to all the houses in the town. And then there were more caricature woodblock

engravings for postingbills than there are at the present time, the principal printers, at that time, of

postingbills being Messrs. Evans and Ruffy, of Budge Row; Thoroughgood and Whiting, of the present day;

and Messrs. Gye and Balne, Gracechurch Street, City. The largest bills printed at that period were a

twosheet double crown; and when they commenced printing foursheet bills, two billstickers would work

together. They had no settled wages per week, but had a fixed price for their work, and the London

billstickers, during a lottery week, have been known to earn, each, eight or nine pounds per week, till the

day of drawing; likewise the men who carried boards in the street used to have one pound per week, and the

billstickers at that time would not allow any one to wilfully cover or destroy their bills, as they had a society

amongst themselves, and very frequently dined together at some publichouse where they used to go of an

All this His Majesty delivered in a gallant manner; posting it, as it were, before me, in a great proclamation. I

took advantage of the pause he now made, to inquire what a 'twosheet double crown' might express?

'A twosheet double crown,' replied the King, 'is a bill thirty nine inches wide by thirty inches high.'

'Is it possible,' said I, my mind reverting to the gigantic admonitions we were then displaying to the multitude

which were as infants to some of the postingbills on the rotten old warehouse 'that some few years ago

'The fact,' returned the King, 'is undoubtedly so.' Here he instantly rushed again into the scroll.

'"Since the abolishing of the State Lottery all that good feeling has gone, and nothing but jealousy exists,

through the rivalry of each other. Several billsticking companies have started, but have failed. The first

party that started a company was twelve year ago; but what was left of the old school and their dependants

joined together and opposed them. And for some time we were quiet again, till a printer of Hatton Garden

formed a company by hiring the sides of houses; but he was not supported by the public, and he left his

wooden frames fixed up for rent. The last company that started, took advantage of the New Police Act, and

hired of Messrs. Grissell and Peto the hoarding of Trafalgar Square, and established a billsticking office in

Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, and engaged some of the new billstickers to do their work, and for a time

got the half of all our work, and with such spirit did they carry on their opposition towards us, that they used

to give us in charge before the magistrate, and get us fined; but they found it so expensive, that they could not

keep it up, for they were always employing a lot of ruffians from the Seven Dials to come and fight us; and

on one occasion the old billstickers went to Trafalgar Square to attempt to post bills, when they were given

in custody by the watchman in their employ, and fined at Queen Square five pounds, as they would not allow

any of us to speak in the office; but when they were gone, we had an interview with the magistrate, who

mitigated the fine to fifteen shillings. During the time the men were waiting for the fine, this company started

off to a publichouse that we were in the habit of using, and waited for us coming back, where a fighting

scene took place that beggars description. Shortly after this, the principal one day came and shook hands with

us, and acknowledged that he had broken up the company, and that he himself had lost five hundred pound in

trying to overthrow us. We then took possession of the hoarding in Trafalgar Square; but Messrs. Grissell and

Peto would not allow us to post our bills on the said hoarding without paying them and from first to last we

paid upwards of two hundred pounds for that hoarding, and likewise the hoarding of the Reform Clubhouse,

His Majesty, being now completely out of breath, laid down his scroll (which he appeared to have finished),

puffed at his pipe, and took some rumandwater. I embraced the opportunity of asking how many divisions

the art and mystery of billsticking comprised? He replied, three auctioneers' billsticking, theatrical bill

'The auctioneers' porters,' said the King, 'who do their bill sticking, are mostly respectable and intelligent,

and generally well paid for their work, whether in town or country. The price paid by the principal

auctioneers for country work is nine shillings per day; that is, seven shillings for day's work, one shilling for

lodging, and one for paste. Town work is five shillings a day, including paste.'

'Town work must be rather hot work,' said I, 'if there be many of those fighting scenes that beggar

'Well,' replied the King, 'I an't a stranger, I assure you, to black eyes; a billsticker ought to know how to

handle his fists a bit. As to that row I have mentioned, that grew out of competition, conducted in an

uncompromising spirit. Besides a man in a horseandshay continually following us about, the company had

a watchman on duty, night and day, to prevent us sticking bills upon the hoarding in Trafalgar Square. We

went there, early one morning, to stick bills and to blackwash their bills if we were interfered with. We

WERE interfered with, and I gave the word for laying on the wash. It WAS laid on pretty brisk and we

were all taken to Queen Square: but they couldn't fine ME. I knew that,' with a bright smile 'I'd only give

directions I was only the General.' Charmed with this monarch's affability, I inquired if he had ever hired a

'Hired a large one,' he replied, 'opposite the Lyceum Theatre, when the buildings was there. Paid thirty pound

for it; let out places on it, and called it "The External PaperHanging Station." But it didn't answer. Ah!' said

His Majesty thoughtfully, as he filled the glass, 'Billstickers have a deal to contend with. The bill sticking

clause was got into the Police Act by a member of Parliament that employed me at his election. The clause is

pretty stiff respecting where bills go; but HE didn't mind where HIS bills went. It was all right enough, so

Fearful that I observed a shadow of misanthropy on the King's cheerful face, I asked whose ingenious

invention that was, which I greatly admired, of sticking bills under the arches of the bridges.

'Mine!' said His Majesty. 'I was the first that ever stuck a bill under a bridge! Imitators soon rose up, of

course. When don't they? But they stuck 'em at lowwater, and the tide came and swept the bills clean

'What may be the name of that instrument, like an immense fishing rod,' I inquired, 'with which bills are

'The joints,' returned His Majesty. 'Now, we use the joints where formerly we used ladders as they do still

in country places. Once, when Madame' (Vestris, understood) 'was playing in Liverpool, another billsticker

and me were at it together on the wall outside the Clarence Dock me with the joints him on a ladder.

Lord! I had my bill up, right over his head, yards above him, ladder and all, while he was crawling to his

work. The people going in and out of the docks, stood and laughed! It's about thirty years since the joints

'Some,' said the King. 'But they know which is the right side up'ards of their work. They keep it as it's given

out to 'em. I have seen a bill or so stuck wrong side up'ards. But it's very rare.'

Our discourse sustained some interruption at this point, by the procession of cars occasioning a stoppage of

about threequarters of a mile in length, as nearly as I could judge. His Majesty, however, entreating me not

to be discomposed by the contingent uproar, smoked with great placidity, and surveyed the firmament.

When we were again in motion, I begged to be informed what was the largest poster His Majesty had ever

seen. The King replied, 'A thirtysix sheet poster.' I gathered, also, that there were about a hundred and fifty

billstickers in London, and that His Majesty considered an average hand equal to the posting of one hundred

bills (single sheets) in a day. The King was of opinion, that, although posters had much increased in size, they

had not increased in number; as the abolition of the State Lotteries had occasioned a great falling off,

especially in the country. Over and above which change, I bethought myself that the custom of advertising in

newspapers had greatly increased. The completion of many London improvements, as Trafalgar Square (I

particularly observed the singularity of His Majesty's calling THAT an improvement), the Royal Exchange,

had of late years reduced the number of advantageous postingplaces. BillStickers at present rather confine

themselves to districts, than to particular descriptions of work. One man would strike over Whitechapel,

another would take round Houndsditch, Shoreditch, and the City Road; one (the King said) would stick to the

His Majesty remarked, with some approach to severity, on the neglect of delicacy and taste, gradually

introduced into the trade by the new school: a profligate and inferior race of impostors who took jobs at

almost any price, to the detriment of the old school, and the confusion of their own misguided employers. He

considered that the trade was overdone with competition, and observed speaking of his subjects, 'There are

too many of 'em.' He believed, still, that things were a little better than they had been; adducing, as a proof,

the fact that particular posting places were now reserved, by common consent, for particular posters; those

places, however, must be regularly occupied by those posters, or, they lapsed and fell into other hands. It was

of no use giving a man a Drury Lane bill this week and not next. Where was it to go? He was of opinion that

going to the expense of putting up your own board on which your sticker could display your own bills, was

the only complete way of posting yourself at the present time; but, even to effect this, on payment of a

shilling a week to the keepers of steamboat piers and other such places, you must be able, besides, to give

orders for theatres and public exhibitions, or you would be sure to be cut out by somebody. His Majesty

regarded the passion for orders, as one of the most unappeasable appetites of human nature. If there were a

building, or if there were repairs, going on, anywhere, you could generally stand something and make it right

with the foreman of the works; but, orders would be expected from you, and the man who could give the

most orders was the man who would come off best. There was this other objectionable point, in orders, that

workmen sold them for drink, and often sold them to persons who were likewise troubled with the weakness

of thirst: which led (His Majesty said) to the presentation of your orders at Theatre doors, by individuals who

were 'too shakery' to derive intellectual profit from the entertainments, and who brought a scandal on you.

Finally, His Majesty said that you could hardly put too little in a poster; what you wanted, was, two or three

These are the minutes of my conversation with His Majesty, as I noted them down shortly afterwards. I am

not aware that I have been betrayed into any alteration or suppression. The manner of the King was frank in

the extreme; and he seemed to me to avoid, at once that slight tendency to repetition which may have been

observed in the conversation of His Majesty King George the Third, and that slight undercurrent of

egotism which the curious observer may perhaps detect in the conversation of Napoleon Bonaparte.

I must do the King the justice to say that it was I, and not he, who closed the dialogue. At this juncture, I

became the subject of a remarkable optical delusion; the legs of my stool appeared to me to double up; the car

to spin round and round with great violence; and a mist to arise between myself and His Majesty. In addition

to these sensations, I felt extremely unwell. I refer these unpleasant effects, either to the paste with which the

posters were affixed to the van: which may have contained some small portion of arsenic; or, to the printer's

ink, which may have contained some equally deleterious ingredient. Of this, I cannot be sure. I am only sure

that I was not affected, either by the smoke, or the rum andwater. I was assisted out of the vehicle, in a

state of mind which I have only experienced in two other places I allude to the Pier at Dover, and to the

corresponding portion of the town of Calais and sat upon a doorstep until I recovered. The procession had

then disappeared. I have since looked anxiously for the King in several other cars, but I have not yet had the

MY name is Meek. I am, in fact, Mr. Meek. That son is mine and Mrs. Meek's. When I saw the

announcement in the Times, I dropped the paper. I had put it in, myself, and paid for it, but it looked so noble

As soon as I could compose my feelings, I took the paper up to Mrs. Meek's bedside. 'Maria Jane,' said I (I

allude to Mrs. Meek), 'you are now a public character.' We read the review of our child, several times, with

feelings of the strongest emotion; and I sent the boy who cleans the boots and shoes, to the office for fifteen

It is scarcely necessary for me to say, that our child had been expected. In fact, it had been expected, with

comparative confidence, for some months. Mrs. Meek's mother, who resides with us of the name of Bigby

I hope and believe I am a quiet man. I will go farther. I KNOW I am a quiet man. My constitution is

tremulous, my voice was never loud, and, in point of stature, I have been from infancy, small. I have the

greatest respect for Maria Jane's Mama. She is a most remarkable woman. I honour Maria Jane's Mama. In

my opinion she would storm a town, singlehanded, with a hearthbroom, and carry it. I have never known

her to yield any point whatever, to mortal man. She is calculated to terrify the stoutest heart.

The first intimation I had, of any preparations being in progress, on the part of Maria Jane's Mama, was one

afternoon, several months ago. I came home earlier than usual from the office, and, proceeding into the

diningroom, found an obstruction behind the door, which prevented it from opening freely. It was an

The female in question stood in the corner behind the door, consuming Sherry Wine. From the nutty smell of

that beverage pervading the apartment, I have no doubt she was consuming a second glassful. She wore a

black bonnet of large dimensions, and was copious in figure. The expression of her countenance was severe

and discontented. The words to which she gave utterance on seeing me, were these, 'Oh, git along with you,

I immediately withdrew, of course. I was rather hurt, but I made no remark. Whether it was that I showed a

lowness of spirits after dinner, in consequence of feeling that I seemed to intrude, I cannot say. But, Maria

Jane's Mama said to me on her retiring for the night: in a low distinct voice, and with a look of reproach that

I bear no illwill towards Mrs. Prodgit. Is it likely that I, writing this with tears in my eyes, should be capable

of deliberate animosity towards a female, so essential to the welfare of Maria Jane? I am willing to admit that

Fate may have been to blame, and not Mrs. Prodgit; but, it is undeniably true, that the latter female brought

We were happy after her first appearance; we were sometimes exceedingly so. But, whenever the parlour

door was opened, and 'Mrs. Prodgit!' announced (and she was very often announced), misery ensued. I could

not bear Mrs. Prodgit's look. I felt that I was far from wanted, and had no business to exist in Mrs. Prodgit's

presence. Between Maria Jane's Mama, and Mrs. Prodgit, there was a dreadful, secret, understanding a dark

mystery and conspiracy, pointing me out as a being to be shunned. I appeared to have done something that

was evil. Whenever Mrs. Prodgit called, after dinner, I retired to my dressingroom where the temperature

is very low indeed, in the wintry time of the year and sat looking at my frosty breath as it rose before me,

and at my rack of boots; a serviceable article of furniture, but never, in my opinion, an exhilarating object.

The length of the councils that were held with Mrs. Prodgit, under these circumstances, I will not attempt to

describe. I will merely remark, that Mrs. Prodgit always consumed Sherry Wine while the deliberations were

in progress; that they always ended in Maria Jane's being in wretched spirits on the sofa; and that Maria

Jane's Mama always received me, when I was recalled, with a look of desolate triumph that too plainly said,

'NOW, George Meek! You see my child, Maria Jane, a ruin, and I hope you are satisfied!'

I pass, generally, over the period that intervened between the day when Mrs. Prodgit entered her protest

against male parties, and the evermemorable midnight when I brought her to my unobtrusive home in a cab,

with an extremely large box on the roof, and a bundle, a bandbox, and a basket, between the driver's legs. I

have no objection to Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby, who I never can forget is the parent of

Maria Jane) taking entire possession of my unassuming establishment. In the recesses of my own breast, the

thought may linger that a man in possession cannot be so dreadful as a woman, and that woman Mrs. Prodgit;

but, I ought to bear a good deal, and I hope I can, and do. Huffing and snubbing, prey upon my feelings; but, I

can bear them without complaint. They may tell in the long run; I may be hustled about, from post to pillar,

beyond my strength; nevertheless, I wish to avoid giving rise to words in the family.

The voice of Nature, however, cries aloud in behalf of Augustus George, my infant son. It is for him that I

wish to utter a few plaintive household words. I am not at all angry; I am mild but miserable.

I wish to know why, when my child, Augustus George, was expected in our circle, a provision of pins was

made, as if the little stranger were a criminal who was to be put to the torture immediately, on his arrival,

instead of a holy babe? I wish to know why haste was made to stick those pins all over his innocent form, in

every direction? I wish to be informed why light and air are excluded from Augustus George, like poisons?

Why, I ask, is my unoffending infant so hedged into a basketbedstead, with dimity and calico, with

miniature sheets and blankets, that I can only hear him snuffle (and no wonder!) deep down under the pink

hood of a little bathingmachine, and can never peruse even so much of his lineaments as his nose?

Was I expected to be the father of a French Roll, that the brushes of All Nations were laid in, to rasp

Augustus George? Am I to be told that his sensitive skin was ever intended by Nature to have rashes brought

out upon it, by the premature and incessant use of those formidable little instruments?

Is my son a Nutmeg, that he is to be grated on the stiff edges of sharp frills? Am I the parent of a Muslin boy,

that his yielding surface is to be crimped and small plaited? Or is my child composed of Paper or of Linen,

that impressions of the finer gettingup art, practised by the laundress, are to be printed off, all over his soft

arms and legs, as I constantly observe them? The starch enters his soul; who can wonder that he cries?

Was Augustus George intended to have limbs, or to be born a Torso? I presume that limbs were the intention,

as they are the usual practice. Then, why are my poor child's limbs fettered and tied up? Am I to be told that

Analyse Castor Oil at any Institution of Chemistry that may be agreed upon, and inform me what

resemblance, in taste, it bears to that natural provision which it is at once the pride and duty of Maria Jane to

administer to Augustus George! Yet, I charge Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) with

systematically forcing Castor Oil on my innocent son, from the first hour of his birth. When that medicine, in

its efficient action, causes internal disturbance to Augustus George, I charge Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted

by Mrs. Bigby) with insanely and inconsistently administering opium to allay the storm she has raised! What

If the days of Egyptian Mummies are past, how dare Mrs. Prodgit require, for the use of my son, an amount

of flannel and linen that would carpet my humble roof? Do I wonder that she requires it? No! This morning,

within an hour, I beheld this agonising sight. I beheld my son Augustus George in Mrs. Prodgit's hands,

and on Mrs. Prodgit's knee, being dressed. He was at the moment, comparatively speaking, in a state of

nature; having nothing on, but an extremely short shirt, remarkably disproportionate to the length of his usual

outer garments. Trailing from Mrs. Prodgit's lap, on the floor, was a long narrow roller or bandage I should

say of several yards in extent. In this, I SAW Mrs. Prodgit tightly roll the body of my unoffending infant,

turning him over and over, now presenting his unconscious face upwards, now the back of his bald head, until

the unnatural feat was accomplished, and the bandage secured by a pin, which I have every reason to believe

entered the body of my only child. In this tourniquet, he passes the present phase of his existence. Can I know

I fear I have been betrayed into expressing myself warmly, but I feel deeply. Not for myself; for Augustus

George. I dare not interfere. Will any one? Will any publication? Any doctor? Any parent? Any body? I do

not complain that Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) entirely alienates Maria Jane's affections

from me, and interposes an impassable barrier between us. I do not complain of being made of no account. I

do not want to be of any account. But, Augustus George is a production of Nature (I cannot think otherwise),

and I claim that he should be treated with some remote reference to Nature. In my opinion, Mrs. Prodgit is,

from first to last, a convention and a superstition. Are all the faculty afraid of Mrs. Prodgit? If not, why don't

P.S. Maria Jane's Mama boasts of her own knowledge of the subject, and says she brought up seven children

besides Maria Jane. But how do I know that she might not have brought them up much better? Maria Jane

herself is far from strong, and is subject to headaches, and nervous indigestion. Besides which, I learn from

the statistical tables that one child in five dies within the first year of its life; and one child in three, within the

fifth. That don't look as if we could never improve in these particulars, I think!

'MY uncle lay with his eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn almost down to his nose. His fancy was

already wandering, and began to mingle up the present scene with the crater of Vesuvius, the French Opera,

the Coliseum at Rome, Dolly's Chophouse in London, and all the farrago of noted places with which the

Thus, that delightful writer, WASHINGTON IRVING, in his Tales of a Traveller. But, it happened to me the

other night to be lying: not with my eyes half closed, but with my eyes wide open; not with my nightcap

drawn almost down to my nose, for on sanitary principles I never wear a nightcap: but with my hair

pitchforked and touzled all over the pillow; not just falling asleep by any means, but glaringly, persistently,

and obstinately, broad awake. Perhaps, with no scientific intention or invention, I was illustrating the theory

of the Duality of the Brain; perhaps one part of my brain, being wakeful, sat up to watch the other part which

was sleepy. Be that as it may, something in me was as desirous to go to sleep as it possibly could be, but

something else in me WOULD NOT go to sleep, and was as obstinate as George the Third.

Thinking of George the Third for I devote this paper to my train of thoughts as I lay awake: most people

lying awake sometimes, and having some interest in the subject put me in mind of BENJAMIN

FRANKLIN, and so Benjamin Franklin's paper on the art of procuring pleasant dreams, which would seem

necessarily to include the art of going to sleep, came into my head. Now, as I often used to read that paper

when I was a very small boy, and as I recollect everything I read then as perfectly as I forget everything I

read now, I quoted 'Get out of bed, beat up and turn your pillow, shake the bedclothes well with at least

twenty shakes, then throw the bed open and leave it to cool; in the meanwhile, continuing undrest, walk about

your chamber. When you begin to feel the cold air unpleasant, then return to your bed, and you will soon fall

asleep, and your sleep will be sweet and pleasant.' Not a bit of it! I performed the whole ceremony, and if it

were possible for me to be more saucereyed than I was before, that was the only result that came of it.

Except Niagara. The two quotations from Washington Irving and Benjamin Franklin may have put it in my

head by an American association of ideas; but there I was, and the Horseshoe Fall was thundering and

tumbling in my eyes and ears, and the very rainbows that I left upon the spray when I really did last look

upon it, were beautiful to see. The nightlight being quite as plain, however, and sleep seeming to be many

thousand miles further off than Niagara, I made up my mind to think a little about Sleep; which I no sooner

did than I whirled off in spite of myself to Drury Lane Theatre, and there saw a great actor and dear friend of

mine (whom I had been thinking of in the day) playing Macbeth, and heard him apostrophising 'the death of

But, Sleep. I WILL think about Sleep. I am determined to think (this is the way I went on) about Sleep. I

must hold the word Sleep, tight and fast, or I shall be off at a tangent in half a second. I feel myself

unaccountably straying, already, into Clare Market. Sleep. It would be curious, as illustrating the equality of

sleep, to inquire how many of its phenomena are common to all classes, to all degrees of wealth and poverty,

to every grade of education and ignorance. Here, for example, is her Majesty Queen Victoria in her palace,

this present blessed night, and here is Winking Charley, a sturdy vagrant, in one of her Majesty's jails. Her

Majesty has fallen, many thousands of times, from that same Tower, which I claim a right to tumble off now

and then. So has Winking Charley. Her Majesty in her sleep has opened or prorogued Parliament, or has held

a Drawing Room, attired in some very scanty dress, the deficiencies and improprieties of which have caused

her great uneasiness. I, in my degree, have suffered unspeakable agitation of mind from taking the chair at a

public dinner at the London Tavern in my nightclothes, which not all the courtesy of my kind friend and

host MR. BATHE could persuade me were quite adapted to the occasion. Winking Charley has been

repeatedly tried in a worse condition. Her Majesty is no stranger to a vault or firmament, of a sort of

floorcloth, with an indistinct pattern distantly resembling eyes, which occasionally obtrudes itself on her

repose. Neither am I. Neither is Winking Charley. It is quite common to all three of us to skim along with

airy strides a little above the ground; also to hold, with the deepest interest, dialogues with various people, all

represented by ourselves; and to be at our wit's end to know what they are going to tell us; and to be

indescribably astonished by the secrets they disclose. It is probable that we have all three committed murders

and hidden bodies. It is pretty certain that we have all desperately wanted to cry out, and have had no voice;

that we have all gone to the play and not been able to get in; that we have all dreamed much more of our

And up I go. I, lying here with the nightlight before me, up I go, for no reason on earth that I can find out,

and drawn by no links that are visible to me, up the Great Saint Bernard! I have lived in Switzerland, and

rambled among the mountains; but, why I should go there now, and why up the Great Saint Bernard in

preference to any other mountain, I have no idea. As I lie here broad awake, and with every sense so

sharpened that I can distinctly hear distant noises inaudible to me at another time, I make that journey, as I

really did, on the same summer day, with the same happy party ah! two since dead, I grieve to think and

there is the same track, with the same black wooden arms to point the way, and there are the same

stormrefuges here and there; and there is the same snow falling at the top, and there are the same frosty

mists, and there is the same intensely cold convent with its menagerie smell, and the same breed of dogs fast

dying out, and the same breed of jolly young monks whom I mourn to know as humbugs, and the same

convent parlour with its piano and the sitting round the fire, and the same supper, and the same lone night in a

cell, and the same bright fresh morning when going out into the highly rarefied air was like a plunge into an

icy bath. Now, see here what comes along; and why does this thing stalk into my mind on the top of a Swiss

It is a figure that I once saw, just after dark, chalked upon a door in a little back lane near a country church

my first church. How young a child I may have been at the time I don't know, but it horrified me so intensely

in connexion with the churchyard, I suppose, for it smokes a pipe, and has a big hat with each of its ears

sticking out in a horizontal line under the brim, and is not in itself more oppressive than a mouth from ear to

ear, a pair of goggle eyes, and hands like two bunches of carrots, five in each, can make it that it is still

vaguely alarming to me to recall (as I have often done before, lying awake) the running home, the looking

behind, the horror, of its following me; though whether disconnected from the door, or door and all, I can't

say, and perhaps never could. It lays a disagreeable train. I must resolve to think of something on the

The balloon ascents of this last season. They will do to think about, while I lie awake, as well as anything

else. I must hold them tight though, for I feel them sliding away, and in their stead are the Mannings, husband

and wife, hanging on the top of Horse monger Lane Jail. In connexion with which dismal spectacle, I recall

this curious fantasy of the mind. That, having beheld that execution, and having left those two forms dangling

on the top of the entrance gateway the man's, a limp, loose suit of clothes as if the man had gone out of

them; the woman's, a fine shape, so elaborately corseted and artfully dressed, that it was quite unchanged in

its trim appearance as it slowly swung from side to side I never could, by my uttermost efforts, for some

weeks, present the outside of that prison to myself (which the terrible impression I had received continually

obliged me to do) without presenting it with the two figures still hanging in the morning air. Until, strolling

past the gloomy place one night, when the street was deserted and quiet, and actually seeing that the bodies

were not there, my fancy was persuaded, as it were, to take them down and bury them within the precincts of

The balloon ascents of last season. Let me reckon them up. There were the horse, the bull, the parachute,

and the tumbler hanging on chiefly by his toes, I believe below the car. Very wrong, indeed, and

decidedly to be stopped. But, in connexion with these and similar dangerous exhibitions, it strikes me that

that portion of the public whom they entertain, is unjustly reproached. Their pleasure is in the difficulty

overcome. They are a public of great faith, and are quite confident that the gentleman will not fall off the

horse, or the lady off the bull or out of the parachute, and that the tumbler has a firm hold with his toes. They

do not go to see the adventurer vanquished, but triumphant. There is no parallel in public combats between

men and beasts, because nobody can answer for the particular beast unless it were always the same beast, in

which case it would be a mere stageshow, which the same public would go in the same state of mind to see,

entirely believing in the brute being beforehand safely subdued by the man. That they are not accustomed to

calculate hazards and dangers with any nicety, we may know from their rash exposure of themselves in

overcrowded steamboats, and unsafe conveyances and places of all kinds. And I cannot help thinking that

instead of railing, and attributing savage motives to a people naturally well disposed and humane, it is better

to teach them, and lead them argumentatively and reasonably for they are very reasonable, if you will

This is a disagreeable intrusion! Here is a man with his throat cut, dashing towards me as I lie awake! A

recollection of an old story of a kinsman of mine, who, going home one foggy winter night to Hampstead,

when London was much smaller and the road lonesome, suddenly encountered such a figure rushing past

him, and presently two keepers from a madhouse in pursuit. A very unpleasant creature indeed, to come into

The balloon ascents of last season. I must return to the balloons. Why did the bleeding man start out of

them? Never mind; if I inquire, he will be back again. The balloons. This particular public have inherently a

great pleasure in the contemplation of physical difficulties overcome; mainly, as I take it, because the lives of

a large majority of them are exceedingly monotonous and real, and further, are a struggle against continual

difficulties, and further still, because anything in the form of accidental injury, or any kind of illness or

disability is so very serious in their own sphere. I will explain this seeming paradox of mine. Take the case of

a Christmas Pantomime. Surely nobody supposes that the young mother in the pit who falls into fits of

laughter when the baby is boiled or sat upon, would be at all diverted by such an occurrence off the stage.

Nor is the decent workman in the gallery, who is transported beyond the ignorant present by the delight with

which he sees a stout gentleman pushed out of a two pair of stairs window, to be slandered by the suspicion

that he would be in the least entertained by such a spectacle in any street in London, Paris, or New York. It

always appears to me that the secret of this enjoyment lies in the temporary superiority to the common

hazards and mischances of life; in seeing casualties, attended when they really occur with bodily and mental

suffering, tears, and poverty, happen through a very rough sort of poetry without the least harm being done to

any one the pretence of distress in a pantomime being so broadly humorous as to be no pretence at all.

Much as in the comic fiction I can understand the mother with a very vulnerable baby at home, greatly

relishing the invulnerable baby on the stage, so in the Cremorne reality I can understand the mason who is

always liable to fall off a scaffold in his working jacket and to be carried to the hospital, having an infinite

admiration of the radiant personage in spangles who goes into the clouds upon a bull, or upside down, and

who, he takes it for granted not reflecting upon the thing has, by uncommon skill and dexterity,

conquered such mischances as those to which he and his acquaintance are continually exposed.

I wish the Morgue in Paris would not come here as I lie awake, with its ghastly beds, and the swollen

saturated clothes hanging up, and the water dripping, dripping all day long, upon that other swollen saturated

something in the corner, like a heap of crushed overripe figs that I have seen in Italy! And this detestable

Morgue comes back again at the head of a procession of forgotten ghost stories. This will never do. I must

think of something else as I lie awake; or, like that sagacious animal in the United States who recognised the

colonel who was such a dead shot, I am a gone 'Coon. What shall I think of? The late brutal assaults. Very

(Though whether, supposing I should see, here before me as I lie awake, the awful phantom described in one

of those ghost stories, who, with a headdress of shroud, was always seen looking in through a certain glass

door at a certain dead hour whether, in such a case it would be the least consolation to me to know on

philosophical grounds that it was merely my imagination, is a question I can't help asking myself by the way.)

The late brutal assaults. I strongly question the expediency of advocating the revival of whipping for those

crimes. It is a natural and generous impulse to be indignant at the perpetration of inconceivable brutality, but

I doubt the whipping panacea gravely. Not in the least regard or pity for the criminal, whom I hold in far

lower estimation than a mad wolf, but in consideration for the general tone and feeling, which is very much

improved since the whipping times. It is bad for a people to be familiarised with such punishments. When the

whip went out of Bridewell, and ceased to be flourished at the carts tail and at the whippingpost, it began to

fade out of madhouses, and workhouses, and schools and families, and to give place to a better system

everywhere, than cruel driving. It would be hasty, because a few brutes may be inadequately punished, to

revive, in any aspect, what, in so many aspects, society is hardly yet happily rid of. The whip is a very

contagious kind of thing, and difficult to confine within one set of bounds. Utterly abolish punishment by fine

a barbarous device, quite as much out of date as wager by battle, but particularly connected in the vulgar

mind with this class of offence at least quadruple the term of imprisonment for aggravated assaults and

above all let us, in such cases, have no Pet Prisoning, vain glorifying, strong soup, and roasted meats, but

hard work, and one unchanging and uncompromising dietary of bread and water, well or ill; and we shall do

much better than by going down into the dark to grope for the whip among the rusty fragments of the rack,

and the branding iron, and the chains and gibbet from the public roads, and the weights that pressed men to

I had proceeded thus far, when I found I had been lying awake so long that the very dead began to wake too,

and to crowd into my thoughts most sorrowfully. Therefore, I resolved to lie awake no more, but to get up

and go out for a night walk which resolution was an acceptable relief to me, as I dare say it may prove now

I AM a bachelor, residing in rather a dreary set of chambers in the Temple. They are situated in a square court

of high houses, which would be a complete well, but for the want of water and the absence of a bucket. I live

at the top of the house, among the tiles and sparrows. Like the little man in the nurserystory, I live by

myself, and all the bread and cheese I get which is not much I put upon a shelf. I need scarcely add,

perhaps, that I am in love, and that the father of my charming Julia objects to our union.

I mention these little particulars as I might deliver a letter of introduction. The reader is now acquainted with

I am naturally of a dreamy turn of mind; and my abundant leisure for I am called to the Bar coupled with

much lonely listening to the twittering of sparrows, and the pattering of rain, has encouraged that disposition.

In my 'top set' I hear the wind howl on a winter night, when the man on the ground floor believes it is

perfectly still weather. The dim lamps with which our Honourable Society (supposed to be as yet unconscious

of the new discovery called Gas) make the horrors of the staircase visible, deepen the gloom which generally

I am in the Law, but not of it. I can't exactly make out what it means. I sit in Westminster Hall sometimes (in

character) from ten to four; and when I go out of Court, I don't know whether I am standing on my wig or my

It appears to me (I mention this in confidence) as if there were too much talk and too much law as if some

All this may make me mystical. Still, I am confident that what I am going to describe myself as having seen

It is necessary that I should observe that I have a great delight in pictures. I am no painter myself, but I have

studied pictures and written about them. I have seen all the most famous pictures in the world; my education

and reading have been sufficiently general to possess me beforehand with a knowledge of most of the

subjects to which a Painter is likely to have recourse; and, although I might be in some doubt as to the

rightful fashion of the scabbard of King Lear's sword, for instance, I think I should know King Lear tolerably

I go to all the Modern Exhibitions every season, and of course I revere the Royal Academy. I stand by its

forty Academical articles almost as firmly as I stand by the thirtynine Articles of the Church of England. I

am convinced that in neither case could there be, by any rightful possibility, one article more or less.

It is now exactly three years three years ago, this very month since I went from Westminster to the

Temple, one Thursday afternoon, in a cheap steamboat. The sky was black, when I imprudently walked on

board. It began to thunder and lighten immediately afterwards, and the rain poured down in torrents. The

deck seeming to smoke with the wet, I went below; but so many passengers were there, smoking too, that I

came up again, and buttoning my peacoat, and standing in the shadow of the paddle box, stood as upright

It was at this moment that I first beheld the terrible Being, who is the subject of my present recollections.

Standing against the funnel, apparently with the intention of drying himself by the heat as fast as he got wet,

was a shabby man in threadbare black, and with his hands in his pockets, who fascinated me from the

Where had I caught that eye before? Who was he? Why did I connect him, all at once, with the Vicar of

Wakefield, Alfred the Great, Gil Blas, Charles the Second, Joseph and his Brethren, the Fairy Queen, Tom

Jones, the Decameron of Boccaccio, Tam O'Shanter, the Marriage of the Doge of Venice with the Adriatic,

and the Great Plague of London? Why, when he bent one leg, and placed one hand upon the back of the seat

near him, did my mind associate him wildly with the words, 'Number one hundred and fortytwo, Portrait of

I looked at him again, and now I could have taken my affidavit that he belonged to the Vicar of Wakefield's

family. Whether he was the Vicar, or Moses, or Mr. Burchill, or the Squire, or a conglomeration of all four, I

knew not; but I was impelled to seize him by the throat, and charge him with being, in some fell way,

connected with the Primrose blood. He looked up at the rain, and then oh Heaven! he became Saint John.

He folded his arms, resigning himself to the weather, and I was frantically inclined to address him as the

Spectator, and firmly demand to know what he had done with Sir Roger de Coverley.

The frightful suspicion that I was becoming deranged, returned upon me with redoubled force. Meantime,

this awful stranger, inexplicably linked to my distress, stood drying himself at the funnel; and ever, as the

steam rose from his clothes, diffusing a mist around him, I saw through the ghostly medium all the people I

I am conscious of a dreadful inclination that stole upon me, as it thundered and lightened, to grapple with this

man, or demon, and plunge him over the side. But, I constrained myself I know not how to speak to him,

'A Model,' he replied. 'I sets to the profession for a bob a hour.' (All through this narrative I give his own

The relief which this disclosure gave me, the exquisite delight of the restoration of my confidence in my own

sanity, I cannot describe. I should have fallen on his neck, but for the consciousness of being observed by the

'You then,' said I, shaking him so warmly by the hand, that I wrung the rain out of his coatcuff, 'are the

gentleman whom I have so frequently contemplated, in connection with a highbacked chair with a red

'Say not so,' I returned. 'I have seen you in the society of many beautiful young women;' as in truth I had, and

'No doubt,' said he. 'And you've seen me along with warses of flowers, and any number of tablekivers, and

'And warious gammon,' he repeated, in a louder voice. 'You might have seen me in armour, too, if you had

looked sharp. Blessed if I ha'n't stood in half the suits of armour as ever came out of Pratt's shop: and sat, for

weeks together, aeating nothing, out of half the gold and silver dishes as has ever been lent for the purpose

Excited, as it appeared, by a sense of injury, I thought he would never have found an end for the last word.

'Pardon me,' said I, 'you are a wellfavoured, wellmade man, and yet forgive me I find, on examining

my mind, that I associate you with that my recollection indistinctly makes you, in short excuse me a

'My throat and my legs,' said he. 'When I don't set for a head, I mostly sets for a throat and a pair of legs.

Now, granted you was a painter, and was to work at my throat for a week together, I suppose you'd see a lot

of lumps and bumps there, that would never be there at all, if you looked at me, complete, instead of only my

'Why, it stands to reason,' said the Model. 'Work another week at my legs, and it'll be the same thing. You'll

make 'em out as knotty and as knobby, at last, as if they was the trunks of two old trees. Then, take and stick

my legs and throat on to another man's body, and you'll make a reg'lar monster. And that's the way the public

gets their reg'lar monsters, every first Monday in May, when the Royal Academy Exhibition opens.'

'I'm in an uncommon ill humour, if that's it,' rejoined the Model, with great indignation. 'As if it warn't bad

enough for a bob a hour, for a man to be mixing himself up with that there jolly old furniter that one 'ud

think the public know'd the wery nails in by this time or to be putting on greasy old 'ats and cloaks, and

playing tambourines in the Bay o' Naples, with Wesuvius a smokin' according to pattern in the background,

and the wines a bearing wonderful in the middle distance or to be unpolitely kicking up his legs among a

lot o' gals, with no reason whatever in his mind but to show 'em as if this warn't bad enough, I'm to go and

The gloomy and threatening manner in which he muttered the last words, can never be effaced from my

I asked of myself, what was it that this desperate Being was resolved to grow. My breast made no response.

I ventured to implore him to explain his meaning. With a scornful laugh, he uttered this dark prophecy:

We parted in the storm, after I had forced halfacrown on his acceptance, with a trembling hand. I conclude

that something supernatural happened to the steamboat, as it bore his reeking figure down the river; but it

Two years elapsed, during which I followed my profession without any vicissitudes; never holding so much

as a motion, of course. At the expiration of that period, I found myself making my way home to the Temple,

one night, in precisely such another storm of thunder and lightning as that by which I had been overtaken on

board the steamboat except that this storm, bursting over the town at midnight, was rendered much more

As I turned into my court, I really thought a thunderbolt would fall, and plough the pavement up. Every brick

and stone in the place seemed to have an echo of its own for the thunder. The waterspouts were overcharged,

and the rain came tearing down from the housetops as if they had been mountaintops.

Mrs. Parkins, my laundress wife of Parkins the porter, then newly dead of a dropsy had particular

instructions to place a bedroom candle and a match under the staircase lamp on my landing, in order that I

might light my candle there, whenever I came home. Mrs. Parkins invariably disregarding all instructions,

they were never there. Thus it happened that on this occasion I groped my way into my sittingroom to find

What were my emotions when, underneath the staircase lamp, shining with wet as if he had never been dry

since our last meeting, stood the mysterious Being whom I had encountered on the steamboat in a

thunderstorm, two years before! His prediction rushed upon my mind, and I turned faint.

'I said I'd do it,' he observed, in a hollow voice, 'and I have done it. May I come in?'

Could it be murder that he had done? And had he been so successful that he wanted to do it again, at my

I inclined my head, with as much presence of mind as I could command, and he followed me into my

chambers. There, I saw that the lower part of his face was tied up, in what is commonly called a Belcher

handkerchief. He slowly removed this bandage, and exposed to view a long dark beard, curling over his

upper lip, twisting about the corners of his mouth, and hanging down upon his breast.

The effect of these words, slowly uttered in the thunderstorm at midnight, was appalling in the last degree.

'The German taste came up,' said he, 'and threw me out of bread. I am ready for the taste now.'

He made his beard flowing on his breast, and, leaning both hands on the staff of a carpetbroom which Mrs.

I stood transfixed. The change of sentiment was entirely in the beard. The man might have left his face alone,

He lay down, on his back, on my table, and with that action of his head threw up his beard at the chin.

He got off my table and, looking up at the ceiling, cocked his beard a little awry; at the same time making it

He turned his profile to me, making his upper lip very bulky with the upper part of his beard.

He looked sideways out of his beard, as if it were an ivybush. 'Jealousy,' said he. He gave it an ingenious

twist in the air, and informed me that he was carousing. He made it shaggy with his fingers and it was

Despair; lank and it was avarice: tossed it all kinds of ways and it was rage. The beard did everything.

'I am the Ghost of Art,' said he. 'Two bob aday now, and more when it's longer! Hair's the true expression.

There is no other. I SAID I'D GROW IT, AND I'VE GROWN IT, AND IT SHALL HAUNT YOU!'

He may have tumbled downstairs in the dark, but he never walked down or ran down. I looked over the

Need I add more of my terrific fate? IT HAS haunted me ever since. It glares upon me from the walls of the

Royal Academy, (except when MACLISE subdues it to his genius,) it fills my soul with terror at the British

Institution, it lures young artists on to their destruction. Go where I will, the Ghost of Art, eternally working

the passions in hair, and expressing everything by beard, pursues me. The prediction is accomplished, and the

SITTING, on a bright September morning, among my books and papers at my open window on the cliff

overhanging the seabeach, I have the sky and ocean framed before me like a beautiful picture. A beautiful

picture, but with such movement in it, such changes of light upon the sails of ships and wake of steamboats,

such dazzling gleams of silver far out at sea, such fresh touches on the crisp wavetops as they break and roll

towards me a picture with such music in the billowy rush upon the shingle, the blowing of morning wind

through the cornsheaves where the farmers' waggons are busy, the singing of the larks, and the distant

voices of children at play such charms of sight and sound as all the Galleries on earth can but poorly

So dreamy is the murmur of the sea below my window, that I may have been here, for anything I know, one

hundred years. Not that I have grown old, for, daily on the neighbouring downs and grassy hill sides, I find

that I can still in reason walk any distance, jump over anything, and climb up anywhere; but, that the sound of

the ocean seems to have become so customary to my musings, and other realities seem so to have gone

aboard ship and floated away over the horizon, that, for aught I will undertake to the contrary, I am the

enchanted son of the King my father, shut up in a tower on the seashore, for protection against an old

shegoblin who insisted on being my godmother, and who foresaw at the font wonderful creature! that I

should get into a scrape before I was twenty one. I remember to have been in a City (my Royal parent's

dominions, I suppose), and apparently not long ago either, that was in the dreariest condition. The principal

inhabitants had all been changed into old newspapers, and in that form were preserving their windowblinds

from dust, and wrapping all their smaller household gods in curlpapers. I walked through gloomy streets

where every house was shut up and newspapered, and where my solitary footsteps echoed on the deserted

pavements. In the public rides there were no carriages, no horses, no animated existence, but a few sleepy

policemen, and a few adventurous boys taking advantage of the devastation to swarm up the lampposts. In

the Westward streets there was no traffic; in the Westward shops, no business. The waterpatterns which the

'Prentices had trickled out on the pavements early in the morning, remained uneffaced by human feet. At the

corners of mews, CochinChina fowls stalked gaunt and savage; nobody being left in the deserted city (as it

appeared to me), to feed them. Public Houses, where splendid footmen swinging their legs over gorgeous

hammercloths beside wigged coachmen were wont to regale, were silent, and the unused pewter pots shone,

too bright for business, on the shelves. I beheld a Punch's Show leaning against a wall near Park Lane, as if it

had fainted. It was deserted, and there were none to heed its desolation. In Belgrave Square I met the last man

an ostler sitting on a post in a ragged red waistcoat, eating straw, and mildewing away.

If I recollect the name of the little town, on whose shore this sea is murmuring but I am not just now, as I

have premised, to be relied upon for anything it is Pavilionstone. Within a quarter of a century, it was a

little fishing town, and they do say, that the time was, when it was a little smuggling town. I have heard that it

was rather famous in the hollands and brandy way, and that coevally with that reputation the lamplighter's

was considered a bad life at the Assurance Offices. It was observed that if he were not particular about

lighting up, he lived in peace; but that, if he made the best of the oillamps in the steep and narrow streets, he

usually fell over the cliff at an early age. Now, gas and electricity run to the very water's edge, and the

But, the old little fishing and smuggling town remains, and is so tempting a place for the latter purpose, that I

think of going out some night next week, in a fur cap and a pair of petticoat trousers, and running an empty

tub, as a kind of archaeological pursuit. Let nobody with corns come to Pavilionstone, for there are breakneck

flights of ragged steps, connecting the principal streets by backways, which will cripple that visitor in half

an hour. These are the ways by which, when I run that tub, I shall escape. I shall make a Thermopylae of the

corner of one of them, defend it with my cutlass against the coastguard until my brave companions have

sheered off, then dive into the darkness, and regain my Susan's arms. In connection with these breakneck

steps I observe some wooden cottages, with tumbledown outhouses, and backyards three feet square,

adorned with garlands of dried fish, in one of which (though the General Board of Health might object) my

The SouthEastern Company have brought Pavilionstone into such vogue, with their tidal trains and splendid

steampackets, that a new Pavilionstone is rising up. I am, myself, of New Pavilionstone. We are a little

mortary and limey at present, but we are getting on capitally. Indeed, we were getting on so fast, at one time,

that we rather overdid it, and built a street of shops, the business of which may be expected to arrive in about

ten years. We are sensibly laid out in general; and with a little care and pains (by no means wanting, so far),

shall become a very pretty place. We ought to be, for our situation is delightful, our air is delicious, and our

breezy hills and downs, carpeted with wild thyme, and decorated with millions of wild flowers, are, on the

faith of a pedestrian, perfect. In New Pavilionstone we are a little too much addicted to small windows with

more bricks in them than glass, and we are not overfanciful in the way of decorative architecture, and we

get unexpected seaviews through cracks in the street doors; on the whole, however, we are very snug and

comfortable, and well accommodated. But the Home Secretary (if there be such an officer) cannot too soon

shut up the burialground of the old parish church. It is in the midst of us, and Pavilionstone will get no good

The lion of Pavilionstone is its Great Hotel. A dozen years ago, going over to Paris by SouthEastern Tidal

Steamer, you used to be dropped upon the platform of the main line Pavilionstone Station (not a junction

then), at eleven o'clock on a dark winter's night, in a roaring wind; and in the howling wilderness outside the

station, was a short omnibus which brought you up by the forehead the instant you got in at the door; and

nobody cared about you, and you were alone in the world. You bumped over infinite chalk, until you were

turned out at a strange building which had just left off being a barn without having quite begun to be a house,

where nobody expected your coming, or knew what to do with you when you were come, and where you

were usually blown about, until you happened to be blown against the cold beef, and finally into bed. At five

in the morning you were blown out of bed, and after a dreary breakfast, with crumpled company, in the midst

of confusion, were hustled on board a steamboat and lay wretched on deck until you saw France lunging and

Now, you come down to Pavilionstone in a free and easy manner, an irresponsible agent, made over in trust

to the SouthEastern Company, until you get out of the railwaycarriage at highwater mark. If you are

crossing by the boat at once, you have nothing to do but walk on board and be happy there if you can I

can't. If you are going to our Great Pavilionstone Hotel, the sprightliest porters under the sun, whose cheerful

looks are a pleasant welcome, shoulder your luggage, drive it off in vans, bowl it away in trucks, and enjoy

themselves in playing athletic games with it. If you are for public life at our great Pavilionstone Hotel, you

walk into that establishment as if it were your club; and find ready for you, your newsroom, diningroom,

smokingroom, billiardroom, musicroom, public breakfast, public dinner twice aday (one plain, one

gorgeous), hot baths and cold baths. If you want to be bored, there are plenty of bores always ready for you,

and from Saturday to Monday in particular, you can be bored (if you like it) through and through. Should you

want to be private at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel, say but the word, look at the list of charges, choose your

floor, name your figure there you are, established in your castle, by the day, week, month, or year, innocent

of all comers or goers, unless you have my fancy for walking early in the morning down the groves of boots

and shoes, which so regularly flourish at all the chamberdoors before breakfast, that it seems to me as if

nobody ever got up or took them in. Are you going across the Alps, and would you like to air your Italian at

our Great Pavilionstone Hotel? Talk to the Manager always conversational, accomplished, and polite. Do

you want to be aided, abetted, comforted, or advised, at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel? Send for the good

landlord, and he is your friend. Should you, or any one belonging to you, ever be taken ill at our Great

Pavilionstone Hotel, you will not soon forget him or his kind wife. And when you pay your bill at our Great

Pavilionstone Hotel, you will not be put out of humour by anything you find in it.

A thoroughly good inn, in the days of coaching and posting, was a noble place. But no such inn would have

been equal to the reception of four or five hundred people, all of them wet through, and half of them dead

sick, every day in the year. This is where we shine, in our Pavilionstone Hotel. Again who, coming and

going, pitching and tossing, boating and training, hurrying in, and flying out, could ever have calculated the

fees to be paid at an oldfashioned house? In our Pavilionstone Hotel vocabulary, there is no such word as

fee. Everything is done for you; every service is provided at a fixed and reasonable charge; all the prices are

hung up in all the rooms; and you can make out your own bill beforehand, as well as the bookkeeper.

In the case of your being a pictorial artist, desirous of studying at small expense the physiognomies and

beards of different nations, come, on receipt of this, to Pavilionstone. You shall find all the nations of the

earth, and all the styles of shaving and not shaving, hair cutting and hair letting alone, for ever flowing

through our hotel. Couriers you shall see by hundreds; fat leathern bags for fivefranc pieces, closing with

violent snaps, like discharges of firearms, by thousands; more luggage in a morning than, fifty years ago, all

Europe saw in a week. Looking at trains, steamboats, sick travellers, and luggage, is our great Pavilionstone

recreation. We are not strong in other public amusements. We have a Literary and Scientific Institution, and

we have a Working Men's Institution may it hold many gipsy holidays in summer fields, with the kettle

boiling, the band of music playing, and the people dancing; and may I be on the hillside, looking on with

pleasure at a wholesome sight too rare in England! and we have two or three churches, and more chapels

than I have yet added up. But public amusements are scarce with us. If a poor theatrical manager comes with

his company to give us, in a loft, Mary Bax, or the Murder on the Sand Hills, we don't care much for him

starve him out, in fact. We take more kindly to waxwork, especially if it moves; in which case it keeps

much clearer of the second commandment than when it is still. Cooke's Circus (Mr. Cooke is my friend, and

always leaves a good name behind him) gives us only a night in passing through. Nor does the travelling

menagerie think us worth a longer visit. It gave us a lookin the other day, bringing with it the residentiary

van with the stained glass windows, which Her Majesty kept readymade at Windsor Castle, until she found

a suitable opportunity of submitting it for the proprietor's acceptance. I brought away five wonderments from

this exhibition. I have wondered ever since, Whether the beasts ever do get used to those small places of

confinement; Whether the monkeys have that very horrible flavour in their free state; Whether wild animals

have a natural ear for time and tune, and therefore every fourfooted creature began to howl in despair when

the band began to play; What the giraffe does with his neck when his cart is shut up; and, Whether the

elephant feels ashamed of himself when he is brought out of his den to stand on his head in the presence of

We are a tidal harbour at Pavilionstone, as indeed I have implied already in my mention of tidal trains. At low

water, we are a heap of mud, with an empty channel in it where a couple of men in big boots always shovel

and scoop: with what exact object, I am unable to say. At that time, all the stranded fishingboats turn over

on their sides, as if they were dead marine monsters; the colliers and other shipping stick disconsolate in the

mud; the steamers look as if their white chimneys would never smoke more, and their red paddles never turn

again; the green seaslime and weed upon the rough stones at the entrance, seem records of obsolete high

tides never more to flow; the flagstaffhalyards droop; the very little wooden lighthouse shrinks in the idle

glare of the sun. And here I may observe of the very little wooden lighthouse, that when it is lighted at night,

red and green, it looks so like a medical man's, that several distracted husbands have at various times

been found, on occasions of premature domestic anxiety, going round and round it, trying to find the

But, the moment the tide begins to make, the Pavilionstone Harbour begins to revive. It feels the breeze of the

rising water before the water comes, and begins to flutter and stir. When the little shallow waves creep in,

barely overlapping one another, the vanes at the mastheads wake, and become agitated. As the tide rises, the

fishingboats get into good spirits and dance, the flagstaff hoists a bright red flag, the steamboat smokes,

cranes creak, horses and carriages dangle in the air, stray passengers and luggage appear. Now, the shipping

is afloat, and comes up buoyantly, to look at the wharf. Now, the carts that have come down for coals, load

away as hard as they can load. Now, the steamer smokes immensely, and occasionally blows at the

paddleboxes like a vaporous whale greatly disturbing nervous loungers. Now, both the tide and the breeze

have risen, and you are holding your hat on (if you want to see how the ladies hold THEIR hats on, with a

stay, passing over the broad brim and down the nose, come to Pavilionstone). Now, everything in the harbour

splashes, dashes, and bobs. Now, the Down Tidal Train is telegraphed, and you know (without knowing how

you know), that two hundred and eightyseven people are coming. Now, the fishingboats that have been

out, sail in at the top of the tide. Now, the bell goes, and the locomotive hisses and shrieks, and the train

comes gliding in, and the two hundred and eightyseven come scuffling out. Now, there is not only a tide of

water, but a tide of people, and a tide of luggage all tumbling and flowing and bouncing about together.

Now, after infinite bustle, the steamer steams out, and we (on the Pier) are all delighted when she rolls as if

she would roll her funnel out, and all are disappointed when she don't. Now, the other steamer is coming in,

and the Custom House prepares, and the wharflabourers assemble, and the hawsers are made ready, and the

Hotel Porters come rattling down with van and truck, eager to begin more Olympic games with more

luggage. And this is the way in which we go on, down at Pavilionstone, every tide. And, if you want to live a

life of luggage, or to see it lived, or to breathe sweet air which will send you to sleep at a moment's notice at

any period of the day or night, or to disport yourself upon or in the sea, or to scamper about Kent, or to come

out of town for the enjoyment of all or any of these pleasures, come to Pavilionstone.

IT fell to my lot, this last bleak Spring, to find myself in a wateringplace out of the Season. A vicious

northeast squall blew me into it from foreign parts, and I tarried in it alone for three days, resolved to be

On the first day, I began business by looking for two hours at the sea, and staring the Foreign Militia out of

countenance. Having disposed of these important engagements, I sat down at one of the two windows of my

room, intent on doing something desperate in the way of literary composition, and writing a chapter of

It is a remarkable quality in a wateringplace out of the season, that everything in it, will and must be looked

at. I had no previous suspicion of this fatal truth but, the moment I sat down to write, I began to perceive it. I

had scarcely fallen into my most promising attitude, and dipped my pen in the ink, when I found the clock

upon the pier a redfaced clock with a white rim importuning me in a highly vexatious manner to consult

my watch, and see how I was off for Greenwich time. Having no intention of making a voyage or taking an

observation, I had not the least need of Greenwich time, and could have put up with wateringplace time as a

sufficiently accurate article. The pierclock, however, persisting, I felt it necessary to lay down my pen,

compare my watch with him, and fall into a grave solicitude about half seconds. I had taken up my pen

again, and was about to commence that valuable chapter, when a Customhouse cutter under the window

It was impossible, under the circumstances, for any mental resolution, merely human, to dismiss the

Customhouse cutter, because the shadow of her topmast fell upon my paper, and the vane played on the

masterly blank chapter. I was therefore under the necessity of going to the other window; sitting astride of the

chair there, like Napoleon bivouacking in the print; and inspecting the cutter as she lay, all that day, in the

way of my chapter, O! She was rigged to carry a quantity of canvas, but her hull was so very small that four

giants aboard of her (three men and a boy) who were vigilantly scraping at her, all together, inspired me with

a terror lest they should scrape her away. A fifth giant, who appeared to consider himself 'below' as indeed

he was, from the waist downwards meditated, in such close proximity with the little gusty chimneypipe,

that he seemed to be smoking it. Several boys looked on from the wharf, and, when the gigantic attention

appeared to be fully occupied, one or other of these would furtively swing himself in midair over the

Customhouse cutter, by means of a line pendant from her rigging, like a young spirit of the storm. Presently,

a sixth hand brought down two little watercasks; presently afterwards, a truck came, and delivered a

hamper. I was now under an obligation to consider that the cutter was going on a cruise, and to wonder where

she was going, and when she was going, and why she was going, and at what date she might be expected

back, and who commanded her? With these pressing questions I was fully occupied when the Packet, making

It became a positive duty to look at the Packet preparing to go across; aboard of which, the people newly

come down by the rail road were hurrying in a great fluster. The crew had got their tarry overalls on and

one knew what THAT meant not to mention the white basins, ranged in neat little piles of a dozen each,

behind the door of the aftercabin. One lady as I looked, one resigning and farseeing woman, took her basin

from the store of crockery, as she might have taken a refreshmentticket, laid herself down on deck with that

utensil at her ear, muffled her feet in one shawl, solemnly covered her countenance after the antique manner

with another, and on the completion of these preparations appeared by the strength of her volition to become

insensible. The mailbags (O that I myself had the sealegs of a mailbag!) were tumbled aboard; the Packet

left off roaring, warped out, and made at the white line upon the bar. One dip, one roll, one break of the sea

over her bows, and Moore's Almanack or the sage Raphael could not have told me more of the state of things

The famous chapter was all but begun now, and would have been quite begun, but for the wind. It was

blowing stiffly from the east, and it rumbled in the chimney and shook the house. That was not much; but,

looking out into the wind's grey eye for inspiration, I laid down my pen again to make the remark to myself,

how emphatically everything by the sea declares that it has a great concern in the state of the wind. The trees

blown all one way; the defences of the harbour reared highest and strongest against the raging point; the

shingle flung up on the beach from the same direction; the number of arrows pointed at the common enemy;

the sea tumbling in and rushing towards them as if it were inflamed by the sight. This put it in my head that I

really ought to go out and take a walk in the wind; so, I gave up the magnificent chapter for that day, entirely

I had a good one, and that on the high road the very high road on the top of the cliffs, where I met the

stagecoach with all the outsides holding their hats on and themselves too, and overtook a flock of sheep

with the wool about their necks blown into such great ruffs that they looked like fleecy owls. The wind

played upon the lighthouse as if it were a great whistle, the spray was driven over the sea in a cloud of haze,

the ships rolled and pitched heavily, and at intervals long slants and flaws of light made mountainsteeps of

communication between the ocean and the sky. A walk of ten miles brought me to a seaside town without a

cliff, which, like the town I had come from, was out of the season too. Half of the houses were shut up; half

of the other half were to let; the town might have done as much business as it was doing then, if it had been at

the bottom of the sea. Nobody seemed to flourish save the attorney; his clerk's pen was going in the bow

window of his wooden house; his brass doorplate alone was free from salt, and had been polished up that

morning. On the beach, among the rough buggers and capstans, groups of stormbeaten boatmen, like a sort

of marine monsters, watched under the lee of those objects, or stood leaning forward against the wind,

looking out through battered spyglasses. The parlour bell in the Admiral Benbow had grown so flat with

being out of the season, that neither could I hear it ring when I pulled the handle for lunch, nor could the

young woman in black stockings and strong shoes, who acted as waiter out of the season, until it had been

Admiral Benbow's cheese was out of the season, but his homemade bread was good, and his beer was

perfect. Deluded by some earlier spring day which had been warm and sunny, the Admiral had cleared the

firing out of his parlour stove, and had put some flowerpots in which was amiable and hopeful in the

Admiral, but not judicious: the room being, at that present visiting, transcendantly cold. I therefore took the

liberty of peeping out across a little stone passage into the Admiral's kitchen, and, seeing a high settle with its

back towards me drawn out in front of the Admiral's kitchen fire, I strolled in, bread and cheese in hand,

munching and looking about. One landsman and two boatmen were seated on the settle, smoking pipes and

drinking beer out of thick pint crockery mugs mugs peculiar to such places, with particoloured rings round

them, and ornaments between the rings like frayedout roots. The landsman was relating his experience, as

yet only three nights old, of a fearful runningdown case in the Channel, and therein presented to my

'At that identical moment of time,' said he (he was a prosy man by nature, who rose with his subject), 'the

night being light and calm, but with a grey mist upon the water that didn't seem to spread for more than two

or three mile, I was walking up and down the wooden causeway next the pier, off where it happened, along

with a friend of mine, which his name is Mr. Clocker. Mr. Clocker is a grocer over yonder.' (From the

direction in which he pointed the bowl of his pipe, I might have judged Mr. Clocker to be a merman,

established in the grocery trade in fiveandtwenty fathoms of water.) 'We were smoking our pipes, and

walking up and down the causeway, talking of one thing and talking of another. We were quite alone there,

except that a few hovellers' (the Kentish name for 'longshore boatmen like his companions) 'were hanging

about their lugs, waiting while the tide made, as hovellers will.' (One of the two boatmen, thoughtfully

regarding me, shut up one eye; this I understood to mean: first, that he took me into the conversation:

secondly, that he confirmed the proposition: thirdly, that he announced himself as a hoveller.) 'All of a

sudden Mr. Clocker and me stood rooted to the spot, by hearing a sound come through the stillness, right over

the sea, LIKE A GREAT SORROWFUL FLUTE OR AEOLIAN HARP. We didn't in the least know what it

was, and judge of our surprise when we saw the hovellers, to a man, leap into the boats and tear about to hoist

sail and get off, as if they had every one of 'em gone, in a moment, raving mad! But THEY knew it was the

When I got back to my wateringplace out of the season, and had done my twenty miles in good style, I

found that the celebrated Black Mesmerist intended favouring the public that evening in the Hall of the

Muses, which he had engaged for the purpose. After a good dinner, seated by the fire in an easy chair, I began

to waver in a design I had formed of waiting on the Black Mesmerist, and to incline towards the expediency

of remaining where I was. Indeed a point of gallantry was involved in my doing so, inasmuch as I had not left

France alone, but had come from the prisons of St. Pelagie with my distinguished and unfortunate friend

Madame Roland (in two volumes which I bought for two francs each, at the bookstall in the Place de la

Concorde, Paris, at the corner of the Rue Royale). Deciding to pass the evening teteatete with Madame

Roland, I derived, as I always do, great pleasure from that spiritual woman's society, and the charms of her

brave soul and engaging conversation. I must confess that if she had only some more faults, only a few more

passionate failings of any kind, I might love her better; but I am content to believe that the deficiency is in

me, and not in her. We spent some sadly interesting hours together on this occasion, and she told me again of

her cruel discharge from the Abbaye, and of her being rearrested before her free feet had sprung lightly up

halfadozen steps of her own staircase, and carried off to the prison which she only left for the guillotine.

Madame Roland and I took leave of one another before midnight, and I went to bed full of vast intentions

for next day, in connexion with the unparalleled chapter. To hear the foreign mailsteamers coming in at

dawn of day, and to know that I was not aboard or obliged to get up, was very comfortable; so, I rose for the

I had advanced so far as to sit down at my window again on my second morning, and to write the first

halfline of the chapter and strike it out, not liking it, when my conscience reproached me with not having

surveyed the wateringplace out of the season, after all, yesterday, but with having gone straight out of it at

the rate of four miles and a half an hour. Obviously the best amends that I could make for this remissness was

to go and look at it without another moment's delay. So altogether as a matter of duty I gave up the

magnificent chapter for another day, and sauntered out with my hands in my pockets.

All the houses and lodgings ever let to visitors, were to let that morning. It seemed to have snowed bills with

To Let upon them. This put me upon thinking what the owners of all those apartments did, out of the season;

how they employed their time, and occupied their minds. They could not be always going to the Methodist

chapels, of which I passed one every other minute. They must have some other recreation. Whether they

pretended to take one another's lodgings, and opened one another's teacaddies in fun? Whether they cut

slices off their own beef and mutton, and made believe that it belonged to somebody else? Whether they

played little dramas of life, as children do, and said, 'I ought to come and look at your apartments, and you

ought to ask two guineas a week too much, and then I ought to say I must have the rest of the day to think of

it, and then you ought to say that another lady and gentleman with no children in family had made an offer

very close to your own terms, and you had passed your word to give them a positive answer in half an hour,

and indeed were just going to take the bill down when you heard the knock, and then I ought to take them,

you know?' Twenty such speculations engaged my thoughts. Then, after passing, still clinging to the walls,

defaced rags of the bills of last year's Circus, I came to a back field near a timberyard where the Circus itself

had been, and where there was yet a sort of monkish tonsure on the grass, indicating the spot where the young

lady had gone round upon her pet steed Firefly in her daring flight. Turning into the town again, I came

among the shops, and they were emphatically out of the season. The chemist had no boxes of gingerbeer

powders, no beautifying seaside soaps and washes, no attractive scents; nothing but his great goggleeyed

red bottles, looking as if the winds of winter and the drift of the saltsea had inflamed them. The grocers' hot

pickles, Harvey's Sauce, Doctor Kitchener's Zest, Anchovy Paste, Dundee Marmalade, and the whole stock of

luxurious helps to appetite, were hybernating somewhere underground. The chinashop had no trifles from

anywhere. The Bazaar had given in altogether, and presented a notice on the shutters that this establishment

would reopen at Whitsuntide, and that the proprietor in the meantime might be heard of at Wild Lodge, East

Cliff. At the Seabathing Establishment, a row of neat little wooden houses seven or eight feet high, I SAW

the proprietor in bed in the showerbath. As to the bathing machines, they were (how they got there, is not

for me to say) at the top of a hill at least a mile and a half off. The library, which I had never seen otherwise

than wide open, was tight shut; and two peevish bald old gentlemen seemed to be hermetically sealed up

inside, eternally reading the paper. That wonderful mystery, the musicshop, carried it off as usual (except

that it had more cabinet pianos in stock), as if season or no season were all one to it. It made the same

prodigious display of bright brazen wind instruments, horribly twisted, worth, as I should conceive, some

thousands of pounds, and which it is utterly impossible that anybody in any season can ever play or want to

play. It had five triangles in the window, six pairs of castanets, and three harps; likewise every polka with a

coloured frontispiece that ever was published; from the original one where a smooth male and female Pole of

high rank are coming at the observer with their arms a kimbo, to the Ratcatcher's Daughter. Astonishing

establishment, amazing enigma! Three other shops were pretty much out of the season, what they were used

to be in it. First, the shop where they sell the sailors' watches, which had still the old collection of enormous

timekeepers, apparently designed to break a fall from the masthead: with places to wind them up, like

fireplugs. Secondly, the shop where they sell the sailors' clothing, which displayed the old sou'westers, and

the old oily suits, and the old peajackets, and the old one seachest, with its handles like a pair of rope

earrings. Thirdly, the unchangeable shop for the sale of literature that has been left behind. Here, Dr.

Faustus was still going down to very red and yellow perdition, under the superintendence of three green

personages of a scaly humour, with excrescential serpents growing out of their bladebones. Here, the

Golden Dreamer, and the Norwood Fortune Teller, were still on sale at sixpence each, with instructions for

making the dumb cake, and reading destinies in teacups, and with a picture of a young woman with a high

waist lying on a sofa in an attitude so uncomfortable as almost to account for her dreaming at one and the

same time of a conflagration, a shipwreck, an earthquake, a skeleton, a church porch, lightning, funerals

performed, and a young man in a bright blue coat and canary pantaloons. Here, were Little Warblers and

Fairburn's Comic Songsters. Here, too, were ballads on the old ballad paper and in the old confusion of types;

with an old man in a cocked hat, and an armchair, for the illustration to Will Watch the bold Smuggler; and

the Friar of Orders Grey, represented by a little girl in a hoop, with a ship in the distance. All these as of yore,

It took me so long fully to relish these many enjoyments, that I had not more than an hour before bedtime to

devote to Madame Roland. We got on admirably together on the subject of her convent education, and I rose

next morning with the full conviction that the day for the great chapter was at last arrived.

It had fallen calm, however, in the night, and as I sat at breakfast I blushed to remember that I had not yet

been on the Downs. I a walker, and not yet on the Downs! Really, on so quiet and bright a morning this must

be set right. As an essential part of the Whole Duty of Man, therefore, I left the chapter to itself for the

present and went on the Downs. They were wonderfully green and beautiful, and gave me a good deal to

do. When I had done with the free air and the view, I had to go down into the valley and look after the hops

(which I know nothing about), and to be equally solicitous as to the cherry orchards. Then I took it on myself

to crossexamine a tramping family in black (mother alleged, I have no doubt by herself in person, to have

died last week), and to accompany eighteenpence which produced a great effect, with moral admonitions

which produced none at all. Finally, it was late in the afternoon before I got back to the unprecedented

chapter, and then I determined that it was out of the season, as the place was, and put it away.

I went at night to the benefit of Mrs. B. Wedgington at the Theatre, who had placarded the town with the

admonition, 'DON'T FORGET IT!' I made the house, according to my calculation, four and ninepence to

begin with, and it may have warmed up, in the course of the evening, to half a sovereign. There was nothing

to offend any one, the good Mr. Baines of Leeds excepted. Mrs. B. Wedgington sang to a grand piano. Mr.

B. Wedgington did the like, and also took off his coat, tucked up his trousers, and danced in clogs. Master B.

Wedgington, aged ten months, was nursed by a shivering young person in the boxes, and the eye of Mrs. B.

Wedgington wandered that way more than once. Peace be with all the Wedgingtons from A. to Z. May they

I AM not used to writing for print. What workingman, that never labours less (some Mondays, and

Christmas Time and Easter Time excepted) than twelve or fourteen hours a day, is? But I have been asked to

put down, plain, what I have got to say; and so I take penandink, and do it to the best of my power, hoping

I was born nigh London, but have worked in a shop at Birmingham (what you would call Manufactories, we

call Shops), almost ever since I was out of my time. I served my apprenticeship at Deptford, nigh where I was

born, and I am a smith by trade. My name is John. I have been called 'Old John' ever since I was nineteen

year of age, on account of not having much hair. I am fiftysix year of age at the present time, and I don't

find myself with more hair, nor yet with less, to signify, than at nineteen year of age aforesaid.

I have been married five and thirty year, come next April. I was married on All Fools' Day. Let them laugh

that will. I won a good wife that day, and it was as sensible a day to me as ever I had.

We have had a matter of ten children, six whereof are living. My eldest son is engineer in the Italian

steampacket 'Mezzo Giorno, plying between Marseilles and Naples, and calling at Genoa, Leghorn, and

Civita Vecchia.' He was a good workman. He invented a many useful little things that brought him in

nothing. I have two sons doing well at Sydney, New South Wales single, when last heard from. One of my

sons (James) went wild and for a soldier, where he was shot in India, living six weeks in hospital with a

musketball lodged in his shoulderblade, which he wrote with his own hand. He was the best looking. One

of my two daughters (Mary) is comfortable in her circumstances, but water on the chest. The other

(Charlotte), her husband run away from her in the basest manner, and she and her three children live with us.

I am not a Chartist, and I never was. I don't mean to say but what I see a good many public points to complain

of, still I don't think that's the way to set them right. If I did think so, I should be a Chartist. But I don't think

so, and I am not a Chartist. I read the paper, and hear discussion, at what we call 'a parlour,' in Birmingham,

and I know many good men and workmen who are Chartists. Note. Not Physical force.

It won't be took as boastful in me, if I make the remark (for I can't put down what I have got to say, without

putting that down before going any further), that I have always been of an ingenious turn. I once got twenty

pound by a screw, and it's in use now. I have been twenty year, off and on, completing an Invention and

perfecting it. I perfected of it, last Christmas Eve at ten o'clock at night. Me and my wife stood and let some

tears fall over the Model, when it was done and I brought her in to take a look at it.

A friend of mine, by the name of William Butcher, is a Chartist. Moderate. He is a good speaker. He is very

animated. I have often heard him deliver that what is, at every turn, in the way of us workingmen, is, that

too many places have been made, in the course of time, to provide for people that never ought to have been

provided for; and that we have to obey forms and to pay fees to support those places when we shouldn't

ought. 'True,' (delivers William Butcher), 'all the public has to do this, but it falls heaviest on the

workingman, because he has least to spare; and likewise because impediments shouldn't be put in his way,

when he wants redress of wrong or furtherance of right.' Note. I have wrote down those words from William

Now, to my Model again. There it was, perfected of, on Christmas Eve, gone nigh a year, at ten o'clock at

night. All the money I could spare I had laid out upon the Model; and when times was bad, or my daughter

Charlotte's children sickly, or both, it had stood still, months at a spell. I had pulled it to pieces, and made it

over again with improvements, I don't know how often. There it stood, at last, a perfected Model as aforesaid.

William Butcher and me had a long talk, Christmas Day, respecting of the Model. William is very sensible.

But sometimes cranky. William said, 'What will you do with it, John?' I said, 'Patent it.' William said, 'How

patent it, John?' I said, 'By taking out a Patent.' William then delivered that the law of Patent was a cruel

wrong. William said, 'John, if you make your invention public, before you get a Patent, any one may rob you

of the fruits of your hard work. You are put in a cleft stick, John. Either you must drive a bargain very much

against yourself, by getting a party to come forward beforehand with the great expenses of the Patent; or, you

must be put about, from post to pillar, among so many parties, trying to make a better bargain for yourself,

and showing your invention, that your invention will be took from you over your head.' I said, 'William

Butcher, are you cranky? You are sometimes cranky.' William said, 'No, John, I tell you the truth;' which he

then delivered more at length. I said to W. B. I would Patent the invention myself.

My wife's brother, George Bury of West Bromwich (his wife unfortunately took to drinking, made away with

everything, and seventeen times committed to Birmingham Jail before happy release in every point of view),

left my wife, his sister, when he died, a legacy of one hundred and twentyeight pound ten, Bank of England

Stocks. Me and my wife never broke into that money yet. Note. We might come to be old and past our work.

We now agreed to Patent the invention. We said we would make a hole in it I mean in the aforesaid money

and Patent the invention. William Butcher wrote me a letter to Thomas Joy, in London. T. J. is a carpenter,

six foot four in height, and plays quoits well. He lives in Chelsea, London, by the church. I got leave from the

shop, to be took on again when I come back. I am a good workman. Not a Teetotaller; but never drunk. When

the Christmas holidays were over, I went up to London by the Parliamentary Train, and hired a lodging for a

Thomas Joy delivered (from a book he had) that the first step to be took, in Patenting the invention, was to

prepare a petition unto Queen Victoria. William Butcher had delivered similar, and drawn it up. Note.

William is a ready writer. A declaration before a Master in Chancery was to be added to it. That, we likewise

drew up. After a deal of trouble I found out a Master, in Southampton Buildings, Chancery Lane, nigh

Temple Bar, where I made the declaration, and paid eighteenpence. I was told to take the declaration and

petition to the Home Office, in Whitehall, where I left it to be signed by the Home Secretary (after I had

found the office out), and where I paid two pound, two, and sixpence. In six days he signed it, and I was told

to take it to the Attorney General's chambers, and leave it there for a report. I did so, and paid four pound,

My lodging at Thomas Joy's was now hired for another week, whereof five days were gone. The

AttorneyGeneral made what they called a Reportofcourse (my invention being, as William Butcher had

delivered before starting, unopposed), and I was sent back with it to the Home Office. They made a Copy of

it, which was called a Warrant. For this warrant, I paid seven pound, thirteen, and six. It was sent to the

Queen, to sign. The Queen sent it back, signed. The Home Secretary signed it again. The gentleman throwed

it at me when I called, and said, 'Now take it to the Patent Office in Lincoln's Inn.' I was then in my third

week at Thomas Joy's living very sparing, on account of fees. I found myself losing heart.

At the Patent Office in Lincoln's Inn, they made 'a draft of the Queen's bill,' of my invention, and a 'docket of

the bill.' I paid five pound, ten, and six, for this. They 'engrossed two copies of the bill; one for the Signet

Office, and one for the PrivySeal Office.' I paid one pound, seven, and six, for this. Stamp duty over and

above, three pound. The Engrossing Clerk of the same office engrossed the Queen's bill for signature. I paid

him one pound, one. Stampduty, again, one pound, ten. I was next to take the Queen's bill to the

AttorneyGeneral again, and get it signed again. I took it, and paid five pound more. I fetched it away, and

took it to the Home Secretary again. He sent it to the Queen again. She signed it again. I paid seven pound,

thirteen, and six, more, for this. I had been over a month at Thomas Joy's. I was quite wore out, patience and

Thomas Joy delivered all this, as it went on, to William Butcher. William Butcher delivered it again to three

Birmingham Parlours, from which it got to all the other Parlours, and was took, as I have been told since,

right through all the shops in the North of England. Note. William Butcher delivered, at his Parlour, in a

But I hadn't nigh done yet. The Queen's bill was to be took to the Signet Office in Somerset House, Strand

where the stamp shop is. The Clerk of the Signet made 'a Signet bill for the Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal.' I

paid him four pound, seven. The Clerk of the Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal made 'a PrivySeal bill for the

Lord Chancellor.' I paid him, four pound, two. The PrivySeal bill was handed over to the Clerk of the

Patents, who engrossed the aforesaid. I paid him five pound, seventeen, and eight; at the same time, I paid

Stampduty for the Patent, in one lump, thirty pound. I next paid for 'boxes for the Patent,' nine and sixpence.

Note. Thomas Joy would have made the same at a profit for eighteenpence. I next paid 'fees to the Deputy,

the Lord Chancellor's Pursebearer,' two pound, two. I next paid 'fees to the Clerk of the Hanapar,' seven

pound, thirteen. I next paid 'fees to the Deputy Clerk of the Hanaper,' ten shillings. I next paid, to the Lord

Chancellor again, one pound, eleven, and six. Last of all, I paid 'fees to the Deputy Sealer, and Deputy

Chaff wax,' ten shillings and sixpence. I had lodged at Thomas Joy's over six weeks, and the unopposed

Patent for my invention, for England only, had cost me ninetysix pound, seven, and eightpence. If I had

taken it out for the United Kingdom, it would have cost me more than three hundred pound.

Now, teaching had not come up but very limited when I was young. So much the worse for me you'll say. I

say the same. William Butcher is twenty year younger than me. He knows a hundred year more. If William

Butcher had wanted to Patent an invention, he might have been sharper than myself when hustled backwards

and forwards among all those offices, though I doubt if so patient. Note. William being sometimes cranky,

Thereby I say nothing of my being tired of my life, while I was Patenting my invention. But I put this: Is it

reasonable to make a man feel as if, in inventing an ingenious improvement meant to do good, he had done

something wrong? How else can a man feel, when he is met by such difficulties at every turn? All inventors

taking out a Patent MUST feel so. And look at the expense. How hard on me, and how hard on the country if

there's any merit in me (and my invention is took up now, I am thankful to say, and doing well), to put me to

all that expense before I can move a finger! Make the addition yourself, and it'll come to ninetysix pound,

What can I say against William Butcher, about places? Look at the Home Secretary, the AttorneyGeneral,

the Patent Office, the Engrossing Clerk, the Lord Chancellor, the Privy Seal, the Clerk of the Patents, the

Lord Chancellor's Pursebearer, the Clerk of the Hanaper, the Deputy Clerk of the Hanaper, the Deputy

Sealer, and the Deputy Chaffwax. No man in England could get a Patent for an Indianrubber band, or an

ironhoop, without feeing all of them. Some of them, over and over again. I went through thirtyfive stages.

I began with the Queen upon the Throne. I ended with the Deputy Chaffwax. Note. I should like to see the

What I had to tell, I have told. I have wrote it down. I hope it's plain. Not so much in the handwriting (though

nothing to boast of there), as in the sense of it. I will now conclude with Thomas Joy. Thomas said to me,

when we parted, 'John, if the laws of this country were as honest as they ought to be, you would have come to

London registered an exact description and drawing of your invention paid halfacrown or so for doing

My opinion is the same as Thomas Joy. Further. In William Butcher's delivering 'that the whole gang of

Hanapers and Chaff waxes must be done away with, and that England has been chaffed and waxed

TO come to the point at once, I beg to say that I have not the least belief in the Noble Savage. I consider him

a prodigious nuisance, and an enormous superstition. His calling rum fire water, and me a pale face, wholly

fail to reconcile me to him. I don't care what he calls me. I call him a savage, and I call a savage a something

highly desirable to be civilised off the face of the earth. I think a mere gent (which I take to be the lowest

form of civilisation) better than a howling, whistling, clucking, stamping, jumping, tearing savage. It is all

one to me, whether he sticks a fishbone through his visage, or bits of trees through the lobes of his ears, or

bird's feathers in his head; whether he flattens his hair between two boards, or spreads his nose over the

breadth of his face, or drags his lower lip down by great weights, or blackens his teeth, or knocks them out, or

paints one cheek red and the other blue, or tattoos himself, or oils himself, or rubs his body with fat, or

crimps it with knives. Yielding to whichsoever of these agreeable eccentricities, he is a savage cruel, false,

thievish, murderous; addicted more or less to grease, entrails, and beastly customs; a wild animal with the

questionable gift of boasting; a conceited, tiresome, bloodthirsty, monotonous humbug.

Yet it is extraordinary to observe how some people will talk about him, as they talk about the good old times;

how they will regret his disappearance, in the course of this world's development, from such and such lands

where his absence is a blessed relief and an indispensable preparation for the sowing of the very first seeds of

any influence that can exalt humanity; how, even with the evidence of himself before them, they will either

be determined to believe, or will suffer themselves to be persuaded into believing, that he is something which

There was Mr. Catlin, some few years ago, with his Ojibbeway Indians. Mr. Catlin was an energetic, earnest

man, who had lived among more tribes of Indians than I need reckon up here, and who had written a

picturesque and glowing book about them. With his party of Indians squatting and spitting on the table before

him, or dancing their miserable jigs after their own dreary manner, he called, in all good faith, upon his

civilised audience to take notice of their symmetry and grace, their perfect limbs, and the exquisite expression

of their pantomime; and his civilised audience, in all good faith, complied and admired. Whereas, as mere

animals, they were wretched creatures, very low in the scale and very poorly formed; and as men and women

possessing any power of truthful dramatic expression by means of action, they were no better than the chorus

at an Italian Opera in England and would have been worse if such a thing were possible.

Mine are no new views of the noble savage. The greatest writers on natural history found him out long ago.

BUFFON knew what he was, and showed why he is the sulky tyrant that he is to his women, and how it

happens (Heaven be praised!) that his race is spare in numbers. For evidence of the quality of his moral

nature, pass himself for a moment and refer to his 'faithful dog.' Has he ever improved a dog, or attached a

dog, since his nobility first ran wild in woods, and was brought down (at a very long shot) by POPE? Or does

It is not the miserable nature of the noble savage that is the new thing; it is the whimpering over him with

maudlin admiration, and the affecting to regret him, and the drawing of any comparison of advantage

between the blemishes of civilisation and the tenor of his swinish life. There may have been a change now

Think of the Bushmen. Think of the two men and the two women who have been exhibited about England for

some years. Are the majority of persons who remember the horrid little leader of that party in his festering

bundle of hides, with his filth and his antipathy to water, and his straddled legs, and his odious eyes shaded

by his brutal hand, and his cry of 'Quuuuaaa!' (Bosjesman for something desperately insulting I have no

doubt) conscious of an affectionate yearning towards that noble savage, or is it idiosyncratic in me to abhor,

detest, abominate, and abjure him? I have no reserve on this subject, and will frankly state that, setting aside

that stage of the entertainment when he counterfeited the death of some creature he had shot, by laying his

head on his hand and shaking his left leg at which time I think it would have been justifiable homicide to

slay him I have never seen that group sleeping, smoking, and expectorating round their brazier, but I have

sincerely desired that something might happen to the charcoal smouldering therein, which would cause the

There is at present a party of Zulu Kaffirs exhibiting at the St. George's Gallery, Hyde Park Corner, London.

These noble savages are represented in a most agreeable manner; they are seen in an elegant theatre, fitted

with appropriate scenery of great beauty, and they are described in a very sensible and unpretending lecture,

delivered with a modesty which is quite a pattern to all similar exponents. Though extremely ugly, they are

much better shaped than such of their predecessors as I have referred to; and they are rather picturesque to the

eye, though far from odoriferous to the nose. What a visitor left to his own interpretings and imaginings

might suppose these noblemen to be about, when they give vent to that pantomimic expression which is quite

settled to be the natural gift of the noble savage, I cannot possibly conceive; for it is so much too luminous

for my personal civilisation that it conveys no idea to my mind beyond a general stamping, ramping, and

raving, remarkable (as everything in savage life is) for its dire uniformity. But let us with the interpreter's

assistance, of which I for one stand so much in need see what the noble savage does in Zulu Kaffirland.

The noble savage sets a king to reign over him, to whom he submits his life and limbs without a murmur or

question, and whose whole life is passed chin deep in a lake of blood; but who, after killing incessantly, is in

his turn killed by his relations and friends, the moment a grey hair appears on his head. All the noble savage's

wars with his fellowsavages (and he takes no pleasure in anything else) are wars of extermination which is

the best thing I know of him, and the most comfortable to my mind when I look at him. He has no moral

feelings of any kind, sort, or description; and his 'mission' may be summed up as simply diabolical.

The ceremonies with which he faintly diversifies his life are, of course, of a kindred nature. If he wants a wife

he appears before the kennel of the gentleman whom he has selected for his fatherin law, attended by a

party of male friends of a very strong flavour, who screech and whistle and stamp an offer of so many cows

for the young lady's hand. The chosen fatherinlaw also supported by a highflavoured party of male

friends screeches, whistles, and yells (being seated on the ground, he can't stamp) that there never was such

a daughter in the market as his daughter, and that he must have six more cows. The soninlaw and his select

circle of backers screech, whistle, stamp, and yell in reply, that they will give three more cows. The

fatherinlaw (an old deluder, overpaid at the beginning) accepts four, and rises to bind the bargain. The

whole party, the young lady included, then falling into epileptic convulsions, and screeching, whistling,

stamping, and yelling together and nobody taking any notice of the young lady (whose charms are not to be

thought of without a shudder) the noble savage is considered married, and his friends make demoniacal

When the noble savage finds himself a little unwell, and mentions the circumstance to his friends, it is

immediately perceived that he is under the influence of witchcraft. A learned personage, called an Imyanger

or Witch Doctor, is immediately sent for to Nooker the Umtargartie, or smell out the witch. The male

inhabitants of the kraal being seated on the ground, the learned doctor, got up like a grizzly bear, appears, and

administers a dance of a most terrific nature, during the exhibition of which remedy he incessantly gnashes

his teeth, and howls: 'I am the original physician to Nooker the Umtargartie. Yow yow yow! No connexion

with any other establishment. Till till till! All other Umtargarties are feigned Umtargarties, Boroo Boroo! but

I perceive here a genuine and real Umtargartie, Hoosh Hoosh Hoosh! in whose blood I, the original Imyanger

and Nookerer, Blizzerum Boo! will wash these bear's claws of mine. O yow yow yow!' All this time the

learned physician is looking out among the attentive faces for some unfortunate man who owes him a cow, or

who has given him any small offence, or against whom, without offence, he has conceived a spite. Him he

never fails to Nooker as the Umtargartie, and he is instantly killed. In the absence of such an individual, the

usual practice is to Nooker the quietest and most gentlemanly person in company. But the nookering is

Some of the noble savages in whom Mr. Catlin was so strongly interested, and the diminution of whose

numbers, by rum and smallpox, greatly affected him, had a custom not unlike this, though much more

The women being at work in the fields, hoeing the Indian corn, and the noble savage being asleep in the

shade, the chief has sometimes the condescension to come forth, and lighten the labour by looking at it. On

these occasions, he seats himself in his own savage chair, and is attended by his shieldbearer: who holds

over his head a shield of cowhide in shape like an immense mussel shell fearfully and wonderfully, after

the manner of a theatrical supernumerary. But lest the great man should forget his greatness in the

contemplation of the humble works of agriculture, there suddenly rushes in a poet, retained for the purpose,

called a Praiser. This literary gentleman wears a leopard's head over his own, and a dress of tigers' tails; he

has the appearance of having come express on his hind legs from the Zoological Gardens; and he

incontinently strikes up the chief's praises, plunging and tearing all the while. There is a frantic wickedness in

this brute's manner of worrying the air, and gnashing out, 'O what a delightful chief he is! O what a delicious

quantity of blood he sheds! O how majestically he laps it up! O how charmingly cruel he is! O how he tears

the flesh of his enemies and crunches the bones! O how like the tiger and the leopard and the wolf and the

bear he is! O, row row row row, how fond I am of him!' which might tempt the Society of Friends to charge

When war is afoot among the noble savages which is always the chief holds a council to ascertain

whether it is the opinion of his brothers and friends in general that the enemy shall be exterminated. On this

occasion, after the performance of an Umsebeuza, or war song, which is exactly like all the other songs,

the chief makes a speech to his brothers and friends, arranged in single file. No particular order is observed

during the delivery of this address, but every gentleman who finds himself excited by the subject, instead of

crying 'Hear, hear!' as is the custom with us, darts from the rank and tramples out the life, or crushes the

skull, or mashes the face, or scoops out the eyes, or breaks the limbs, or performs a whirlwind of atrocities on

the body, of an imaginary enemy. Several gentlemen becoming thus excited at once, and pounding away

without the least regard to the orator, that illustrious person is rather in the position of an orator in an Irish

House of Commons. But, several of these scenes of savage life bear a strong generic resemblance to an Irish

In all these ceremonies the noble savage holds forth to the utmost possible extent about himself; from which

(to turn him to some civilised account) we may learn, I think, that as egotism is one of the most offensive and

contemptible littlenesses a civilised man can exhibit, so it is really incompatible with the interchange of

ideas; inasmuch as if we all talked about ourselves we should soon have no listeners, and must be all yelling

and screeching at once on our own separate accounts: making society hideous. It is my opinion that if we

retained in us anything of the noble savage, we could not get rid of it too soon. But the fact is clearly

otherwise. Upon the wife and dowry question, substituting coin for cows, we have assuredly nothing of the

Zulu Kaffir left. The endurance of despotism is one great distinguishing mark of a savage always. The

improving world has quite got the better of that too. In like manner, Paris is a civilised city, and the Theatre

Francais a highly civilised theatre; and we shall never hear, and never have heard in these later days (of

course) of the Praiser THERE. No, no, civilised poets have better work to do. As to Nookering Umtargarties,

there are no pretended Umtargarties in Europe, and no European powers to Nooker them; that would be mere

spydom, subordination, small malice, superstition, and false pretence. And as to private Umtargarties, are we

not in the year eighteen hundred and fiftythree, with spirits rapping at our doors?

To conclude as I began. My position is, that if we have anything to learn from the Noble Savage, it is what to

avoid. His virtues are a fable; his happiness is a delusion; his nobility, nonsense.

We have no greater justification for being cruel to the miserable object, than for being cruel to a WILLIAM

SHAKESPEARE or an ISAAC NEWTON; but he passes away before an immeasurably better and higher

power than ever ran wild in any earthly woods, and the world will be all the better when his place knows him

WHEN Don Diego de I forget his name the inventor of the last new Flying Machines, price so many

francs for ladies, so many more for gentlemen when Don Diego, by permission of Deputy Chaffwax and

his noble band, shall have taken out a Patent for the Queen's dominions, and shall have opened a commodious

Warehouse in an airy situation; and when all persons of any gentility will keep at least a pair of wings, and be

seen skimming about in every direction; I shall take a flight to Paris (as I soar round the world) in a cheap and

independent manner. At present, my reliance is on the South Eastern Railway Company, in whose Express

Train here I sit, at eight of the clock on a very hot morning, under the very hot roof of the Terminus at

London Bridge, in danger of being 'forced' like a cucumber or a melon, or a pineapple. And talking of pine

apples, I suppose there never were so many pineapples in a Train as there appear to be in this Train.

Whew! The hothouse air is faint with pineapples. Every French citizen or citizeness is carrying

pineapples home. The compact little Enchantress in the corner of my carriage (French actress, to whom I

yielded up my heart under the auspices of that brave child, 'MEATCHELL,' at the St. James's Theatre the

night before last) has a pineapple in her lap. Compact Enchantress's friend, confidante, mother, mystery,

Heaven knows what, has two pineapples in her lap, and a bundle of them under the seat. Tobaccosmoky

Frenchman in Algerine wrapper, with peaked hood behind, who might be Abdel Kader dyed riflegreen,

and who seems to be dressed entirely in dirt and braid, carries pineapples in a covered basket. Tall, grave,

melancholy Frenchman, with black Vandyke beard, and hair closecropped, with expansive chest to

waistcoat, and compressive waist to coat: saturnine as to his pantaloons, calm as to his feminine boots,

precious as to his jewellery, smooth and white as to his linen: darkeyed, highforeheaded, hawknosed

got up, one thinks, like Lucifer or Mephistopheles, or Zamiel, transformed into a highly genteel Parisian

Whew! If I were to be kept here long, under this forcingframe, I wonder what would become of me

whether I should be forced into a giant, or should sprout or blow into some other phenomenon! Compact

Enchantress is not ruffled by the heat she is always composed, always compact. O look at her little ribbons,

frills, and edges, at her shawl, at her gloves, at her hair, at her bracelets, at her bonnet, at everything about

her! How is it accomplished? What does she do to be so neat? How is it that every trifle she wears belongs to

her, and cannot choose but be a part of her? And even Mystery, look at HER! A model. Mystery is not young,

not pretty, though still of an average candlelight passability; but she does such miracles in her own behalf,

that, one of these days, when she dies, they'll be amazed to find an old woman in her bed, distantly like her.

She was an actress once, I shouldn't wonder, and had a Mystery attendant on herself. Perhaps, Compact

Enchantress will live to be a Mystery, and to wait with a shawl at the sidescenes, and to sit opposite to

Mademoiselle in railway carriages, and smile and talk subserviently, as Mystery does now. That's hard to

Two Englishmen, and now our carriage is full. First Englishman, in the monied interest flushed, highly

respectable Stock Exchange, perhaps City, certainly. Faculties of second Englishman entirely absorbed in

hurry. Plunges into the carriage, blind. Calls out of window concerning his luggage, deaf. Suffocates himself

under pillows of greatcoats, for no reason, and in a demented manner. Will receive no assurance from any

porter whatsoever. Is stout and hot, and wipes his head, and makes himself hotter by breathing so hard. Is

totally incredulous respecting assurance of Collected Guard, that 'there's no hurry.' No hurry! And a flight to

It is all one to me in this drowsy corner, hurry or no hurry. Until Don Diego shall send home my wings, my

flight is with the SouthEastern Company. I can fly with the SouthEastern, more lazily, at all events, than in

the upper air. I have but to sit here thinking as idly as I please, and be whisked away. I am not accountable to

anybody for the idleness of my thoughts in such an idle summer flight; my flight is provided for by the

The bell! With all my heart. It does not require me to do so much as even to flap my wings. Something snorts

for me, something shrieks for me, something proclaims to everything else that it had better keep out of my

Ah! The fresh air is pleasant after the forcingframe, though it does blow over these interminable streets, and

scatter the smoke of this vast wilderness of chimneys. Here we are no, I mean there we were, for it has

darted far into the rear in Bermondsey where the tanners live. Flash! The distant shipping in the Thames is

gone. Whirr! The little streets of new brick and red tile, with here and there a flagstaff growing like a tall

weed out of the scarlet beans, and, everywhere, plenty of open sewer and ditch for the promotion of the

public health, have been fired off in a volley. Whizz! Dustheaps, marketgardens, and waste grounds.

I wonder why it is that when I shut my eyes in a tunnel I begin to feel as if I were going at an Express pace

the other way. I am clearly going back to London now. Compact Enchantress must have forgotten something,

and reversed the engine. No! After long darkness, pale fitful streaks of light appear. I am still flying on for

Folkestone. The streaks grow stronger become continuous become the ghost of day become the living

day became I mean the tunnel is miles and miles away, and here I fly through sunlight, all among the

There is a dreamy pleasure in this flying. I wonder where it was, and when it was, that we exploded, blew

into space somehow, a Parliamentary Train, with a crowd of heads and faces looking at us out of cages, and

some hats waving. Monied Interest says it was at Reigate Station. Expounds to Mystery how Reigate Station

is so many miles from London, which Mystery again develops to Compact Enchantress. There might be

neither a Reigate nor a London for me, as I fly away among the Kentish hops and harvest. What do I care?

Bang! We have let another Station off, and fly away regardless. Everything is flying. The hopgardens turn

gracefully towards me, presenting regular avenues of hops in rapid flight, then whirl away. So do the pools

and rushes, haystacks, sheep, clover in full bloom delicious to the sight and smell, cornsheaves, cherry

orchards, appleorchards, reapers, gleaners, hedges, gates, fields that taper off into little angular corners,

cottages, gardens, now and then a church. Bang, bang! A doublebarrelled Station! Now a wood, now a

bridge, now a landscape, now a cutting, now a Bang! a singlebarrelled Station there was a

cricketmatch somewhere with two white tents, and then four flying cows, then turnips now the wires of

the electric telegraph are all alive, and spin, and blurr their edges, and go up and down, and make the

intervals between each other most irregular: contracting and expanding in the strangest manner. Now we

slacken. With a screwing, and a grinding, and a smell of water thrown on ashes, now we stop!

Demented Traveller, who has been for two or three minutes watchful, clutches his greatcoats, plunges at the

door, rattles it, cries 'Hi!' eager to embark on board of impossible packets, far inland. Collected Guard

appears. 'Are you for Tunbridge, sir?' 'Tunbridge? No. Paris.' 'Plenty of time, sir. No hurry. Five minutes

here, sir, for refreshment.' I am so blest (anticipating Zamiel, by half a second) as to procure a glass of water

Who would suppose we had been flying at such a rate, and shall take wing again directly? Refreshmentroom

full, platform full, porter with wateringpot deliberately cooling a hot wheel, another porter with equal

deliberation helping the rest of the wheels bountifully to ice cream. Monied Interest and I reentering the

carriage first, and being there alone, he intimates to me that the French are 'no go' as a Nation. I ask why? He

says, that Reign of Terror of theirs was quite enough. I ventured to inquire whether he remembers anything

that preceded said Reign of Terror? He says not particularly. 'Because,' I remark, 'the harvest that is reaped,

has sometimes been sown.' Monied Interest repeats, as quite enough for him, that the French are

Bell. Compact Enchantress, helped in by Zamiel (whom the stars confound!), gives us her charming little

sidebox look, and smites me to the core. Mystery eating spongecake. Pineapple atmosphere faintly tinged

with suspicions of sherry. Demented Traveller flits past the carriage, looking for it. Is blind with agitation,

and can't see it. Seems singled out by Destiny to be the only unhappy creature in the flight, who has any

cause to hurry himself. Is nearly left behind. Is seized by Collected Guard after the Train is in motion, and

bundled in. Still, has lingering suspicions that there must be a boat in the neighbourhood, and WILL look

Flight resumed. Cornsheaves, hopgardens, reapers, gleaners, appleorchards, cherryorchards, Stations

single and double barrelled, Ashford. Compact Enchantress (constantly talking to Mystery, in an exquisite

manner) gives a little scream; a sound that seems to come from high up in her precious little head; from

behind her bright little eyebrows. 'Great Heaven, my pineapple! My Angel! It is lost!' Mystery is desolated.

A search made. It is not lost. Zamiel finds it. I curse him (flying) in the Persian manner. May his face be

Now fresher air, now glimpses of unenclosed Downland with flapping crows flying over it whom we soon

outfly, now the Sea, now Folkestone at a quarter after ten. 'Tickets ready, gentlemen!' Demented dashes at the

Not the least. We are dropped slowly down to the Port, and sidle to and fro (the whole Train) before the

insensible Royal George Hotel, for some ten minutes. The Royal George takes no more heed of us than its

namesake under water at Spithead, or under earth at Windsor, does. The Royal George's dog lies winking and

blinking at us, without taking the trouble to sit up; and the Royal George's 'wedding party' at the open

window (who seem, I must say, rather tired of bliss) don't bestow a solitary glance upon us, flying thus to

Paris in eleven hours. The first gentleman in Folkestone is evidently used up, on this subject.

Meanwhile, Demented chafes. Conceives that every man's hand is against him, and exerting itself to prevent

his getting to Paris. Refuses consolation. Rattles door. Sees smoke on the horizon, and 'knows' it's the boat

gone without him. Monied Interest resentfully explains that HE is going to Paris too. Demented signifies, that

'Refreshments in the WaitingRoom, ladies and gentlemen. No hurry, ladies and gentlemen, for Paris. No

Twenty minutes' pause, by Folkestone clock, for looking at Enchantress while she eats a sandwich, and at

Mystery while she eats of everything there that is eatable, from porkpie, sausage, jam, and gooseberries, to

lumps of sugar. All this time, there is a very waterfall of luggage, with a spray of dust, tumbling slantwise

from the pier into the steamboat. All this time, Demented (who has no business with it) watches it with

starting eyes, fiercely requiring to be shown HIS luggage. When it at last concludes the cataract, he rushes

hotly to refresh is shouted after, pursued, jostled, brought back, pitched into the departing steamer upside

A lovely harvestday, a cloudless sky, a tranquil sea. The piston rods of the engines so regularly coming up

from below, to look (as well they may) at the bright weather, and so regularly almost knocking their iron

heads against the cross beam of the skylight, and never doing it! Another Parisian actress is on board,

attended by another Mystery. Compact Enchantress greets her sister artist Oh, the Compact One's pretty

teeth! and Mystery greets Mystery. My Mystery soon ceases to be conversational is taken poorly, in a

word, having lunched too miscellaneously and goes below. The remaining Mystery then smiles upon the

sister artists (who, I am afraid, wouldn't greatly mind stabbing each other), and is upon the whole ravished.

And now I find that all the French people on board begin to grow, and all the English people to shrink. The

French are nearing home, and shaking off a disadvantage, whereas we are shaking it on. Zamiel is the same

man, and AbdelKader is the same man, but each seems to come into possession of an indescribable

confidence that departs from us from Monied Interest, for instance, and from me. Just what they gain, we

lose. Certain British 'Gents' about the steersman, intellectually nurtured at home on parody of everything and

truth of nothing, become subdued, and in a manner forlorn; and when the steersman tells them (not

exultingly) how he has 'been upon this station now eight year, and never see the old town of Bullum yet,' one

of them, with an imbecile reliance on a reed, asks him what he considers to be the best hotel in Paris?

Now, I tread upon French ground, and am greeted by the three charming words, Liberty, Equality, Fraternity,

painted up (in letters a little too thin for their height) on the Customhouse wall also by the sight of large

cocked hats, without which demonstrative headgear nothing of a public nature can be done upon this soil.

All the rabid Hotel population of Boulogne howl and shriek outside a distant barrier, frantic to get at us.

Demented, by some unlucky means peculiar to himself, is delivered over to their fury, and is presently seen

struggling in a whirlpool of Touters is somehow understood to be going to Paris is, with infinite noise,

rescued by two cocked hats, and brought into Customhouse bondage with the rest of us.

Here, I resign the active duties of life to an eager being, of preternatural sharpness, with a shelving forehead

and a shabby snuffcoloured coat, who (from the wharf) brought me down with his eye before the boat came

into port. He darts upon my luggage, on the floor where all the luggage is strewn like a wreck at the bottom

of the great deep; gets it proclaimed and weighed as the property of 'Monsieur a traveller unknown;' pays

certain francs for it, to a certain functionary behind a Pigeon Hole, like a paybox at a Theatre (the

arrangements in general are on a wholesale scale, half military and half theatrical); and I suppose I shall find

it when I come to Paris he says I shall. I know nothing about it, except that I pay him his small fee, and

pocket the ticket he gives me, and sit upon a counter, involved in the general distraction.

Railway station. 'Lunch or dinner, ladies and gentlemen. Plenty of time for Paris. Plenty of time!' Large hall,

long counter, long strips of diningtable, bottles of wine, plates of meat, roast chickens, little loaves of bread,

basins of soup, little caraffes of brandy, cakes, and fruit. Comfortably restored from these resources, I begin

I saw Zamiel (before I took wing) presented to Compact Enchantress and Sister Artist, by an officer in

uniform, with a waist like a wasp's, and pantaloons like two balloons. They all got into the next carriage

together, accompanied by the two Mysteries. They laughed. I am alone in the carriage (for I don't consider

Fields, windmills, low grounds, pollardtrees, windmills, fields, fortifications, Abbeville, soldiering and

drumming. I wonder where England is, and when I was there last about two years ago, I should say. Flying

in and out among these trenches and batteries, skimming the clattering drawbridges, looking down into the

stagnant ditches, I become a prisoner of state, escaping. I am confined with a comrade in a fortress. Our room

is in an upper story. We have tried to get up the chimney, but there's an iron grating across it, imbedded in the

masonry. After months of labour, we have worked the grating loose with the poker, and can lift it up. We

have also made a hook, and twisted our rugs and blankets into ropes. Our plan is, to go up the chimney, hook

our ropes to the top, descend hand over hand upon the roof of the guardhouse far below, shake the hook

loose, watch the opportunity of the sentinels pacing away, hook again, drop into the ditch, swim across it,

creep into the shelter of the wood. The time is come a wild and stormy night. We are up the chimney, we

are on the guardhouse roof, we are swimming in the murky ditch, when lo! 'Qui v'la?' a bugle, the alarm, a

More fortifications, more soldiering and drumming, more basins of soup, more little loaves of bread, more

bottles of wine, more caraffes of brandy, more time for refreshment. Everything good, and everything ready.

Bright, unsubstantiallooking, scenic sort of station. People waiting. Houses, uniforms, beards, moustaches,

some sabots, plenty of neat women, and a few oldvisaged children. Unless it be a delusion born of my giddy

flight, the grownup people and the children seem to change places in France. In general, the boys and girls

Bugle, shriek, flight resumed. Monied Interest has come into my carriage. Says the manner of refreshing is

'not bad,' but considers it French. Admits great dexterity and politeness in the attendants. Thinks a decimal

currency may have something to do with their despatch in settling accounts, and don't know but what it's

sensible and convenient. Adds, however, as a general protest, that they're a revolutionary people and always

Ramparts, canals, cathedral, river, soldiering and drumming, open country, river, earthenware manufactures,

Creil. Again ten minutes. Not even Demented in a hurry. Station, a drawingroom with a verandah: like a

planter's house. Monied Interest considers it a bandbox, and not made to last. Little round tables in it, at one

of which the Sister Artists and attendant Mysteries are established with Wasp and Zamiel, as if they were

Anon, with no more trouble than before, I am flying again, and lazily wondering as I fly. What has the

SouthEastern done with all the horrible little villages we used to pass through, in the DILIGENCE? What

have they done with all the summer dust, with all the winter mud, with all the dreary avenues of little trees,

with all the ramshackle postyards, with all the beggars (who used to turn out at night with bits of lighted

candle, to look in at the coach windows), with all the longtailed horses who were always biting one another,

with all the big postilions in jackboots with all the mouldy cafes that we used to stop at, where a long

mildewed tablecloth, set forth with jovial bottles of vinegar and oil, and with a Siamese arrangement of

pepper and salt, was never wanting? Where are the grassgrown little towns, the wonderful little

marketplaces all unconscious of markets, the shops that nobody kept, the streets that nobody trod, the

churches that nobody went to, the bells that nobody rang, the tumbledown old buildings plastered with

manycoloured bills that nobody read? Where are the twoandtwenty weary hours of long, long day and

night journey, sure to be either insupportably hot or insupportably cold? Where are the pains in my bones,

where are the fidgets in my legs, where is the Frenchman with the nightcap who never WOULD have the

little coupewindow down, and who always fell upon me when he went to sleep, and always slept all night

I have overflown myself, perhaps, but I can't believe it. I feel as if I were enchanted or bewitched. It is barely

eight o'clock yet it is nothing like halfpast when I have had my luggage examined at that briskest of

Customhouses attached to the station, and am rattling over the pavement in a hackneycabriolet.

Surely, not the pavement of Paris? Yes, I think it is, too. I don't know any other place where there are all

these high houses, all these haggardlooking wine shops, all these billiard tables, all these stockingmakers

with flat red or yellow legs of wood for signboard, all these fuel shops with stacks of billets painted outside,

and real billets sawing in the gutter, all these dirty corners of streets, all these cabinet pictures over dark

doorways representing discreet matrons nursing babies. And yet this morning I'll think of it in a

Very like a small room that I remember in the Chinese baths upon the Boulevard, certainly; and, though I see

it through the steam, I think that I might swear to that peculiar hotlinen basket, like a large wicker

hourglass. When can it have been that I left home? When was it that I paid 'through to Paris' at London

Bridge, and discharged myself of all responsibility, except the preservation of a voucher ruled into three

divisions, of which the first was snipped off at Folkestone, the second aboard the boat, and the third taken at

my journey's end? It seems to have been ages ago. Calculation is useless. I will go out for a walk.

The crowds in the streets, the lights in the shops and balconies, the elegance, variety, and beauty of their

decorations, the number of the theatres, the brilliant cafes with their windows thrown up high and their

vivacious groups at little tables on the pavement, the light and glitter of the houses turned as it were inside

out, soon convince me that it is no dream; that I am in Paris, howsoever I got there. I stroll down to the

sparkling Palais Royal, up the Rue de Rivoli, to the Place Vendome. As I glance into a printshop window,

Monied Interest, my late travelling companion, comes upon me, laughing with the highest relish of disdain.

'Here's a people!' he says, pointing to Napoleon in the window and Napoleon on the column. 'Only one idea

all over Paris! A monomania!' Humph! I THINK I have seen Napoleon's match? There was a statue, when I

came away, at Hyde Park Corner, and another in the City, and a print or two in the shops.

I walk up to the Barriere de l'Etoile, sufficiently dazed by my flight to have a pleasant doubt of the reality of

everything about me; of the lively crowd, the overhanging trees, the performing dogs, the hobbyhorses, the

beautiful perspectives of shining lamps: the hundred and one enclosures, where the singing is, in gleaming

orchestras of azure and gold, and where a stareyed Houri comes round with a box for voluntary offerings.

So, I pass to my hotel, enchanted; sup, enchanted; go to bed, enchanted; pushing back this morning (if it

really were this morning) into the remoteness of time, blessing the SouthEastern Company for realising the

Arabian Nights in these prose days, murmuring, as I wing my idle flight into the land of dreams, 'No hurry,

ladies and gentlemen, going to Paris in eleven hours. It is so well done, that there really is no hurry!'

WE are not by any means devout believers in the old Bow Street Police. To say the truth, we think there was

a vast amount of humbug about those worthies. Apart from many of them being men of very indifferent

character, and far too much in the habit of consorting with thieves and the like, they never lost a public

occasion of jobbing and trading in mystery and making the most of themselves. Continually puffed besides

by incompetent magistrates anxious to conceal their own deficiencies, and handinglove with the

pennyaliners of that time, they became a sort of superstition. Although as a Preventive Police they were

utterly ineffective, and as a Detective Police were very loose and uncertain in their operations, they remain

On the other hand, the Detective Force organised since the establishment of the existing Police, is so well

chosen and trained, proceeds so systematically and quietly, does its business in such a workmanlike manner,

and is always so calmly and steadily engaged in the service of the public, that the public really do not know

enough of it, to know a tithe of its usefulness. Impressed with this conviction, and interested in the men

themselves, we represented to the authorities at Scotland Yard, that we should be glad, if there were no

official objection, to have some talk with the Detectives. A most obliging and ready permission being given,

a certain evening was appointed with a certain Inspector for a social conference between ourselves and the

Detectives, at The Household Words Office in Wellington Street, Strand, London. In consequence of which

appointment the party 'came off,' which we are about to describe. And we beg to repeat that, avoiding such

topics as it might for obvious reasons be injurious to the public, or disagreeable to respectable individuals, to

The reader will have the goodness to imagine the Sanctum Sanctorum of Household Words. Anything that

best suits the reader's fancy, will best represent that magnificent chamber. We merely stipulate for a round

table in the middle, with some glasses and cigars arranged upon it; and the editorial sofa elegantly hemmed in

It is a sultry evening at dusk. The stones of Wellington Street are hot and gritty, and the watermen and

hackneycoachmen at the Theatre opposite, are much flushed and aggravated. Carriages are constantly

setting down the people who have come to FairyLand; and there is a mighty shouting and bellowing every

Just at dusk, Inspectors Wield and Stalker are announced; but we do not undertake to warrant the orthography

of any of the names here mentioned. Inspector Wield presents Inspector Stalker. Inspector Wield is a

middleaged man of a portly presence, with a large, moist, knowing eye, a husky voice, and a habit of

emphasising his conversation by the aid of a corpulent forefinger, which is constantly in juxtaposition with

his eyes or nose. Inspector Stalker is a shrewd, hardheaded Scotchman in appearance not at all unlike a

very acute, thoroughlytrained schoolmaster, from the Normal Establishment at Glasgow. Inspector Wield

The ceremonies of reception over, Inspectors Wield and Stalker observe that they have brought some

sergeants with them. The sergeants are presented five in number, Sergeant Dornton, Sergeant Witchem,

Sergeant Mith, Sergeant Fendall, and Sergeant Straw. We have the whole Detective Force from Scotland

Yard, with one exception. They sit down in a semicircle (the two Inspectors at the two ends) at a little

distance from the round table, facing the editorial sofa. Every man of them, in a glance, immediately takes an

inventory of the furniture and an accurate sketch of the editorial presence. The Editor feels that any

gentleman in company could take him up, if need should be, without the smallest hesitation, twenty years

The whole party are in plain clothes. Sergeant Dornton about fifty years of age, with a ruddy face and a high

sunburnt forehead, has the air of one who has been a Sergeant in the army he might have sat to Wilkie for

the Soldier in the Reading of the Will. He is famous for steadily pursuing the inductive process, and, from

small beginnings, working on from clue to clue until he bags his man. Sergeant Witchem, shorter and

thickerset, and marked with the smallpox, has something of a reserved and thoughtful air, as if he were

engaged in deep arithmetical calculations. He is renowned for his acquaintance with the swell mob. Sergeant

Mith, a smoothfaced man with a fresh bright complexion, and a strange air of simplicity, is a dab at

housebreakers. Sergeant Fendall, a light haired, wellspoken, polite person, is a prodigious hand at pursuing

private inquiries of a delicate nature. Straw, a little wiry Sergeant of meek demeanour and strong sense,

would knock at a door and ask a series of questions in any mild character you choose to prescribe to him,

from a charityboy upwards, and seem as innocent as an infant. They are, one and all, respectablelooking

men; of perfectly good deportment and unusual intelligence; with nothing lounging or slinking in their

manners; with an air of keen observation and quick perception when addressed; and generally presenting in

their faces, traces more or less marked of habitually leading lives of strong mental excitement. They have all

good eyes; and they all can, and they all do, look full at whomsoever they speak to.

We light the cigars, and hand round the glasses (which are very temperately used indeed), and the

conversation begins by a modest amateur reference on the Editorial part to the swell mob. Inspector Wield

immediately removes his cigar from his lips, waves his right hand, and says, 'Regarding the swell mob, sir, I

can't do better than call upon Sergeant Witchem. Because the reason why? I'll tell you. Sergeant Witchem is

Our heart leaping up when we beheld this rainbow in the sky, we turn to Sergeant Witchem, who very

concisely, and in wellchosen language, goes into the subject forthwith. Meantime, the whole of his brother

officers are closely interested in attending to what he says, and observing its effect. Presently they begin to

strike in, one or two together, when an opportunity offers, and the conversation becomes general. But these

brother officers only come in to the assistance of each other not to the contradiction and a more amicable

brotherhood there could not be. From the swell mob, we diverge to the kindred topics of cracksmen, fences,

public house dancers, areasneaks, designing young people who go out 'gonophing,' and other 'schools.' It is

observable throughout these revelations, that Inspector Stalker, the Scotchman, is always exact and statistical,

and that when any question of figures arises, everybody as by one consent pauses, and looks to him.

When we have exhausted the various schools of Art during which discussion the whole body have

remained profoundly attentive, except when some unusual noise at the Theatre over the way has induced

some gentleman to glance inquiringly towards the window in that direction, behind his next neighbour's back

we burrow for information on such points as the following. Whether there really are any highway robberies

in London, or whether some circumstances not convenient to be mentioned by the aggrieved party, usually

precede the robberies complained of, under that head, which quite change their character? Certainly the latter,

almost always. Whether in the case of robberies in houses, where servants are necessarily exposed to doubt,

innocence under suspicion ever becomes so like guilt in appearance, that a good officer need be cautious how

he judges it? Undoubtedly. Nothing is so common or deceptive as such appearances at first. Whether in a

place of public amusement, a thief knows an officer, and an officer knows a thief supposing them,

beforehand, strangers to each other because each recognises in the other, under all disguise, an inattention

to what is going on, and a purpose that is not the purpose of being entertained? Yes. That's the way exactly.

Whether it is reasonable or ridiculous to trust to the alleged experiences of thieves as narrated by themselves,

in prisons, or penitentiaries, or anywhere? In general, nothing more absurd. Lying is their habit and their

trade; and they would rather lie even if they hadn't an interest in it, and didn't want to make themselves

From these topics, we glide into a review of the most celebrated and horrible of the great crimes that have

been committed within the last fifteen or twenty years. The men engaged in the discovery of almost all of

them, and in the pursuit or apprehension of the murderers, are here, down to the very last instance. One of our

guests gave chase to and boarded the emigrant ship, in which the murderess last hanged in London was

supposed to have embarked. We learn from him that his errand was not announced to the passengers, who

may have no idea of it to this hour. That he went below, with the captain, lamp in hand it being dark, and

the whole steerage abed and seasick and engaged the Mrs. Manning who WAS on board, in a

conversation about her luggage, until she was, with no small pains, induced to raise her head, and turn her

face towards the light. Satisfied that she was not the object of his search, he quietly reembarked in the

When we have exhausted these subjects, too, which occupy a considerable time in the discussion, two or

three leave their chairs, whisper Sergeant Witchem, and resume their seat. Sergeant Witchem, leaning

forward a little, and placing a hand on each of his legs, then modestly speaks as follows:

'My brotherofficers wish me to relate a little account of my taking Tallyho Thompson. A man oughtn't to

tell what he has done himself; but still, as nobody was with me, and, consequently, as nobody but myself can

We assure Sergeant Witchem that he will oblige us very much, and we all compose ourselves to listen with

'Tallyho Thompson,' says Sergeant Witchem, after merely wetting his lips with his brandyandwater,

'Tallyho Thompson was a famous horsestealer, couper, and magsman. Thompson, in conjunction with a

pal that occasionally worked with him, gammoned a countryman out of a good round sum of money, under

pretence of getting him a situation the regular old dodge and was afterwards in the "Hue and Cry" for a

horse a horse that he stole down in Hertfordshire. I had to look after Thompson, and I applied myself, of

course, in the first instance, to discovering where he was. Now, Thompson's wife lived, along with a little

daughter, at Chelsea. Knowing that Thompson was somewhere in the country, I watched the house

especially at posttime in the morning thinking Thompson was pretty likely to write to her. Sure enough,

one morning the postman comes up, and delivers a letter at Mrs. Thompson's door. Little girl opens the door,

and takes it in. We're not always sure of postmen, though the people at the postoffices are always very

obliging. A postman may help us, or he may not, just as it happens. However, I go across the road, and I

say to the postman, after he has left the letter, "Good morning! how are you?" "How are YOU!" says he.

"You've just delivered a letter for Mrs. Thompson." "Yes, I have." "You didn't happen to remark what the

postmark was, perhaps?" "No," says he, "I didn't." "Come," says I, "I'll be plain with you. I'm in a small way

of business, and I have given Thompson credit, and I can't afford to lose what he owes me. I know he's got

money, and I know he's in the country, and if you could tell me what the postmark was, I should be very

much obliged to you, and you'd do a service to a tradesman in a small way of business that can't afford a

loss." "Well," he said, "I do assure you that I did not observe what the postmark was; all I know is, that

there was money in the letter I should say a sovereign." This was enough for me, because of course I knew

that Thompson having sent his wife money, it was probable she'd write to Thompson, by return of post, to

acknowledge the receipt. So I said "Thankee" to the postman, and I kept on the watch. In the afternoon I saw

the little girl come out. Of course I followed her. She went into a stationer's shop, and I needn't say to you

that I looked in at the window. She bought some writingpaper and envelopes, and a pen. I think to myself,

"That'll do!" watch her home again and don't go away, you may be sure, knowing that Mrs. Thompson

was writing her letter to Tallyho, and that the letter would be posted presently. In about an hour or so, out

came the little girl again, with the letter in her hand. I went up, and said something to the child, whatever it

might have been; but I couldn't see the direction of the letter, because she held it with the seal upwards.

However, I observed that on the back of the letter there was what we call a kiss a drop of wax by the side of

the seal and again, you understand, that was enough for me. I saw her post the letter, waited till she was

gone, then went into the shop, and asked to see the Master. When he came out, I told him, "Now, I'm an

Officer in the Detective Force; there's a letter with a kiss been posted here just now, for a man that I'm in

search of; and what I have to ask of you, is, that you will let me look at the direction of that letter." He was

very civil took a lot of letters from the box in the window shook 'em out on the counter with the faces

downwards and there among 'em was the identical letter with the kiss. It was directed, Mr. Thomas Pigeon,

Post Office, B, to be left till called for. Down I went to B (a hundred and twenty miles or so) that night.

Early next morning I went to the Post Office; saw the gentleman in charge of that department; told him who I

was; and that my object was to see, and track, the party that should come for the letter for Mr. Thomas

Pigeon. He was very polite, and said, "You shall have every assistance we can give you; you can wait inside

the office; and we'll take care to let you know when anybody comes for the letter." Well, I waited there three

days, and began to think that nobody ever WOULD come. At last the clerk whispered to me, "Here!

Detective! Somebody's come for the letter!" "Keep him a minute," said I, and I ran round to the outside of the

office. There I saw a young chap with the appearance of an Ostler, holding a horse by the bridle stretching

the bridle across the pavement, while he waited at the Post Office Window for the letter. I began to pat the

horse, and that; and I said to the boy, "Why, this is Mr. Jones's Mare!" "No. It an't." "No?" said I. "She's very

like Mr. Jones's Mare!" "She an't Mr. Jones's Mare, anyhow," says he. "It's Mr. So and So's, of the Warwick

Arms." And up he jumped, and off he went letter and all. I got a cab, followed on the box, and was so quick

after him that I came into the stableyard of the Warwick Arms, by one gate, just as he came in by another. I

went into the bar, where there was a young woman serving, and called for a glass of brandyandwater. He

came in directly, and handed her the letter. She casually looked at it, without saying anything, and stuck it up

'I turned it over in my mind while I drank my brandyandwater (looking pretty sharp at the letter the while),

but I couldn't see my way out of it at all. I tried to get lodgings in the house, but there had been a horsefair,

or something of that sort, and it was full. I was obliged to put up somewhere else, but I came backwards and

forwards to the bar for a couple of days, and there was the letter always behind the glass. At last I thought I'd

write a letter to Mr. Pigeon myself, and see what that would do. So I wrote one, and posted it, but I purposely

addressed it, Mr. John Pigeon, instead of Mr. Thomas Pigeon, to see what THAT would do. In the morning (a

very wet morning it was) I watched the postman down the street, and cut into the bar, just before he reached

the Warwick Arms. In he came presently with my letter. "Is there a Mr. John Pigeon staying here?" "No!

stop a bit though," says the barmaid; and she took down the letter behind the glass. "No," says she, "it's

Thomas, and HE is not staying here. Would you do me a favour, and post this for me, as it is so wet?" The

postman said Yes; she folded it in another envelope, directed it, and gave it him. He put it in his hat, and

'I had no difficulty in finding out the direction of that letter. It was addressed Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post

Office, R, Northamptonshire, to be left till called for. Off I started directly for R; I said the same at the

Post Office there, as I had said at B; and again I waited three days before anybody came. At last another

chap on horseback came. "Any letters for Mr. Thomas Pigeon?" "Where do you come from?" "New Inn, near

'I made my inquiries about the New Inn, near R, and hearing it was a solitary sort of house, a little in the

horse line, about a couple of miles from the station, I thought I'd go and have a look at it. I found it what it

had been described, and sauntered in, to look about me. The landlady was in the bar, and I was trying to get

into conversation with her; asked her how business was, and spoke about the wet weather, and so on; when I

saw, through an open door, three men sitting by the fire in a sort of parlour, or kitchen; and one of those men,

'I went and sat down among 'em, and tried to make things agreeable; but they were very shy wouldn't talk at

all looked at me, and at one another, in a way quite the reverse of sociable. I reckoned 'em up, and finding

that they were all three bigger men than me, and considering that their looks were ugly that it was a lonely

place railroad station two miles off and night coming on thought I couldn't do better than have a drop of

brandyandwater to keep my courage up. So I called for my brandyandwater; and as I was sitting

'Now the difficulty of it was, that I wasn't sure it WAS Thompson, because I had never set eyes on him

before; and what I had wanted was to be quite certain of him. However, there was nothing for it now, but to

follow, and put a bold face upon it. I found him talking, outside in the yard, with the landlady. It turned out

afterwards that he was wanted by a Northampton officer for something else, and that, knowing that officer to

be pockmarked (as I am myself), he mistook me for him. As I have observed, I found him talking to the

landlady, outside. I put my hand upon his shoulder this way and said, "Tallyho Thompson, it's no use. I

know you. I'm an officer from London, and I take you into custody for felony!" "That be dd!" says Tallyho

'We went back into the house, and the two friends began to cut up rough, and their looks didn't please me at

all, I assure you. "Let the man go. What are you going to do with him?" "I'll tell you what I'm going to do

with him. I'm going to take him to London to night, as sure as I'm alive. I'm not alone here, whatever you

may think. You mind your own business, and keep yourselves to yourselves. It'll be better for you, for I know

you both very well." I'D never seen or heard of 'em in all my life, but my bouncing cowed 'em a bit, and they

kept off, while Thompson was making ready to go. I thought to myself, however, that they might be coming

after me on the dark road, to rescue Thompson; so I said to the landlady, "What men have you got in the

house, Missis?" "We haven't got no men here," she says, sulkily. "You have got an ostler, I suppose?" "Yes,

we've got an ostler." "Let me see him." Presently he came, and a shaggyheaded young fellow he was. "Now

attend to me, young man," says I; "I'm a Detective Officer from London. This man's name is Thompson. I

have taken him into custody for felony. I am going to take him to the railroad station. I call upon you in the

Queen's name to assist me; and mind you, my friend, you'll get yourself into more trouble than you know of,

if you don't!' You never saw a person open his eyes so wide. "Now, Thompson, come along!" says I. But

when I took out the handcuffs, Thompson cries, "No! None of that! I won't stand THEM! I'll go along with

you quiet, but I won't bear none of that!" "Tallyho Thompson," I said, "I'm willing to behave as a man to

you, if you are willing to behave as a man to me. Give me your word that you'll come peaceably along, and I

don't want to handcuff you." "I will," says Thompson, "but I'll have a glass of brandy first." "I don't care if

I've another," said I. "We'll have two more, Missis," said the friends, "and confound you, Constable, you'll

give your man a drop, won't you?" I was agreeable to that, so we had it all round, and then my man and I took

Tallyho Thompson safe to the railroad, and I carried him to London that night. He was afterwards acquitted,

on account of a defect in the evidence; and I understand he always praises me up to the skies, and says I'm

This story coming to a termination amidst general applause, Inspector Wield, after a little grave smoking,

'It wasn't a bad plant that of mine, on Fikey, the man accused of forging the Sou'Western Railway

'I had information that Fikey and his brother kept a factory over yonder there,' indicating any region on the

Surrey side of the river 'where he bought secondhand carriages; so after I'd tried in vain to get hold of him

by other means, I wrote him a letter in an assumed name, saying that I'd got a horse and shay to dispose of,

and would drive down next day that he might view the lot, and make an offer very reasonable it was, I said

a reg'lar bargain. Straw and me then went off to a friend of mine that's in the livery and job business, and

hired a turnout for the day, a precious smart turnout it was quite a slapup thing! Down we drove,

accordingly, with a friend (who's not in the Force himself); and leaving my friend in the shay near a

publichouse, to take care of the horse, we went to the factory, which was some little way off. In the factory,

there was a number of strong fellows at work, and after reckoning 'em up, it was clear to me that it wouldn't

do to try it on there. They were too many for us. We must get our man out of doors. "Mr. Fikey at home?"

"No, he ain't." "Expected home soon?" "Why, no, not soon." "Ah! Is his brother here?" "I'M his brother."

"Oh! well, this is an illconwenience, this is. I wrote him a letter yesterday, saying I'd got a little turnout to

dispose of, and I've took the trouble to bring the turnout down a' purpose, and now he ain't in the way." "No,

he ain't in the way. You couldn't make it convenient to call again, could you?" "Why, no, I couldn't. I want to

sell; that's the fact; and I can't put it off. Could you find him anywheres?" At first he said No, he couldn't, and

then he wasn't sure about it, and then he'd go and try. So at last he went upstairs, where there was a sort of

'"Well," he says, "this seems to be rayther a pressing matter of yours." "Yes," I says, "it IS rayther a pressing

matter, and you'll find it a bargain dirt cheap." "I ain't in partickler want of a bargain just now," he says,

"but where is it?" "Why," I says, "the turnout's just outside. Come and look at it." He hasn't any suspicions,

and away we go. And the first thing that happens is, that the horse runs away with my friend (who knows no

more of driving than a child) when he takes a little trot along the road to show his paces. You never saw such

'When the bolt is over, and the turnout has come to a standstill again, Fikey walks round and round it as

grave as a judge me too. "There, sir!" I says. "There's a neat thing!" "It ain't a bad style of thing," he says. "I

believe you," says I. "And there's a horse!" for I saw him looking at it. "Rising eight!" I says, rubbing his

forelegs. (Bless you, there ain't a man in the world knows less of horses than I do, but I'd heard my friend at

the Livery Stables say he was eight year old, so I says, as knowing as possible, "Rising eight.") "Rising eight,

is he?" says he. "Rising eight," says I. "Well," he says, "what do you want for it?" "Why, the first and last

figure for the whole concern is fiveandtwenty pound!" "That's very cheap!" he says, looking at me. "Ain't

it?" I says. "I told you it was a bargain! Now, without any higgling and haggling about it, what I want is to

sell, and that's my price. Further, I'll make it easy to you, and take half the money down, and you can do a bit

" Well," he says again, "that's very cheap." "I believe you," says I; "get in and try it, and you'll buy it. Come!

'Ecod, he gets in, and we get in, and we drive along the road, to show him to one of the railway clerks that

was hid in the public house window to identify him. But the clerk was bothered, and didn't know whether it

was him, or wasn't because the reason why? I'll tell you, on account of his having shaved his whiskers.

"It's a clever little horse," he says, "and trots well; and the shay runs light." "Not a doubt about it," I says.

"And now, Mr. Fikey, I may as well make it all right, without wasting any more of your time. The fact is, I'm

Inspector Wield, and you're my prisoner." "You don't mean that?" he says. "I do, indeed." "Then burn my

'Perhaps you never saw a man so knocked over with surprise. "I hope you'll let me have my coat?" he says.

"By all means." "Well, then, let's drive to the factory." "Why, not exactly that, I think," said I; "I've been

there, once before, today. Suppose we send for it." He saw it was no go, so he sent for it, and put it on, and

This reminiscence is in the height of its success, when a general proposal is made to the freshcomplexioned,

smoothfaced officer, with the strange air of simplicity, to tell the 'Butcher's Story.'

The freshcomplexioned, smoothfaced officer, with the strange air of simplicity, began with a rustic smile,

'It's just about six years ago, now, since information was given at Scotland Yard of there being extensive

robberies of lawns and silks going on, at some wholesale houses in the City. Directions were given for the

'When you received your instructions,' said we, 'you went away, and held a sort of Cabinet Council together!'

The smoothfaced officer coaxingly replied, 'Yees. Just so. We turned it over among ourselves a good deal.

It appeared, when we went into it, that the goods were sold by the receivers extraordinarily cheap much

cheaper than they could have been if they had been honestly come by. The receivers were in the trade, and

kept capital shops establishments of the first respectability one of 'em at the West End, one down in

Westminster. After a lot of watching and inquiry, and this and that among ourselves, we found that the job

was managed, and the purchases of the stolen goods made, at a little publichouse near Smithfield, down by

Saint Bartholomew's; where the Warehouse Porters, who were the thieves, took 'em for that purpose, don't

you see? and made appointments to meet the people that went between themselves and the receivers. This

publichouse was principally used by journeymen butchers from the country, out of place, and in want of

situations; so, what did we do, but ha, ha, ha! we agreed that I should be dressed up like a butcher myself,

Never, surely, was a faculty of observation better brought to bear upon a purpose, than that which picked out

this officer for the part. Nothing in all creation could have suited him better. Even while he spoke, he became

a greasy, sleepy, shy, goodnatured, chuckleheaded, unsuspicious, and confiding young butcher. His very

hair seemed to have suet in it, as he made it smooth upon his head, and his fresh complexion to be lubricated

' So I ha, ha, ha!' (always with the confiding snigger of the foolish young butcher) 'so I dressed myself in

the regular way, made up a little bundle of clothes, and went to the publichouse, and asked if I could have a

lodging there? They says, "yes, you can have a lodging here," and I got a bedroom, and settled myself down

in the tap. There was a number of people about the place, and coming backwards and forwards to the house;

and first one says, and then another says, "Are you from the country, young man?" "Yes," I says, "I am. I'm

come out of Northamptonshire, and I'm quite lonely here, for I don't know London at all, and it's such a

mighty big town." "It IS a big town," they says. "Oh, it's a VERY big town!" I says. "Really and truly I never

'When some of the journeymen Butchers that used the house, found that I wanted a place, they says, "Oh,

we'll get you a place!" And they actually took me to a sight of places, in Newgate Market, Newport Market,

Clare, Carnaby I don't know where all. But the wages was ha, ha, ha! was not sufficient, and I never

could suit myself, don't you see? Some of the queer frequenters of the house were a little suspicious of me at

first, and I was obliged to be very cautious indeed how I communicated with Straw or Fendall. Sometimes,

when I went out, pretending to stop and look into the shop windows, and just casting my eye round, I used to

see some of 'em following me; but, being perhaps better accustomed than they thought for, to that sort of

thing, I used to lead 'em on as far as I thought necessary or convenient sometimes a long way and then

turn sharp round, and meet 'em, and say, "Oh, dear, how glad I am to come upon you so fortunate! This

London's such a place, I'm blowed if I ain't lost again!" And then we'd go back all together, to the

'They were very attentive to me, I am sure. It was a common thing, while I was living there, for some of 'em

to take me out, and show me London. They showed me the Prisons showed me Newgate and when they

showed me Newgate, I stops at the place where the Porters pitch their loads, and says, "Oh dear, is this where

they hang the men? Oh Lor!" "That!" they says, "what a simple cove he is! THAT ain't it!" And then, they

pointed out which WAS it, and I says "Lor!" and they says, "Now you'll know it agen, won't you?" And I said

I thought I should if I tried hard and I assure you I kept a sharp look out for the City Police when we were

out in this way, for if any of 'em had happened to know me, and had spoke to me, it would have been all up in

a minute. However, by good luck such a thing never happened, and all went on quiet: though the difficulties I

'The stolen goods that were brought to the publichouse by the Warehouse Porters, were always disposed of

in a back parlour. For a long time, I never could get into this parlour, or see what was done there. As I sat

smoking my pipe, like an innocent young chap, by the taproom fire, I'd hear some of the parties to the

robbery, as they came in and out, say softly to the landlord, "Who's that? What does HE do here?" "Bless

your soul," says the landlord, "he's only a" ha, ha, ha! "he's only a green young fellow from the country,

as is looking for a butcher's sitiwation. Don't mind HIM!" So, in course of time, they were so convinced of

my being green, and got to be so accustomed to me, that I was as free of the parlour as any of 'em, and I have

seen as much as Seventy Pounds' Worth of fine lawn sold there, in one night, that was stolen from a

warehouse in Friday Street. After the sale the buyers always stood treat hot supper, or dinner, or what not

and they'd say on those occasions, "Come on, Butcher! Put your best leg foremost, young 'un, and walk into

it!" Which I used to do and hear, at table, all manner of particulars that it was very important for us

'This went on for ten weeks. I lived in the publichouse all the time, and never was out of the Butcher's dress

except in bed. At last, when I had followed seven of the thieves, and set 'em to rights that's an expression

of ours, don't you see, by which I mean to say that I traced 'em, and found out where the robberies were done,

and all about 'em Straw, and Fendall, and I, gave one another the office, and at a time agreed upon, a

descent was made upon the publichouse, and the apprehensions effected. One of the first things the officers

did, was to collar me for the parties to the robbery weren't to suppose yet, that I was anything but a Butcher

on which the landlord cries out, "Don't take HIM," he says, "whatever you do! He's only a poor young chap

from the country, and butter wouldn't melt in his mouth!" However, they ha, ha, ha! they took me, and

pretended to search my bedroom, where nothing was found but an old fiddle belonging to the landlord, that

had got there somehow or another. But, it entirely changed the landlord's opinion, for when it was produced,

he says, "My fiddle! The Butcher's a purloiner! I give him into custody for the robbery of a musical

'The man that had stolen the goods in Friday Street was not taken yet. He had told me, in confidence, that he

had his suspicions there was something wrong (on account of the City Police having captured one of the

party), and that he was going to make himself scarce. I asked him, "Where do you mean to go, Mr.

Shepherdson?" "Why, Butcher," says he, "the Setting Moon, in the Commercial Road, is a snug house, and I

shall bang out there for a time. I shall call myself Simpson, which appears to me to be a modest sort of a

name. Perhaps you'll give us a look in, Butcher?" "Well," says I, "I think I WILL give you a call" which I

fully intended, don't you see, because, of course, he was to be taken! I went over to the Setting Moon next

day, with a brother officer, and asked at the bar for Simpson. They pointed out his room, upstairs. As we

were going up, he looks down over the banister, and calls out, "Halloa, Butcher! is that you?" "Yes, it's me.

How do you find yourself?" "Bobbish," he says; "but who's that with you?" "It's only a young man, that's a

friend of mine," I says. "Come along, then," says he; "any friend of the Butcher's is as welcome as the

Butcher!" So, I made my friend acquainted with him, and we took him into custody.

'You have no idea, sir, what a sight it was, in Court, when they first knew that I wasn't a Butcher, after all! I

wasn't produced at the first examination, when there was a remand; but I was at the second. And when I

stepped into the box, in full police uniform, and the whole party saw how they had been done, actually a

'At the Old Bailey, when their trials came on, Mr. Clarkson was engaged for the defence, and he COULDN'T

make out how it was, about the Butcher. He thought, all along, it was a real Butcher. When the counsel for

the prosecution said, "I will now call before you, gentlemen, the Policeofficer," meaning myself, Mr.

Clarkson says, "Why Policeofficer? Why more Policeofficers? I don't want Police. We have had a great

deal too much of the Police. I want the Butcher!" However, sir, he had the Butcher and the Police officer,

both in one. Out of seven prisoners committed for trial, five were found guilty, and some of 'em were

transported. The respectable firm at the West End got a term of imprisonment; and that's the Butcher's Story!'

The story done, the chuckleheaded Butcher again resolved himself into the smoothfaced Detective. But, he

was so extremely tickled by their having taken him about, when he was that Dragon in disguise, to show him

London, that he could not help reverting to that point in his narrative; and gently repeating with the Butcher

snigger, '"Oh, dear," I says, "is that where they hang the men? Oh, Lor!" "THAT!" says they. "What a simple

It being now late, and the party very modest in their fear of being too diffuse, there were some tokens of

separation; when Sergeant Dornton, the soldierlylooking man, said, looking round him with a smile:

'Before we break up, sir, perhaps you might have some amusement in hearing of the Adventures of a Carpet

We welcomed the Carpet Bag, as cordially as Mr. Shepherdson welcomed the false Butcher at the Setting

'In 1847, I was despatched to Chatham, in search of one Mesheck, a Jew. He had been carrying on, pretty

heavily, in the billstealing way, getting acceptances from young men of good connexions (in the army

'Mesheck was off, before I got to Chatham. All I could learn about him was, that he had gone, probably to

'I came back to town, by the last train from Blackwall, and made inquiries concerning a Jew passenger with

'The office was shut up, it being the last train. There were only two or three porters left. Looking after a Jew

with a Carpet Bag, on the Blackwall Railway, which was then the high road to a great Military Depot, was

worse than looking after a needle in a hayrick. But it happened that one of these porters had carried, for a

'I went to the publichouse, but the Jew had only left his luggage there for a few hours, and had called for it

in a cab, and taken it away. I put such questions there, and to the porter, as I thought prudent, and got at this

'It was a bag which had, on one side of it, worked in worsted, a green parrot on a stand. A green parrot on a

'I traced Mesheck, by means of this green parrot on a stand, to Cheltenham, to Birmingham, to Liverpool, to

the Atlantic Ocean. At Liverpool he was too many for me. He had gone to the United States, and I gave up all

'Many months afterwards near a year afterwards there was a bank in Ireland robbed of seven thousand

pounds, by a person of the name of Doctor Dundey, who escaped to America; from which country some of

the stolen notes came home. He was supposed to have bought a farm in New Jersey. Under proper

management, that estate could be seized and sold, for the benefit of the parties he had defrauded. I was sent

'I landed at Boston. I went on to New York. I found that he had lately changed New York papermoney for

New Jersey paper money, and had banked cash in New Brunswick. To take this Doctor Dundey, it was

necessary to entrap him into the State of New York, which required a deal of artifice and trouble. At one

time, he couldn't be drawn into an appointment. At another time, he appointed to come to meet me, and a

New York officer, on a pretext I made; and then his children had the measles. At last he came, per steamboat,

and I took him, and lodged him in a New York prison called the Tombs; which I dare say you know, sir?'

'I went to the Tombs, on the morning after his capture, to attend the examination before the magistrate. I was

passing through the magistrate's private room, when, happening to look round me to take notice of the place,

as we generally have a habit of doing, I clapped my eyes, in one corner, on a Carpet Bag.

'What did I see upon that Carpet Bag, if you'll believe me, but a green parrot on a stand, as large as life!

'"That Carpet Bag, with the representation of a green parrot on a stand," said I, "belongs to an English Jew,

'"I think I ought to know that green parrot by this time," said I; "for I have had as pretty a dance after that

'Was it, sir? Of course it was! He was in custody for another offence, in that very identical Tombs, at that

very identical time. And, more than that! Some memoranda, relating to the fraud for which I had vainly

endeavoured to take him, were found to be, at that moment, lying in that very same individual Carpet Bag!'

Such are the curious coincidences and such is the peculiar ability, always sharpening and being improved by

practice, and always adapting itself to every variety of circumstances, and opposing itself to every new device

that perverted ingenuity can invent, for which this important social branch of the public service is

remarkable! For ever on the watch, with their wits stretched to the utmost, these officers have, from day to

day and year to year, to set themselves against every novelty of trickery and dexterity that the combined

imaginations of all the lawless rascals in England can devise, and to keep pace with every such invention that

comes out. In the Courts of Justice, the materials of thousands of such stories as we have narrated often

elevated into the marvellous and romantic, by the circumstances of the case are dryly compressed into the

set phrase, 'in consequence of information I received, I did so and so.' Suspicion was to be directed, by

careful inference and deduction, upon the right person; the right person was to be taken, wherever he had

gone, or whatever he was doing to avoid detection: he is taken; there he is at the bar; that is enough. From

information I, the officer, received, I did it; and, according to the custom in these cases, I say no more.

These games of chess, played with live pieces, are played before small audiences, and are chronicled

nowhere. The interest of the game supports the player. Its results are enough for justice. To compare great

things with small, suppose LEVERRIER or ADAMS informing the public that from information he had

received he had discovered a new planet; or COLUMBUS informing the public of his day that from

information he had received he had discovered a new continent; so the Detectives inform it that they have

Thus, at midnight, closed the proceedings of our curious and interesting party. But one other circumstance

finally wound up the evening, after our Detective guests had left us. One of the sharpest among them, and the

'IT'S a singler story, sir,' said Inspector Wield, of the Detective Police, who, in company with Sergeants

Dornton and Mith, paid us another twilight visit, one July evening; 'and I've been thinking you might like to

'It's concerning the murder of the young woman, Eliza Grimwood, some years ago, over in the Waterloo

Road. She was commonly called The Countess, because of her handsome appearance and her proud way of

carrying of herself; and when I saw the poor Countess (I had known her well to speak to), lying dead, with

her throat cut, on the floor of her bedroom, you'll believe me that a variety of reflections calculated to make a

'That's neither here nor there. I went to the house the morning after the murder, and examined the body, and

made a general observation of the bedroom where it was. Turning down the pillow of the bed with my hand, I

found, underneath it, a pair of gloves. A pair of gentleman's dress gloves, very dirty; and inside the lining, the

'Well, sir, I took them gloves away, and I showed 'em to the magistrate, over at Union Hall, before whom the

case was. He says, "Wield," he says, "there's no doubt this is a discovery that may lead to something very

important; and what you have got to do, Wield, is, to find out the owner of these gloves."

'I was of the same opinion, of course, and I went at it immediately. I looked at the gloves pretty narrowly, and

it was my opinion that they had been cleaned. There was a smell of sulphur and rosin about 'em, you know,

which cleaned gloves usually have, more or less. I took 'em over to a friend of mine at Kennington, who was

in that line, and I put it to him. "What do you say now? Have these gloves been cleaned?" "These gloves have

been cleaned," says he. "Have you any idea who cleaned them?" says I. "Not at all," says he; "I've a very

distinct idea who DIDN'T clean 'em, and that's myself. But I'll tell you what, Wield, there ain't above eight or

nine reg'lar glovecleaners in London," there were not, at that time, it seems "and I think I can give you

their addresses, and you may find out, by that means, who did clean 'em." Accordingly, he gave me the

directions, and I went here, and I went there, and I looked up this man, and I looked up that man; but, though

they all agreed that the gloves had been cleaned, I couldn't find the man, woman, or child, that had cleaned

'What with this person not being at home, and that person being expected home in the afternoon, and so forth,

the inquiry took me three days. On the evening of the third day, coming over Waterloo Bridge from the

Surrey side of the river, quite beat, and very much vexed and disappointed, I thought I'd have a shilling's

worth of entertainment at the Lyceum Theatre to freshen myself up. So I went into the Pit, at halfprice, and I

sat myself down next to a very quiet, modest sort of young man. Seeing I was a stranger (which I thought it

just as well to appear to be) he told me the names of the actors on the stage, and we got into conversation.

When the play was over, we came out together, and I said, "We've been very companionable and agreeable,

and perhaps you wouldn't object to a drain?" "Well, you're very good," says he; "I SHOULDN'T object to a

drain." Accordingly, we went to a public house, near the Theatre, sat ourselves down in a quiet room up

stairs on the first floor, and called for a pint of halfandhalf, apiece, and a pipe.

'Well, sir, we put our pipes aboard, and we drank our halfand half, and sat atalking, very sociably, when

the young man says, "You must excuse me stopping very long," he says, "because I'm forced to go home in

good time. I must be at work all night." "At work all night?" says I. "You ain't a baker?" "No," he says,

laughing, "I ain't a baker." "I thought not," says I, "you haven't the looks of a baker." "No," says he, "I'm a

'I never was more astonished in my life, than when I heard them words come out of his lips. "You're a

glovecleaner, are you?" says I. "Yes," he says, "I am." "Then, perhaps," says I, taking the gloves out of my

pocket, "you can tell me who cleaned this pair of gloves? It's a rum story," I says. "I was dining over at

Lambeth, the other day, at a freeandeasy quite promiscuous with a public company when some

gentleman, he left these gloves behind him! Another gentleman and me, you see, we laid a wager of a

sovereign, that I wouldn't find out who they belonged to. I've spent as much as seven shillings already, in

trying to discover; but, if you could help me, I'd stand another seven and welcome. You see there's TR and a

cross, inside." "I see," he says. "Bless you, I know these gloves very well! I've seen dozens of pairs belonging

to the same party." "No?" says I. "Yes," says he. "Then you know who cleaned 'em?" says I. "Rather so," says

'"Where does your father live?" says I. "Just round the corner," says the young man, "near Exeter Street, here.

He'll tell you who they belong to, directly." "Would you come round with me now?" says I. "Certainly," says

he, "but you needn't tell my father that you found me at the play, you know, because he mightn't like it." "All

right!" We went round to the place, and there we found an old man in a white apron, with two or three

daughters, all rubbing and cleaning away at lots of gloves, in a front parlour. "Oh, Father!" says the young

man, "here's a person been and made a bet about the ownership of a pair of gloves, and I've told him you can

settle it." "Good evening, sir," says I to the old gentleman. "Here's the gloves your son speaks of. Letters TR,

you see, and a cross." "Oh yes," he says, "I know these gloves very well; I've cleaned dozens of pairs of 'em.

They belong to Mr. Trinkle, the great upholsterer in Cheapside." "Did you get 'em from Mr. Trinkle, direct,"

says I, "if you'll excuse my asking the question?" "No," says he; "Mr. Trinkle always sends 'em to Mr.

Phibbs's, the haberdasher's, opposite his shop, and the haberdasher sends 'em to me." "Perhaps YOU wouldn't

object to a drain?" says I. "Not in the least!" says he. So I took the old gentleman out, and had a little more

'This was late on a Saturday night. First thing on the Monday morning, I went to the haberdasher's shop,

opposite Mr. Trinkle's, the great upholsterer's in Cheapside. "Mr. Phibbs in the way?" "My name is Phibbs."

"Oh! I believe you sent this pair of gloves to be cleaned?" "Yes, I did, for young Mr. Trinkle over the way.

There he is in the shop!" "Oh! that's him in the shop, is it? Him in the green coat?" "The same individual."

"Well, Mr. Phibbs, this is an unpleasant affair; but the fact is, I am Inspector Wield of the Detective Police,

and I found these gloves under the pillow of the young woman that was murdered the other day, over in the

Waterloo Road!" "Good Heaven!" says he. "He's a most respectable young man, and if his father was to hear

of it, it would be the ruin of him!" "I'm very sorry for it," says I, "but I must take him into custody." "Good

Heaven!" says Mr. Phibbs, again; "can nothing be done?" "Nothing," says I. "Will you allow me to call him

over here," says he, "that his father may not see it done?" "I don't object to that," says I; "but unfortunately,

Mr. Phibbs, I can't allow of any communication between you. If any was attempted, I should have to interfere

directly. Perhaps you'll beckon him over here?' Mr. Phibbs went to the door and beckoned, and the young

'"Good morning, sir," says I. "Good morning, sir," says he. "Would you allow me to inquire, sir," says I, "if

you ever had any acquaintance with a party of the name of Grimwood?" "Grimwood! Grimwood!" says he.

"No!" "You know the Waterloo Road?" "Oh! of course I know the Waterloo Road!" "Happen to have heard

of a young woman being murdered there?" "Yes, I read it in the paper, and very sorry I was to read it."

"Here's a pair of gloves belonging to you, that I found under her pillow the morning afterwards!"

'He was in a dreadful state, sir; a dreadful state I "Mr. Wield," he says, "upon my solemn oath I never was

there. I never so much as saw her, to my knowledge, in my life!" "I am very sorry," says I. "To tell you the

truth; I don't think you ARE the murderer, but I must take you to Union Hall in a cab. However, I think it's a

case of that sort, that, at present, at all events, the magistrate will hear it in private."

'A private examination took place, and then it came out that this young man was acquainted with a cousin of

the unfortunate Eliza Grimwood, and that, calling to see this cousin a day or two before the murder, he left

these gloves upon the table. Who should come in, shortly afterwards, but Eliza Grimwood! "Whose gloves

are these?" she says, taking 'em up. "Those are Mr. Trinkle's gloves," says her cousin. "Oh!" says she, "they

are very dirty, and of no use to him, I am sure. I shall take 'em away for my girl to clean the stoves with."

And she put 'em in her pocket. The girl had used 'em to clean the stoves, and, I have no doubt, had left 'em

lying on the bedroom mantelpiece, or on the drawers, or somewhere; and her mistress, looking round to see

that the room was tidy, had caught 'em up and put 'em under the pillow where I found 'em.

'One of the most BEAUTIFUL things that ever was done, perhaps,' said Inspector Wield, emphasising the

adjective, as preparing us to expect dexterity or ingenuity rather than strong interest, 'was a move of Sergeant

'Witchem and me were down at Epsom one Derby Day, waiting at the station for the Swell Mob. As I

mentioned, when we were talking about these things before, we are ready at the station when there's races, or

an Agricultural Show, or a Chancellor sworn in for an university, or Jenny Lind, or anything of that sort; and

as the Swell Mob come down, we send 'em back again by the next train. But some of the Swell Mob, on the

occasion of this Derby that I refer to, so far kidded us as to hire a horse and shay; start away from London by

Whitechapel, and miles round; come into Epsom from the opposite direction; and go to work, right and left,

on the course, while we were waiting for 'em at the Rail. That, however, ain't the point of what I'm going to

'While Witchem and me were waiting at the station, there comes up one Mr. Tatt; a gentleman formerly in the

public line, quite an amateur Detective in his way, and very much respected. "Halloa, Charley Wield," he

says. "What are you doing here? On the look out for some of your old friends?" "Yes, the old move, Mr.

Tatt." "Come along," he says, "you and Witchem, and have a glass of sherry." "We can't stir from the place,"

says I, "till the next train comes in; but after that, we will with pleasure." Mr. Tatt waits, and the train comes

in, and then Witchem and me go off with him to the Hotel. Mr. Tatt he's got up quite regardless of expense,

for the occasion; and in his shirtfront there's a beautiful diamond prop, cost him fifteen or twenty pound a

very handsome pin indeed. We drink our sherry at the bar, and have had our three or four glasses, when

Witchem cries suddenly, "Look out, Mr. Wield! stand fast!" and a dash is made into the place by the Swell

Mob four of 'em that have come down as I tell you, and in a moment Mr. Tatt's prop is gone! Witchem,

he cuts 'em off at the door, I lay about me as hard as I can, Mr. Tatt shows fight like a good 'un, and there we

are, all down together, heads and heels, knocking about on the floor of the bar perhaps you never see such a

scene of confusion! However, we stick to our men (Mr. Tatt being as good as any officer), and we take 'em

all, and carry 'em off to the station.' The station's full of people, who have been took on the course; and it's a

precious piece of work to get 'em secured. However, we do it at last, and we search 'em; but nothing's found

upon 'em, and they're locked up; and a pretty state of heat we are in by that time, I assure you!

'I was very blank over it, myself, to think that the prop had been passed away; and I said to Witchem, when

we had set 'em to rights, and were cooling ourselves along with Mr. Tatt, "we don't take much by THIS

move, anyway, for nothing's found upon 'em, and it's only the braggadocia, (2) after all." "What do you mean,

Mr. Wield?" says Witchem. "Here's the diamond pin!" and in the palm of his hand there it was, safe and

sound! "Why, in the name of wonder," says me and Mr. Tatt, in astonishment, "how did you come by that?"

"I'll tell you how I come by it," says he. "I saw which of 'em took it; and when we were all down on the floor

together, knocking about, I just gave him a little touch on the back of his hand, as I knew his pal would; and

'Even that was hardly the best of the case, for that chap was tried at the Quarter Sessions at Guildford. You

know what Quarter Sessions are, sir. Well, if you'll believe me, while them slow justices were looking over

the Acts of Parliament, to see what they could do to him, I'm blowed if he didn't cut out of the dock before

their faces! He cut out of the dock, sir, then and there; swam across a river; and got up into a tree to dry

himself. In the tree he was took an old woman having seen him climb up and Witchem's artful touch

"What young men will do, sometimes, to ruin themselves and break their friends' hearts,' said Sergeant

Dornton, 'it's surprising! I had a case at Saint Blank's Hospital which was of this sort. A bad case, indeed,

'The Secretary, and the HouseSurgeon, and the Treasurer, of Saint Blank's Hospital, came to Scotland Yard

to give information of numerous robberies having been committed on the students. The students could leave

nothing in the pockets of their greatcoats, while the greatcoats were hanging at the hospital, but it was

almost certain to be stolen. Property of various descriptions was constantly being lost; and the gentlemen

were naturally uneasy about it, and anxious, for the credit of the institution, that the thief or thieves should be

'"Now, gentlemen," said I, after we had talked it over; "I understand this property is usually lost from one

'It was a goodsized bare room downstairs, with a few tables and forms in it, and a row of pegs, all round,

'Yes, they said. They did suspect somebody. They were sorry to say, they suspected one of the porters.

'"I should like," said I, "to have that man pointed out to me, and to have a little time to look after him."

'He was pointed out, and I looked after him, and then I went back to the hospital, and said, "Now, gentlemen,

it's not the porter. He's, unfortunately for himself, a little too fond of drink, but he's nothing worse. My

suspicion is, that these robberies are committed by one of the students; and if you'll put me a sofa into that

room where the pegs are as there's no closet I think I shall be able to detect the thief. I wish the sofa, if

you please, to be covered with chintz, or something of that sort, so that I may lie on my chest, underneath it,

'The sofa was provided, and next day at eleven o'clock, before any of the students came, I went there, with

those gentlemen, to get underneath it. It turned out to be one of those oldfashioned sofas with a great

crossbeam at the bottom, that would have broken my back in no time if I could ever have got below it. We

had quite a job to break all this away in the time; however, I fell to work, and they fell to work, and we broke

it out, and made a clear place for me. I got under the sofa, lay down on my chest, took out my knife, and

made a convenient hole in the chintz to look through. It was then settled between me and the gentlemen that

when the students were all up in the wards, one of the gentlemen should come in, and hang up a greatcoat

on one of the pegs. And that that greatcoat should have, in one of the pockets, a pocketbook containing

'After I had been there some time, the students began to drop into the room, by ones, and twos, and threes,

and to talk about all sorts of things, little thinking there was anybody under the sofa and then to go

upstairs. At last there came in one who remained until he was alone in the room by himself. A tallish,

goodlooking young man of one or two and twenty, with a light whisker. He went to a particular hatpeg,

took off a good hat that was hanging there, tried it on, hung his own hat in its place, and hung that hat on

another peg, nearly opposite to me. I then felt quite certain that he was the thief, and would come back

'When they were all upstairs, the gentleman came in with the greatcoat. I showed him where to hang it, so

that I might have a good view of it; and he went away; and I lay under the sofa on my chest, for a couple of

'At last, the same young man came down. He walked across the room, whistling stopped and listened

took another walk and whistled stopped again, and listened then began to go regularly round the pegs,

feeling in the pockets of all the coats. When he came to the greatcoat, and felt the pocketbook, he was so

eager and so hurried that he broke the strap in tearing it open. As he began to put the money in his pocket, I

'My face, as you may perceive, is brown now, but it was pale at that time, my health not being good; and

looked as long as a horse's. Besides which, there was a great draught of air from the door, underneath the

sofa, and I had tied a handkerchief round my head; so what I looked like, altogether, I don't know. He turned

blue literally blue when he saw me crawling out, and I couldn't feel surprised at it.

'"I am an officer of the Detective Police," said I, "and have been lying here, since you first came in this

morning. I regret, for the sake of yourself and your friends, that you should have done what you have; but this

case is complete. You have the pocketbook in your hand and the money upon you; and I must take you into

'It was impossible to make out any case in his behalf, and on his trial he pleaded guilty. How or when he got

the means I don't know; but while he was awaiting his sentence, he poisoned himself in Newgate.'

We inquired of this officer, on the conclusion of the foregoing anecdote, whether the time appeared long, or

'Why, you see, sir,' he replied, 'if he hadn't come in, the first time, and I had not been quite sure he was the

thief, and would return, the time would have seemed long. But, as it was, I being dead certain of my man, the

HOW goes the night? Saint Giles's clock is striking nine. The weather is dull and wet, and the long lines of

street lamps are blurred, as if we saw them through tears. A damp wind blows and rakes the pieman's fire out,

Saint Giles's clock strikes nine. We are punctual. Where is Inspector Field? Assistant Commissioner of Police

is already here, enwrapped in oilskin cloak, and standing in the shadow of Saint Giles's steeple. Detective

Sergeant, weary of speaking French all day to foreigners unpacking at the Great Exhibition, is already here.

Inspector Field is, tonight, the guardian genius of the British Museum. He is bringing his shrewd eye to bear

on every corner of its solitary galleries, before he reports 'all right.' Suspicious of the Elgin marbles, and not

to be done by catfaced Egyptian giants with their hands upon their knees, Inspector Field, sagacious,

vigilant, lamp in hand, throwing monstrous shadows on the walls and ceilings, passes through the spacious

rooms. If a mummy trembled in an atom of its dusty covering, Inspector Field would say, 'Come out of that,

Tom Green. I know you!' If the smallest 'Gonoph' about town were crouching at the bottom of a classic bath,

Inspector Field would nose him with a finer scent than the ogre's, when adventurous Jack lay trembling in his

kitchen copper. But all is quiet, and Inspector Field goes warily on, making little outward show of attending

to anything in particular, just recognising the Ichthyosaurus as a familiar acquaintance, and wondering,

Will Inspector Field be long about this work? He may be halfan hour longer. He sends his compliments by

Police Constable, and proposes that we meet at St. Giles's Station House, across the road. Good. It were as

Anything doing here tonight? Not much. We are very quiet. A lost boy, extremely calm and small, sitting by

the fire, whom we now confide to a constable to take home, for the child says that if you show him Newgate

Street, he can show you where he lives a raving drunken woman in the cells, who has screeched her voice

away, and has hardly power enough left to declare, even with the passionate help of her feet and arms, that

she is the daughter of a British officer, and, strike her blind and dead, but she'll write a letter to the Queen!

but who is soothed with a drink of water in another cell, a quiet woman with a child at her breast, for

begging in another, her husband in a smockfrock, with a basket of watercresses in another, a pickpocket

in another, a meek tremulous old pauper man who has been out for a holiday 'and has took but a little drop,

but it has overcome him after so many months in the house' and that's all as yet. Presently, a sensation at

Inspector Field comes in, wiping his forehead, for he is of a burly figure, and has come fast from the ores and

metals of the deep mines of the earth, and from the Parrot Gods of the South Sea Islands, and from the birds

and beetles of the tropics, and from the Arts of Greece and Rome, and from the Sculptures of Nineveh, and

from the traces of an elder world, when these were not. Is Rogers ready? Rogers is ready, strapped and

greatcoated, with a flaming eye in the middle of his waist, like a deformed Cyclops. Lead on, Rogers, to

How many people may there be in London, who, if we had brought them deviously and blindfold, to this

street, fifty paces from the Station House, and within call of Saint Giles's church, would know it for a not

remote part of the city in which their lives are passed? How many, who amidst this compound of sickening

smells, these heaps of filth, these tumbling houses, with all their vile contents, animate, and inanimate,

slimily overflowing into the black road, would believe that they breathe THIS air? How much Red Tape may

there be, that could look round on the faces which now hem us in for our appearance here has caused a rush

from all points to a common centre the lowering foreheads, the sallow cheeks, the brutal eyes, the matted

hair, the infected, verminhaunted heaps of rags and say, 'I have thought of this. I have not dismissed the

thing. I have neither blustered it away, nor frozen it away, nor tied it up and put it away, nor smoothly said

This is not what Rogers wants to know, however. What Rogers wants to know, is, whether you WILL clear

the way here, some of you, or whether you won't; because if you don't do it right on end, he'll lock you up!

'What! YOU are there, are you, Bob Miles? You haven't had enough of it yet, haven't you? You want three

months more, do you? Come away from that gentleman! What are you creeping round there for?'

'What am I a doing, thinn, Mr. Rogers?' says Bob Miles, appearing, villainous, at the end of a lane of light,

A sycophantic murmur rises from the crowd. 'Hook it, Bob, when Mr. Rogers and Mr. Field tells you! Why

The most importunate of the voices strikes familiarly on Mr. Rogers's ear. He suddenly turns his lantern on

Both Click and Miles DO 'hook it,' without another word, or, in plainer English, sneak away.

'Close up there, my men!' says Inspector Field to two constables on duty who have followed. 'Keep together,

Saint Giles's church strikes halfpast ten. We stoop low, and creep down a precipitous flight of steps into a

dark close cellar. There is a fire. There is a long deal table. There are benches. The cellar is full of company,

chiefly very young men in various conditions of dirt and raggedness. Some are eating supper. There are no

girls or women present. Welcome to Rats' Castle, gentlemen, and to this company of noted thieves!

'Well, my lads! How are you, my lads? What have you been doing today? Here's some company come to

see you, my lads! THERE'S a plate of beefsteak, sir, for the supper of a fine young man! And there's a

mouth for a steak, sir! Why, I should be too proud of such a mouth as that, if I had it myself! Stand up and

show it, sir! Take off your cap. There's a fine young man for a nice little party, sir! An't he?'

Inspector Field is the bustling speaker. Inspector Field's eye is the roving eye that searches every corner of

the cellar as he talks. Inspector Field's hand is the wellknown hand that has collared half the people here,

and motioned their brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, male and female friends, inexorably to New South

Wales. Yet Inspector Field stands in this den, the Sultan of the place. Every thief here cowers before him, like

a schoolboy before his schoolmaster. All watch him, all answer when addressed, all laugh at his jokes, all

seek to propitiate him. This cellar company alone to say nothing of the crowd surrounding the entrance

from the street above, and making the steps shine with eyes is strong enough to murder us all, and willing

enough to do it; but, let Inspector Field have a mind to pick out one thief here, and take him; let him produce

that ghostly truncheon from his pocket, and say, with his businessair, 'My lad, I want you!' and all Rats'

Castle shall be stricken with paralysis, and not a finger move against him, as he fits the handcuffs on!

Where's the Earl of Warwick? Here he is, Mr. Field! Here's the Earl of Warwick, Mr. Field! O there you

are, my Lord. Come for'ard. There's a chest, sir, not to have a clean shirt on. An't it? Take your hat off, my

Lord. Why, I should be ashamed if I was you and an Earl, too to show myself to a gentleman with my hat

on! The Earl of Warwick laughs and uncovers. All the company laugh. One pickpocket, especially, laughs

with great enthusiasm. O what a jolly game it is, when Mr. Field comes down and don't want nobody!

So, YOU are here, too, are you, you tall, grey, soldierlylooking, grave man, standing by the fire? Yes, sir.

Good evening, Mr. Field! Let us see. You lived servant to a nobleman once? Yes, Mr. Field. And what

is it you do now; I forget? Well, Mr. Field, I job about as well as I can. I left my employment on account of

delicate health. The family is still kind to me. Mr. Wix of Piccadilly is also very kind to me when I am hard

up. Likewise Mr. Nix of Oxford Street. I get a trifle from them occasionally, and rub on as well as I can, Mr.

Field. Mr. Field's eye rolls enjoyingly, for this man is a notorious beggingletter writer. Good night, my

Clear the street here, half a thousand of you! Cut it, Mrs. Stalker none of that we don't want you! Rogers

A dream of baleful faces attends to the door. Now, stand back all of you! In the rear Detective Sergeant plants

himself, composedly whistling, with his strong right arm across the narrow passage. Mrs. Stalker, I am

something'd that need not be written here, if you won't get yourself into trouble, in about half a minute, if I

Saint Giles's church clock, striking eleven, hums through our hand from the dilapidated door of a dark

outhouse as we open it, and are stricken back by the pestilent breath that issues from within. Rogers to the

Ten, twenty, thirty who can count them! Men, women, children, for the most part naked, heaped upon the

floor like maggots in a cheese! Ho! In that dark corner yonder! Does anybody lie there? Me sir, Irish me, a

widder, with six children. And yonder? Me sir, Irish me, with me wife and eight poor babes. And to the left

there? Me sir, Irish me, along with two more Irish boys as is me friends. And to the right there? Me sir and

the Murphy fam'ly, numbering five blessed souls. And what's this, coiling, now, about my foot? Another Irish

me, pitifully in want of shaving, whom I have awakened from sleep and across my other foot lies his wife

and by the shoes of Inspector Field lie their three eldest and their three youngest are at present squeezed

between the open door and the wall. And why is there no one on that little mat before the sullen fire? Because

O'Donovan, with his wife and daughter, is not come in from selling Lucifers! Nor on the bit of sacking in the

nearest corner? Bad luck! Because that Irish family is late tonight, acadging in the streets!

They are all awake now, the children excepted, and most of them sit up, to stare. Wheresoever Mr. Rogers

turns the flaming eye, there is a spectral figure rising, unshrouded, from a grave of rags. Who is the landlord

here? I am, Mr. Field! says a bundle of ribs and parchment against the wall, scratching itself. Will you

spend this money fairly, in the morning, to buy coffee for 'em all? Yes, sir, I will! O he'll do it, sir, he'll

do it fair. He's honest! cry the spectres. And with thanks and Good Night sink into their graves again.

Thus, we make our New Oxford Streets, and our other new streets, never heeding, never asking, where the

wretches whom we clear out, crowd. With such scenes at our doors, with all the plagues of Egypt tied up with

bits of cobweb in kennels so near our homes, we timorously make our Nuisance Bills and Boards of Health,

nonentities, and think to keep away the Wolves of Crime and Filth, by our electioneering ducking to little

Intelligence of the coffeemoney has got abroad. The yard is full, and Rogers of the flaming eye is

beleaguered with entreaties to show other Lodging Houses. Mine next! Mine! Mine! Rogers, military,

obdurate, stiffnecked, immovable, replies not, but leads away; all falling back before him. Inspector Field

follows. Detective Sergeant, with his barrier of arm across the little passage, deliberately waits to close the

procession. He sees behind him, without any effort, and exceedingly disturbs one individual far in the rear by

After council holden in the street, we enter other lodginghouses, publichouses, many lairs and holes; all

noisome and offensive; none so filthy and so crowded as where Irish are. In one, The Ethiopian party are

expected home presently were in Oxford Street when last heard of shall be fetched, for our delight, within

ten minutes. In another, one of the two or three Professors who drew Napoleon Buonaparte and a couple of

mackerel, on the pavement and then let the work of art out to a speculator, is refreshing after his labours. In

another, the vested interest of the profitable nuisance has been in one family for a hundred years, and the

landlord drives in comfortably from the country to his snug little stew in town. In all, Inspector Field is

received with warmth. Coiners and smashers droop before him; pickpockets defer to him; the gentle sex (not

very gentle here) smile upon him. Halfdrunken hags check themselves in the midst of pots of beer, or pints

of gin, to drink to Mr. Field, and pressingly to ask the honour of his finishing the draught. One beldame in

rusty black has such admiration for him, that she runs a whole street's length to shake him by the hand;

tumbling into a heap of mud by the way, and still pressing her attentions when her very form has ceased to be

distinguishable through it. Before the power of the law, the power of superior sense for common thieves are

fools beside these men and the power of a perfect mastery of their character, the garrison of Rats' Castle

and the adjacent Fortresses make but a skulking show indeed when reviewed by Inspector Field.

Saint Giles's clock says it will be midnight in halfanhour, and Inspector Field says we must hurry to the

Old Mint in the Borough. The cabdriver is lowspirited, and has a solemn sense of his responsibility. Now,

what's your fare, my lad? O YOU know, Inspector Field, what's the good of asking ME!

Say, Parker, strapped and greatcoated, and waiting in dim Borough doorway by appointment, to replace the

trusty Rogers whom we left deep in Saint Giles's, are you ready? Ready, Inspector Field, and at a motion of

This narrow street, sir, is the chief part of the Old Mint, full of low lodginghouses, as you see by the

transparent canvaslamps and blinds, announcing beds for travellers! But it is greatly changed, friend Field,

from my former knowledge of it; it is infinitely quieter and more subdued than when I was here last, some

seven years ago? O yes! Inspector Haynes, a firstrate man, is on this station now and plays the Devil with

Well, my lads! How are you tonight, my lads? Playing cards here, eh? Who wins? Why, Mr. Field, I, the

sulky gentleman with the damp flat sidecurls, rubbing my bleared eye with the end of my neckerchief which

is like a dirty eelskin, am losing just at present, but I suppose I must take my pipe out of my mouth, and be

submissive to YOU I hope I see you well, Mr. Field? Aye, all right, my lad. Deputy, who have you got

Why Deputy, Inspector Field can't say. He only knows that the man who takes care of the beds and lodgers is

always called so. Steady, O Deputy, with the flaring candle in the blackingbottle, for this is a slushy

backyard, and the wooden staircase outside the house creaks and has holes in it.

Again, in these confined intolerable rooms, burrowed out like the holes of rats or the nests of insectvermin,

but fuller of intolerable smells, are crowds of sleepers, each on his foul trucklebed coiled up beneath a rug.

Holloa here! Come! Let us see you! Show your face! Pilot Parker goes from bed to bed and turns their

slumbering heads towards us, as a salesman might turn sheep. Some wake up with an execration and a threat.

What! who spoke? O! If it's the accursed glaring eye that fixes me, go where I will, I am helpless. Here! I

sit up to be looked at. Is it me you want? Not you, lie down again! and I lie down, with a woful growl.

Whenever the turning lane of light becomes stationary for a moment, some sleeper appears at the end of it,

There should be strange dreams here, Deputy. They sleep sound enough, says Deputy, taking the candle out

of the blackingbottle, snuffing it with his fingers, throwing the snuff into the bottle, and corking it up with

the candle; that's all I know. What is the inscription, Deputy, on all the discoloured sheets? A precaution

against loss of linen. Deputy turns down the rug of an unoccupied bed and discloses it. STOP THIEF!

To lie at night, wrapped in the legend of my slinking life; to take the cry that pursues me, waking, to my

breast in sleep; to have it staring at me, and clamouring for me, as soon as consciousness returns; to have it

for my firstfoot on NewYear's day, my Valentine, my Birthday salute, my Christmas greeting, my parting

And to know that I MUST be stopped, come what will. To know that I am no match for this individual

energy and keenness, or this organised and steady system! Come across the street, here, and, entering by a

little shop and yard, examine these intricate passages and doors, contrived for escape, flapping and counter

flapping, like the lids of the conjurer's boxes. But what avail they? Who gets in by a nod, and shows their

Don't forget the old Farm House, Parker! Parker is not the man to forget it. We are going there, now. It is the

old ManorHouse of these parts, and stood in the country once. Then, perhaps, there was something, which

was not the beastly street, to see from the shattered low fronts of the overhanging wooden houses we are

passing under shut up now, pasted over with bills about the literature and drama of the Mint, and

mouldering away. This long paved yard was a paddock or a garden once, or a court in front of the Farm

House. Perchance, with a dovecot in the centre, and fowls peeking about with fair elm trees, then, where

discoloured chimneystacks and gables are now noisy, then, with rooks which have yielded to a different

sort of rookery. It's likelier than not, Inspector Field thinks, as we turn into the common kitchen, which is in

Well, my lads and lasses, how are you all? Where's Blackey, who has stood near London Bridge these

fiveandtwenty years, with a painted skin to represent disease? Here he is, Mr. Field! How are you,

Blackey? Jolly, sa! Not playing the fiddle tonight, Blackey? Not a night, sa! A sharp, smiling youth, the

wit of the kitchen, interposes. He an't musical tonight, sir. I've been giving him a moral lecture; I've been a

talking to him about his latter end, you see. A good many of these are my pupils, sir. This here young man

(smoothing down the hair of one near him, reading a Sunday paper) is a pupil of mine. I'm a teaching of him

to read, sir. He's a promising cove, sir. He's a smith, he is, and gets his living by the sweat of the brow, sir. So

do I, myself, sir. This young woman is my sister, Mr. Field. SHE'S getting on very well too. I've a deal of

trouble with 'em, sir, but I'm richly rewarded, now I see 'em all a doing so well, and growing up so creditable.

That's a great comfort, that is, an't it, sir? In the midst of the kitchen (the whole kitchen is in ecstasies with

this impromptu 'chaff') sits a young, modest, gentlelooking creature, with a beautiful child in her lap. She

seems to belong to the company, but is so strangely unlike it. She has such a pretty, quiet face and voice, and

is so proud to hear the child admired thinks you would hardly believe that he is only nine months old! Is

she as bad as the rest, I wonder? Inspectorial experience does not engender a belief contrariwise, but prompts

There is a piano going in the old Farm House as we approach. It stops. Landlady appears. Has no objections,

Mr. Field, to gentlemen being brought, but wishes it were at earlier hours, the lodgers complaining of

illconwenience. Inspector Field is polite and soothing knows his woman and the sex. Deputy (a girl in this

case) shows the way up a heavy, broad old staircase, kept very clean, into clean rooms where many sleepers

are, and where painted panels of an older time look strangely on the truckle beds. The sight of whitewash and

the smell of soap two things we seem by this time to have parted from in infancy make the old Farm

House a phenomenon, and connect themselves with the so curiously misplaced picture of the pretty mother

and child long after we have left it, long after we have left, besides, the neighbouring nook with something

of a rustic flavour in it yet, where once, beneath a low wooden colonnade still standing as of yore, the

eminent Jack Sheppard condescended to regale himself, and where, now, two old bachelor brothers in broad

hats (who are whispered in the Mint to have made a compact long ago that if either should ever marry, he

must forfeit his share of the joint property) still keep a sequestered tavern, and sit o' nights smoking pipes in

How goes the night now? Saint George of Southwark answers with twelve blows upon his bell. Parker, good

night, for Williams is already waiting over in the region of Ratcliffe Highway, to show the houses where the

I should like to know where Inspector Field was born. In Ratcliffe Highway, I would have answered with

confidence, but for his being equally at home wherever we go. HE does not trouble his head as I do, about the

river at night. HE does not care for its creeping, black and silent, on our right there, rushing through

sluicegates, lapping at piles and posts and iron rings, hiding strange things in its mud, running away with

suicides and accidentally drowned bodies faster than midnight funeral should, and acquiring such various

experience between its cradle and its grave. It has no mystery for HIM. Is there not the Thames Police!

Accordingly, Williams leads the way. We are a little late, for some of the houses are already closing. No

matter. You show us plenty. All the landlords know Inspector Field. All pass him, freely and

goodhumouredly, wheresoever he wants to go. So thoroughly are all these houses open to him and our local

guide, that, granting that sailors must be entertained in their own way as I suppose they must, and have a

right to be I hardly know how such places could be better regulated. Not that I call the company very select,

or the dancing very graceful even so graceful as that of the German Sugar Bakers, whose assembly, by the

Minories, we stopped to visit but there is watchful maintenance of order in every house, and swift

expulsion where need is. Even in the midst of drunkenness, both of the lethargic kind and the lively, there is

sharp landlord supervision, and pockets are in less peril than out of doors. These houses show, singularly,

how much of the picturesque and romantic there truly is in the sailor, requiring to be especially addressed. All

the songs (sung in a hailstorm of halfpence, which are pitched at the singer without the least tenderness for

the time or tune mostly from great rolls of copper carried for the purpose and which he occasionally

dodges like shot as they fly near his head) are of the sentimental sea sort. All the rooms are decorated with

nautical subjects. Wrecks, engagements, ships on fire, ships passing lighthouses on ironbound coasts, ships

blowing up, ships going down, ships running ashore, men lying out upon the mainyard in a gale of wind,

sailors and ships in every variety of peril, constitute the illustrations of fact. Nothing can be done in the

How goes the night now? Past one. Black and Green are waiting in Whitechapel to unveil the mysteries of

Are not Black and Green ready at the appointed place? O yes! They glide out of shadow as we stop.

Imperturbable Black opens the cab door; Imperturbable Green takes a mental note of the driver. Both Green

and Black then open each his flaming eye, and marshal us the way that we are going.

The lodginghouse we want is hidden in a maze of streets and courts. It is fast shut. We knock at the door,

and stand hushed looking up for a light at one or other of the begrimed old lattice windows in its ugly front,

when another constable comes up supposes that we want 'to see the school.' Detective Sergeant meanwhile

has got over a rail, opened a gate, dropped down an area, overcome some other little obstacles, and tapped at

Deputy is heard to stumble out of bed. Deputy lights a candle, draws back a bolt or two, and appears at the

door. Deputy is a shivering shirt and trousers by no means clean, a yawning face, a shock head much

confused externally and internally. We want to look for some one. You may go up with the light, and take

'em all, if you like, says Deputy, resigning it, and sitting down upon a bench in the kitchen with his ten

Halloa here! Now then! Show yourselves. That'll do. It's not you. Don't disturb yourself any more! So on,

through a labyrinth of airless rooms, each man responding, like a wild beast, to the keeper who has tamed

him, and who goes into his cage. What, you haven't found him, then? says Deputy, when we came down. A

woman mysteriously sitting up all night in the dark by the smouldering ashes of the kitchen fire, says it's only

tramps and cadgers here; it's gonophs over the way. A man mysteriously walking about the kitchen all night

in the dark, bids her hold her tongue. We come out. Deputy fastens the door and goes to bed again.

Black and Green, you know Bark, lodginghouse keeper and receiver of stolen goods? O yes, Inspector

Bark sleeps in an inner wooden hutch, near his street door. As we parley on the step with Bark's Deputy, Bark

growls in his bed. We enter, and Bark flies out of bed. Bark is a red villain and a wrathful, with a sanguine

throat that looks very much as if it were expressly made for hanging, as he stretches it out, in pale defiance,

over the halfdoor of his hutch. Bark's parts of speech are of an awful sort principally adjectives. I won't,

says Bark, have no adjective police and adjective strangers in my adjective premises! I won't, by adjective

and substantive! Give me my trousers, and I'll send the whole adjective police to adjective and substantive!

Give me, says Bark, my adjective trousers! I'll put an adjective knife in the whole bileing of 'em. I'll punch

their adjective heads. I'll rip up their adjective substantives. Give me my adjective trousers! says Bark, and I'll

Now, Bark, what's the use of this? Here's Black and Green, Detective Sergeant, and Inspector Field. You

know we will come in. I know you won't! says Bark. Somebody give me my adjective trousers! Bark's

trousers seem difficult to find. He calls for them as Hercules might for his club. Give me my adjective

Inspector Field holds that it's all one whether Bark likes the visit or don't like it. He, Inspector Field, is an

Inspector of the Detective Police, Detective Sergeant IS Detective Sergeant, Black and Green are constables

in uniform. Don't you be a fool, Bark, or you know it will be the worse for you. I don't care, says Bark.

At two o'clock in the morning, we descend into Bark's low kitchen, leaving Bark to foam at the mouth above,

and Imperturbable Black and Green to look at him. Bark's kitchen is crammed full of thieves, holding a

CONVERSAZIONE there by lamplight. It is by far the most dangerous assembly we have seen yet.

Stimulated by the ravings of Bark, above, their looks are sullen, but not a man speaks. We ascend again. Bark

has got his trousers, and is in a state of madness in the passage with his back against a door that shuts off the

upper staircase. We observe, in other respects, a ferocious individuality in Bark. Instead of 'STOP THIEF!' on

Now, Bark, we are going upstairs! No, you ain't! YOU refuse admission to the Police, do you, Bark?

Yes, I do! I refuse it to all the adjective police, and to all the adjective substantives. If the adjective coves in

the kitchen was men, they'd come up now, and do for you! Shut me that there door! says Bark, and suddenly

we are enclosed in the passage. They'd come up and do for you! cries Bark, and waits. Not a sound in the

kitchen! They'd come up and do for you! cries Bark again, and waits. Not a sound in the kitchen! We are shut

up, halfadozen of us, in Bark's house in the innermost recesses of the worst part of London, in the dead of

the night the house is crammed with notorious robbers and ruffians and not a man stirs. No, Bark. They

We leave bully Bark to subside at leisure out of his passion and his trousers, and, I dare say, to be

inconveniently reminded of this little brush before long. Black and Green do ordinary duty here, and look

As to White, who waits on Holborn Hill to show the courts that are eaten out of Rotten Gray's Inn, Lane,

where other lodginghouses are, and where (in one blind alley) the Thieves' Kitchen and Seminary for the

that they are quiet, and no light shines through the chinks in the shutters. As undistinctive Death will come

here, one day, sleep comes now. The wicked cease from troubling sometimes, even in this life.

A VERY dark night it was, and bitter cold; the east wind blowing bleak, and bringing with it stinging

particles from marsh, and moor, and fen from the Great Desert and Old Egypt, may be. Some of the

component parts of the sharpedged vapour that came flying up the Thames at London might be

mummydust, dry atoms from the Temple at Jerusalem, camels' footprints, crocodiles' hatching places,

loosened grains of expression from the visages of blunt nosed sphynxes, waifs and strays from caravans of

turbaned merchants, vegetation from jungles, frozen snow from the Himalayas. O! It was very, very dark

'And yet,' said the voice within the great peacoat at my side, 'you'll have seen a good many rivers, too, I dare

'Truly,' said I, 'when I come to think of it, not a few. From the Niagara, downward to the mountain rivers of

Italy, which are like the national spirit very tame, or chafing suddenly and bursting bounds, only to dwindle

away again. The Moselle, and the Rhine, and the Rhone; and the Seine, and the Saone; and the St. Lawrence,

Peacoat coughing as if he had had enough of that, I said no more. I could have carried the catalogue on to a

'So awful,' I returned, 'at night. The Seine at Paris is very gloomy too, at such a time, and is probably the

scene of far more crime and greater wickedness; but this river looks so broad and vast, so murky and silent,

We were in a fouroared Thames Police Galley, lying on our oars in the deep shadow of Southwark Bridge

under the corner arch on the Surrey side having come down with the tide from Vauxhall. We were fain to

hold on pretty tight, though close in shore, for the river was swollen and the tide running down very strong.

We were watching certain waterrats of human growth, and lay in the deep shade as quiet as mice; our light

hidden and our scraps of conversation carried on in whispers. Above us, the massive iron girders of the arch

were faintly visible, and below us its ponderous shadow seemed to sink down to the bottom of the stream.

We had been lying here some half an hour. With our backs to the wind, it is true; but the wind being in a

determined temper blew straight through us, and would not take the trouble to go round. I would have

boarded a fireship to get into action, and mildly suggested as much to my friend Pea.

'No doubt,' says he as patiently as possible; 'but shoregoing tactics wouldn't do with us. Riverthieves can

always get rid of stolen property in a moment by dropping it overboard. We want to take them WITH the

property, so we lurk about and come out upon 'em sharp. If they see us or hear us, over it goes.'

Pea's wisdom being indisputable, there was nothing for it but to sit there and be blown through, for another

halfhour. The water rats thinking it wise to abscond at the end of that time without commission of felony,

'Grim they look, don't they?' said Pea, seeing me glance over my shoulder at the lights upon the bridge, and

'Very,' said I, 'and make one think with a shudder of Suicides. What a night for a dreadful leap from that

'Aye, but Waterloo's the favourite bridge for making holes in the water from,' returned Pea. 'By the bye

My face confessing a surprised desire to have some friendly conversation with Waterloo Bridge, and my

friend Pea being the most obliging of men, we put about, pulled out of the force of the stream, and in place of

going at great speed with the tide, began to strive against it, close in shore again. Every colour but black

seemed to have departed from the world. The air was black, the water was black, the barges and hulks were

black, the piles were black, the buildings were black, the shadows were only a deeper shade of black upon a

black ground. Here and there, a coal fire in an iron cresset blazed upon a wharf; but, one knew that it too had

been black a little while ago, and would be black again soon. Uncomfortable rushes of water suggestive of

gurgling and drowning, ghostly rattlings of iron chains, dismal clankings of discordant engines, formed the

music that accompanied the dip of our oars and their rattling in the rowlocks. Even the noises had a black

Our dexterous boat's crew made nothing of the tide, and pulled us gallantly up to Waterloo Bridge. Here Pea

and I disembarked, passed under the black stone archway, and climbed the steep stone steps. Within a few

feet of their summit, Pea presented me to Waterloo (or an eminent tolltaker representing that structure),

Waterloo received us with cordiality, and observed of the night that it was 'a Searcher.' He had been

originally called the Strand Bridge, he informed us, but had received his present name at the suggestion of the

proprietors, when Parliament had resolved to vote three hundred thousand pound for the erection of a

monument in honour of the victory. Parliament took the hint (said Waterloo, with the least flavour of

misanthropy) and saved the money. Of course the late Duke of Wellington was the first passenger, and of

course he paid his penny, and of course a noble lord preserved it evermore. The treadle and index at the

tollhouse (a most ingenious contrivance for rendering fraud impossible), were invented by Mr. Lethbridge,

Was it suicide, we wanted to know about? said Waterloo. Ha! Well, he had seen a good deal of that work, he

did assure us. He had prevented some. Why, one day a woman, poorish looking, came in between the hatch,

slapped down a penny, and wanted to go on without the change! Waterloo suspected this, and says to his

mate, 'give an eye to the gate,' and bolted after her. She had got to the third seat between the piers, and was on

the parapet just a going over, when he caught her and gave her in charge. At the police office next morning,

'Likely enough,' observed Waterloo to Pea and myself, as he adjusted his chin in his shawl. 'There's a deal of

Another time, a young woman at twelve o'clock in the open day, got through, darted along; and, before

Waterloo could come near her, jumped upon the parapet, and shot herself over sideways. Alarm given,

'This is where it is,' said Waterloo. 'If people jump off straight forwards from the middle of the parapet of the

bays of the bridge, they are seldom killed by drowning, but are smashed, poor things; that's what THEY are;

they dash themselves upon the buttress of the bridge. But you jump off,' said Waterloo to me, putting his

fore finger in a buttonhole of my greatcoat; 'you jump off from the side of the bay, and you'll tumble,

true, into the stream under the arch. What you have got to do, is to mind how you jump in! There was poor

Tom Steele from Dublin. Didn't dive! Bless you, didn't dive at all! Fell down so flat into the water, that he

I asked Waterloo if there were a favourite side of his bridge for this dreadful purpose? He reflected, and

Three decentlooking men went through one day, soberly and quietly, and went on abreast for about a dozen

yards: when the middle one, he sung out, all of a sudden, 'Here goes, Jack!' and was over in a minute.

Body found? Well. Waterloo didn't rightly recollect about that. They were compositors, THEY were.

He considered it astonishing how quick people were! Why, there was a cab came up one Boxingnight, with

a young woman in it, who looked, according to Waterloo's opinion of her, a little the worse for liquor; very

handsome she was too very handsome. She stopped the cab at the gate, and said she'd pay the cabman then,

which she did, though there was a little hankering about the fare, because at first she didn't seem quite to

know where she wanted to be drove to. However, she paid the man, and the toll too, and looking Waterloo in

the face (he thought she knew him, don't you see!) said, 'I'll finish it somehow!' Well, the cab went off,

leaving Waterloo a little doubtful in his mind, and while it was going on at full speed the young woman

jumped out, never fell, hardly staggered, ran along the bridge pavement a little way, passing several people,

and jumped over from the second opening. At the inquest it was giv' in evidence that she had been quarrelling

at the Hero of Waterloo, and it was brought in jealousy. (One of the results of Waterloo's experience was, that

'Do we ever get madmen?' said Waterloo, in answer to an inquiry of mine. 'Well, we DO get madmen. Yes,

we have had one or two; escaped from 'Sylums, I suppose. One hadn't a halfpenny; and because I wouldn't let

him through, he went back a little way, stooped down, took a run, and butted at the hatch like a ram. He

smashed his hat rarely, but his head didn't seem no worse in my opinion on account of his being wrong in it

afore. Sometimes people haven't got a halfpenny. If they are really tired and poor we give 'em one and let 'em

through. Other people will leave things pockethandkerchiefs mostly. I HAVE taken cravats and gloves,

pocketknives, toothpicks, studs, shirtpins, rings (generally from young gents, early in the morning), but

'Regular customers?' said Waterloo. 'Lord, yes! We have regular customers. One, such a wornout, usedup

old file as you can scarcely picter, comes from the Surrey side as regular as ten o'clock at night comes; and

goes over, I think, to some flash house on the Middlesex side. He comes back, he does, as reg'lar as the clock

strikes three in the morning, and then can hardly drag one of his old legs after the other. He always turns

down the water stairs, comes up again, and then goes on down the Waterloo Road. He always does the same

I asked Waterloo if he had given his mind to the possibility of this particular customer going down the

waterstairs at three o'clock some morning, and never coming up again? He didn't think THAT of him, he

replied. In fact, it was Waterloo's opinion, founded on his observation of that file, that he know'd a trick

'There's another queer old customer,' said Waterloo, 'comes over, as punctual as the almanack, at eleven

o'clock on the sixth of January, at eleven o'clock on the fifth of April, at eleven o'clock on the sixth of July, at

eleven o'clock on the tenth of October. Drives a shaggy little, rough pony, in a sort of a rattletrap arm chair

sort of a thing. White hair he has, and white whiskers, and muffles himself up with all manner of shawls. He

comes back again the same afternoon, and we never see more of him for three months. He is a captain in the

navy retired wery old wery odd and served with Lord Nelson. He is particular about drawing his

pension at Somerset House afore the clock strikes twelve every quarter. I HAVE heerd say that he thinks it

wouldn't be according to the Act of Parliament, if he didn't draw it afore twelve.'

Having related these anecdotes in a natural manner, which was the best warranty in the world for their

genuine nature, our friend Waterloo was sinking deep into his shawl again, as having exhausted his

communicative powers and taken in enough east wind, when my other friend Pea in a moment brought him to

the surface by asking whether he had not been occasionally the subject of assault and battery in the execution

of his duty? Waterloo recovering his spirits, instantly dashed into a new branch of his subject. We learnt how

'both these teeth' here he pointed to the places where two front teeth were not were knocked out by an

ugly customer who one night made a dash at him (Waterloo) while his (the ugly customer's) pal and coadjutor

made a dash at the tolltaking apron where the moneypockets were; how Waterloo, letting the teeth go (to

Blazes, he observed indefinitely), grappled with the apron seizer, permitting the ugly one to run away; and

how he saved the bank, and captured his man, and consigned him to fine and imprisonment. Also how, on

another night, 'a Cove' laid hold of Waterloo, then presiding at the horsegate of his bridge, and threw him

unceremoniously over his knee, having first cut his head open with his whip. How Waterloo 'got right,' and

started after the Cove all down the Waterloo Road, through Stamford Street, and round to the foot of

Blackfriars Bridge, where the Cove 'cut into' a publichouse. How Waterloo cut in too; but how an aider and

abettor of the Cove's, who happened to be taking a promiscuous drain at the bar, stopped Waterloo; and the

Cove cut out again, ran across the road down Holland Street, and where not, and into a beershop. How

Waterloo breaking away from his detainer was close upon the Cove's heels, attended by no end of people,

who, seeing him running with the blood streaming down his face, thought something worse was 'up,' and

roared Fire! and Murder! on the hopeful chance of the matter in hand being one or both. How the Cove was

ignominiously taken, in a shed where he had run to hide, and how at the Police Court they at first wanted to

make a sessions job of it; but eventually Waterloo was allowed to be 'spoke to,' and the Cove made it square

with Waterloo by paying his doctor's bill (W. was laid up for a week) and giving him 'Three, ten.' Likewise

we learnt what we had faintly suspected before, that your sporting amateur on the Derby day, albeit a captain,

can be 'if he be,' as Captain Bobadil observes, 'so generously minded' anything but a man of honour and a

gentleman; not sufficiently gratifying his nice sense of humour by the witty scattering of flour and rotten eggs

on obtuse civilians, but requiring the further excitement of 'bilking the toll,' and 'Pitching into' Waterloo, and

'cutting him about the head with his whip;' finally being, when called upon to answer for the assault, what

Waterloo described as 'Minus,' or, as I humbly conceived it, not to be found. Likewise did Waterloo inform

us, in reply to my inquiries, admiringly and deferentially preferred through my friend Pea, that the takings at

the Bridge had more than doubled in amount, since the reduction of the toll one half. And being asked if the

aforesaid takings included much bad money, Waterloo responded, with a look far deeper than the deepest part

of the river, HE should think not! and so retired into his shawl for the rest of the night.

Then did Pea and I once more embark in our fouroared galley, and glide swiftly down the river with the

tide. And while the shrewd East rasped and notched us, as with jagged razors, did my friend Pea impart to me

confidences of interest relating to the Thames Police; we, between whiles, finding 'duty boats' hanging in

dark corners under banks, like weeds our own was a 'supervision boat' and they, as they reported 'all

right!' flashing their hidden light on us, and we flashing ours on them. These duty boats had one sitter in each:

an Inspector: and were rowed 'Randan,' which for the information of those who never graduated, as I was

once proud to do, under a firemanwaterman and winner of Kean's Prize Wherry: who, in the course of his

tuition, took hundreds of gallons of rum and egg (at my expense) at the various houses of note above and

below bridge; not by any means because he liked it, but to cure a weakness in his liver, for which the faculty

had particularly recommended it may be explained as rowed by three men, two pulling an oar each, and one

Thus, floating down our black highway, sullenly frowned upon by the knitted brows of Blackfriars,

Southwark, and London, each in his lowering turn, I was shown by my friend Pea that there are, in the

Thames Police Force, whose district extends from Battersea to Barking Creek, ninetyeight men, eight duty

boats, and two supervision boats; and that these go about so silently, and lie in wait in such dark places, and

so seem to be nowhere, and so may be anywhere, that they have gradually become a police of prevention,

keeping the river almost clear of any great crimes, even while the increased vigilance on shore has made it

much harder than of yore to live by 'thieving' in the streets. And as to the various kinds of waterthieves, said

my friend Pea, there were the Tierrangers, who silently dropped alongside the tiers of shipping in the Pool,

by night, and who, going to the companionhead, listened for two snores snore number one, the skipper's;

snore number two, the mate's mates and skippers always snoring great guns, and being dead sure to be hard

at it if they had turned in and were asleep. Hearing the double fire, down went the Rangers into the skippers'

cabins; groped for the skippers' inexpressibles, which it was the custom of those gentlemen to shake off,

watch, money, braces, boots, and all together, on the floor; and therewith made off as silently as might be.

Then there were the Lumpers, or labourers employed to unload vessels. They wore loose canvas jackets with

a broad hem in the bottom, turned inside, so as to form a large circular pocket in which they could conceal,

like clowns in pantomimes, packages of surprising sizes. A great deal of property was stolen in this manner

(Pea confided to me) from steamers; first, because steamers carry a larger number of small packages than

other ships; next, because of the extreme rapidity with which they are obliged to be unladen for their return

voyages. The Lumpers dispose of their booty easily to marine store dealers, and the only remedy to be

suggested is that marine store shops should be licensed, and thus brought under the eye of the police as

rigidly as publichouses. Lumpers also smuggle goods ashore for the crews of vessels. The smuggling of

tobacco is so considerable, that it is well worth the while of the sellers of smuggled tobacco to use hydraulic

presses, to squeeze a single pound into a package small enough to be contained in an ordinary pocket. Next,

said my friend Pea, there were the Truckers less thieves than smugglers, whose business it was to land

more considerable parcels of goods than the Lumpers could manage. They sometimes sold articles of grocery

and so forth, to the crews, in order to cloak their real calling, and get aboard without suspicion. Many of them

had boats of their own, and made money. Besides these, there were the Dredgermen, who, under pretence of

dredging up coals and such like from the bottom of the river, hung about barges and other undecked craft, and

when they saw an opportunity, threw any property they could lay their hands on overboard: in order slyly to

dredge it up when the vessel was gone. Sometimes, they dexterously used their dredges to whip away

anything that might lie within reach. Some of them were mighty neat at this, and the accomplishment was

called dry dredging. Then, there was a vast deal of property, such as copper nails, sheathing, hardwood,

habitually brought away by shipwrights and other workmen from their employers' yards, and disposed of to

marine store dealers, many of whom escaped detection through hard swearing, and their extraordinary artful

ways of accounting for the possession of stolen property. Likewise, there were specialpleading practitioners,

for whom barges 'drifted away of their own selves' they having no hand in it, except first cutting them

loose, and afterwards plundering them innocents, meaning no harm, who had the misfortune to observe

We were now going in and out, with little noise and great nicety, among the tiers of shipping, whose many

hulls, lying close together, rose out of the water like black streets. Here and there, a Scotch, an Irish, or a

foreign steamer, getting up her steam as the tide made, looked, with her great chimney and high sides, like a

quiet factory among the common buildings. Now, the streets opened into clearer spaces, now contracted into

alleys; but the tiers were so like houses, in the dark, that I could almost have believed myself in the narrower

byeways of Venice. Everything was wonderfully still; for, it wanted full three hours of flood, and nothing

So we took no Tierrangers captive, nor any Lumpers, nor Truckers, nor Dredgermen, nor other

evildisposed person or persons; but went ashore at Wapping, where the old Thames Police office is now a

stationhouse, and where the old Court, with its cabin windows looking on the river, is a quaint charge room:

with nothing worse in it usually than a stuffed cat in a glass case, and a portrait, pleasant to behold, of a rare

old Thames Police officer, Mr. Superintendent Evans, now succeeded by his son. We looked over the charge

books, admirably kept, and found the prevention so good that there were not five hundred entries (including

drunken and disorderly) in a whole year. Then, we looked into the storeroom; where there was an oakum

smell, and a nautical seasoning of dreadnought clothing, rope yarn, boathooks, sculls and oars, spare

stretchers, rudders, pistols, cutlasses, and the like. Then, into the cell, aired high up in the wooden wall

through an opening like a kitchen platerack: wherein there was a drunken man, not at all warm, and very

wishful to know if it were morning yet. Then, into a better sort of watch and ward room, where there was a

squadron of stone bottles drawn up, ready to be filled with hot water and applied to any unfortunate creature

who might be brought in apparently drowned. Finally, we shook hands with our worthy friend Pea, and ran

all the way to Tower Hill, under strong Police suspicion occasionally, before we got warm.

ON a certain Sunday, I formed one of the congregation assembled in the chapel of a large metropolitan

Workhouse. With the exception of the clergyman and clerk, and a very few officials, there were none but

paupers present. The children sat in the galleries; the women in the body of the chapel, and in one of the side

aisles; the men in the remaining aisle. The service was decorously performed, though the sermon might have

been much better adapted to the comprehension and to the circumstances of the hearers. The usual

supplications were offered, with more than the usual significancy in such a place, for the fatherless children

and widows, for all sick persons and young children, for all that were desolate and oppressed, for the

comforting and helping of the weakhearted, for the raisingup of them that had fallen; for all that were in

danger, necessity, and tribulation. The prayers of the congregation were desired 'for several persons in the

various wards dangerously ill;' and others who were recovering returned their thanks to Heaven.

Among this congregation, were some evillooking young women, and beetlebrowed young men; but not

many perhaps that kind of characters kept away. Generally, the faces (those of the children excepted) were

depressed and subdued, and wanted colour. Aged people were there, in every variety. Mumbling, bleareyed,

spectacled, stupid, deaf, lame; vacantly winking in the gleams of sun that now and then crept in through the

open doors, from the paved yard; shading their listening ears, or blinking eyes, with their withered hands;

poring over their books, leering at nothing, going to sleep, crouching and drooping in corners. There were

weird old women, all skeleton within, all bonnet and cloak without, continually wiping their eyes with dirty

dusters of pocket handkerchiefs; and there were ugly old crones, both male and female, with a ghastly kind

of contentment upon them which was not at all comforting to see. Upon the whole, it was the dragon,

Pauperism, in a very weak and impotent condition; toothless, fangless, drawing his breath heavily enough,

When the service was over, I walked with the humane and conscientious gentleman whose duty it was to take

that walk, that Sunday morning, through the little world of poverty enclosed within the workhouse walls. It

was inhabited by a population of some fifteen hundred or two thousand paupers, ranging from the infant

newly born or not yet come into the pauper world, to the old man dying on his bed.

In a room opening from a squalid yard, where a number of listless women were lounging to and fro, trying to

get warm in the ineffectual sunshine of the tardy May morning in the 'Itch Ward,' not to compromise the

truth a woman such as HOGARTH has often drawn, was hurriedly getting on her gown before a dusty fire.

She was the nurse, or wardswoman, of that insalubrious department herself a pauper flabby, rawboned,

untidy unpromising and coarse of aspect as need be. But, on being spoken to about the patients whom she

had in charge, she turned round, with her shabby gown half on, half off, and fell a crying with all her might.

Not for show, not querulously, not in any mawkish sentiment, but in the deep grief and affliction of her heart;

turning away her dishevelled head: sobbing most bitterly, wringing her hands, and letting fall abundance of

great tears, that choked her utterance. What was the matter with the nurse of the itchward? Oh, 'the dropped

child' was dead! Oh, the child that was found in the street, and she had brought up ever since, had died an

hour ago, and see where the little creature lay, beneath this cloth! The dear, the pretty dear!

The dropped child seemed too small and poor a thing for Death to be in earnest with, but Death had taken it;

and already its diminutive form was neatly washed, composed, and stretched as if in sleep upon a box. I

thought I heard a voice from Heaven saying, It shall be well for thee, O nurse of the itchward, when some

less gentle pauper does those offices to thy cold form, that such as the dropped child are the angels who

In another room, were several ugly old women crouching, witchlike, round a hearth, and chattering and

nodding, after the manner of the monkeys. 'All well here? And enough to eat?' A general chattering and

chuckling; at last an answer from a volunteer. 'Oh yes, gentleman! Bless you, gentleman! Lord bless the

Parish of St. SoandSo! It feed the hungry, sir, and give drink to the thusty, and it warm them which is cold,

so it do, and good luck to the parish of St. SoandSo, and thankee, gentleman!' Elsewhere, a party of pauper

nurses were at dinner. 'How do YOU get on?' 'Oh pretty well, sir! We works hard, and we lives hard like

In another room, a kind of purgatory or place of transition, six or eight noisy madwomen were gathered

together, under the superintendence of one sane attendant. Among them was a girl of two or three and twenty,

very prettily dressed, of most respectable appearance and good manners, who had been brought in from the

house where she had lived as domestic servant (having, I suppose, no friends), on account of being subject to

epileptic fits, and requiring to be removed under the influence of a very bad one. She was by no means of the

same stuff, or the same breeding, or the same experience, or in the same state of mind, as those by whom she

was surrounded; and she pathetically complained that the daily association and the nightly noise made her

worse, and was driving her mad which was perfectly evident. The case was noted for inquiry and redress,

If this girl had stolen her mistress's watch, I do not hesitate to say she would have been infinitely better off.

We have come to this absurd, this dangerous, this monstrous pass, that the dishonest felon is, in respect of

cleanliness, order, diet, and accommodation, better provided for, and taken care of, than the honest pauper.

And this conveys no special imputation on the workhouse of the parish of St. SoandSo, where, on the

contrary, I saw many things to commend. It was very agreeable, recollecting that most infamous and

atrocious enormity committed at Tooting an enormity which, a hundred years hence, will still be vividly

remembered in the bye ways of English life, and which has done more to engender a gloomy discontent and

suspicion among many thousands of the people than all the Chartist leaders could have done in all their lives

to find the pauper children in this workhouse looking robust and well, and apparently the objects of very

great care. In the Infant School a large, light, airy room at the top of the building the little creatures, being

at dinner, and eating their potatoes heartily, were not cowed by the presence of strange visitors, but stretched

out their small hands to be shaken, with a very pleasant confidence. And it was comfortable to see two mangy

pauper rockinghorses rampant in a corner. In the girls' school, where the dinner was also in progress,

everything bore a cheerful and healthy aspect. The meal was over, in the boys' school, by the time of our

arrival there, and the room was not yet quite rearranged; but the boys were roaming unrestrained about a large

and airy yard, as any other schoolboys might have done. Some of them had been drawing large ships upon the

schoolroom wall; and if they had a mast with shrouds and stays set up for practice (as they have in the

Middlesex House of Correction), it would be so much the better. At present, if a boy should feel a strong

impulse upon him to learn the art of going aloft, he could only gratify it, I presume, as the men and women

paupers gratify their aspirations after better board and lodging, by smashing as many workhouse windows as

In one place, the Newgate of the Workhouse, a company of boys and youths were locked up in a yard alone;

their dayroom being a kind of kennel where the casual poor used formerly to be littered down at night.

Divers of them had been there some long time. 'Are they never going away?' was the natural inquiry. 'Most of

them are crippled, in some form or other,' said the Wardsman, 'and not fit for anything.' They slunk about,

like dispirited wolves or hyaenas; and made a pounce at their food when it was served out, much as those

animals do. The bigheaded idiot shuffling his feet along the pavement, in the sunlight outside, was a more

Groves of babies in arms; groves of mothers and other sick women in bed; groves of lunatics; jungles of men

in stonepaved downstairs dayrooms, waiting for their dinners; longer and longer groves of old people, in

upstairs Infirmary wards, wearing out life, God knows how this was the scenery through which the walk

lay, for two hours. In some of these latter chambers, there were pictures stuck against the wall, and a neat

display of crockery and pewter on a kind of sideboard; now and then it was a treat to see a plant or two; in

In all of these Long Walks of aged and infirm, some old people were bedridden, and had been for a long time;

some were sitting on their beds halfnaked; some dying in their beds; some out of bed, and sitting at a table

near the fire. A sullen or lethargic indifference to what was asked, a blunted sensibility to everything but

warmth and food, a moody absence of complaint as being of no use, a dogged silence and resentful desire to

be left alone again, I thought were generally apparent. On our walking into the midst of one of these dreary

perspectives of old men, nearly the following little dialogue took place, the nurse not being immediately at

No answer. An old man in a Scotch cap sitting among others on a form at the table, eating out of a tin

porringer, pushes back his cap a little to look at us, claps it down on his forehead again with the palm of his

No answer. Another old man sitting on his bed, paralytically peeling a boiled potato, lifts his head and stares.

That old man says nothing; but another old man, a tall old man of very good address, speaking with perfect

correctness, comes forward from somewhere, and volunteers an answer. The reply almost always proceeds

'We are very old, sir,' in a mild, distinct voice. 'We can't expect to be well, most of us.'

'I have no complaint to make, sir.' With a half shake of his head, a half shrug of his shoulders, and a kind of

'Why, sir, I have but a poor appetite,' with the same air as before; 'and yet I get through my allowance very

'But,' showing a porringer with a Sunday dinner in it; 'here is a portion of mutton, and three potatoes. You

The nurse, who is now rubbing her hands at the questioner's elbow, interferes with, 'It ain't much raly, sir.

You see they've only six ounces a day, and when they've took their breakfast, there CAN only be a little left

Another old man, hitherto invisible, rises out of his bedclothes, as out of a grave, and looks on.

'You have tea at night?' The questioner is still addressing the wellspoken old man.

The questioner, in the kindness of his heart, appears a little discomposed, and changes the subject.

The nurse don't remember what old man is referred to. There has been such a many old men. The

wellspoken old man is doubtful. The spectral old man who has come to life in bed, says, 'Billy Stevens.'

Something like a feeble interest is awakened. I suppose Charley Walters had conversation in him.

Another old man, with one eye screwed up, hastily displaces the piping old man, and says.

'No, no! and Johnny Rogers died in that bed, and and they're both on 'em dead and Sam'l Bowyer;' this

With this he subsides, and all the old men (having had quite enough of it) subside, and the spectral old man

As we turn to go out at the door, another previously invisible old man, a hoarse old man in a flannel gown, is

'I am greatly better in my health, sir; but what I want, to get me quite round,' with his hand on his throat, 'is a

little fresh air, sir. It has always done my complaint so much good, sir. The regular leave for going out, comes

round so seldom, that if the gentlemen, next Friday, would give me leave to go out walking, now and then

Who could wonder, looking through those weary vistas of bed and infirmity, that it should do him good to

meet with some other scenes, and assure himself that there was something else on earth? Who could help

wondering why the old men lived on as they did; what grasp they had on life; what crumbs of interest or

occupation they could pick up from its bare board; whether Charley Walters had ever described to them the

days when he kept company with some old pauper woman in the bud, or Billy Stevens ever told them of the

The morsel of burnt child, lying in another room, so patiently, in bed, wrapped in lint, and looking steadfastly

at us with his bright quiet eyes when we spoke to him kindly, looked as if the knowledge of these things, and

of all the tender things there are to think about, might have been in his mind as if he thought, with us, that

there was a fellowfeeling in the pauper nurses which appeared to make them more kind to their charges than

the race of common nurses in the hospitals as if he mused upon the Future of some older children lying

around him in the same place, and thought it best, perhaps, all things considered, that he should die as if he

knew, without fear, of those many coffins, made and unmade, piled up in the store below and of his

unknown friend, 'the dropped child,' calm upon the boxlid covered with a cloth. But there was something

wistful and appealing, too, in his tiny face, as if, in the midst of all the hard necessities and incongruities he

pondered on, he pleaded, in behalf of the helpless and the aged poor, for a little more liberty and a little

ONCE upon a time, and of course it was in the Golden Age, and I hope you may know when that was, for I

am sure I don't, though I have tried hard to find out, there lived in a rich and fertile country, a powerful Prince

whose name was BULL. He had gone through a great deal of fighting, in his time, about all sorts of things,

including nothing; but, had gradually settled down to be a steady, peaceable, goodnatured, corpulent, rather

This Puissant Prince was married to a lovely Princess whose name was Fair Freedom. She had brought him a

large fortune, and had borne him an immense number of children, and had set them to spinning, and farming,

and engineering, and soldiering, and sailoring, and doctoring, and lawyering, and preaching, and all kinds of

trades. The coffers of Prince Bull were full of treasure, his cellars were crammed with delicious wines from

all parts of the world, the richest gold and silver plate that ever was seen adorned his sideboards, his sons

were strong, his daughters were handsome, and in short you might have supposed that if there ever lived upon

earth a fortunate and happy Prince, the name of that Prince, take him for all in all, was assuredly Prince Bull.

But, appearances, as we all know, are not always to be trusted far from it; and if they had led you to this

conclusion respecting Prince Bull, they would have led you wrong as they often have led me.

For, this good Prince had two sharp thorns in his pillow, two hard knobs in his crown, two heavy loads on his

mind, two unbridled nightmares in his sleep, two rocks ahead in his course. He could not by any means get

servants to suit him, and he had a tyrannical old godmother, whose name was Tape.

She was a Fairy, this Tape, and was a bright red all over. She was disgustingly prim and formal, and could

never bend herself a hair's breadth this way or that way, out of her naturally crooked shape. But, she was very

potent in her wicked art. She could stop the fastest thing in the world, change the strongest thing into the

weakest, and the most useful into the most useless. To do this she had only to put her cold hand upon it, and

At the Court of Prince Bull at least I don't mean literally at his court, because he was a very genteel Prince,

and readily yielded to his godmother when she always reserved that for his hereditary Lords and Ladies in

the dominions of Prince Bull, among the great mass of the community who were called in the language of

that polite country the Mobs and the Snobs, were a number of very ingenious men, who were always busy

with some invention or other, for promoting the prosperity of the Prince's subjects, and augmenting the

Prince's power. But, whenever they submitted their models for the Prince's approval, his godmother stepped

forward, laid her hand upon them, and said 'Tape.' Hence it came to pass, that when any particularly good

discovery was made, the discoverer usually carried it off to some other Prince, in foreign parts, who had no

old godmother who said Tape. This was not on the whole an advantageous state of things for Prince Bull, to

The worst of it was, that Prince Bull had in course of years lapsed into such a state of subjection to this

unlucky godmother, that he never made any serious effort to rid himself of her tyranny. I have said this was

the worst of it, but there I was wrong, because there is a worse consequence still, behind. The Prince's

numerous family became so downright sick and tired of Tape, that when they should have helped the Prince

out of the difficulties into which that evil creature led him, they fell into a dangerous habit of moodily

keeping away from him in an impassive and indifferent manner, as though they had quite forgotten that no

harm could happen to the Prince their father, without its inevitably affecting themselves.

Such was the aspect of affairs at the court of Prince Bull, when this great Prince found it necessary to go to

war with Prince Bear. He had been for some time very doubtful of his servants, who, besides being indolent

and addicted to enriching their families at his expense, domineered over him dreadfully; threatening to

discharge themselves if they were found the least fault with, pretending that they had done a wonderful

amount of work when they had done nothing, making the most unmeaning speeches that ever were heard in

the Prince's name, and uniformly showing themselves to be very inefficient indeed. Though, that some of

them had excellent characters from previous situations is not to be denied. Well; Prince Bull called his

servants together, and said to them one and all, 'Send out my army against Prince Bear. Clothe it, arm it, feed

it, provide it with all necessaries and contingencies, and I will pay the piper! Do your duty by my brave

troops,' said the Prince, 'and do it well, and I will pour my treasure out like water, to defray the cost. Who

ever heard ME complain of money well laid out!' Which indeed he had reason for saying, inasmuch as he was

When the servants heard those words, they sent out the army against Prince Bear, and they set the army

tailors to work, and the army provision merchants, and the makers of guns both great and small, and the

gunpowder makers, and the makers of ball, shell, and shot; and they bought up all manner of stores and ships,

without troubling their heads about the price, and appeared to be so busy that the good Prince rubbed his

hands, and (using a favourite expression of his), said, 'It's all right I' But, while they were thus employed, the

Prince's godmother, who was a great favourite with those servants, looked in upon them continually all day

long, and whenever she popped in her head at the door said, How do you do, my children? What are you

doing here?' 'Official business, godmother.' 'Oho!' says this wicked Fairy. ' Tape!' And then the business all

went wrong, whatever it was, and the servants' heads became so addled and muddled that they thought they

Now, this was very bad conduct on the part of the vicious old nuisance, and she ought to have been strangled,

even if she had stopped here; but, she didn't stop here, as you shall learn. For, a number of the Prince's

subjects, being very fond of the Prince's army who were the bravest of men, assembled together and provided

all manner of eatables and drinkables, and books to read, and clothes to wear, and tobacco to smoke, and

candies to burn, and nailed them up in great packingcases, and put them aboard a great many ships, to be

carried out to that brave army in the cold and inclement country where they were fighting Prince Bear. Then,

up comes this wicked Fairy as the ships were weighing anchor, and says, 'How do you do, my children? What

are you doing here?' 'We are going with all these comforts to the army, godmother.' 'Oho!' says she. 'A

pleasant voyage, my darlings. Tape!' And from that time forth, those enchanting ships went sailing, against

wind and tide and rhyme and reason, round and round the world, and whenever they touched at any port were

This, again, was very bad conduct on the part of the vicious old nuisance, and she ought to have been

strangled for it if she had done nothing worse; but, she did something worse still, as you shall learn. For, she

got astride of an official broomstick, and muttered as a spell these two sentences, 'On Her Majesty's service,'

and 'I have the honour to be, sir, your most obedient servant,' and presently alighted in the cold and inclement

country where the army of Prince Bull were encamped to fight the army of Prince Bear. On the seashore of

that country, she found piled together, a number of houses for the army to live in, and a quantity of provisions

for the army to live upon, and a quantity of clothes for the army to wear: while, sitting in the mud gazing at

them, were a group of officers as red to look at as the wicked old woman herself. So, she said to one of them,

'Who are you, my darling, and how do you do?' 'I am the Quartermaster General's Department, godmother,

and I am pretty well.' Then she said to another, 'Who are YOU, my darling, and how do YOU do?' 'I am the

Commissariat Department, godmother, and I am pretty well! Then she said to another, 'Who are YOU, my

darling, and how do YOU do?' 'I am the Head of the Medical Department, godmother, and I am pretty

well.' Then, she said to some gentlemen scented with lavender, who kept themselves at a great distance from

the rest, 'And who are YOU, my pretty pets, and how do YOU do?' And they answered, 'We

awaretheawStaffawDepartment, godmother, and we are very well indeed.' 'I am delighted to see

you all, my beauties,' says this wicked old Fairy, ' Tape!' Upon that, the houses, clothes, and provisions, all

mouldered away; and the soldiers who were sound, fell sick; and the soldiers who were sick, died miserably:

When the dismal news of his great loss was carried to the Prince, he suspected his godmother very much

indeed; but, he knew that his servants must have kept company with the malicious beldame, and must have

given way to her, and therefore he resolved to turn those servants out of their places. So, he called to him a

Roebuck who had the gift of speech, and he said, 'Good Roebuck, tell them they must go.' So, the good

Roebuck delivered his message, so like a man that you might have supposed him to be nothing but a man,

and they were turned out but, not without warning, for that they had had a long time.

And now comes the most extraordinary part of the history of this Prince. When he had turned out those

servants, of course he wanted others. What was his astonishment to find that in all his dominions, which

contained no less than twentyseven millions of people, there were not above fiveandtwenty servants

altogether! They were so lofty about it, too, that instead of discussing whether they should hire themselves as

servants to Prince Bull, they turned things topsyturvy, and considered whether as a favour they should hire

Prince Bull to be their master! While they were arguing this point among themselves quite at their leisure, the

wicked old red Fairy was incessantly going up and down, knocking at the doors of twelve of the oldest of the

fiveandtwenty, who were the oldest inhabitants in all that country, and whose united ages amounted to one

thousand, saying, 'Will YOU hire Prince Bull for your master? Will YOU hire Prince Bull for your master?'

To which one answered, 'I will if next door will;' and another, 'I won't if over the way does;' and another, 'I

can't if he, she, or they, might, could, would, or should.' And all this time Prince Bull's affairs were going to

At last, Prince Bull in the height of his perplexity assumed a thoughtful face, as if he were struck by an

entirely new idea. The wicked old Fairy, seeing this, was at his elbow directly, and said, 'How do you do, my

Prince, and what are you thinking of?' 'I am thinking, godmother,' says he, 'that among all the

sevenandtwenty millions of my subjects who have never been in service, there are men of intellect and

business who have made me very famous both among my friends and enemies.' 'Aye, truly?' says the Fairy.

'Aye, truly,' says the Prince. 'And what then?' says the Fairy. 'Why, then,' says he, 'since the regular old

class of servants do so ill, are so hard to get, and carry it with so high a hand, perhaps I might try to make

good servants of some of these.' The words had no sooner passed his lips than she returned, chuckling, 'You

think so, do you? Indeed, my Prince? Tape!' Thereupon he directly forgot what he was thinking of, and

cried out lamentably to the old servants, 'O, do come and hire your poor old master! Pray do! On any terms!'

And this, for the present, finishes the story of Prince Bull. I wish I could wind it up by saying that he lived

happy ever afterwards, but I cannot in my conscience do so; for, with Tape at his elbow, and his estranged

children fatally repelled by her from coming near him, I do not, to tell you the plain truth, believe in the

PUTTING up for the night in one of the chiefest towns of Staffordshire, I find it to be by no means a lively

town. In fact, it is as dull and dead a town as any one could desire not to see. It seems as if its whole

population might be imprisoned in its Railway Station. The Refreshment Room at that Station is a vortex of

dissipation compared with the extinct towninn, the Dodo, in the dull High Street.

Why High Street? Why not rather Low Street, Flat Street, Low Spirited Street, Usedup Street? Where are

the people who belong to the High Street? Can they all be dispersed over the face of the country, seeking the

unfortunate Strolling Manager who decamped from the mouldy little Theatre last week, in the beginning of

his season (as his playbills testify), repentantly resolved to bring him back, and feed him, and be

entertained? Or, can they all be gathered to their fathers in the two old churchyards near to the High Street

retirement into which churchyards appears to be a mere ceremony, there is so very little life outside their

confines, and such small discernible difference between being buried alive in the town, and buried dead in the

town tombs? Over the way, opposite to the staring blank bow windows of the Dodo, are a little ironmonger's

shop, a little tailor's shop (with a picture of the Fashions in the small window and a bandylegged baby on

the pavement staring at it) a watchmakers shop, where all the clocks and watches must be stopped, I am

sure, for they could never have the courage to go, with the town in general, and the Dodo in particular,

looking at them. Shade of Miss Linwood, erst of Leicester Square, London, thou art welcome here, and thy

retreat is fitly chosen! I myself was one of the last visitors to that awful storehouse of thy life's work, where

an anchorite old man and woman took my shilling with a solemn wonder, and conducting me to a gloomy

sepulchre of needlework dropping to pieces with dust and age and shrouded in twilight at high noon, left me

there, chilled, frightened, and alone. And now, in ghostly letters on all the dead walls of this dead town, I read

thy honoured name, and find that thy Last Supper, worked in Berlin Wool, invites inspection as a powerful

Where are the people who are bidden with so much cry to this feast of little wool? Where are they? Who are

they? They are not the bandylegged baby studying the fashions in the tailor's window. They are not the two

earthy ploughmen lounging outside the saddler's shop, in the stiff square where the Town Hall stands, like a

brick and mortar private on parade. They are not the landlady of the Dodo in the empty bar, whose eye had

trouble in it and no welcome, when I asked for dinner. They are not the turnkeys of the Town Jail, looking

out of the gateway in their uniforms, as if they had locked up all the balance (as my American friends would

say) of the inhabitants, and could now rest a little. They are not the two dusty millers in the white mill down

by the river, where the great waterwheel goes heavily round and round, like the monotonous days and nights

in this forgotten place. Then who are they, for there is no one else? No; this deponent maketh oath and saith

that there is no one else, save and except the waiter at the Dodo, now laying the cloth. I have paced the

streets, and stared at the houses, and am come back to the blank bow window of the Dodo; and the town

clocks strike seven, and the reluctant echoes seem to cry, 'Don't wake us!' and the bandylegged baby has

If the Dodo were only a gregarious bird if he had only some confused idea of making a comfortable nest I

could hope to get through the hours between this and bedtime, without being consumed by devouring

melancholy. But, the Dodo's habits are all wrong. It provides me with a trackless desert of sittingroom, with

a chair for every day in the year, a table for every month, and a waste of sideboard where a lonely China vase

pines in a corner for its mate long departed, and will never make a match with the candlestick in the opposite

corner if it live till Doomsday. The Dodo has nothing in the larder. Even now, I behold the Boots returning

with my sole in a piece of paper; and with that portion of my dinner, the Boots, perceiving me at the blank

bow window, slaps his leg as he comes across the road, pretending it is something else. The Dodo excludes

the outer air. When I mount up to my bedroom, a smell of closeness and flue gets lazily up my nose like

sleepy snuff. The loose little bits of carpet writhe under my tread, and take wormy shapes. I don't know the

ridiculous man in the lookingglass, beyond having met him once or twice in a dishcover and I can never

shave HIM tomorrow morning! The Dodo is narrowminded as to towels; expects me to wash on a

freemason's apron without the trimming: when I asked for soap, gives me a stonyhearted something white,

with no more lather in it than the Elgin marbles. The Dodo has seen better days, and possesses interminable

This mournful bird can fry a sole, however, which is much. Can cook a steak, too, which is more. I wonder

where it gets its Sherry? If I were to send my pint of wine to some famous chemist to be analysed, what

would it turn out to be made of? It tastes of pepper, sugar, bitteralmonds, vinegar, warm knives, any flat

drinks, and a little brandy. Would it unman a Spanish exile by reminding him of his native land at all? I think

not. If there really be any townspeople out of the churchyards, and if a caravan of them ever do dine, with a

bottle of wine per man, in this desert of the Dodo, it must make good for the doctor next day!

Where was the waiter born? How did he come here? Has he any hope of getting away from here? Does he

ever receive a letter, or take a ride upon the railway, or see anything but the Dodo? Perhaps he has seen the

Berlin Wool. He appears to have a silent sorrow on him, and it may be that. He clears the table; draws the

dingy curtains of the great bow window, which so unwillingly consent to meet, that they must be pinned

together; leaves me by the fire with my pint decanter, and a little thin funnelshaped wineglass, and a plate

No book, no newspaper! I left the Arabian Nights in the railway carriage, and have nothing to read but

Bradshaw, and 'that way madness lies.' Remembering what prisoners and shipwrecked mariners have done

to exercise their minds in solitude, I repeat the multiplication table, the pence table, and the shilling table:

which are all the tables I happen to know. What if I write something? The Dodo keeps no pens but steel pens;

What am I to do? Even if I could have the bandylegged baby knocked up and brought here, I could offer

him nothing but sherry, and that would be the death of him. He would never hold up his head again if he

touched it. I can't go to bed, because I have conceived a mortal hatred for my bedroom; and I can't go away,

because there is no train for my place of destination until morning. To burn the biscuits will be but a fleeting

joy; still it is a temporary relief, and here they go on the fire! Shall I break the plate? First let me look at the

Copeland! Stop a moment. Was it yesterday I visited Copeland's works, and saw them making plates? In the

confusion of travelling about, it might be yesterday or it might be yesterday month; but I think it was

yesterday. I appeal to the plate. The plate says, decidedly, yesterday. I find the plate, as I look at it, growing

Don't you remember (says the plate) how you steamed away, yesterday morning, in the bright sun and the

east wind, along the valley of the sparkling Trent? Don't you recollect how many kilns you flew past, looking

like the bowls of gigantic tobaccopipes, cut short off from the stem and turned upside down? And the fires

and the smoke and the roads made with bits of crockery, as if all the plates and dishes in the civilised world

had been Macadamised, expressly for the laming of all the horses? Of course I do!

And don't you remember (says the plate) how you alighted at Stoke a picturesque heap of houses, kilns,

smoke, wharfs, canals, and river, lying (as was most appropriate) in a basin and how, after climbing up the

sides of the basin to look at the prospect, you trundled down again at a walkingmatch pace, and straight

proceeded to my father's, Copeland's, where the whole of my family, high and low, rich and poor, are turned

out upon the world from our nursery and seminary, covering some fourteen acres of ground? And don't you

remember what we spring from: heaps of lumps of clay, partially prepared and cleaned in Devonshire and

Dorsetshire, whence said clay principally comes and hills of flint, without which we should want our

ringing sound, and should never be musical? And as to the flint, don't you recollect that it is first burnt in

kilns, and is then laid under the four iron feet of a demon slave, subject to violent stamping fits, who, when

they come on, stamps away insanely with his four iron legs, and would crush all the flint in the Isle of Thanet

to powder, without leaving off? And as to the clay, don't you recollect how it is put into mills or teazers, and

is sliced, and dug, and cut at, by endless knives, clogged and sticky, but persistent and is pressed out of that

machine through a square trough, whose form it takes and is cut off in square lumps and thrown into a vat,

and there mixed with water, and beaten to a pulp by paddlewheels and is then run into a rough house, all

rugged beams and ladders splashed with white, superintended by Grindoff the Miller in his working

clothes, all splashed with white, where it passes through no end of machinery moved sieves all splashed

with white, arranged in an ascending scale of fineness (some so fine, that three hundred silk threads cross

each other in a single square inch of their surface), and all in a violent state of ague with their teeth for ever

chattering, and their bodies for ever shivering! And as to the flint again, isn't it mashed and mollified and

troubled and soothed, exactly as rags are in a papermill, until it is reduced to a pap so fine that it contains no

atom of 'grit' perceptible to the nicest taste? And as to the flint and the clay together, are they not, after all

this, mixed in the proportion of five of clay to one of flint, and isn't the compound known as 'slip' run into

oblong troughs, where its superfluous moisture may evaporate; and finally, isn't it slapped and banged and

beaten and patted and kneaded and wedged and knocked about like butter, until it becomes a beautiful grey

In regard of the potter, popularly so called (says the plate), you don't mean to say you have forgotten that a

workman called a Thrower is the man under whose hand this grey dough takes the shapes of the simpler

household vessels as quickly as the eye can follow? You don't mean to say you cannot call him up before

you, sitting, with his attendant woman, at his potter's wheel a disc about the size of a dinnerplate,

revolving on two drums slowly or quickly as he wills who made you a complete breakfastset for a

bachelor, as a goodhumoured little offhand joke? You remember how he took up as much dough as he

wanted, and, throwing it on his wheel, in a moment fashioned it into a teacup caught up more clay and

made a saucer a larger dab and whirled it into a teapot winked at a smaller dab and converted it into the

lid of the teapot, accurately fitting by the measurement of his eye alone coaxed a middlesized dab for two

seconds, broke it, turned it over at the rim, and made a milkpot laughed, and turned out a slop basin

coughed, and provided for the sugar? Neither, I think, are you oblivious of the newer mode of making various

articles, but especially basins, according to which improvement a mould revolves instead of a disc? For you

MUST remember (says the plate) how you saw the mould of a little basin spinning round and round, and how

the workmen smoothed and pressed a handful of dough upon it, and how with an instrument called a profile

(a piece of wood, representing the profile of a basin's foot) he cleverly scraped and carved the ring which

makes the base of any such basin, and then took the basin off the lathe like a doughy skullcap to be dried,

and afterwards (in what is called a green state) to be put into a second lathe, there to be finished and

burnished with a steel burnisher? And as to moulding in general (says the plate), it can't be necessary for me

to remind you that all ornamental articles, and indeed all articles not quite circular, are made in moulds. For

you must remember how you saw the vegetable dishes, for example, being made in moulds; and how the

handles of teacups, and the spouts of teapots, and the feet of tureens, and so forth, are all made in little

separate moulds, and are each stuck on to the body corporate, of which it is destined to form a part, with a

stuff called 'slag,' as quickly as you can recollect it. Further, you learnt you know you did in the same

visit, how the beautiful sculptures in the delicate new material called Parian, are all constructed in moulds;

how, into that material, animal bones are ground up, because the phosphate of lime contained in bones makes

it translucent; how everything is moulded, before going into the fire, onefourth larger than it is intended to

come out of the fire, because it shrinks in that proportion in the intense heat; how, when a figure shrinks

unequally, it is spoiled emerging from the furnace a misshapen birth; a big head and a little body, or a little

head and a big body, or a Quasimodo with long arms and short legs, or a Miss Biffin with neither legs nor

And as to the Kilns, in which the firing takes place, and in which some of the more precious articles are burnt

repeatedly, in various stages of their process towards completion, as to the Kilns (says the plate, warming

with the recollection), if you don't remember THEM with a horrible interest, what did you ever go to

Copeland's for? When you stood inside of one of those inverted bowls of a PreAdamite tobaccopipe,

looking up at the blue sky through the open top far off, as you might have looked up from a well, sunk under

the centre of the pavement of the Pantheon at Rome, had you the least idea where you were? And when you

found yourself surrounded, in that domeshaped cavern, by innumerable columns of an unearthly order of

architecture, supporting nothing, and squeezed close together as if a PreAdamite Samson had taken a vast

Hall in his arms and crushed it into the smallest possible space, had you the least idea what they were? No

(says the plate), of course not! And when you found that each of those pillars was a pile of ingeniously made

vessels of coarse clay called Saggers looking, when separate, like raisedpies for the table of the mighty

Giant Blunderbore, and now all full of various articles of pottery ranged in them in baking order, the bottom

of each vessel serving for the cover of the one below, and the whole Kiln rapidly filling with these, tier upon

tier, until the last workman should have barely room to crawl out, before the closing of the jagged aperture in

the wall and the kindling of the gradual fire; did you not stand amazed to think that all the year round these

dread chambers are heating, white hot and cooling and filling and emptying and being bricked up

and broken open humanly speaking, for ever and ever? To be sure you did! And standing in one of those

Kilns nearly full, and seeing a free crow shoot across the aperture atop, and learning how the fire would wax

hotter and hotter by slow degrees, and would cool similarly through a space of from forty to sixty hours, did

no remembrance of the days when human clay was burnt oppress you? Yes. I think so! I suspect that some

fancy of a fiery haze and a shortening breath, and a growing heat, and a gasping prayer; and a figure in black

interposing between you and the sky (as figures in black are very apt to do), and looking down, before it grew

too hot to look and live, upon the Heretic in his edifying agony I say I suspect (says the plate) that some

such fancy was pretty strong upon you when you went out into the air, and blessed God for the bright spring

After that, I needn't remind you what a relief it was to see the simplest process of ornamenting this 'biscuit'

(as it is called when baked) with brown circles and blue trees converting it into the common crockeryware

that is exported to Africa, and used in cottages at home. For (says the plate) I am well persuaded that you bear

in mind how those particular jugs and mugs were once more set upon a lathe and put in motion; and how a

man blew the brown colour (having a strong natural affinity with the material in that condition) on them from

a blowpipe as they twirled; and how his daughter, with a common brush, dropped blotches of blue upon them

in the right places; and how, tilting the blotches upside down, she made them run into rude images of trees,

And didn't you see (says the plate) planted upon my own brother that astounding blue willow, with knobbed

and gnarled trunk, and foliage of blue ostrich feathers, which gives our family the title of 'willow pattern'?

And didn't you observe, transferred upon him at the same time, that blue bridge which spans nothing,

growing out from the roots of the willow; and the three blue Chinese going over it into a blue temple, which

has a fine crop of blue bushes sprouting out of the roof; and a blue boat sailing above them, the mast of which

is burglariously sticking itself into the foundations of a blue villa, suspended skyhigh, surmounted by a

lump of blue rock, skyhigher, and a couple of billing blue birds, skyhighest together with the rest of that

amusing blue landscape, which has, in deference to our revered ancestors of the Cerulean Empire, and in

defiance of every known law of perspective, adorned millions of our family ever since the days of platters?

Didn't you inspect the copperplate on which my pattern was deeply engraved? Didn't you perceive an

impression of it taken in cobalt colour at a cylindrical press, upon a leaf of thin paper, streaming from a

plungebath of soap and water? Wasn't the paper impression daintily spread, by a lightfingered damsel (you

KNOW you admired her!), over the surface of the plate, and the back of the paper rubbed prodigiously hard

with a long tight roll of flannel, tied up like a round of hung beef without so much as ruffling the paper, wet

as it was? Then (says the plate), was not the paper washed away with a sponge, and didn't there appear, set

off upon the plate, THIS identical piece of PreRaphaelite blue distemper which you now behold? Not to be

denied! I had seen all this and more. I had been shown, at Copeland's, patterns of beautiful design, in

faultless perspective, which are causing the ugly old willow to wither out of public favour; and which, being

quite as cheap, insinuate good wholesome natural art into the humblest households. When Mr. and Mrs. Sprat

have satisfied their material tastes by that equal division of fat and lean which has made their MENAGE

immortal; and have, after the elegant tradition, 'licked the platter clean,' they can thanks to modern artists in

clay feast their intellectual tastes upon excellent delineations of natural objects.

This reflection prompts me to transfer my attention from the blue plate to the forlorn but cheerfully painted

vase on the sideboard. And surely (says the plate) you have not forgotten how the outlines of such groups of

flowers as you see there, are printed, just as I was printed, and are afterwards shaded and filled in with

metallic colours by women and girls? As to the aristocracy of our order, made of the finer clayporcelain

peers and peeresses; the slabs, and panels, and tabletops, and tazze; the endless nobility and gentry of

dessert, breakfast, and tea services; the gemmed perfume bottles, and scarlet and gold salvers; you saw that

they were painted by artists, with metallic colours laid on with camelhair pencils, and afterwards burnt in.

And talking of burning in (says the plate), didn't you find that every subject, from the willow pattern to the

landscape after Turner having been framed upon clay or porcelain biscuit has to be glazed? Of course,

you saw the glaze composed of various vitreous materials laid over every article; and of course you

witnessed the close imprisonment of each piece in saggers upon the separate system rigidly enforced by

means of finepointed earthenware stilts placed between the articles to prevent the slightest communication

or contact. We had in my time and I suppose it is the same now fourteen hours' firing to fix the glaze and

to make it 'run' all over us equally, so as to put a good shiny and unscratchable surface upon us. Doubtless,

you observed that one sort of glaze called printingbody is burnt into the better sort of ware BEFORE it

is printed. Upon this you saw some of the finest steel engravings transferred, to be fixed by an after glazing

Of course I did. I had seen and enjoyed everything that the plate recalled to me, and had beheld with

admiration how the rotatory motion which keeps this ball of ours in its place in the great scheme, with all its

busy mites upon it, was necessary throughout the process, and could only be dispensed with in the fire. So,

listening to the plate's reminders, and musing upon them, I got through the evening after all, and went to bed.

I made but one sleep of it for which I have no doubt I am also indebted to the plate and left the lonely

Dodo in the morning, quite at peace with it, before the bandylegged baby was up.

WE are delighted to find that he has got in! Our honourable friend is triumphantly returned to serve in the

next Parliament. He is the honourable member for Verbosity the best represented place in England.

Our honourable friend has issued an address of congratulation to the Electors, which is worthy of that noble

constituency, and is a very pretty piece of composition. In electing him, he says, they have covered

themselves with glory, and England has been true to herself. (In his preliminary address he had remarked, in a

poetical quotation of great rarity, that nought could make us rue, if England to herself did prove but true.)

Our honourable friend delivers a prediction, in the same document, that the feeble minions of a faction will

never hold up their heads any more; and that the finger of scorn will point at them in their dejected state,

through countless ages of time. Further, that the hireling tools that would destroy the sacred bulwarks of our

nationality are unworthy of the name of Englishman; and that so long as the sea shall roll around our

oceangirded isle, so long his motto shall be, No surrender. Certain dogged persons of low principles and no

intellect, have disputed whether anybody knows who the minions are, or what the faction is, or which are the

hireling tools and which the sacred bulwarks, or what it is that is never to be surrendered, and if not, why not?

Our honourable friend has sat in several parliaments, and given bushels of votes. He is a man of that

profundity in the matter of votegiving, that you never know what he means. When he seems to be voting

pure white, he may be in reality voting jet black. When he says Yes, it is just as likely as not or rather more

so that he means No. This is the statesmanship of our honourable friend. It is in this, that he differs from

mere unparliamentary men. YOU may not know what he meant then, or what he means now; but, our

honourable friend knows, and did from the first know, both what he meant then, and what he means now; and

when he said he didn't mean it then, he did in fact say, that he means it now. And if you mean to say that you

did not then, and do not now, know what he did mean then, or does mean now, our honourable friend will be

glad to receive an explicit declaration from you whether you are prepared to destroy the sacred bulwarks of

Our honourable friend, the member for Verbosity, has this great attribute, that he always means something,

and always means the same thing. When he came down to that House and mournfully boasted in his place, as

an individual member of the assembled Commons of this great and happy country, that he could lay his hand

upon his heart, and solemnly declare that no consideration on earth should induce him, at any time or under

any circumstances, to go as far north as BerwickuponTweed; and when he nevertheless, next year, did go

to BerwickuponTweed, and even beyond it, to Edinburgh; he had one single meaning, one and indivisible.

And God forbid (our honourable friend says) that he should waste another argument upon the man who

professes that he cannot understand it! 'I do NOT, gentlemen,' said our honourable friend, with indignant

emphasis and amid great cheering, on one such public occasion. 'I do NOT, gentlemen, I am free to confess,

envy the feelings of that man whose mind is so constituted as that he can hold such language to me, and yet

When our honourable friend issued his preliminary address to the constituent body of Verbosity on the

occasion of one particular glorious triumph, it was supposed by some of his enemies, that even he would be

placed in a situation of difficulty by the following comparatively trifling conjunction of circumstances. The

dozen noblemen and gentlemen whom our honourable friend supported, had 'come in,' expressly to do a

certain thing. Now, four of the dozen said, at a certain place, that they didn't mean to do that thing, and had

never meant to do it; another four of the dozen said, at another certain place, that they did mean to do that

thing, and had always meant to do it; two of the remaining four said, at two other certain places, that they

meant to do half of that thing (but differed about which half), and to do a variety of nameless wonders instead

of the other half; and one of the remaining two declared that the thing itself was dead and buried, while the

other as strenuously protested that it was alive and kicking. It was admitted that the parliamentary genius of

our honourable friend would be quite able to reconcile such small discrepancies as these; but, there remained

the additional difficulty that each of the twelve made entirely different statements at different places, and that

all the twelve called everything visible and invisible, sacred and profane, to witness, that they were a

perfectly impregnable phalanx of unanimity. This, it was apprehended, would be a stumblingblock to our

The difficulty came before our honourable friend, in this way. He went down to Verbosity to meet his free

and independent constituents, and to render an account (as he informed them in the local papers) of the trust

they had confided to his hands that trust which it was one of the proudest privileges of an Englishman to

possess that trust which it was the proudest privilege of an Englishman to hold. It may be mentioned as a

proof of the great general interest attaching to the contest, that a Lunatic whom nobody employed or knew,

went down to Verbosity with several thousand pounds in gold, determined to give the whole away which

he actually did; and that all the publicans opened their houses for nothing. Likewise, several fighting men,

and a patriotic group of burglars sportively armed with lifepreservers, proceeded (in barouches and very

drunk) to the scene of action at their own expense; these children of nature having conceived a warm

attachment to our honourable friend, and intending, in their artless manner, to testify it by knocking the voters

Our honourable friend being come into the presence of his constituents, and having professed with great

suavity that he was delighted to see his good friend Tipkisson there, in his working dress his good friend

Tipkisson being an inveterate saddler, who always opposes him, and for whom he has a mortal hatred made

them a brisk, gingerbeery sort of speech, in which he showed them how the dozen noblemen and gentlemen

had (in exactly ten days from their coming in) exercised a surprisingly beneficial effect on the whole financial

condition of Europe, had altered the state of the exports and imports for the current halfyear, had prevented

the drain of gold, had made all that matter right about the glut of the raw material, and had restored all sorts

of balances with which the superseded noblemen and gentlemen had played the deuce and all this, with

wheat at so much a quarter, gold at so much an ounce, and the Bank of England discounting good bills at so

much per cent.! He might be asked, he observed in a peroration of great power, what were his principles? His

principles were what they always had been. His principles were written in the countenances of the lion and

unicorn; were stamped indelibly upon the royal shield which those grand animals supported, and upon the

free words of fire which that shield bore. His principles were, Britannia and her seaking trident! His

principles were, commercial prosperity coexistently with perfect and profound agricultural contentment; but

short of this he would never stop. His principles were, these, with the addition of his colours nailed to the

mast, every man's heart in the right place, every man's eye open, every man's hand ready, every man's mind

on the alert. His principles were these, concurrently with a general revision of something speaking

generally and a possible readjustment of something else, not to be mentioned more particularly. His

principles, to sum up all in a word, were, Hearths and Altars, Labour and Capital, Crown and Sceptre,

Elephant and Castle. And now, if his good friend Tipkisson required any further explanation from him, he

Tipkisson, who all this time had stood conspicuous in the crowd, with his arms folded and his eyes intently

fastened on our honourable friend: Tipkisson, who throughout our honourable friend's address had not

relaxed a muscle of his visage, but had stood there, wholly unaffected by the torrent of eloquence: an object

of contempt and scorn to mankind (by which we mean, of course, to the supporters of our honourable friend);

Tipkisson now said that he was a plain man (Cries of 'You are indeed!'), and that what he wanted to know

was, what our honourable friend and the dozen noblemen and gentlemen were driving at?

It was considered by the whole assembly that this happy statement of our honourable friend's political views

ought, immediately, to have settled Tipkisson's business and covered him with confusion; but, that

implacable person, regardless of the execrations that were heaped upon him from all sides (by which we

mean, of course, from our honourable friend's side), persisted in retaining an unmoved countenance, and

obstinately retorted that if our honourable friend meant that, he wished to know what THAT meant?

It was in repelling this most objectionable and indecent opposition, that our honourable friend displayed his

highest qualifications for the representation of Verbosity. His warmest supporters present, and those who

were best acquainted with his generalship, supposed that the moment was come when he would fall back

upon the sacred bulwarks of our nationality. No such thing. He replied thus: 'My good friend Tipkisson,

gentlemen, wishes to know what I mean when he asks me what we are driving at, and when I candidly tell

him, at the illimitable perspective, he wishes (if I understand him) to know what I mean?' 'I do!' says

Tipkisson, amid cries of 'Shame' and 'Down with him.' 'Gentlemen,' says our honourable friend, 'I will

indulge my good friend Tipkisson, by telling him, both what I mean and what I don't mean. (Cheers and cries

of 'Give it him!') Be it known to him then, and to all whom it may concern, that I do mean altars, hearths, and

homes, and that I don't mean mosques and Mohammedanism!' The effect of this home thrust was terrific.

Tipkisson (who is a Baptist) was hooted down and hustled out, and has ever since been regarded as a Turkish

Renegade who contemplates an early pilgrimage to Mecca. Nor was he the only discomfited man. The

charge, while it stuck to him, was magically transferred to our honourable friend's opponent, who was

represented in an immense variety of placards as a firm believer in Mahomet; and the men of Verbosity were

asked to choose between our honourable friend and the Bible, and our honourable friend's opponent and the

Koran. They decided for our honourable friend, and rallied round the illimitable perspective.

It has been claimed for our honourable friend, with much appearance of reason, that he was the first to bend

sacred matters to electioneering tactics. However this may be, the fine precedent was undoubtedly set in a

Verbosity election: and it is certain that our honourable friend (who was a disciple of Brahma in his youth,

and was a Buddhist when we had the honour of travelling with him a few years ago) always professes in

public more anxiety than the whole Bench of Bishops, regarding the theological and doxological opinions of

As we began by saying that our honourable friend has got in again at this last election, and that we are

delighted to find that he has got in, so we will conclude. Our honourable friend cannot come in for Verbosity

too often. It is a good sign; it is a great example. It is to men like our honourable friend, and to contests like

those from which he comes triumphant, that we are mainly indebted for that ready interest in politics, that

fresh enthusiasm in the discharge of the duties of citizenship, that ardent desire to rush to the poll, at present

so manifest throughout England. When the contest lies (as it sometimes does) between two such men as our

honourable friend, it stimulates the finest emotions of our nature, and awakens the highest admiration of

It is not too much to predict that our honourable friend will be always at his post in the ensuing session.

Whatever the question be, or whatever the form of its discussion; address to the crown, election petition,

expenditure of the public money, extension of the public suffrage, education, crime; in the whole house, in

committee of the whole house, in select committee; in every parliamentary discussion of every subject,

WE went to look at it, only this last Midsummer, and found that the Railway had cut it up root and branch. A

great trunkline had swallowed the playground, sliced away the schoolroom, and pared off the corner of the

house: which, thus curtailed of its proportions, presented itself, in a green stage of stucco, profilewise towards

It seems as if our schools were doomed to be the sport of change. We have faint recollections of a Preparatory

DaySchool, which we have sought in vain, and which must have been pulled down to make a new street,

ages ago. We have dim impressions, scarcely amounting to a belief, that it was over a dyer's shop. We know

that you went up steps to it; that you frequently grazed your knees in doing so; that you generally got your leg

over the scraper, in trying to scrape the mud off a very unsteady little shoe. The mistress of the Establishment

holds no place in our memory; but, rampant on one eternal doormat, in an eternal entry long and narrow, is

a puffy pugdog, with a personal animosity towards us, who triumphs over Time. The bark of that baleful

Pug, a certain radiating way he had of snapping at our undefended legs, the ghastly grinning of his moist

black muzzle and white teeth, and the insolence of his crisp tail curled like a pastoral crook, all live and

flourish. From an otherwise unaccountable association of him with a fiddle, we conclude that he was of

French extraction, and his name FIDELE. He belonged to some female, chiefly inhabiting a backparlour,

whose life appears to us to have been consumed in sniffing, and in wearing a brown beaver bonnet. For her,

he would sit up and balance cake upon his nose, and not eat it until twenty had been counted. To the best of

our belief we were once called in to witness this performance; when, unable, even in his milder moments, to

Why a something in mourning, called 'Miss Frost,' should still connect itself with our preparatory school, we

are unable to say. We retain no impression of the beauty of Miss Frost if she were beautiful; or of the

mental fascinations of Miss Frost if she were accomplished; yet her name and her black dress hold an

enduring place in our remembrance. An equally impersonal boy, whose name has long since shaped itself

unalterably into 'Master Mawls,' is not to be dislodged from our brain. Retaining no vindictive feeling

towards Mawls no feeling whatever, indeed we infer that neither he nor we can have loved Miss Frost.

Our first impression of Death and Burial is associated with this formless pair. We all three nestled awfully in

a corner one wintry day, when the wind was blowing shrill, with Miss Frost's pinafore over our heads; and

Miss Frost told us in a whisper about somebody being 'screwed down.' It is the only distinct recollection we

preserve of these impalpable creatures, except a suspicion that the manners of Master Mawls were susceptible

of much improvement. Generally speaking, we may observe that whenever we see a child intently occupied

with its nose, to the exclusion of all other subjects of interest, our mind reverts, in a flash, to Master Mawls.

But, the School that was Our School before the Railroad came and overthrew it, was quite another sort of

place. We were old enough to be put into Virgil when we went there, and to get Prizes for a variety of

polishing on which the rust has long accumulated. It was a School of some celebrity in its neighbourhood

nobody could have said why and we had the honour to attain and hold the eminent position of first boy. The

master was supposed among us to know nothing, and one of the ushers was supposed to know everything.

We have a general idea that its subject had been in the leather trade, and had bought us meaning Our

School of another proprietor who was immensely learned. Whether this belief had any real foundation, we

are not likely ever to know now. The only branches of education with which he showed the least

acquaintance, were, ruling and corporally punishing. He was always ruling cipheringbooks with a bloated

mahogany ruler, or smiting the palms of offenders with the same diabolical instrument, or viciously drawing

a pair of pantaloons tight with one of his large hands, and caning the wearer with the other. We have no doubt

A profound respect for money pervaded Our School, which was, of course, derived from its Chief. We

remember an idiotic goggleeyed boy, with a big head and halfcrowns without end, who suddenly appeared

as a parlourboarder, and was rumoured to have come by sea from some mysterious part of the earth where

his parents rolled in gold. He was usually called 'Mr.' by the Chief, and was said to feed in the parlour on

steaks and gravy; likewise to drink currant wine. And he openly stated that if rolls and coffee were ever

denied him at breakfast, he would write home to that unknown part of the globe from which he had come,

and cause himself to be recalled to the regions of gold. He was put into no form or class, but learnt alone, as

little as he liked and he liked very little and there was a belief among us that this was because he was too

wealthy to be 'taken down.' His special treatment, and our vague association of him with the sea, and with

storms, and sharks, and Coral Reefs occasioned the wildest legends to be circulated as his history. A tragedy

in blank verse was written on the subject if our memory does not deceive us, by the hand that now

chronicles these recollections in which his father figured as a Pirate, and was shot for a voluminous

catalogue of atrocities: first imparting to his wife the secret of the cave in which his wealth was stored, and

from which his only son's halfcrowns now issued. Dumbledon (the boy's name) was represented as 'yet

unborn' when his brave father met his fate; and the despair and grief of Mrs. Dumbledon at that calamity was

movingly shadowed forth as having weakened the parlourboarder's mind. This production was received with

great favour, and was twice performed with closed doors in the dining room. But, it got wind, and was

seized as libellous, and brought the unlucky poet into severe affliction. Some two years afterwards, all of a

sudden one day, Dumbledon vanished. It was whispered that the Chief himself had taken him down to the

Docks, and reshipped him for the Spanish Main; but nothing certain was ever known about his

disappearance. At this hour, we cannot thoroughly disconnect him from California.

Our School was rather famous for mysterious pupils. There was another a heavy young man, with a large

doublecased silver watch, and a fat knife the handle of which was a perfect toolbox who unaccountably

appeared one day at a special desk of his own, erected close to that of the Chief, with whom he held familiar

converse. He lived in the parlour, and went out for his walks, and never took the least notice of us even of

us, the first boy unless to give us a deprecatory kick, or grimly to take our hat off and throw it away, when

he encountered us out of doors, which unpleasant ceremony he always performed as he passed not even

condescending to stop for the purpose. Some of us believed that the classical attainments of this phenomenon

were terrific, but that his penmanship and arithmetic were defective, and he had come there to mend them;

others, that he was going to set up a school, and had paid the Chief 'twentyfive pound down,' for leave to see

Our School at work. The gloomier spirits even said that he was going to buy us; against which contingency,

conspiracies were set on foot for a general defection and running away. However, he never did that. After

staying for a quarter, during which period, though closely observed, he was never seen to do anything but

make pens out of quills, write small hand in a secret portfolio, and punch the point of the sharpest blade in his

knife into his desk all over it, he too disappeared, and his place knew him no more.

There was another boy, a fair, meek boy, with a delicate complexion and rich curling hair, who, we found

out, or thought we found out (we have no idea now, and probably had none then, on what grounds, but it was

confidentially revealed from mouth to mouth), was the son of a Viscount who had deserted his lovely mother.

It was understood that if he had his rights, he would be worth twenty thousand a year. And that if his mother

ever met his father, she would shoot him with a silver pistol, which she carried, always loaded to the muzzle,

for that purpose. He was a very suggestive topic. So was a young Mulatto, who was always believed (though

very amiable) to have a dagger about him somewhere. But, we think they were both outshone, upon the

whole, by another boy who claimed to have been born on the twentyninth of February, and to have only one

birthday in five years. We suspect this to have been a fiction but he lived upon it all the time he was at Our

The principal currency of Our School was slate pencil. It had some inexplicable value, that was never

ascertained, never reduced to a standard. To have a great hoard of it was somehow to be rich. We used to

bestow it in charity, and confer it as a precious boon upon our chosen friends. When the holidays were

coming, contributions were solicited for certain boys whose relatives were in India, and who were appealed

for under the generic name of 'Holidaystoppers,' appropriate marks of remembrance that should enliven

and cheer them in their homeless state. Personally, we always contributed these tokens of sympathy in the

form of slate pencil, and always felt that it would be a comfort and a treasure to them.

Our School was remarkable for white mice. Redpolls, linnets, and even canaries, were kept in desks,

drawers, hatboxes, and other strange refuges for birds; but white mice were the favourite stock. The boys

trained the mice, much better than the masters trained the boys. We recall one white mouse, who lived in the

cover of a Latin dictionary, who ran up ladders, drew Roman chariots, shouldered muskets, turned wheels,

and even made a very creditable appearance on the stage as the Dog of Montargis. He might have achieved

greater things, but for having the misfortune to mistake his way in a triumphal procession to the Capitol,

when he fell into a deep inkstand, and was dyed black and drowned. The mice were the occasion of some

most ingenious engineering, in the construction of their houses and instruments of performance. The famous

one belonged to a company of proprietors, some of whom have since made Railroads, Engines, and

The usher at Our School, who was considered to know everything as opposed to the Chief, who was

considered to know nothing, was a bony, gentlefaced, clericallooking young man in rusty black. It was

whispered that he was sweet upon one of Maxby's sisters (Maxby lived close by, and was a day pupil), and

further that he 'favoured Maxby.' As we remember, he taught Italian to Maxby's sisters on halfholidays. He

once went to the play with them, and wore a white waistcoat and a rose: which was considered among us

equivalent to a declaration. We were of opinion on that occasion, that to the last moment he expected

Maxby's father to ask him to dinner at five o'clock, and therefore neglected his own dinner at halfpast one,

and finally got none. We exaggerated in our imaginations the extent to which he punished Maxby's father's

cold meat at supper; and we agreed to believe that he was elevated with wine and water when he came home.

But, we all liked him; for he had a good knowledge of boys, and would have made it a much better school if

he had had more power. He was writing master, mathematical master, English master, made out the bills,

mended the pens, and did all sorts of things. He divided the little boys with the Latin master (they were

smuggled through their rudimentary books, at odd times when there was nothing else to do), and he always

called at parents' houses to inquire after sick boys, because he had gentlemanly manners. He was rather

musical, and on some remote quarterday had bought an old trombone; but a bit of it was lost, and it made

the most extraordinary sounds when he sometimes tried to play it of an evening. His holidays never began (on

account of the bills) until long after ours; but, in the summer vacations he used to take pedestrian excursions

with a knapsack; and at Christmas time, he went to see his father at Chipping Norton, who we all said (on no

authority) was a dairyfed pork butcher. Poor fellow! He was very low all day on Maxby's sister's

weddingday, and afterwards was thought to favour Maxby more than ever, though he had been expected to

Our remembrance of Our School, presents the Latin master as a colourless doubledup nearsighted man

with a crutch, who was always cold, and always putting onions into his ears for deafness, and always

disclosing ends of flannel under all his garments, and almost always applying a ball of pockethandkerchief

to some part of his face with a screwing action round and round. He was a very good scholar, and took great

pains where he saw intelligence and a desire to learn: otherwise, perhaps not. Our memory presents him

(unless teased into a passion) with as little energy as colour as having been worried and tormented into

monotonous feebleness as having had the best part of his life ground out of him in a Mill of boys. We

remember with terror how he fell asleep one sultry afternoon with the little smuggled class before him, and

awoke not when the footstep of the Chief fell heavy on the floor; how the Chief aroused him, in the midst of a

dread silence, and said, 'Mr. Blinkins, are you ill, sir?' how he blushingly replied, 'Sir, rather so;' how the

Chief retorted with severity, 'Mr. Blinkins, this is no place to be ill in' (which was very, very true), and

walked back solemn as the ghost in Hamlet, until, catching a wandering eye, he called that boy for

inattention, and happily expressed his feelings towards the Latin master through the medium of a substitute.

There was a fat little dancingmaster who used to come in a gig, and taught the more advanced among us

hornpipes (as an accomplishment in great social demand in after life); and there was a brisk little French

master who used to come in the sunniest weather, with a handleless umbrella, and to whom the Chief was

always polite, because (as we believed), if the Chief offended him, he would instantly address the Chief in

French, and for ever confound him before the boys with his inability to understand or reply.

There was besides, a serving man, whose name was Phil. Our retrospective glance presents Phil as a

shipwrecked carpenter, cast away upon the desert island of a school, and carrying into practice an ingenious

inkling of many trades. He mended whatever was broken, and made whatever was wanted. He was general

glazier, among other things, and mended all the broken windows at the prime cost (as was darkly rumoured

among us) of ninepence, for every square charged threeandsix to parents. We had a high opinion of his

mechanical genius, and generally held that the Chief 'knew something bad of him,' and on pain of divulgence

enforced Phil to be his bondsman. We particularly remember that Phil had a sovereign contempt for learning:

which engenders in us a respect for his sagacity, as it implies his accurate observation of the relative positions

of the Chief and the ushers. He was an impenetrable man, who waited at table between whiles, and

throughout 'the half' kept the boxes in severe custody. He was morose, even to the Chief, and never smiled,

except at breakingup, when, in acknowledgment of the toast, 'Success to Phil! Hooray!' he would slowly

carve a grin out of his wooden face, where it would remain until we were all gone. Nevertheless, one time

when we had the scarlet fever in the school, Phil nursed all the sick boys of his own accord, and was like a

There was another school not far off, and of course Our School could have nothing to say to that school. It is

mostly the way with schools, whether of boys or men. Well! the railway has swallowed up ours, and the

and is not proud of, too. It had little reason to be proud of Our School, and has done much better since in

WE have the glorious privilege of being always in hot water if we like. We are a shareholder in a Great

Parochial British Joint Stock Bank of Balderdash. We have a Vestry in our borough, and can vote for a

vestryman might even BE a vestryman, mayhap, if we were inspired by a lofty and noble ambition. Which

Our Vestry is a deliberative assembly of the utmost dignity and importance. Like the Senate of ancient Rome,

its awful gravity overpowers (or ought to overpower) barbarian visitors. It sits in the Capitol (we mean in the

capital building erected for it), chiefly on Saturdays, and shakes the earth to its centre with the echoes of its

To get into this Vestry in the eminent capacity of Vestryman, gigantic efforts are made, and Herculean

exertions used. It is made manifest to the dullest capacity at every election, that if we reject Snozzle we are

done for, and that if we fail to bring in Blunderbooze at the top of the poll, we are unworthy of the dearest

rights of Britons. Flaming placards are rife on all the dead walls in the borough, publichouses hang out

banners, hackneycabs burst into fullgrown flowers of type, and everybody is, or should be, in a paroxysm

At these momentous crises of the national fate, we are much assisted in our deliberations by two eminent

volunteers; one of whom subscribes himself A Fellow Parishioner, the other, A Rate Payer. Who they are,

or what they are, or where they are, nobody knows; but, whatever one asserts, the other contradicts. They are

both voluminous writers, indicting more epistles than Lord Chesterfield in a single week; and the greater part

of their feelings are too big for utterance in anything less than capital letters. They require the additional aid

of whole rows of notes of admiration, like balloons, to point their generous indignation; and they sometimes

Is it, or is it not, a * * * to saddle the parish with a debt of 2,745 pounds 6S. 9D., yet claim to be a RIGID

Is it, or is it not, a * * * to state as a fact what is proved to be BOTH A MORAL AND A PHYSICAL

Is it, or is it not, a * * * to call 2,745 pounds 6S. 9D. nothing; and nothing, something?

It was to this important public document that one of our first orators, MR. MAGG (of Little Winkling Street),

adverted, when he opened the great debate of the fourteenth of November by saying, 'Sir, I hold in my hand

an anonymous slander' and when the interruption, with which he was at that point assailed by the opposite

faction, gave rise to that memorable discussion on a point of order which will ever be remembered with

interest by constitutional assemblies. In the animated debate to which we refer, no fewer than thirtyseven

gentlemen, many of them of great eminence, including MR. WIGSBY (of Chumbledon Square), were seen

upon their legs at one time; and it was on the same great occasion that DOGGINSON regarded in our

Vestry as 'a regular John Bull:' we believe, in consequence of his having always made up his mind on every

subject without knowing anything about it informed another gentleman of similar principles on the opposite

side, that if he 'cheek'd him,' he would resort to the extreme measure of knocking his blessed head off.

This was a great occasion. But, our Vestry shines habitually. In asserting its own preeminence, for instance,

it is very strong. On the least provocation, or on none, it will be clamorous to know whether it is to be

'dictated to,' or 'trampled on,' or 'ridden over roughshod.' Its great watchword is Selfgovernment. That is to

say, supposing our Vestry to favour any little harmless disorder like Typhus Fever, and supposing the

Government of the country to be, by any accident, in such ridiculous hands, as that any of its authorities

should consider it a duty to object to Typhus Fever obviously an unconstitutional objection then, our

Vestry cuts in with a terrible manifesto about Selfgovernment, and claims its independent right to have as

much Typhus Fever as pleases itself. Some absurd and dangerous persons have represented, on the other

hand, that though our Vestry may be able to 'beat the bounds' of its own parish, it may not be able to beat the

bounds of its own diseases; which (say they) spread over the whole land, in an ever expanding circle of

waste, and misery, and death, and widowhood, and orphanage, and desolation. But, our Vestry makes short

It was our Vestry pink of Vestries as it is that in support of its favourite principle took the celebrated

ground of denying the existence of the last pestilence that raged in England, when the pestilence was raging

at the Vestry doors. Dogginson said it was plums; Mr. Wigsby (of Chumbledon Square) said it was oysters;

Mr. Magg (of Little Winkling Street) said, amid great cheering, it was the newspapers. The noble indignation

of our Vestry with that un English institution the Board of Health, under those circumstances, yields one of

the finest passages in its history. It wouldn't hear of rescue. Like Mr. Joseph Miller's Frenchman, it would be

drowned and nobody should save it. Transported beyond grammar by its kindled ire, it spoke in unknown

tongues, and vented unintelligible bellowings, more like an ancient oracle than the modern oracle it is

admitted on all hands to be. Rare exigencies produce rare things; and even our Vestry, new hatched to the

But this, again, was a special occasion. Our Vestry, at more ordinary periods, demands its meed of praise.

Our Vestry is eminently parliamentary. Playing at Parliament is its favourite game. It is even regarded by

some of its members as a chapel of ease to the House of Commons: a Little Go to be passed first. It has its

strangers' gallery, and its reported debates (see the Sunday paper before mentioned), and our Vestrymen are

in and out of order, and on and off their legs, and above all are transcendently quarrelsome, after the pattern

Our Vestry being assembled, Mr. Magg never begs to trouble Mr. Wigsby with a simple inquiry. He knows

better than that. Seeing the honourable gentleman, associated in their minds with Chumbledon Square, in his

place, he wishes to ask that honourable gentleman what the intentions of himself, and those with whom he

acts, may be, on the subject of the paving of the district known as Piggleum Buildings? Mr. Wigsby replies

(with his eye on next Sunday's paper) that in reference to the question which has been put to him by the

honourable gentleman opposite, he must take leave to say, that if that honourable gentleman had had the

courtesy to give him notice of that question, he (Mr. Wigsby) would have consulted with his colleagues in

reference to the advisability, in the present state of the discussions on the new pavingrate, of answering that

question. But, as the honourable gentleman has NOT had the courtesy to give him notice of that question

(great cheering from the Wigsby interest), he must decline to give the honourable gentleman the satisfaction

he requires. Mr. Magg, instantly rising to retort, is received with loud cries of 'Spoke!' from the Wigsby

interest, and with cheers from the Magg side of the house. Moreover, five gentlemen rise to order, and one of

them, in revenge for being taken no notice of, petrifies the assembly by moving that this Vestry do now

adjourn; but, is persuaded to withdraw that awful proposal, in consideration of its tremendous consequences

if persevered in. Mr. Magg, for the purpose of being heard, then begs to move, that you, sir, do now pass to

the order of the day; and takes that opportunity of saying, that if an honourable gentleman whom he has in his

eye, and will not demean himself by more particularly naming (oh, oh, and cheers), supposes that he is to be

put down by clamour, that honourable gentleman however supported he may be, through thick and thin, by

a Fellow Parishioner, with whom he is well acquainted (cheers and countercheers, Mr. Magg being

invariably backed by the RatePayer) will find himself mistaken. Upon this, twenty members of our Vestry

speak in succession concerning what the two great men have meant, until it appears, after an hour and twenty

We have said that, after the pattern of the real original, our Vestry in playing at Parliament is transcendently

quarrelsome. It enjoys a personal altercation above all things. Perhaps the most redoubtable case of this kind

we have ever had though we have had so many that it is difficult to decide was that on which the last

extreme solemnities passed between Mr. Tiddypot (of Gumption House) and Captain Banger (of Wilderness

In an adjourned debate on the question whether water could be regarded in the light of a necessary of life;

respecting which there were great differences of opinion, and many shades of sentiment; Mr. Tiddypot, in a

powerful burst of eloquence against that hypothesis, frequently made use of the expression that such and such

a rumour had 'reached his ears.' Captain Banger, following him, and holding that, for purposes of ablution

and refreshment, a pint of water per diem was necessary for every adult of the lower classes, and half a pint

for every child, cast ridicule upon his address in a sparkling speech, and concluded by saying that instead of

those rumours having reached the ears of the honourable gentleman, he rather thought the honourable

gentleman's ears must have reached the rumours, in consequence of their well known length. Mr. Tiddypot

immediately rose, looked the honourable and gallant gentleman full in the face, and left the Vestry.

The excitement, at this moment painfully intense, was heightened to an acute degree when Captain Banger

rose, and also left the Vestry. After a few moments of profound silence one of those breathless pauses

never to be forgotten Mr. Chib (of Tucket's Terrace, and the father of the Vestry) rose. He said that words

and looks had passed in that assembly, replete with consequences which every feeling mind must deplore.

Time pressed. The sword was drawn, and while he spoke the scabbard might be thrown away. He moved that

those honourable gentlemen who had left the Vestry be recalled, and required to pledge themselves upon their

honour that this affair should go no farther. The motion being by a general union of parties unanimously

agreed to (for everybody wanted to have the belligerents there, instead of out of sight: which was no fun at

all), Mr. Magg was deputed to recover Captain Banger, and Mr. Chib himself to go in search of Mr.

Tiddypot. The Captain was found in a conspicuous position, surveying the passing omnibuses from the top

step of the frontdoor immediately adjoining the beadle's box; Mr. Tiddypot made a desperate attempt at

resistance, but was overpowered by Mr. Chib (a remarkably hale old gentleman of eighty two), and brought

Mr. Tiddypot and the Captain being restored to their places, and glaring on each other, were called upon by

the chair to abandon all homicidal intentions, and give the Vestry an assurance that they did so. Mr. Tiddypot

remained profoundly silent. The Captain likewise remained profoundly silent, saying that he was observed by

those around him to fold his arms like Napoleon Buonaparte, and to snort in his breathing actions but too

The most intense emotion now prevailed. Several members clustered in remonstrance round the Captain, and

several round Mr. Tiddypot; but, both were obdurate. Mr. Chib then presented himself amid tremendous

cheering, and said, that not to shrink from the discharge of his painful duty, he must now move that both

honourable gentlemen be taken into custody by the beadle, and conveyed to the nearest policeoffice, there to

be held to bail. The union of parties still continuing, the motion was seconded by Mr. Wigsby on all usual

occasions Mr. Chib's opponent and rapturously carried with only one dissentient voice. This was

Dogginson's, who said from his place 'Let 'em fight it out with fistes;' but whose coarse remark was received

The beadle now advanced along the floor of the Vestry, and beckoned with his cocked hat to both members.

Every breath was suspended. To say that a pin might have been heard to fall, would be feebly to express the

allabsorbing interest and silence. Suddenly, enthusiastic cheering broke out from every side of the Vestry.

Captain Banger had risen being, in fact, pulled up by a friend on either side, and poked up by a friend

The Captain said, in a deep determined voice, that he had every respect for that Vestry and every respect for

that chair; that he also respected the honourable gentleman of Gumpton House; but, that he respected his

honour more. Hereupon the Captain sat down, leaving the whole Vestry much affected. Mr. Tiddypot

instantly rose, and was received with the same encouragement. He likewise said and the exquisite art of this

orator communicated to the observation an air of freshness and novelty that he too had every respect for

that Vestry; that he too had every respect for that chair. That he too respected the honourable and gallant

gentleman of Wilderness Walk; but, that he too respected his honour more. 'Hows'ever,' added the

distinguished Vestryman, 'if the honourable and gallant gentleman's honour is never more doubted and

damaged than it is by me, he's all right.' Captain Banger immediately started up again, and said that after

those observations, involving as they did ample concession to his honour without compromising the honour

of the honourable gentleman, he would be wanting in honour as well as in generosity, if he did not at once

repudiate all intention of wounding the honour of the honourable gentleman, or saying anything

dishonourable to his honourable feelings. These observations were repeatedly interrupted by bursts of cheers.

Mr. Tiddypot retorted that he well knew the spirit of honour by which the honourable and gallant gentleman

was so honourably animated, and that he accepted an honourable explanation, offered in a way that did him

honour; but, he trusted that the Vestry would consider that his (Mr. Tiddypot's) honour had imperatively

demanded of him that painful course which he had felt it due to his honour to adopt. The Captain and Mr.

Tiddypot then touched their hats to one another across the Vestry, a great many times, and it is thought that

these proceedings (reported to the extent of several columns in next Sunday's paper) will bring them in as

All this was strictly after the pattern of the real original, and so are the whole of our Vestry's proceedings. In

all their debates, they are laudably imitative of the windy and wordy slang of the real original, and of nothing

that is better in it. They have headstrong party animosities, without any reference to the merits of questions;

they tack a surprising amount of debate to a very little business; they set more store by forms than they do by

substances: all very like the real original! It has been doubted in our borough, whether our Vestry is of any

utility; but our own conclusion is, that it is of the use to the Borough that a diminishing mirror is to a painter,

as enabling it to perceive in a small focus of absurdity all the surface defects of the real original.

IT is unnecessary to say that we keep a bore. Everybody does. But, the bore whom we have the pleasure and

honour of enumerating among our particular friends, is such a generic bore, and has so many traits (as it

appears to us) in common with the great bore family, that we are tempted to make him the subject of the

Our bore is admitted on all hands to be a goodhearted man. He may put fifty people out of temper, but he

keeps his own. He preserves a sickly solid smile upon his face, when other faces are ruffled by the perfection

he has attained in his art, and has an equable voice which never travels out of one key or rises above one

pitch. His manner is a manner of tranquil interest. None of his opinions are startling. Among his

deepestrooted convictions, it may be mentioned that he considers the air of England damp, and holds that

our lively neighbours he always calls the French our lively neighbours have the advantage of us in that

particular. Nevertheless he is unable to forget that John Bull is John Bull all the world over, and that England

Our bore has travelled. He could not possibly be a complete bore without having travelled. He rarely speaks

of his travels without introducing, sometimes on his own plan of construction, morsels of the language of the

country which he always translates. You cannot name to him any little remote town in France, Italy,

Germany, or Switzerland but he knows it well; stayed there a fortnight under peculiar circumstances. And

talking of that little place, perhaps you know a statue over an old fountain, up a little court, which is the

second no, the third stay yes, the third turning on the right, after you come out of the Posthouse, going

up the hill towards the market? You DON'T know that statue? Nor that fountain? You surprise him! They are

not usually seen by travellers (most extraordinary, he has never yet met with a single traveller who knew

them, except one German, the most intelligent man he ever met in his life!) but he thought that YOU would

have been the man to find them out. And then he describes them, in a circumstantial lecture half an hour long,

generally delivered behind a door which is constantly being opened from the other side; and implores you, if

Our bore, in a similar manner, being in Italy, made a discovery of a dreadful picture, which has been the

terror of a large portion of the civilized world ever since. We have seen the liveliest men paralysed by it,

across a broad diningtable. He was lounging among the mountains, sir, basking in the mellow influences of

the climate, when he came to UNA PICCOLA CHIESA a little church or perhaps it would be more

correct to say UNA PICCOLISSIMA CAPPELLA the smallest chapel you can possibly imagine and

walked in. There was nobody inside but a CIECO a blind man saying his prayers, and a VECCHIO

PADRE old friarrattling a moneybox. But, above the head of that friar, and immediately to the right of

the altar as you enter to the right of the altar? No. To the left of the altar as you enter or say near the

centre there hung a painting (subject, Virgin and Child) so divine in its expression, so pure and yet so warm

and rich in its tone, so fresh in its touch, at once so glowing in its colour and so statuesque in its repose, that

our bore cried out in ecstasy, 'That's the finest picture in Italy!' And so it is, sir. There is no doubt of it. It is

astonishing that that picture is so little known. Even the painter is uncertain. He afterwards took Blumb, of

the Royal Academy (it is to be observed that our bore takes none but eminent people to see sights, and that

none but eminent people take our bore), and you never saw a man so affected in your life as Blumb was. He

cried like a child! And then our bore begins his description in detail for all this is introductory and

By an equally fortunate conjunction of accidental circumstances, it happened that when our bore was in

Switzerland, he discovered a Valley, of that superb character, that Chamouni is not to be mentioned in the

same breath with it. This is how it was, sir. He was travelling on a mule had been in the saddle some days

when, as he and the guide, Pierre Blanquo: whom you may know, perhaps? our bore is sorry you don't,

because he's the only guide deserving of the name as he and Pierre were descending, towards evening,

among those everlasting snows, to the little village of La Croix, our bore observed a mountain track turning

off sharply to the right. At first he was uncertain whether it WAS a track at all, and in fact, he said to Pierre,

'QU'EST QUE C'EST DONC, MON AMI? What is that, my friend? 'Ou, MONSIEUR!' said Pierre

'Where, sir?' ' La! there!' said our bore. 'MONSIEUR, CE N'EST RIEN DE TOUT sir, it's nothing at all,'

said Pierre. 'ALLONS! Make haste. IL VA NEIGET it's going to snow!' But, our bore was not to be done

in that way, and he firmly replied, 'I wish to go in that direction JE VEUX Y ALLER. I am bent upon it

JE SUIS DETERMINE. EN AVANT! go ahead!' In consequence of which firmness on our bore's part, they

proceeded, sir, during two hours of evening, and three of moonlight (they waited in a cavern till the moon

was up), along the slenderest track, overhanging perpendicularly the most awful gulfs, until they arrived, by a

winding descent, in a valley that possibly, and he may say probably, was never visited by any stranger before.

What a valley! Mountains piled on mountains, avalanches stemmed by pine forests; waterfalls, chalets,

mountaintorrents, wooden bridges, every conceivable picture of Swiss scenery! The whole village turned

out to receive our bore. The peasant girls kissed him, the men shook hands with him, one old lady of

benevolent appearance wept upon his breast. He was conducted, in a primitive triumph, to the little inn:

where he was taken ill next morning, and lay for six weeks, attended by the amiable hostess (the same

benevolent old lady who had wept over night) and her charming daughter, Fanchette. It is nothing to say that

they were attentive to him; they doted on him. They called him in their simple way, L'ANGE ANGLAIS

the English Angel. When our bore left the valley, there was not a dry eye in the place; some of the people

attended him for miles. He begs and entreats of you as a personal favour, that if you ever go to Switzerland

again (you have mentioned that your last visit was your twentythird), you will go to that valley, and see

Swiss scenery for the first time. And if you want really to know the pastoral people of Switzerland, and to

Our bore has a crushing brother in the East, who, somehow or other, was admitted to smoke pipes with

Mehemet Ali, and instantly became an authority on the whole range of Eastern matters, from Haroun

Alraschid to the present Sultan. He is in the habit of expressing mysterious opinions on this wide range of

subjects, but on questions of foreign policy more particularly, to our bore, in letters; and our bore is

continually sending bits of these letters to the newspapers (which they never insert), and carrying other bits

about in his pocketbook. It is even whispered that he has been seen at the Foreign Office, receiving great

consideration from the messengers, and having his card promptly borne into the sanctuary of the temple. The

havoc committed in society by this Eastern brother is beyond belief. Our bore is always ready with him. We

have known our bore to fall upon an intelligent young sojourner in the wilderness, in the first sentence of a

narrative, and beat all confidence out of him with one blow of his brother. He became omniscient, as to

foreign policy, in the smoking of those pipes with Mehemet Ali. The balance of power in Europe, the

machinations of the Jesuits, the gentle and humanising influence of Austria, the position and prospects of that

hero of the noble soul who is worshipped by happy France, are all easy reading to our bore's brother. And our

bore is so provokingly selfdenying about him! 'I don't pretend to more than a very general knowledge of

these subjects myself,' says he, after enervating the intellects of several strong men, 'but these are my

The commonest incidents and places would appear to have been made special, expressly for our bore. Ask

him whether he ever chanced to walk, between seven and eight in the morning, down St. James's Street,

London, and he will tell you, never in his life but once. But, it's curious that that once was in eighteen thirty;

and that as our bore was walking down the street you have just mentioned, at the hour you have just

mentioned halfpast seven or twenty minutes to eight. No! Let him be correct! exactly a quarter before

eight by the palace clock he met a freshcoloured, grey haired, goodhumoured looking gentleman, with

a brown umbrella, who, as he passed him, touched his hat and said, 'Fine morning, sir, fine morning!'

Ask our bore whether he has seen Mr. Barry's new Houses of Parliament, and he will reply that he has not yet

inspected them minutely, but, that you remind him that it was his singular fortune to be the last man to see the

old Houses of Parliament before the fire broke out. It happened in this way. Poor John Spine, the celebrated

novelist, had taken him over to South Lambeth to read to him the last few chapters of what was certainly his

best book as our bore told him at the time, adding, 'Now, my dear John, touch it, and you'll spoil it!' and

our bore was going back to the club by way of Millbank and Parliament Street, when he stopped to think of

Canning, and look at the Houses of Parliament. Now, you know far more of the philosophy of Mind than our

bore does, and are much better able to explain to him than he is to explain to you why or wherefore, at that

particular time, the thought of fire should come into his head. But, it did. It did. He thought, What a national

calamity if an edifice connected with so many associations should be consumed by fire! At that time there

was not a single soul in the street but himself. All was quiet, dark, and solitary. After contemplating the

building for a minute or, say a minute and a half, not more our bore proceeded on his way, mechanically

repeating, What a national calamity if such an edifice, connected with such associations, should be destroyed

by A man coming towards him in a violent state of agitation completed the sentence, with the exclamation,

In harmony and union with these experiences, our bore never went anywhere in a steamboat but he made

either the best or the worst voyage ever known on that station. Either he overheard the captain say to himself,

with his hands clasped, 'We are all lost!' or the captain openly declared to him that he had never made such a

run before, and never should be able to do it again. Our bore was in that express train on that railway, when

they made (unknown to the passengers) the experiment of going at the rate of a hundred to miles an hour. Our

bore remarked on that occasion to the other people in the carriage, 'This is too fast, but sit still!' He was at the

Norwich musical festival when the extraordinary echo for which science has been wholly unable to account,

was heard for the first and last time. He and the bishop heard it at the same moment, and caught each other's

eye. He was present at that illumination of St. Peter's, of which the Pope is known to have remarked, as he

looked at it out of his window in the Vatican, 'O CIELO! QUESTA COSA NON SARA FATTA, MAI

ANCORA, COME QUESTA O Heaven! this thing will never be done again, like this!' He has seen every

lion he ever saw, under some remarkably propitious circumstances. He knows there is no fancy in it, because

in every case the showman mentioned the fact at the time, and congratulated him upon it.

At one period of his life, our bore had an illness. It was an illness of a dangerous character for society at

large. Innocently remark that you are very well, or that somebody else is very well; and our bore, with a

preface that one never knows what a blessing health is until one has lost it, is reminded of that illness, and

drags you through the whole of its symptoms, progress, and treatment. Innocently remark that you are not

well, or that somebody else is not well, and the same inevitable result ensues. You will learn how our bore

felt a tightness about here, sir, for which he couldn't account, accompanied with a constant sensation as if he

were being stabbed or, rather, jobbed that expresses it more correctly jobbed with a blunt knife. Well,

sir! This went on, until sparks began to flit before his eyes, waterwheels to turn round in his head, and

hammers to beat incessantly, thump, thump, thump, all down his back along the whole of the spinal

vertebrae. Our bore, when his sensations had come to this, thought it a duty he owed to himself to take

advice, and he said, Now, whom shall I consult? He naturally thought of Callow, at that time one of the most

eminent physicians in London, and he went to Callow. Callow said, 'Liver!' and prescribed rhubarb and

calomel, low diet, and moderate exercise. Our bore went on with this treatment, getting worse every day,

until he lost confidence in Callow, and went to Moon, whom half the town was then mad about. Moon was

interested in the case; to do him justice he was very much interested in the case; and he said, 'Kidneys!' He

altered the whole treatment, sir gave strong acids, cupped, and blistered. This went on, our bore still getting

worse every day, until he openly told Moon it would be a satisfaction to him if he would have a consultation

with Clatter. The moment Clatter saw our bore, he said, 'Accumulation of fat about the heart!' Snugglewood,

who was called in with him, differed, and said, 'Brain!' But, what they all agreed upon was, to lay our bore

upon his back, to shave his head, to leech him, to administer enormous quantities of medicine, and to keep

him low; so that he was reduced to a mere shadow, you wouldn't have known him, and nobody considered it

possible that he could ever recover. This was his condition, sir, when he heard of Jilkins at that period in a

very small practice, and living in the upper part of a house in Great Portland Street; but still, you understand,

with a rising reputation among the few people to whom he was known. Being in that condition in which a

drowning man catches at a straw, our bore sent for Jilkins. Jilkins came. Our bore liked his eye, and said, 'Mr.

Jilkins, I have a presentiment that you will do me good.' Jilkins's reply was characteristic of the man. It was,

'Sir, I mean to do you good.' This confirmed our bore's opinion of his eye, and they went into the case

together went completely into it. Jilkins then got up, walked across the room, came back, and sat down. His

words were these. 'You have been humbugged. This is a case of indigestion, occasioned by deficiency of

power in the Stomach. Take a mutton chop in halfan hour, with a glass of the finest old sherry that can be

got for money. Take two mutton chops tomorrow, and two glasses of the finest old sherry. Next day, I'll

come again.' In a week our bore was on his legs, and Jilkins's success dates from that period!

Our bore is great in secret information. He happens to know many things that nobody else knows. He can

generally tell you where the split is in the Ministry; he knows a great deal about the Queen; and has little

anecdotes to relate of the royal nursery. He gives you the judge's private opinion of Sludge the murderer, and

his thoughts when he tried him. He happens to know what such a man got by such a transaction, and it was

fifteen thousand five hundred pounds, and his income is twelve thousand a year. Our bore is also great in

mystery. He believes, with an exasperating appearance of profound meaning, that you saw Parkins last

Sunday? Yes, you did. Did he say anything particular? No, nothing particular. Our bore is surprised

at that. Why? Nothing. Only he understood that Parkins had come to tell you something. What about?

Well! our bore is not at liberty to mention what about. But, he believes you will hear that from Parkins

himself, soon, and he hopes it may not surprise you as it did him. Perhaps, however, you never heard about

Our bore is also great in argument. He infinitely enjoys a long humdrum, drowsy interchange of words of

dispute about nothing. He considers that it strengthens the mind, consequently, he 'don't see that,' very often.

Or, he would be glad to know what you mean by that. Or, he doubts that. Or, he has always understood

exactly the reverse of that. Or, he can't admit that. Or, he begs to deny that. Or, surely you don't mean that.

And so on. He once advised us; offered us a piece of advice, after the fact, totally impracticable and wholly

impossible of acceptance, because it supposed the fact, then eternally disposed of, to be yet in abeyance. It

was a dozen years ago, and to this hour our bore benevolently wishes, in a mild voice, on certain regular

The instinct with which our bore finds out another bore, and closes with him, is amazing. We have seen him

pick his man out of fifty men, in a couple of minutes. They love to go (which they do naturally) into a slow

argument on a previously exhausted subject, and to contradict each other, and to wear the hearers out, without

impairing their own perennial freshness as bores. It improves the good understanding between them, and they

get together afterwards, and bore each other amicably. Whenever we see our bore behind a door with another

bore, we know that when he comes forth, he will praise the other bore as one of the most intelligent men he

ever met. And this bringing us to the close of what we had to say about our bore, we are anxious to have it

IT was profoundly observed by a witty member of the Court of Common Council, in Council assembled in

the City of London, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and fifty, that the French are a

We are credibly informed, in reference to the nation whom this choice spirit so happily disposed of, that the

caricatures and stage representations which were current in England some half a century ago, exactly depict

their present condition. For example, we understand that every Frenchman, without exception, wears a pigtail

and curlpapers. That he is extremely sallow, thin, long faced, and lanternjawed. That the calves of his

legs are invariably undeveloped; that his legs fail at the knees, and that his shoulders are always higher than

his ears. We are likewise assured that he rarely tastes any food but soup maigre, and an onion; that he always

says, 'By Gar! Aha! Vat you tell me, sare?' at the end of every sentence he utters; and that the true generic

name of his race is the Mounseers, or the Parlyvoos. If he be not a dancingmaster, or a barber, he must be a

cook; since no other trades but those three are congenial to the tastes of the people, or permitted by the

Institutions of the country. He is a slave, of course. The ladies of France (who are also slaves) invariably have

their heads tied up in Belcher handkerchiefs, wear long earrings, carry tambourines, and beguile the

weariness of their yoke by singing in head voices through their noses principally to barrel organs.

It may be generally summed up, of this inferior people, that they have no idea of anything.

Of a great Institution like Smithfield, they are unable to form the least conception. A Beast Market in the

heart of Paris would be regarded an impossible nuisance. Nor have they any notion of slaughterhouses in the

midst of a city. One of these benighted frogeaters would scarcely understand your meaning, if you told him

It is agreeable, and perhaps pardonable, to indulge in a little selfcomplacency when our right to it is

thoroughly established. At the present time, to be rendered memorable by a final attack on that good old

market which is the (rotten) apple of the Corporation's eye, let us compare ourselves, to our national delight

and pride as to these two subjects of slaughterhouse and beastmarket, with the outlandish foreigner.

The blessings of Smithfield are too well understood to need recapitulation; all who run (away from mad bulls

and pursuing oxen) may read. Any marketday they may be beheld in glorious action. Possibly the merits of

Slaughterhouses, in the large towns of England, are always (with the exception of one or two enterprising

towns) most numerous in the most densely crowded places, where there is the least circulation of air. They

are often underground, in cellars; they are sometimes in close back yards; sometimes (as in Spitalfields) in

the very shops where the meat is sold. Occasionally, under good private management, they are ventilated and

clean. For the most part, they are unventilated and dirty; and, to the reeking walls, putrid fat and other

offensive animal matter clings with a tenacious hold. The busiest slaughterhouses in London are in the

neighbourhood of Smithfield, in Newgate Market, in Whitechapel, in Newport Market, in Leadenhall Market,

in Clare Market. All these places are surrounded by houses of a poor description, swarming with inhabitants.

Some of them are close to the worst burial grounds in London. When the slaughterhouse is below the

ground, it is a common practice to throw the sheep down areas, neck and crop which is exciting, but not at

all cruel. When it is on the level surface, it is often extremely difficult of approach. Then, the beasts have to

be worried, and goaded, and pronged, and tail twisted, for a long time before they can be got in which is

entirely owing to their natural obstinacy. When it is not difficult of approach, but is in a foul condition, what

they see and scent makes them still more reluctant to enter which is their natural obstinacy again. When

they do get in at last, after no trouble and suffering to speak of (for, there is nothing in the previous journey

into the heart of London, the night's endurance in Smithfield, the struggle out again, among the crowded

multitude, the coaches, carts, waggons, omnibuses, gigs, chaises, phaetons, cabs, trucks, dogs, boys,

whoopings, roarings, and ten thousand other distractions), they are represented to be in a most unfit state to

be killed, according to microscopic examinations made of their fevered blood by one of the most

distinguished physiologists in the world, PROFESSOR OWEN but that's humbug. When they ARE killed,

at last, their reeking carcases are hung in impure air, to become, as the same Professor will explain to you,

less nutritious and more unwholesome but he is only an UNcommon counsellor, so don't mind HIM. In half

a quarter of a mile's length of Whitechapel, at one time, there shall be six hundred newly slaughtered oxen

hanging up, and seven hundred sheep but, the more the merrier proof of prosperity. Hard by Snow Hill

and Warwick Lane, you shall see the little children, inured to sights of brutality from their birth, trotting

along the alleys, mingled with troops of horribly busy pigs, up to their ankles in blood but it makes the

young rascals hardy. Into the imperfect sewers of this overgrown city, you shall have the immense mass of

corruption, engendered by these practices, lazily thrown out of sight, to rise, in poisonous gases, into your

house at night, when your sleeping children will most readily absorb them, and to find its languid way, at last,

into the river that you drink but, the French are a frogeating people who wear wooden shoes, and it's O the

It is quite a mistake a newfangled notion altogether to suppose that there is any natural antagonism

between putrefaction and health. They know better than that, in the Common Council. You may talk about

Nature, in her wisdom, always warning man through his sense of smell, when he draws near to something

dangerous; but, that won't go down in the City. Nature very often don't mean anything. Mrs. Quickly says

that prunes are ill for a green wound; but whosoever says that putrid animal substances are ill for a green

wound, or for robust vigour, or for anything or for anybody, is a humanitymonger and a humbug. Britons

never, never, never, therefore. And prosperity to cattledriving, cattle slaughtering, bonecrushing,

bloodboiling, trotterscraping, tripedressing, paunchcleaning, gutspinning, hidepreparing,

tallowmelting, and other salubrious proceedings, in the midst of hospitals, churchyards, workhouses,

schools, infirmaries, refuges, dwellings, provisionshops nurseries, sickbeds, every stage and baitingplace

These UNcommon counsellors, your Professor Owens and fellows, will contend that to tolerate these things

in a civilised city, is to reduce it to a worse condition than BRUCE found to prevail in ABYSSINIA. For

there (say they) the jackals and wild dogs came at night to devour the offal; whereas, here there are no such

natural scavengers, and quite as savage customs. Further, they will demonstrate that nothing in Nature is

intended to be wasted, and that besides the waste which such abuses occasion in the articles of health and life

main sources of the riches of any community they lead to a prodigious waste of changing matters, which

might, with proper preparation, and under scientific direction, be safely applied to the increase of the fertility

of the land. Thus (they argue) does Nature ever avenge infractions of her beneficent laws, and so surely as

Man is determined to warp any of her blessings into curses, shall they become curses, and shall he suffer

heavily. But, this is cant. Just as it is cant of the worst description to say to the London Corporation, 'How can

you exhibit to the people so plain a spectacle of dishonest equivocation, as to claim the right of holding a

market in the midst of the great city, for one of your vested privileges, when you know that when your last

market holding charter was granted to you by King Charles the First, Smithfield stood IN THE SUBURBS

OF LONDON, and is in that very charter so described in those five words?' which is certainly true, but has

Now to the comparison, in these particulars of civilisation, between the capital of England, and the capital of

that frogeating and woodenshoe wearing country, which the illustrious Common Councilman so

In Paris, there is no Cattle Market. Cows and calves are sold within the city, but, the Cattle Markets are at

Poissy, about thirteen miles off, on a line of railway; and at Sceaux, about five miles off. The Poissy market

is held every Thursday; the Sceaux market, every Monday. In Paris, there are no slaughterhouses, in our

acceptation of the term. There are five public Abattoirs within the walls, though in the suburbs and in

these all the slaughtering for the city must be performed. They are managed by a Syndicat or Guild of

Butchers, who confer with the Minister of the Interior on all matters affecting the trade, and who are

consulted when any new regulations are contemplated for its government. They are, likewise, under the

vigilant superintendence of the police. Every butcher must be licensed: which proves him at once to be a

slave, for we don't license butchers in England we only license apothecaries, attorneys, postmasters,

publicans, hawkers, retailers of tobacco, snuff, pepper, and vinegar and one or two other little trades, not

worth mentioning. Every arrangement in connexion with the slaughtering and sale of meat, is matter of strict

police regulation. (Slavery again, though we certainly have a general sort of Police Act here.)

But, in order that the reader may understand what a monument of folly these frogeaters have raised in their

abattoirs and cattle markets, and may compare it with what common counselling has done for us all these

years, and would still do but for the innovating spirit of the times, here follows a short account of a recent

It was as sharp a February morning as you would desire to feel at your fingers' ends when I turned out

tumbling over a chiffonier with his little basket and rake, who was picking up the bits of coloured paper that

had been swept out, overnight, from a BonBon shop to take the Butchers' Train to Poissy. A cold, dim

light just touched the high roofs of the Tuileries which have seen such changes, such distracted crowds, such

riot and bloodshed; and they looked as calm, and as old, all covered with white frost, as the very Pyramids.

There was not light enough, yet, to strike upon the towers of Notre Dame across the water; but I thought of

the dark pavement of the old Cathedral as just beginning to be streaked with grey; and of the lamps in the

'House of God,' the Hospital close to it, burning low and being quenched; and of the keeper of the Morgue

going about with a fading lantern, busy in the arrangement of his terrible waxwork for another sunny day.

The sun was up, and shining merrily when the butchers and I, announcing our departure with an engine shriek

to sleepy Paris, rattled away for the Cattle Market. Across the country, over the Seine, among a forest of

scrubby trees the hoar frost lying cold in shady places, and glittering in the light and here we are at

Poissy! Out leap the butchers, who have been chattering all the way like madmen, and off they straggle for

the Cattle Market (still chattering, of course, incessantly), in hats and caps of all shapes, in coats and blouses,

in calfskins, cowskins, horse skins, furs, shaggy mantles, hairy coats, sacking, baize, oilskin, anything

Many a French town have I seen, between this spot of ground and Strasburg or Marseilles, that might sit for

your picture, little Poissy! Barring the details of your old church, I know you well, albeit we make

acquaintance, now, for the first time. I know your narrow, straggling, winding streets, with a kennel in the

midst, and lamps slung across. I know your picturesque streetcorners, winding uphill Heaven knows why

or where! I know your tradesmen's inscriptions, in letters not quite fat enough; your barbers' brazen basins

dangling over little shops; your Cafes and Estaminets, with cloudy bottles of stale syrup in the windows, and

pictures of crossed billiard cues outside. I know this identical grey horse with his tail rolled up in a knot like

the 'back hair' of an untidy woman, who won't be shod, and who makes himself heraldic by clattering across

the street on his hindlegs, while twenty voices shriek and growl at him as a Brigand, an accursed Robber,

and an everlastinglydoomed Pig. I know your sparkling townfountain, too, my Poissy, and am glad to see

it near a cattlemarket, gushing so freshly, under the auspices of a gallant little sublimated Frenchman

wrought in metal, perched upon the top. Through all the land of France I know this unswept room at The

Glory, with its peculiar smell of beans and coffee, where the butchers crowd about the stove, drinking the

thinnest of wine from the smallest of tumblers; where the thickest of coffeecups mingle with the longest of

loaves, and the weakest of lump sugar; where Madame at the counter easily acknowledges the homage of all

entering and departing butchers; where the billiardtable is covered up in the midst like a great birdcake

A bell! The Calf Market! Polite departure of butchers. Hasty payment and departure on the part of amateur

Visitor. Madame reproaches Ma'amselle for too fine a susceptibility in reference to the devotion of a Butcher

in a bearskin. Monsieur, the landlord of The Glory, counts a double handful of sous, without an

There is little noise without, abundant space, and no confusion. The open area devoted to the market is

divided into three portions: the Calf Market, the Cattle Market, the Sheep Market. Calves at eight, cattle at

The Calf Market is a raised platform of stone, some three or four feet high, open on all sides, with a lofty

overspreading roof, supported on stone columns, which give it the appearance of a sort of vineyard from

Northern Italy. Here, on the raised pavement, lie innumerable calves, all bound hindlegs and forelegs

together, and all trembling violently perhaps with cold, perhaps with fear, perhaps with pain; for, this mode

of tying, which seems to be an absolute superstition with the peasantry, can hardly fail to cause great

suffering. Here, they lie, patiently in rows, among the straw, with their stolid faces and inexpressive eyes,

superintended by men and women, boys and girls; here they are inspected by our friends, the butchers,

bargained for, and bought. Plenty of time; plenty of room; plenty of good humour. 'Monsieur Francois in the

bearskin, how do you do, my friend? You come from Paris by the train? The fresh air does you good. If you

are in want of three or four fine calves this market morning, my angel, I, Madame Doche, shall be happy to

deal with you. Behold these calves, Monsieur Francois! Great Heaven, you are doubtful! Well, sir, walk

round and look about you. If you find better for the money, buy them. If not, come to me!' Monsieur Francois

goes his way leisurely, and keeps a wary eye upon the stock. No other butcher jostles Monsieur Francois;

Monsieur Francois jostles no other butcher. Nobody is flustered and aggravated. Nobody is savage. In the

midst of the country blue frocks and red handkerchiefs, and the butchers' coats, shaggy, furry, and hairy: of

calfskin, cowskin, horseskin, and bearskin: towers a cocked hat and a blue cloak. Slavery! For OUR

But now the bartering is over, and the calves are sold. 'Ho! Gregoire, Antoine, Jean, Louis! Bring up the

The carts, well littered with straw, are backed up to the edge of the raised pavement, and various hot infants

carry calves upon their heads, and dexterously pitch them in, while other hot infants, standing in the carts,

arrange the calves, and pack them carefully in straw. Here is a promising young calf, not sold, whom

Madame Doche unbinds. Pardon me, Madame Doche, but I fear this mode of tying the four legs of a

quadruped together, though strictly a la mode, is not quite right. You observe, Madame Doche, that the cord

leaves deep indentations in the skin, and that the animal is so cramped at first as not to know, or even

remotely suspect that HE is unbound, until you are so obliging as to kick him, in your delicate little way, and

pull his tail like a bell rope. Then, he staggers to his knees, not being able to stand, and stumbles about like a

drunken calf, or the horse at Franconi's, whom you may have seen, Madame Doche, who is supposed to have

been mortally wounded in battle. But, what is this rubbing against me, as I apostrophise Madame Doche? It is

another heated infant with a calf upon his head. 'Pardon, Monsieur, but will you have the politeness to allow

me to pass?' 'Ah, sir, willingly. I am vexed to obstruct the way.' On he staggers, calf and all, and makes no

Now, the carts are all full. More straw, my Antoine, to shake over these top rows; then, off we will clatter,

rumble, jolt, and rattle, a long row of us, out of the first towngate, and out at the second towngate, and past

the empty sentrybox, and the little thin square bandbox of a guardhouse, where nobody seems to live: and

away for Paris, by the paved road, lying, a straight, straight line, in the long, long avenue of trees. We can

neither choose our road, nor our pace, for that is all prescribed to us. The public convenience demands that

our carts should get to Paris by such a route, and no other (Napoleon had leisure to find that out, while he had

a little war with the world upon his hands), and woe betide us if we infringe orders.

Drovers of oxen stand in the Cattle Market, tied to iron bars fixed into posts of granite. Other droves advance

slowly down the long avenue, past the second towngate, and the first towngate, and the sentrybox, and

the bandbox, thawing the morning with their smoky breath as they come along. Plenty of room; plenty of

time. Neither man nor beast is driven out of his wits by coaches, carts, waggons, omnibuses, gigs, chaises,

phaetons, cabs, trucks, boys, whoopings, roarings, and multitudes. No tailtwisting is necessary no iron

pronging is necessary. There are no iron prongs here. The market for cattle is held as quietly as the market for

calves. In due time, off the cattle go to Paris; the drovers can no more choose their road, nor their time, nor

the numbers they shall drive, than they can choose their hour for dying in the course of nature.

Sheep next. The sheeppens are up here, past the Branch Bank of Paris established for the convenience of the

butchers, and behind the two pretty fountains they are making in the Market. My name is Bull: yet I think I

should like to see as good twin fountains not to say in Smithfield, but in England anywhere. Plenty of

room; plenty of time. And here are sheepdogs, sensible as ever, but with a certain French air about them

not without a suspicion of dominoes with a kind of flavour of moustache and beard demonstrative dogs,

shaggy and loose where an English dog would be tight and close not so troubled with business calculations

as our English drovers' dogs, who have always got their sheep upon their minds, and think about their work,

even resting, as you may see by their faces; but, dashing, showy, rather unreliable dogs: who might worry me

instead of their legitimate charges if they saw occasion and might see it somewhat suddenly.

The market for sheep passes off like the other two; and away they go, by THEIR allotted road to Paris. My

way being the Railway, I make the best of it at twenty miles an hour; whirling through the now highlighted

landscape; thinking that the inexperienced green buds will be wishing, before long, they had not been

tempted to come out so soon; and wondering who lives in this or that chateau, all window and lattice, and

After the Market comes the Abattoir. What abattoir shall I visit first? Montmartre is the largest. So I will go

The abattoirs are all within the walls of Paris, with an eye to the receipt of the octroi duty; but, they stand in

open places in the suburbs, removed from the press and bustle of the city. They are managed by the Syndicat

or Guild of Butchers, under the inspection of the Police. Certain smaller items of the revenue derived from

them are in part retained by the Guild for the payment of their expenses, and in part devoted by it to

charitable purposes in connexion with the trade. They cost six hundred and eighty thousand pounds; and they

return to the city of Paris an interest on that outlay, amounting to nearly six and ahalf per cent.

Here, in a sufficiently dismantled space is the Abattoir of Montmartre, covering nearly nine acres of ground,

surrounded by a high wall, and looking from the outside like a cavalry barrack. At the iron gates is a small

functionary in a large cocked hat. 'Monsieur desires to see the abattoir? Most certainly.' State being

inconvenient in private transactions, and Monsieur being already aware of the cocked hat, the functionary

puts it into a little official bureau which it almost fills, and accompanies me in the modest attire as to his

Many of the animals from Poissy have come here. On the arrival of each drove, it was turned into yonder

ample space, where each butcher who had bought, selected his own purchases. Some, we see now, in these

long perspectives of stalls with a high overhanging roof of wood and open tiles rising above the walls.

While they rest here, before being slaughtered, they are required to be fed and watered, and the stalls must be

kept clean. A stated amount of fodder must always be ready in the loft above; and the supervision is of the

strictest kind. The same regulations apply to sheep and calves; for which, portions of these perspectives are

strongly railed off. All the buildings are of the strongest and most solid description.

After traversing these lairs, through which, besides the upper provision for ventilation just mentioned, there

may be a thorough current of air from opposite windows in the side walls, and from doors at either end, we

traverse the broad, paved, courtyard until we come to the slaughterhouses. They are all exactly alike, and

adjoin each other, to the number of eight or nine together, in blocks of solid building. Let us walk into the

It is firmly built and paved with stone. It is well lighted, thoroughly aired, and lavishly provided with fresh

water. It has two doors opposite each other; the first, the door by which I entered from the main yard; the

second, which is opposite, opening on another smaller yard, where the sheep and calves are killed on

benches. The pavement of that yard, I see, slopes downward to a gutter, for its being more easily cleansed.

The slaughterhouse is fifteen feet high, sixteen feet and ahalf wide, and thirtythree feet long. It is fitted

with a powerful windlass, by which one man at the handle can bring the head of an ox down to the ground to

receive the blow from the poleaxe that is to fell him with the means of raising the carcass and keeping it

suspended during the afteroperation of dressing and with hooks on which carcasses can hang, when

completely prepared, without touching the walls. Upon the pavement of this first stone chamber, lies an ox

scarcely dead. If I except the blood draining from him, into a little stone well in a corner of the pavement, the

place is free from offence as the Place de la Concorde. It is infinitely purer and cleaner, I know, my friend the

functionary, than the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Ha, ha! Monsieur is pleasant, but, truly, there is reason, too,

I look into another of these slaughterhouses. 'Pray enter,' says a gentleman in bloody boots. 'This is a calf I

have killed this morning. Having a little time upon my hands, I have cut and punctured this lace pattern in the

coats of his stomach. It is pretty enough. I did it to divert myself.' 'It is beautiful, Monsieur, the slaughterer!'

I look into rows of slaughterhouses. In many, retail dealers, who have come here for the purpose, are

making bargains for meat. There is killing enough, certainly, to satiate an unused eye; and there are steaming

carcasses enough, to suggest the expediency of a fowl and salad for dinner; but, everywhere, there is an

orderly, clean, wellsystematised routine of work in progress horrible work at the best, if you please; but,

so much the greater reason why it should be made the best of. I don't know (I think I have observed, my name

is Bull) that a Parisian of the lowest order is particularly delicate, or that his nature is remarkable for an

infinitesimal infusion of ferocity; but, I do know, my potent, grave, and common counselling Signors, that he

is forced, when at this work, to submit himself to a thoroughly good system, and to make an Englishman very

Here, within the walls of the same abattoir, in other roomy and commodious buildings, are a place for

converting the fat into tallow and packing it for market a place for cleansing and scalding calves' heads and

sheep's feet a place for preparing tripe stables and coachhouses for the butchers innumerable

conveniences, aiding in the diminution of offensiveness to its lowest possible point, and the raising of

cleanliness and supervision to their highest. Hence, all the meat that goes out of the gate is sent away in clean

covered carts. And if every trade connected with the slaughtering of animals were obliged by law to be

carried on in the same place, I doubt, my friend, now reinstated in the cocked hat (whose civility these two

francs imperfectly acknowledge, but appear munificently to repay), whether there could be better regulations

than those which are carried out at the Abattoir of Montmartre. Adieu, my friend, for I am away to the other

side of Paris, to the Abattoir of Grenelle! And there I find exactly the same thing on a smaller scale, with the

addition of a magnificent Artesian well, and a different sort of conductor, in the person of a neat little woman

with neat little eyes, and a neat little voice, who picks her neat little way among the bullocks in a very neat

Such is the Monument of French Folly which a foreigneering people have erected, in a national hatred and

antipathy for common counselling wisdom. That wisdom, assembled in the City of London, having distinctly

refused, after a debate of three days long, and by a majority of nearly seven to one, to associate itself with any

Metropolitan Cattle Market unless it be held in the midst of the City, it follows that we shall lose the

inestimable advantages of common counselling protection, and be thrown, for a market, on our own wretched

resources. In all human probability we shall thus come, at last, to erect a monument of folly very like this

French monument. If that be done, the consequences are obvious. The leather trade will be ruined, by the

introduction of American timber, to be manufactured into shoes for the fallen English; the Lord Mayor will

be required, by the popular voice, to live entirely on frogs; and both these changes will (how, is not at present

quite clear, but certainly somehow or other) fall on that unhappy landed interest which is always being killed,