Somebody's Luggage..........................................................................................................................................1

The writer of these humble lines being a Waiter, and having come of a family of Waiters, and owning at the

present time five brothers who are all Waiters, and likewise an only sister who is a Waitress, would wish to

offer a few words respecting his calling; first having the pleasure of hereby in a friendly manner offering the

Dedication of the same unto JOSEPH, much respected Head Waiter at the Slamjam Coffeehouse, London,

E.C., than which a individual more eminently deserving of the name of man, or a more amenable honour to

his own head and heart, whether considered in the light of a Waiter or regarded as a human being, do not

In case confusion should arise in the public mind (which it is open to confusion on many subjects) respecting

what is meant or implied by the term Waiter, the present humble lines would wish to offer an explanation. It

may not be generally known that the person as goes out to wait is NOT a Waiter. It may not be generally

known that the hand as is called in extra, at the Freemasons' Tavern, or the London, or the Albion, or

otherwise, is NOT a Waiter. Such hands may be took on for Public Dinners by the bushel (and you may know

them by their breathing with difficulty when in attendance, and taking away the bottle ere yet it is half out);

but such are NOT Waiters. For you cannot lay down the tailoring, or the shoemaking, or the brokering, or the

greengrocering, or the pictorial periodicalling, or the secondhand wardrobe, or the small fancy

businesses,you cannot lay down those lines of life at your will and pleasure by the halfday or evening,

and take up Waitering. You may suppose you can, but you cannot; or you may go so far as to say you do, but

you do not. Nor yet can you lay down the gentleman's service when stimulated by prolonged incompatibility

on the part of Cooks (and here it may be remarked that Cooking and Incompatibility will be mostly found

united), and take up Waitering. It has been ascertained that what a gentleman will sit meek under, at home, he

will not bear out of doors, at the Slamjam or any similar establishment. Then, what is the inference to be

drawn respecting true Waitering? You must be bred to it. You must be born to it.

Would you know how born to it, Fair Reader,if of the adorable female sex? Then learn from the

biographical experience of one that is a Waiter in the sixtyfirst year of his age.

You were conveyed,ere yet your dawning powers were otherwise developed than to harbour vacancy in

your inside,you were conveyed, by surreptitious means, into a pantry adjoining the Admiral Nelson, Civic

and General DiningRooms, there to receive by stealth that healthful sustenance which is the pride and boast

of the British female constitution. Your mother was married to your father (himself a distant Waiter) in the

profoundest secrecy; for a Waitress known to be married would ruin the best of businesses,it is the same as

on the stage. Hence your being smuggled into the pantry, and thatto add to the inflictionby an unwilling

grandmother. Under the combined influence of the smells of roast and boiled, and soup, and gas, and malt

liquors, you partook of your earliest nourishment; your unwilling grandmother sitting prepared to catch you

when your mother was called and dropped you; your grandmother's shawl ever ready to stifle your natural

complainings; your innocent mind surrounded by uncongenial cruets, dirty plates, dishcovers, and cold

gravy; your mother calling down the pipe for veals and porks, instead of soothing you with nursery rhymes.

Under these untoward circumstances you were early weaned. Your unwilling grandmother, ever growing

more unwilling as your food assimilated less, then contracted habits of shaking you till your system curdled,

and your food would not assimilate at all. At length she was no longer spared, and could have been thankfully

spared much sooner. When your brothers began to appear in succession, your mother retired, left off her

smart dressing (she had previously been a smart dresser), and her dark ringlets (which had previously been

flowing), and haunted your father late of nights, lying in wait for him, through all weathers, up the shabby

court which led to the back door of the Royal Old DustBin (said to have been so named by George the

Fourth), where your father was Head. But the DustBin was going down then, and your father took but

little,excepting from a liquid point of view. Your mother's object in those visits was of a house keeping

character, and you was set on to whistle your father out. Sometimes he came out, but generally not. Come or

not come, however, all that part of his existence which was unconnected with open Waitering was kept a

close secret, and was acknowledged by your mother to be a close secret, and you and your mother flitted

about the court, close secrets both of you, and would scarcely have confessed under torture that you know

your father, or that your father had any name than Dick (which wasn't his name, though he was never known

by any other), or that he had kith or kin or chick or child. Perhaps the attraction of this mystery, combined

with your father's having a damp compartment, to himself, behind a leaky cistern, at the DustBin,a sort of

a cellar compartment, with a sink in it, and a smell, and a platerack, and a bottlerack, and three windows

that didn't match each other or anything else, and no daylight,caused your young mind to feel convinced

that you must grow up to be a Waiter too; but you did feel convinced of it, and so did all your brothers, down

to your sister. Every one of you felt convinced that you was born to the Waitering. At this stage of your

career, what was your feelings one day when your father came home to your mother in open broad

daylight,of itself an act of Madness on the part of a Waiter,and took to his bed (leastwise, your mother

and family's bed), with the statement that his eyes were devilled kidneys. Physicians being in vain, your

father expired, after repeating at intervals for a day and a night, when gleams of reason and old business

fitfully illuminated his being, "Two and two is five. And three is sixpence." Interred in the parochial

department of the neighbouring churchyard, and accompanied to the grave by as many Waiters of long

standing as could spare the morning time from their soiled glasses (namely, one), your bereaved form was

attired in a white neckankecher, and you was took on from motives of benevolence at The George and

Gridiron, theatrical and supper. Here, supporting nature on what you found in the plates (which was as it

happened, and but too often thoughtlessly, immersed in mustard), and on what you found in the glasses

(which rarely went beyond driblets and lemon), by night you dropped asleep standing, till you was cuffed

awake, and by day was set to polishing every individual article in the coffeeroom. Your couch being

sawdust; your counterpane being ashes of cigars. Here, frequently hiding a heavy heart under the smart tie of

your white neckankecher (or correctly speaking lower down and more to the left), you picked up the

rudiments of knowledge from an extra, by the name of Bishops, and by calling platewasher, and gradually

elevating your mind with chalk on the back of the cornerbox partition, until such time as you used the

inkstand when it was out of hand, attained to manhood, and to be the Waiter that you find yourself.

I could wish here to offer a few respectful words on behalf of the calling so long the calling of myself and

family, and the public interest in which is but too often very limited. We are not generally understood. No, we

are not. Allowance enough is not made for us. For, say that we ever show a little drooping listlessness of

spirits, or what might be termed indifference or apathy. Put it to yourself what would your own state of mind

be, if you was one of an enormous family every member of which except you was always greedy, and in a

hurry. Put it to yourself that you was regularly replete with animal food at the slack hours of one in the day

and again at nine p.m., and that the repleter you was, the more voracious all your fellowcreatures came in.

Put it to yourself that it was your business, when your digestion was well on, to take a personal interest and

sympathy in a hundred gentlemen fresh and fresh (say, for the sake of argument, only a hundred), whose

imaginations was given up to grease and fat and gravy and melted butter, and abandoned to questioning you

about cuts of this, and dishes of that,each of 'em going on as if him and you and the bill of fare was alone

in the world. Then look what you are expected to know. You are never out, but they seem to think you

regularly attend everywhere. "What's this, Christopher, that I hear about the smashed Excursion Train? How

are they doing at the Italian Opera, Christopher?" "Christopher, what are the real particulars of this business

at the Yorkshire Bank?" Similarly a ministry gives me more trouble than it gives the Queen. As to Lord

Palmerston, the constant and wearing connection into which I have been brought with his lordship during the

last few years is deserving of a pension. Then look at the Hypocrites we are made, and the lies (white, I hope)

that are forced upon us! Why must a sedentarypursuited Waiter be considered to be a judge of horseflesh,

and to have a most tremendous interest in horsetraining and racing? Yet it would be half our little incomes

out of our pockets if we didn't take on to have those sporting tastes. It is the same (inconceivable why!) with

Farming. Shooting, equally so. I am sure that so regular as the months of August, September, and October

come round, I am ashamed of myself in my own private bosom for the way in which I make believe to care

whether or not the grouse is strong on the wing (much their wings, or drumsticks either, signifies to me,

uncooked!), and whether the partridges is plentiful among the turnips, and whether the pheasants is shy or

bold, or anything else you please to mention. Yet you may see me, or any other Waiter of my standing,

holding on by the back of the box, and leaning over a gentleman with his purse out and his bill before him,

discussing these points in a confidential tone of voice, as if my happiness in life entirely depended on 'em.

I have mentioned our little incomes. Look at the most unreasonable point of all, and the point on which the

greatest injustice is done us! Whether it is owing to our always carrying so much change in our righthand

trouserspocket, and so many halfpence in our coat tails, or whether it is human nature (which I were loth to

believe), what is meant by the everlasting fable that Head Waiters is rich? How did that fable get into

circulation? Who first put it about, and what are the facts to establish the unblushing statement? Come forth,

thou slanderer, and refer the public to the Waiter's will in Doctors' Commons supporting thy malignant hiss!

Yet this is so commonly dwelt uponespecially by the screws who give Waiters the leastthat denial is

vain; and we are obliged, for our credit's sake, to carry our heads as if we were going into a business, when of

the two we are much more likely to go into a union. There was formerly a screw as frequented the Slamjam

ere yet the present writer had quitted that establishment on a question of teaing his assistant staff out of his

own pocket, which screw carried the taunt to its bitterest height. Never soaring above threepence, and as

often as not grovelling on the earth a penny lower, he yet represented the present writer as a large holder of

Consols, a lender of money on mortgage, a Capitalist. He has been overheard to dilate to other customers on

the allegation that the present writer put out thousands of pounds at interest in Distilleries and Breweries.

"Well, Christopher," he would say (having grovelled his lowest on the earth, half a moment before), "looking

out for a House to open, eh? Can't find a business to be disposed of on a scale as is up to your resources,

humph?" To such a dizzy precipice of falsehood has this misrepresentation taken wing, that the wellknown

and highlyrespected OLD CHARLES, long eminent at the West Country Hotel, and by some considered the

Father of the Waitering, found himself under the obligation to fall into it through so many years that his own

wife (for he had an unbeknown old lady in that capacity towards himself) believed it! And what was the

consequence? When he was borne to his grave on the shoulders of six picked Waiters, with six more for

change, six more acting as pallbearers, all keeping step in a pouring shower without a dry eye visible, and a

concourse only inferior to Royalty, his pantry and lodgings was equally ransacked high and low for property,

and none was found! How could it be found, when, beyond his last monthly collection of walkingsticks,

umbrellas, and pockethandkerchiefs (which happened to have been not yet disposed of, though he had ever

been through life punctual in clearing off his collections by the month), there was no property existing? Such,

however, is the force of this universal libel, that the widow of Old Charles, at the present hour an inmate of

the Almshouses of the CorkCutters' Company, in Blue Anchor Road (identified sitting at the door of one of

'em, in a clean cap and a Windsor armchair, only last Monday), expects John's hoarded wealth to be found

hourly! Nay, ere yet he had succumbed to the grisly dart, and when his portrait was painted in oils life size,

by subscription of the frequenters of the West Country, to hang over the coffeeroom chimneypiece, there

were not wanting those who contended that what is termed the accessories of such a portrait ought to be the

Bank of England out of window, and a strongbox on the table. And but for betterregulated minds

contending for a bottle and screw and the attitude of drawing,and carrying their point,it would have

I am now brought to the title of the present remarks. Having, I hope without offence to any quarter, offered

such observations as I felt it my duty to offer, in a free country which has ever dominated the seas, on the

At a momentous period of my life, when I was off, so far as concerned notice given, with a House that shall

be nameless,for the question on which I took my departing stand was a fixed charge for waiters, and no

House as commits itself to that eminently Un English act of more than foolishness and baseness shall be

advertised by me,I repeat, at a momentous crisis, when I was off with a House too mean for mention, and

not yet on with that to which I have ever since had the honour of being attached in the capacity of Head, {1} I

was casting about what to do next. Then it were that proposals were made to me on behalf of my present

establishment. Stipulations were necessary on my part, emendations were necessary on my part: in the end,

We are a bed business, and a coffeeroom business. We are not a general dining business, nor do we wish it.

In consequence, when diners drop in, we know what to give 'em as will keep 'em away another time. We are a

Private Room or Family business also; but Coffeeroom principal. Me and the Directory and the Writing

Materials and cetrer occupy a place to ourselvesa place fended of up a step or two at the end of the

Coffeeroom, in what I call the good oldfashioned style. The good oldfashioned style is, that whatever you

want, down to a wafer, you must be olely and solely dependent on the Head Waiter for. You must put

yourself a newborn Child into his hands. There is no other way in which a business untinged with

Continental Vice can be conducted. (It were bootless to add, that if languages is required to be jabbered and

English is not good enough, both families and gentlemen had better go somewhere else.)

When I began to settle down in this rightprincipled and well conducted House, I noticed, under the bed in

No. 24 B (which it is up a angle off the staircase, and usually put off upon the lowly minded), a heap of

Being, it may be right to mention, a female of some pertness, though acquainted with her business.

A Head Waiter must be either Head or Tail. He must be at one extremity or the other of the social scale. He

cannot be at the waist of it, or anywhere else but the extremities. It is for him to decide which of the

On the eventful occasion under consideration, I give Mrs. Pratchett so distinctly to understand my decision,

that I broke her spirit as towards myself, then and there, and for good. Let not inconsistency be suspected on

account of my mentioning Mrs. Pratchett as "Mrs.," and having formerly remarked that a waitress must not

be married. Readers are respectfully requested to notice that Mrs. Pratchett was not a waitress, but a

chambermaid. Now a chambermaid MAY be married; if Head, generally is married,or says so. It comes to

the same thing as expressing what is customary. (N.B. Mr. Pratchett is in Australia, and his address there is

Having took Mrs. Pratchett down as many pegs as was essential to the future happiness of all parties, I

"I give you my sacred honour, Mr. Christopher," answers Pratchett, "that I haven't the faintest notion."

But for the manner in which she settled her capstrings, I should have doubted this; but in respect of

"Nor yet," said Mrs. Pratchett, shutting her eyes and making as if she had just took a pill of unusual

circumference,which gave a remarkable force to her denial,"nor yet any servant in this house. All have

been changed, Mr. Christopher, within five year, and Somebody left his Luggage here before then."

Inquiry of Miss Martin yielded (in the language of the Bard of A.1.) "confirmation strong." So it had really

and truly happened. Miss Martin is the young lady at the bar as makes out our bills; and though higher than I

Farther investigations led to the disclosure that there was a bill against this Luggage to the amount of two

sixteen six. The Luggage had been lying under the bedstead of 24 B over six year. The bedstead is a

fourposter, with a deal of old hanging and valance, and is, as I once said, probably connected with more

I don't know why,when DO we know why?but this Luggage laid heavy on my mind. I fell a wondering

about Somebody, and what he had got and been up to. I couldn't satisfy my thoughts why he should leave so

much Luggage against so small a bill. For I had the Luggage out within a day or two and turned it over, and

the following were the items: A black portmanteau, a black bag, a desk, a dressingcase, a brownpaper

parcel, a hatbox, and an umbrella strapped to a walkingstick. It was all very dusty and fluey. I had our

porter up to get under the bed and fetch it out; and though he habitually wallows in dust,swims in it from

morning to night, and wears a closefitting waistcoat with black calimanco sleeves for the purpose,it made

him sneeze again, and his throat was that hot with it that it was obliged to be cooled with a drink of Allsopp's

The Luggage so got the better of me, that instead of having it put back when it was well dusted and washed

with a wet cloth,previous to which it was so covered with feathers that you might have thought it was

turning into poultry, and would byandby begin to Lay,I say, instead of having it put back, I had it

carried into one of my places downstairs. There from time to time I stared at it and stared at it, till it seemed

to grow big and grow little, and come forward at me and retreat again, and go through all manner of

performances resembling intoxication. When this had lasted weeks, I may say months, and not be far

out,I one day thought of asking Miss Martin for the particulars of the Two sixteen six total. She was so

obliging as to extract it from the books,it dating before her time,and here follows a true copy:

CoffeeRoom. 1856. No. 4. Pounds s. d. Feb. 2d, Pen and Paper 0 0 6 Port Negus 0 2 0 Ditto 0 2 0 Pen and

paper 0 0 6 Tumbler broken 0 2 6 Brandy 0 2 0 Pen and paper 0 0 6 Anchovy toast 0 2 6 Pen and paper 0 0 6

Bed 0 3 0 Feb. 3d, Pen and paper 0 0 6 Breakfast 0 2 6 Broiled ham 0 2 0 Eggs 0 1 0 Watercresses 0 1 0

Shrimps 0 1 0 Pen and paper 0 0 6 Blottingpaper 0 0 6 Messenger to Paternoster Row and back 0 1 6 Again,

when No Answer 0 1 6 Brandy 2s., Devilled Pork chop 2s. 0 4 0 Pens and paper 0 1 0 Messenger to

Albemarle Street and back 0 1 0 Again (detained), when No Answer 0 1 6 Saltcellar broken 0 3 6 Large

Liquourglass Orange Brandy 0 1 6 Dinner, Soup, Fish, Joint, and bird 0 7 6 Bottle old East India Brown 0 8

Mem.: January 1st, 1857. He went out after dinner, directing luggage to be ready when he called for it. Never

So far from throwing a light upon the subject, this bill appeared to me, if I may so express my doubts, to

involve it in a yet more lurid halo. Speculating it over with the Mistress, she informed me that the luggage

had been advertised in the Master's time as being to be sold after such and such a day to pay expenses, but no

farther steps had been taken. (I may here remark, that the Mistress is a widow in her fourth year. The Master

was possessed of one of those unfortunate constitutions in which Spirits turns to Water, and rises in the

My speculating it over, not then only, but repeatedly, sometimes with the Mistress, sometimes with one,

sometimes with another, led up to the Mistress's saying to me,whether at first in joke or in earnest, or half

(If this should meet her eye,a lovely blue,may she not take it ill my mentioning that if I had been eight

or ten year younger, I would have done as much by her! That is, I would have made her a offer. It is for

"Look here, Christopher. Run over the articles of Somebody's Luggage. You've got it all by heart, I know."

"A black portmanteau, ma'am, a black bag, a desk, a dressingcase, a brownpaper parcel, a hatbox, and an

The Mistress was leaning on Miss Martin's desk at the barwindow, and she taps the open book that lays

upon the desk,she has a prettymade hand to be sure,and bobs her head over it and laughs.

"Come," says she, "Christopher. Pay me Somebody's bill, and you shall have Somebody's Luggage."

"That's a Lottery," says the Mistress, folding her arms upon the book,it ain't her hands alone that's pretty

made, the observation extends right up her arms. "Won't you venture two pound sixteen shillings and

sixpence in the Lottery? Why, there's no blanks!" says the Mistress; laughing and bobbing her head again,

"you MUST win. If you lose, you must win! All prizes in this Lottery! Draw a blank, and remember,

GentlemenSportsmen, you'll still be entitled to a black portmanteau, a black bag, a desk, a dressingcase, a

To make short of it, Miss Martin come round me, and Mrs. Pratchett come round me, and the Mistress she

was completely round me already, and all the women in the house come round me, and if it had been Sixteen

two instead of Two sixteen, I should have thought myself well out of it. For what can you do when they do

So I paid the moneydownand such a laughing as there was among 'em! But I turned the tables on 'em

"My familyname is BlueBeard. I'm going to open Somebody's Luggage all alone in the Secret Chamber,

Whether I thought proper to have the firmness to keep to this, don't signify, or whether any female eye, and if

any, how many, was really present when the opening of the Luggage came off. Somebody's Luggage is the

What I still look at most, in connection with that Luggage, is the extraordinary quantity of writingpaper, and

all written on! And not our paper neither,not the paper charged in the bill, for we know our paper,so he

must have been always at it. And he had crumpled up this writing of his, everywhere, in every part and parcel

of his luggage. There was writing in his dressingcase, writing in his boots, writing among his

shavingtackle, writing in his hatbox, writing folded away down among the very whalebones of his

His clothes wasn't bad, what there was of 'em. His dressingcase was poor,not a particle of silver

stopper,bottle apertures with nothing in 'em, like empty little dogkennels,and a most searching

description of toothpowder diffusing itself around, as under a deluded mistake that all the chinks in the

fittings was divisions in teeth. His clothes I parted with, well enough, to a secondhand dealer not far from

St. Clement's Danes, in the Strand,him as the officers in the Army mostly dispose of their uniforms to,

when hard pressed with debts of honour, if I may judge from their coats and epaulets diversifying the window

with their backs towards the public. The same party bought in one lot the portmanteau, the bag, the desk, the

dressingcase, the hatbox, the umbrella, strap, and walkingstick. On my remarking that I should have

thought those articles not quite in his line, he said: "No more ith a man'th grandmother, Mithter Chrithtopher;

but if any man will bring hith grandmother here, and offer her at a fair trifle below what the'll feth with good

These transactions brought me home, and, indeed, more than home, for they left a goodish profit on the

original investment. And now there remained the writings; and the writings I particular wish to bring under

I wish to do so without postponement, for this reason. That is to say, namely, viz. i.e., as follows, thus:

Before I proceed to recount the mental sufferings of which I became the prey in consequence of the writings,

and before following up that harrowing tale with a statement of the wonderful and impressive catastrophe, as

thrilling in its nature as unlooked for in any other capacity, which crowned the ole and filled the cup of

unexpectedness to overflowing, the writings themselves ought to stand forth to view. Therefore it is that they

now come next. One word to introduce them, and I lay down my pen (I hope, my unassuming pen) until I

He was a smeary writer, and wrote a dreadful bad hand. Utterly regardless of ink, he lavished it on every

undeserving objecton his clothes, his desk, his hat, the handle of his toothbrush, his umbrella. Ink was

found freely on the coffeeroom carpet by No. 4 table, and two blots was on his restless couch. A reference

to the document I have given entire will show that on the morning of the third of February, eighteen fiftysix,

he procured his no less than fifth pen and paper. To whatever deplorable act of ungovernable composition he

immolated those materials obtained from the bar, there is no doubt that the fatal deed was committed in bed,

and that it left its evidences but too plainly, long afterwards, upon the pillowcase.

He had put no Heading to any of his writings. Alas! Was he likely to have a Heading without a Head, and

where was HIS Head when he took such things into it? In some cases, such as his Boots, he would appear to

have hid the writings; thereby involving his style in greater obscurity. But his Boots was at least pairs,and

no two of his writings can put in any claim to be so regarded. Here follows (not to give more specimens)

"Eh! well then, Monsieur Mutuel! What do I know, what can I say? I assure you that he calls himself

"Pardon. But I think it is impossible," said Monsieur Mutuel,a spectacled, snuffy, stooping old gentleman

in carpet shoes and a cloth cap with a peaked shade, a loose blue frockcoat reaching to his heels, a large

limp white shirtfrill, and cravat to correspond,that is to say, white was the natural colour of his linen on

"It is," repeated Monsieur Mutuel, his amiable old walnutshell countenance very walnutshelly indeed as he

smiled and blinked in the bright morning sunlight,"it is, my cherished Madame Bouclet, I think,

"Hey!" (with a little vexed cry and a great many tosses of her head.) "But it is not impossible that you are a

Pig!" retorted Madame Bouclet, a compact little woman of thirtyfive or so. "See then,look there,read!

"Good. Continue your morning walk. Get out!" Madame Bouclet dismissed him with a lively snap of her

The morning walk of Monsieur Mutuel was in the brightest patch that the sun made in the Grande Place of a

dull old fortified French town. The manner of his morning walk was with his hands crossed behind him; an

umbrella, in figure the express image of himself, always in one hand; a snuffbox in the other. Thus, with the

shuffling gait of the Elephant (who really does deal with the very worst trousersmaker employed by the

Zoological world, and who appeared to have recommended him to Monsieur Mutuel), the old gentleman

sunned himself daily when sun was to be hadof course, at the same time sunning a red ribbon at his

Being told by one of the angelic sex to continue his morning walk and get out, Monsieur Mutuel laughed a

walnutshell laugh, pulled off his cap at arm's length with the hand that contained his snuffbox, kept it off for

a considerable period after he had parted from Madame Bouclet, and continued his morning walk and got out,

The documentary evidence to which Madame Bouclet had referred Monsieur Mutuel was the list of her

lodgers, sweetly written forth by her own Nephew and Bookkeeper, who held the pen of an Angel, and posted

up at the side of her gateway, for the information of the Police: "Au second, M. L'Anglais, Proprietaire." On

the second floor, Mr. The Englishman, man of property. So it stood; nothing could be plainer.

Madame Bouclet now traced the line with her forefinger, as it were to confirm and settle herself in her parting

snap at Monsieur Mutuel, and so placing her right hand on her hip with a defiant air, as if nothing should ever

tempt her to unsnap that snap, strolled out into the Place to glance up at the windows of Mr. The Englishman.

That worthy happening to be looking out of window at the moment, Madame Bouclet gave him a graceful

salutation with her head, looked to the right and looked to the left to account to him for her being there,

considered for a moment, like one who accounted to herself for somebody she had expected not being there,

and reentered her own gateway. Madame Bouclet let all her house giving on the Place in furnished flats or

floors, and lived up the yard behind in company with Monsieur Bouclet her husband (great at billiards), an

inherited brewing business, several fowls, two carts, a nephew, a little dog in a big kennel, a grapevine, a

counting house, four horses, a married sister (with a share in the brewing business), the husband and two

children of the married sister, a parrot, a drum (performed on by the little boy of the married sister), two

billeted soldiers, a quantity of pigeons, a fife (played by the nephew in a ravishing manner), several

domestics and supernumeraries, a perpetual flavour of coffee and soup, a terrific range of artificial rocks and

wooden precipices at least four feet high, a small fountain, and halfadozen large sunflowers.

Now the Englishman, in taking his Appartement,or, as one might say on our side of the Channel, his set of

chambers,had given his name, correct to the letter, LANGLEY. But as he had a British way of not opening

his mouth very wide on foreign soil, except at meals, the Brewery had been able to make nothing of it but

"Never saw such a people!" muttered Mr. The Englishman, as he now looked out of window. "Never did, in

This was true enough, for he had never before been out of his own country,a right little island, a tight little

island, a bright little island, a showfight little island, and full of merit of all sorts; but not the whole round

"These chaps," said Mr. The Englishman to himself, as his eye rolled over the Place, sprinkled with military

here and there, "are no more like soldiers" Nothing being sufficiently strong for the end of his sentence, he

This again (from the point of view of his experience) was strictly correct; for though there was a great

agglomeration of soldiers in the town and neighbouring country, you might have held a grand Review and

Fieldday of them every one, and looked in vain among them all for a soldier choking behind his foolish

stock, or a soldier lamed by his illfitting shoes, or a soldier deprived of the use of his limbs by straps and

buttons, or a soldier elaborately forced to be selfhelpless in all the small affairs of life. A swarm of brisk,

bright, active, bustling, handy, odd, skirmishing fellows, able to turn cleverly at anything, from a siege to

soup, from great guns to needles and thread, from the broadsword exercise to slicing an onion, from making

What a swarm! From the Great Place under the eye of Mr. The Englishman, where a few awkward squads

from the last conscription were doing the goosestepsome members of those squads still as to their bodies,

in the chrysalis peasantstate of Blouse, and only military butterflies as to their regimentallyclothed

legsfrom the Great Place, away outside the fortifications, and away for miles along the dusty roads,

soldiers swarmed. All day long, upon the grassgrown ramparts of the town, practising soldiers trumpeted

and bugled; all day long, down in angles of dry trenches, practising soldiers drummed and drummed. Every

forenoon, soldiers burst out of the great barracks into the sandy gymnasiumground hard by, and flew over

the wooden horse, and hung on to flying ropes, and dangled upsidedown between parallel bars, and shot

themselves off wooden platforms,splashes, sparks, coruscations, showers of soldiers. At every corner of

the townwall, every guardhouse, every gateway, every sentrybox, every drawbridge, every reedy ditch,

and rushy dike, soldiers, soldiers, soldiers. And the town being pretty well all wall, guardhouse, gateway,

sentrybox, drawbridge, reedy ditch, and rushy dike, the town was pretty well all soldiers.

What would the sleepy old town have been without the soldiers, seeing that even with them it had so

overslept itself as to have slept its echoes hoarse, its defensive bars and locks and bolts and chains all rusty,

and its ditches stagnant! From the days when VAUBAN engineered it to that perplexing extent that to look at

it was like being knocked on the head with it, the stranger becoming stunned and stertorous under the shock

of its incomprehensibility, from the days when VAUBAN made it the express incorporation of every

substantive and adjective in the art of military engineering, and not only twisted you into it and twisted you

out of it, to the right, to the left, opposite, under here, over there, in the dark, in the dirt, by the gateway,

archway, covered way, dry way, wet way, fosse, portcullis, drawbridge, sluice, squat tower, pierced wall, and

heavy battery, but likewise took a fortifying dive under the neighbouring country, and came to the surface

three or four miles off, blowing out incomprehensible mounds and batteries among the quiet crops of chicory

and beetroot,from those days to these the town had been asleep, and dust and rust and must had settled on

its drowsy Arsenals and Magazines, and grass had grown up in its silent streets.

On marketdays alone, its Great Place suddenly leaped out of bed. On marketdays, some friendly enchanter

struck his staff upon the stones of the Great Place, and instantly arose the liveliest booths and stalls, and

sittings and standings, and a pleasant hum of chaffering and huckstering from many hundreds of tongues, and

a pleasant, though peculiar, blending of colours,white caps, blue blouses, and green vegetables,and at

last the Knight destined for the adventure seemed to have come in earnest, and all the Vaubanois sprang up

awake. And now, by long, lowlying avenues of trees, jolting in whitehooded donkeycart, and on

donkeyback, and in tumbril and wagon, and cart and cabriolet, and afoot with barrow and burden,and

along the dikes and ditches and canals, in little peak prowed country boats,came peasantmen and

women in flocks and crowds, bringing articles for sale. And here you had boots and shoes, and sweetmeats

and stuffs to wear, and here (in the cool shade of the Townhall) you had milk and cream and butter and

cheese, and here you had fruits and onions and carrots, and all things needful for your soup, and here you had

poultry and flowers and protesting pigs, and here new shovels, axes, spades, and bill hooks for your farming

work, and here huge mounds of bread, and here your unground grain in sacks, and here your children's dolls,

and here the cakeseller, announcing his wares by beat and roll of drum. And hark! fanfaronade of trumpets,

and here into the Great Place, resplendent in an open carriage, with four gorgeouslyattired servitors up

behind, playing horns, drums, and cymbals, rolled "the Daughter of a Physician" in massive golden chains

and earrings, and bluefeathered hat, shaded from the admiring sun by two immense umbrellas of artificial

roses, to dispense (from motives of philanthropy) that small and pleasant dose which had cured so many

thousands! Toothache, earache, headache, heartache, stomachache, debility, nervousness, fits, fainting,

fever, ague, all equally cured by the small and pleasant dose of the great Physician's great daughter! The

process was this,she, the Daughter of a Physician, proprietress of the superb equipage you now admired

with its confirmatory blasts of trumpet, drum, and cymbal, told you so: On the first day after taking the small

and pleasant dose, you would feel no particular influence beyond a most harmonious sensation of

indescribable and irresistible joy; on the second day you would be so astonishingly better that you would

think yourself changed into somebody else; on the third day you would be entirely free from disorder,

whatever its nature and however long you had had it, and would seek out the Physician's Daughter to throw

yourself at her feet, kiss the hem of her garment, and buy as many more of the small and pleasant doses as by

the sale of all your few effects you could obtain; but she would be inaccessible,gone for herbs to the

Pyramids of Egypt,and you would be (though cured) reduced to despair! Thus would the Physician's

Daughter drive her trade (and briskly too), and thus would the buying and selling and mingling of tongues

and colours continue, until the changing sunlight, leaving the Physician's Daughter in the shadow of high

roofs, admonished her to jolt out westward, with a departing effect of gleam and glitter on the splendid

equipage and brazen blast. And now the enchanter struck his staff upon the stones of the Great Place once

more, and down went the booths, the sittings and standings, and vanished the merchandise, and with it the

barrows, donkeys, donkeycarts, and tumbrils, and all other things on wheels and feet, except the slow

scavengers with unwieldy carts and meagre horses clearing up the rubbish, assisted by the sleek town

pigeons, better plumped out than on nonmarket days. While there was yet an hour or two to wane before the

autumn sunset, the loiterer outside towngate and drawbridge, and postern and doubleditch, would see the

last white hooded cart lessening in the avenue of lengthening shadows of trees, or the last country boat,

paddled by the last marketwoman on her way home, showing black upon the reddening, long, low, narrow

dike between him and the mill; and as the paddleparted scum and weed closed over the boat's track, he

might be comfortably sure that its sluggish rest would be troubled no more until next marketday.

As it was not one of the Great Place's days for getting out of bed, when Mr. The Englishman looked down at

the young soldiers practising the goosestep there, his mind was left at liberty to take a military turn.

"These fellows are billeted everywhere about," said he; "and to see them lighting the people's fires, boiling

the people's pots, minding the people's babies, rocking the people's cradles, washing the people's greens, and

making themselves generally useful, in every sort of unmilitary way, is most ridiculous! Never saw such a set

All perfectly true again. Was there not Private Valentine in that very house, acting as sole housemaid, valet,

cook, steward, and nurse, in the family of his captain, Monsieur le Capitaine de la Cour,cleaning the

floors, making the beds, doing the marketing, dressing the captain, dressing the dinners, dressing the salads,

and dressing the baby, all with equal readiness? Or, to put him aside, he being in loyal attendance on his

Chief, was there not Private Hyppolite, billeted at the Perfumer's two hundred yards off, who, when not on

duty, volunteered to keep shop while the fair Perfumeress stepped out to speak to a neighbour or so, and

laughingly sold soap with his warsword girded on him? Was there not Emile, billeted at the Clockmaker's,

perpetually turning to of an evening, with his coat off, winding up the stock? Was there not Eugene, billeted

at the Tinman's, cultivating, pipe in mouth, a garden four feet square, for the Tinman, in the little court,

behind the shop, and extorting the fruits of the earth from the same, on his knees, with the sweat of his brow?

Not to multiply examples, was there not Baptiste, billeted on the poor Watercarrier, at that very instant

sitting on the pavement in the sunlight, with his martial legs asunder, and one of the Watercarrier's spare

pails between them, which (to the delight and glory of the heart of the Watercarrier coming across the Place

from the fountain, yoked and burdened) he was painting brightgreen outside and brightred within? Or, to

go no farther than the Barber's at the very next door, was there not Corporal Theophile

"No," said Mr. The Englishman, glancing down at the Barber's, "he is not there at present. There's the child,

A mere mite of a girl stood on the steps of the Barber's shop, looking across the Place. A mere baby, one

might call her, dressed in the close white linen cap which small French country children wear (like the

children in Dutch pictures), and in a frock of homespun blue, that had no shape except where it was tied

round her little fat throat. So that, being naturally short and round all over, she looked, behind, as if she had

To judge from the way in which the dimpled hand was rubbing the eyes, the eyes had been closed in a nap,

and were newly opened. But they seemed to be looking so intently across the Place, that the Englishman

The Corporal, a smart figure of a man of thirty, perhaps a thought under the middle size, but very neatly

made,a sunburnt Corporal with a brown peaked beard,faced about at the moment, addressing voluble

words of instruction to the squad in hand. Nothing was amiss or awry about the Corporal. A lithe and nimble

Corporal, quite complete, from the sparkling dark eyes under his knowing uniform cap to his sparkling white

gaiters. The very image and presentment of a Corporal of his country's army, in the line of his shoulders, the

line of his waist, the broadest line of his Bloomer trousers, and their narrowest line at the calf of his leg.

Mr. The Englishman looked on, and the child looked on, and the Corporal looked on (but the lastnamed at

his men), until the drill ended a few minutes afterwards, and the military sprinkling dried up directly, and was

gone. Then said Mr. The Englishman to himself, "Look here! By George!" And the Corporal, dancing

towards the Barber's with his arms wide open, caught up the child, held her over his head in a flying attitude,

caught her down again, kissed her, and made off with her into the Barber's house.

Now Mr. The Englishman had had a quarrel with his erring and disobedient and disowned daughter, and there

was a child in that case too. Had not his daughter been a child, and had she not taken angelflights above his

But the windows of the house of Memory, and the windows of the house of Mercy, are not so easily closed as

windows of glass and wood. They fly open unexpectedly; they rattle in the night; they must be nailed up. Mr.

The Englishman had tried nailing them, but had not driven the nails quite home. So he passed but a disturbed

By nature a goodtempered man? No; very little gentleness, confounding the quality with weakness. Fierce

and wrathful when crossed? Very, and stupendously unreasonable. Moody? Exceedingly so. Vindictive?

Well; he had had scowling thoughts that he would formally curse his daughter, as he had seen it done on the

stage. But remembering that the real Heaven is some paces removed from the mock one in the great

And he had come abroad to be rid of his repudiated daughter for the rest of his life. And here he was.

At bottom, it was for this reason, more than for any other, that Mr. The Englishman took it extremely ill that

Corporal Theophile should be so devoted to little Bebelle, the child at the Barber's shop. In an unlucky

moment he had chanced to say to himself, "Why, confound the fellow, he is not her father!" There was a

sharp sting in the speech which ran into him suddenly, and put him in a worse mood. So he had National

Participled the unconscious Corporal with most hearty emphasis, and had made up his mind to think no more

But it came to pass that the Corporal was not to be dismissed. If he had known the most delicate fibres of the

Englishman's mind, instead of knowing nothing on earth about him, and if he had been the most obstinate

Corporal in the Grand Army of France, instead of being the most obliging, he could not have planted himself

with more determined immovability plump in the midst of all the Englishman's thoughts. Not only so, but he

seemed to be always in his view. Mr. The Englishman had but to look out of window, to look upon the

Corporal with little Bebelle. He had but to go for a walk, and there was the Corporal walking with Bebelle.

He had but to come home again, disgusted, and the Corporal and Bebelle were at home before him. If he

looked out at his back windows early in the morning, the Corporal was in the Barber's back yard, washing

and dressing and brushing Bebelle. If he took refuge at his front windows, the Corporal brought his breakfast

out into the Place, and shared it there with Bebelle. Always Corporal and always Bebelle. Never Corporal

Mr. The Englishman was not particularly strong in the French language as a means of oral communication,

though he read it very well. It is with languages as with people,when you only know them by sight, you

are apt to mistake them; you must be on speaking terms before you can be said to have established an

For this reason, Mr. The Englishman had to gird up his loins considerably before he could bring himself to

the point of exchanging ideas with Madame Bouclet on the subject of this Corporal and this Bebelle. But

Madame Bouclet looking in apologetically one morning to remark, that, O Heaven! she was in a state of

desolation because the lampmaker had not sent home that lamp confided to him to repair, but that truly he

was a lampmaker against whom the whole world shrieked out, Mr. The Englishman seized the occasion.

"But, pardon!" said Madame Bonclet, angling for a clew, "one cannot light a little girl, or send her to be

"Ahhh!" cried Madame Bouclet, suddenly catching the idea with her delicate little line and rod. "Little

Bebelle? Yes, yes, yes! And her friend the Corporal? Yes, yes, yes, yes! So genteel of him, is it not?"

"Perfectly!" cried Madame Bouclet, "you are right, monsieur. It is so genteel of him. The less relation, the

"The child of the barber?" Madame Bouclet whisked up her skilful little line and rod again. "Not at all, not at

"Indubitably. As you say. The wife of the barber receives a small stipend to take care of her. So much by the

"As to my lodgers," replied Madame Bouclet, with a smiling and a gracious bend of her head, "no. As to all

Certain fishy gasps on Mr. The Englishman's part, denoting that he was about to resume his subject under

difficulties, Madame Bouclet observed him closely, and whisked up her delicate line and rod again with

"O no, monsieur, certainly not. The wife of the barber is not cruel to the poor child, but she is careless. Her

health is delicate, and she sits all day, looking out at window. Consequently, when the Corporal first came,

"Name? That Bebelle? Again you are right, monsieur. But it is a playful name for Gabrielle."

"And so the child is a mere fancy of the Corporal's?" said Mr. The Englishman, in a gruffly disparaging tone

"Eh, well!" returned Madame Bouclet, with a pleading shrug: "one must love something. Human nature is

"And the Corporal," pursued Madame Bouclet, "being billeted at the barber's,where he will probably

remain a long time, for he is attached to the General,and finding the poor unowned child in need of being

loved, and finding himself in need of loving,why, there you have it all, you see!"

Mr. The Englishman accepted this interpretation of the matter with an indifferent grace, and observed to

himself, in an injured manner, when he was again alone: "I shouldn't mind it so much, if these people were

There was a Cemetery outside the town, and it happened ill for the reputation of the Vaubanois, in this

sentimental connection, that he took a walk there that same afternoon. To be sure there were some wonderful

things in it (from the Englishman's point of view), and of a certainty in all Britain you would have found

nothing like it. Not to mention the fanciful flourishes of hearts and crosses in wood and iron, that were

planted all over the place, making it look very like a Fireworkground, where a most splendid pyrotechnic

display might be expected after dark, there were so many wreaths upon the graves, embroidered, as it might

be, "To my mother," "To my daughter," "To my father," "To my brother," "To my sister," "To my friend,"

and those many wreaths were in so many stages of elaboration and decay, from the wreath of yesterday, all

fresh colour and bright beads, to the wreath of last year, a poor mouldering wisp of straw! There were so

many little gardens and grottos made upon graves, in so many tastes, with plants and shells and plaster

figures and porcelain pitchers, and so many odds and ends! There were so many tributes of remembrance

hanging up, not to be discriminated by the closest inspection from little round waiters, whereon were depicted

in glowing lines either a lady or a gentleman with a white pockethandkerchief out of all proportion, leaning,

in a state of the most faultless mourning and most profound affliction, on the most architectural and gorgeous

urn! There were so many surviving wives who had put their names on the tombs of their deceased husbands,

with a blank for the date of their own departure from this weary world; and there were so many surviving

husbands who had rendered the same homage to their deceased wives; and out of the number there must have

been so many who had long ago married again! In fine, there was so much in the place that would have

seemed more frippery to a stranger, save for the consideration that the lightest paper flower that lay upon the

poorest heap of earth was never touched by a rude hand, but perished there, a sacred thing!

"Nothing of the solemnity of Death here," Mr. The Englishman had been going to say, when this last

consideration touched him with a mild appeal, and on the whole he walked out without saying it. "But these

people are," he insisted, by way of compensation, when he was well outside the gate, "they are

His way back lay by the military gymnasiumground. And there he passed the Corporal glibly instructing

young soldiers how to swing themselves over rapid and deep watercourses on their way to Glory, by means

of a rope, and himself deftly plunging off a platform, and flying a hundred feet or two, as an encouragement

to them to begin. And there he also passed, perched on a crowning eminence (probably the Corporal's careful

hands), the small Bebelle, with her round eyes wide open, surveying the proceeding like a wondering sort of

"If that child was to die," this was his reflection as he turned his back and went his way,"and it would

almost serve the fellow right for making such a fool of himself,I suppose we should have him sticking up a

Nevertheless, after another early morning or two of looking out of window, he strolled down into the Place,

when the Corporal and Bebelle were walking there, and touching his hat to the Corporal (an immense

"This is a rather pretty child you have here," said Mr. The Englishman, taking her chin in his hand, and

"Monsieur, she is a very pretty child," returned the Corporal, with a stress on his polite correction of the

"Hah!" The Englishman stooped down and patted her cheek, not without awkwardness, as if he were going

too far in his conciliation. "And what is this medal round your neck, my little one?"

Bebelle having no other reply on her lips than her chubby right fist, the Corporal offered his services as

Bebelle broke into a laugh, laughed merrily and heartily, clapped her chubby hands, and beat her little feet on

"He doesn't know Theophile! Why, he doesn't know any one! He doesn't know anything!" Then, sensible of a

small solecism in her manners, Bebelle twisted her right hand in a leg of the Corporal's Bloomer trousers,

"Permit me." Mr. The Englishman shook him heartily by the hand and turned away. But he took it mighty ill

that old Monsieur Mutuel in his patch of sunlight, upon whom he came as he turned, should pull off his cap

to him with a look of pleased approval. And he muttered, in his own tongue, as he returned the salutation,

Mr. The Englishman went on for many weeks passing but disturbed evenings and worse nights, and

constantly experiencing that those aforesaid windows in the houses of Memory and Mercy rattled after dark,

and that he had very imperfectly nailed them up. Likewise, he went on for many weeks daily improving the

acquaintance of the Corporal and Bebelle. That is to say, he took Bebelle by the chin, and the Corporal by the

hand, and offered Bebelle sous and the Corporal cigars, and even got the length of changing pipes with the

Corporal and kissing Bebelle. But he did it all in a shamefaced way, and always took it extremely ill that

Monsieur Mutuel in his patch of sunlight should note what he did. Whenever that seemed to be the case, he

always growled in his own tongue, "There you are again, walnutshell! What business is it of yours?"

In a word, it had become the occupation of Mr. The Englishman's life to look after the Corporal and little

Bebelle, and to resent old Monsieur Mutuel's looking after HIM. An occupation only varied by a fire in the

town one windy night, and much passing of waterbuckets from hand to hand (in which the Englishman

rendered good service), and much beating of drums,when all of a sudden the Corporal disappeared.

She had been visible a few days later than the Corporal,sadly deteriorated as to washing and

brushing,but she had not spoken when addressed by Mr. The Englishman, and had looked scared and had

run away. And now it would seem that she had run away for good. And there lay the Great Place under the

In his shamefaced and constrained way, Mr. The Englishman asked no question of any one, but watched from

his front windows and watched from his back windows, and lingered about the Place, and peeped in at the

Barber's shop, and did all this and much more with a whistling and tunehumming pretence of not missing

anything, until one afternoon when Monsieur Mutuel's patch of sunlight was in shadow, and when, according

to all rule and precedent, he had no right whatever to bring his red ribbon out of doors, behold here he was,

Mr. The Englishman had got as far into his usual objurgation as, "What busi " when he checked himself.

"Ah, it is sad, it is sad! Helas, it is unhappy, it is sad!" Thus old Monsieur Mutuel, shaking his gray head.

"May the Devil carry you away!" the Englishman broke in impatiently; "I beg your pardon,I mean me,I

"Good God!" exclaimed the Englishman. "It was a private soldier who was killed?"

"No. A Corporal, the same Corporal, our dear Corporal. Beloved by all his comrades. The funeral ceremony

"Monsieur The Englishman, I honour those emotions. I salute you with profound respect. I will not obtrude

Monsieur Mutuel,a gentleman in every thread of his cloudy linen, under whose wrinkled hand every grain

in the quarter of an ounce of poor snuff in his poor little tin box became a gentleman's property,Monsieur

"I little thought," said the Englishman, after walking for several minutes, and more than once blowing his

Straight he went there, and when he came within the gate he paused, considering whether he should ask at the

lodge for some direction to the grave. But he was less than ever in a mood for asking questions, and he

In search of the Corporal's grave he went softly on, up this walk and down that, peering in, among the crosses

and hearts and columns and obelisks and tombstones, for a recently disturbed spot. It troubled him now to

think how many dead there were in the cemetery, he had not thought them a tenth part so numerous

before,and after he had walked and sought for some time, he said to himself, as he struck down a new vista

Not every one. A live child was lying on the ground asleep. Truly he had found something on the Corporal's

With such a loving will had the dead soldier's comrades worked at his restingplace, that it was already a neat

garden. On the green turf of the garden Bebelle lay sleeping, with her cheek touching it. A plain, unpainted

little wooden Cross was planted in the turf, and her short arm embraced this little Cross, as it had many a time

embraced the Corporal's neck. They had put a tiny flag (the flag of France) at his head, and a laurel garland.

Mr. The Englishman took off his hat, and stood for a while silent. Then, covering his head again, he bent

Opening her eyes, on which the tears were still wet, Bebelle was at first frightened; but seeing who it was, she

"We will go and seek him, Bebelle. We will go and look for him in England. We will go and look for him at

"We shall find the best part of him there. Come with me, poor forlorn little one. Heaven is my witness," said

the Englishman, in a low voice, as, before he rose, he touched the turf above the gentle Corporal's breast,

It was a long way for the child to have come unaided. She was soon asleep again, with her embrace

transferred to the Englishman's neck. He looked at her worn shoes, and her galled feet, and her tired face, and

He was leaving the grave with the slumbering Bebelle in his arms, when he stopped, looked wistfully down at

it, and looked wistfully at the other graves around. "It is the innocent custom of the people," said Mr. The

Careful not to wake Bebelle as he went, he repaired to the lodge where such little tokens of remembrance

were sold, and bought two wreaths. One, blue and white and glistening silver, "To my friend;" one of a

soberer red and black and yellow, "To my friend." With these he went back to the grave, and so down on one

knee again. Touching the child's lips with the brighter wreath, he guided her hand to hang it on the Cross;

then hung his own wreath there. After all, the wreaths were not far out of keeping with the little garden. To

Mr. The Englishman took it very ill when he looked round a street corner into the Great Place, carrying

Bebelle in his arms, that old Mutuel should be there airing his red ribbon. He took a world of pains to dodge

the worthy Mutuel, and devoted a surprising amount of time and trouble to skulking into his own lodging like

a man pursued by Justice. Safely arrived there at last, he made Bebelle's toilet with as accurate a

remembrance as he could bring to bear upon that work of the way in which he had often seen the poor

Corporal make it, and having given her to eat and drink, laid her down on his own bed. Then he slipped out

into the barber's shop, and after a brief interview with the barber's wife, and a brief recourse to his purse and

cardcase, came back again with the whole of Bebelle's personal property in such a very little bundle that it

As it was irreconcilable with his whole course and character that he should carry Bebelle off in state, or

receive any compliments or congratulations on that feat, he devoted the next day to getting his two

portmanteaus out of the house by artfulness and stealth, and to comporting himself in every particular as if he

were going to run away,except, indeed, that he paid his few debts in the town, and prepared a letter to

leave for Madame Bouclet, enclosing a sufficient sum of money in lieu of notice. A railway train would come

through at midnight, and by that train he would take away Bebelle to look for Theophile in England and at his

At midnight, on a moonlight night, Mr. The Englishman came creeping forth like a harmless assassin, with

Bebelle on his breast instead of a dagger. Quiet the Great Place, and quiet the neverstirring streets; closed

the cafes; huddled together motionless their billiardballs; drowsy the guard or sentinel on duty here and

there; lulled for the time, by sleep, even the insatiate appetite of the Office of Towndues.

Mr. The Englishman left the Place behind, and left the streets behind, and left the civilianinhabited town

behind, and descended down among the military works of Vauban, hemming all in. As the shadow of the first

heavy arch and postern fell upon him and was left behind, as the shadow of the second heavy arch and

postern fell upon him and was left behind, as his hollow tramp over the first drawbridge was succeeded by a

gentler sound, as his hollow tramp over the second drawbridge was succeeded by a gentler sound, as he

overcame the stagnant ditches one by one, and passed out where the flowing waters were and where the

moonlight, so the dark shades and the hollow sounds and the unwholesomely locked currents of his soul were

vanquished and set free. See to it, Vaubans of your own hearts, who gird them in with triple walls and

ditches, and with bolt and chain and bar and lifted bridge,raze those fortifications, and lay them level with

All went prosperously, and he got into an empty carriage in the train, where he could lay Bebelle on the seat

over against him, as on a couch, and cover her from head to foot with his mantle. He had just drawn himself

up from perfecting this arrangement, and had just leaned back in his own seat contemplating it with great

satisfaction, when he became aware of a curious appearance at the open carriage window,a ghostly little

He leaned forward, and put out his head. Down among the rails and wheels and ashes, Monsieur Mutuel, red

"Excuse me, Monsieur The Englishman," said Monsieur Mutuel, holding up his box at arm's length, the

carriage being so high and he so low; "but I shall reverence the little box for ever, if your so generous hand

Mr. The Englishman reached out of the window before complying, and without asking the old fellow what

"And, Mr. The Englishman, God bless YOU!" cried Madame Bouclet, who was also there among the rails

and wheels and ashes. "And God will bless you in the happiness of the protected child now with you. And

God will bless you in your own child at home. And God will bless you in your own remembrances. And this

He had barely time to catch a bouquet from her hand, when the train was flying through the night. Round the

paper that enfolded it was bravely written (doubtless by the nephew who held the pen of an Angel), "Homage

"Not bad people, Bebelle!" said Mr. The Englishman, softly drawing the mantle a little from her sleeping

Too "sentimental" himself at the moment to be able to get out that word, he added nothing but a sob, and

My works are well known. I am a young man in the Art line. You have seen my works many a time, though

it's fifty thousand to one if you have seen me. You say you don't want to see me? You say your interest is in

Let us have it down in black and white at the first go off, so that there may be no unpleasantness or wrangling

afterwards. And this is looked over by a friend of mine, a ticket writer, that is up to literature. I am a young

man in the Art linein the FineArt line. You have seen my works over and over again, and you have been

curious about me, and you think you have seen me. Now, as a safe rule, you never have seen me, and you

never do see me, and you never will see me. I think that's plainly putand it's what knocks me over.

It has been remarked by a certain (or an uncertain,) philosopher, that the world knows nothing of its greatest

men. He might have put it plainer if he had thrown his eye in my direction. He might have put it, that while

the world knows something of them that apparently go in and win, it knows nothing of them that really go in

Not that it's only myself that suffers from injustice, but that I am more alive to my own injuries than to any

other man's. Being, as I have mentioned, in the FineArt line, and not the Philanthropic line, I openly admit

it. As to company in injury, I have company enough. Who are you passing every day at your Competitive

Excruciations? The fortunate candidates whose heads and livers you have turned upside down for life? Not

you. You are really passing the Crammers and Coaches. If your principle is right, why don't you turn out

tomorrow morning with the keys of your cities on velvet cushions, your musicians playing, and your flags

flying, and read addresses to the Crammers and Coaches on your bended knees, beseeching them to come out

and govern you? Then, again, as to your public business of all sorts, your Financial statements and your

Budgets; the Public knows much, truly, about the real doers of all that! Your Nobles and Right Honourables

are firstrate men? Yes, and so is a goose a firstrate bird. But I'll tell you this about the goose;you'll find

Perhaps I am soured by not being popular? But suppose I AM popular. Suppose my works never fail to

attract. Suppose that, whether they are exhibited by natural light or by artificial, they invariably draw the

public. Then no doubt they are preserved in some Collection? No, they are not; they are not preserved in any

Collection. Copyright? No, nor yet copyright. Anyhow they must be somewhere? Wrong again, for they are

Says you, "At all events, you are in a moody state of mind, my friend." My answer is, I have described

myself as a public character with a blight upon himwhich fully accounts for the curdling of the milk in

Those that are acquainted with London are aware of a locality on the Surrey side of the river Thames, called

the Obelisk, or, more generally, the Obstacle. Those that are not acquainted with London will also be aware

of it, now that I have named it. My lodging is not far from that locality. I am a young man of that easy

disposition, that I lie abed till it's absolutely necessary to get up and earn something, and then I lie abed again

It was on an occasion when I had had to turn to with a view to victuals, that I found myself walking along the

Waterloo Road, one evening after dark, accompanied by an acquaintance and fellowlodger in the gasfitting

way of life. He is very good company, having worked at the theatres, and, indeed, he has a theatrical turn

himself, and wishes to be brought out in the character of Othello; but whether on account of his regular work

"Yes, Mr. Click"the rest of the house generally give him his name, as being first, front, carpeted all over,

his own furniture, and if not mahogany, an outandout imitation"yes, Mr. Click, a mystery does hang

"Why, yes, Mr. Click, there are circumstances connected with it that have," I yielded to a sigh, "a lowering

"Gives you a touch of the misanthrope too, don't it?" says he. "Well, I'll tell you what. If I was you, I'd shake

When we had walked a little further, he took it up again by touching me on the chest.

"You see, Tom, it seems to me as if, in the words of the poet who wrote the domestic drama of The Stranger,

"I hope, Tom," lowering his voice in a friendly way, "it isn't coining, or smashing?"

"Nor yet forg " Mr. Click checked himself, and added, "counterfeiting anything, for instance?"

"No, Mr. Click. I am lawfully in the Art lineFineArt linebut I can say no more."

"Ah! Under a species of star? A kind of malignant spell? A sort of a gloomy destiny? A cankerworm pegging

away at your vitals in secret, as well as I make it out?" said Mr. Click, eyeing me with some admiration.

I told Mr. Click that was about it, if we came to particulars; and I thought he appeared rather proud of me.

Our conversation had brought us to a crowd of people, the greater part struggling for a front place from which

to see something on the pavement, which proved to be various designs executed in coloured chalks on the

pavement stones, lighted by two candles stuck in mud sconces. The subjects consisted of a fine fresh salmon's

head and shoulders, supposed to have been recently sent home from the fishmonger's; a moonlight night at

sea (in a circle); dead game; scrollwork; the head of a hoary hermit engaged in devout contemplation; the

head of a pointer smoking a pipe; and a cherubim, his flesh creased as in infancy, going on a horizontal

errand against the wind. All these subjects appeared to me to be exquisitely done.

On his knees on one side of this gallery, a shabby person of modest appearance who shivered dreadfully

(though it wasn't at all cold), was engaged in blowing the chalkdust off the moon, toning the outline of the

back of the hermit's head with a bit of leather, and fattening the downstroke of a letter or two in the writing.

I have forgotten to mention that writing formed a part of the composition, and that it alsoas it appeared to

mewas exquisitely done. It ran as follows, in fine round characters: "An honest man is the noblest work of

God. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0. Pounds s. d. Employment in an office is humbly requested. Honour the Queen.

Hunger is a 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 sharp thorn. Chip chop, cherry chop, fol de rol de ri do. Astronomy and

Murmurs of admiration at the exceeding beauty of this performance went about among the crowd. The artist,

having finished his touching (and having spoilt those places), took his seat on the pavement, with his knees

"A pity to see a man of that talent brought so low; ain't it?" said one of the crowd to me.

"What he might have done in the coachpainting, or house decorating!" said another man, who took up the

"Better," said another. "I know his writing. He couldn't support his family this way."

Then, a woman noticed the natural fluffiness of the hermit's hair, and another woman, her friend, mentioned

of the salmon's gills that you could almost see him gasp. Then, an elderly country gentleman stepped forward

and asked the modest man how he executed his work? And the modest man took some scraps of brown paper

with colours in 'em out of his pockets, and showed them. Then a faircomplexioned donkey, with sandy hair

and spectacles, asked if the hermit was a portrait? To which the modest man, casting a sorrowful glance upon

it, replied that it was, to a certain extent, a recollection of his father. This caused a boy to yelp out, "Is the

Pinter a smoking the pipe your mother?" who was immediately shoved out of view by a sympathetic

At every fresh question or remark the crowd leaned forward more eagerly, and dropped the halfpence more

freely, and the modest man gathered them up more meekly. At last, another elderly gentleman came to the

front, and gave the artist his card, to come to his office tomorrow, and get some copying to do. The card was

accompanied by sixpence, and the artist was profoundly grateful, and, before he put the card in his hat, read it

several times by the light of his candles to fix the address well in his mind, in case he should lose it. The

crowd was deeply interested by this last incident, and a man in the second row with a gruff voice growled to

the artist, "You've got a chance in life now, ain't you?" The artist answered (sniffing in a very lowspirited

way, however), "I'm thankful to hope so." Upon which there was a general chorus of "You are all right," and

I felt myself pulled away by the arm, and Mr. Click and I stood alone at the corner of the next crossing.

"The artist's?" I repeated. And I laughed, frantically, wildly, gloomily, incoherently, disagreeably. I am

Mr. Click stared at me in a scared sort of a way, but said nothing until we had walked a street's length. He

"Thomas, I find it necessary to be plain with you. I don't like the envious man. I have identified the

"Yes, it is," says be. "Thomas, beware of envy. It is the green eyed monster which never did and never will

improve each shining hour, but quite the reverse. I dread the envious man, Thomas. I confess that I am afraid

of the envious man, when he is so envious as you are. Whilst you contemplated the works of a gifted rival,

and whilst you heard that rival's praises, and especially whilst you met his humble glance as he put that card

away, your countenance was so malevolent as to be terrific. Thomas, I have heard of the envy of them that

follows the FineArt line, but I never believed it could be what yours is. I wish you well, but I take my leave

of you. And if you should ever got into trouble through knifeingor say, garottinga brother artist, as I

believe you will, don't call me to character, Thomas, or I shall be forced to injure your case."

I became enamoured. Her name was Henrietta. Contending with my easy disposition, I frequently got up to

go after her. She also dwelt in the neighbourhood of the Obstacle, and I did fondly hope that no other would

To say that Henrietta was volatile is but to say that she was woman. To say that she was in the

bonnettrimming is feebly to express the taste which reigned predominant in her own.

She consented to walk with me. Let me do her the justice to say that she did so upon trial. "I am not," said

Henrietta, "as yet prepared to regard you, Thomas, in any other light than as a friend; but as a friend I am

willing to walk with you, on the understanding that softer sentiments may flow."

Under the influence of Henrietta's beguilements, I now got out of bed daily. I pursued my calling with an

industry before unknown, and it cannot fail to have been observed at that period, by those most familiar with

the streets of London, that there was a larger supply. But hold! The time is not yet come!

One evening in October I was walking with Henrietta, enjoying the cool breezes wafted over Vauxhall

Bridge. After several slow turns, Henrietta gaped frequently (so inseparable from woman is the love of

excitement), and said, "Let's go home by Grosvenor Place, Piccadilly, and Waterloo"localities, I may state

for the information of the stranger and the foreigner, well known in London, and the last a Bridge.

Could I tell her? Could I confess to the gloomy presentiment that overshadowed me? Could I make myself

"But I do," said she. "It's dark now, and the long rows of lamps in Piccadilly after dark are beautiful. I WILL

Of course we went. It was a pleasant night, and there were numbers of people in the streets. It was a brisk

night, but not too cold, and not damp. Let me darkly observe, it was the best of all nights FOR THE

As we passed the garden wall of the Royal Palace, going up Grosvenor Place, Henrietta murmured:

"I would make YOU Something," said she, and crossed her two hands on my arm, and turned away her head.

Judging from this that the softer sentiments alluded to above had begun to flow, I adapted my conduct to that

belief. Thus happily we passed on into the detested thoroughfare of Piccadilly. On the right of that

thoroughfare is a row of trees, the railing of the Green Park, and a fine broad eligible piece of pavement.

"Not there, stupid!" said she. "Over by the Park railings. Where the crowd is. Oh no, it's not an accident, it's

She referred to two lights twinkling low amongst the legs of the assemblage: two candles on the pavement.

"Oh, do come along!" cried Henrietta, skipping across the road with me. I hung back, but in vain. "Do let's

Again, designs upon the pavement. Centre compartment, Mount Vesuvius going it (in a circle), supported by

four oval compartments, severally representing a ship in heavy weather, a shoulder of mutton attended by two

cucumbers, a golden harvest with distant cottage of proprietor, and a knife and fork after nature; above the

centre compartment a bunch of grapes, and over the whole a rainbow. The whole, as it appeared to me,

The person in attendance on these works of art was in all respects, shabbiness excepted, unlike the former

personage. His whole appearance and manner denoted briskness. Though threadbare, he expressed to the

crowd that poverty had not subdued his spirit, or tinged with any sense of shame this honest effort to turn his

talents to some account. The writing which formed a part of his composition was conceived in a similarly

cheerful tone. It breathed the following sentiments: "The writer is poor, but not despondent. To a British 1 2 3

4 5 6 7 8 9 0 Public he Pounds S. d. appeals. Honour to our brave Army! And also 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 to our

gallant Navy. BRITONS STRIKE the A B C D E F G writer in common chalks would be grateful for any

suitable employment HOME! HURRAH!" The whole of this writing appeared to me to be exquisitely done.

But this man, in one respect like the last, though seemingly hard at it with a great show of brown paper and

rubbers, was only really fattening the downstroke of a letter here and there, or blowing the loose chalk off

the rainbow, or toning the outside edge of the shoulder of mutton. Though he did this with the greatest

confidence, he did it (as it struck me) in so ignorant a manner, and so spoilt everything he touched, that when

he began upon the purple smoke from the chimney of the distant cottage of the proprietor of the golden

harvest (which smoke was beautifully soft), I found myself saying aloud, without considering of it:

"Halloa!" said the man next me in the crowd, jerking me roughly from him with his elbow, "why didn't you

send a telegram? If we had known you was coming, we'd have provided something better for you. You

understand the man's work better than he does himself, don't you? Have you made your will? You're too

"Don't be hard upon the gentleman, sir," said the person in attendance on the works of art, with a twinkle in

his eye as he looked at me; "he may chance to be an artist himself. If so, sir, he will have a fellowfeeling

with me, sir, when I"he adapted his action to his words as he went on, and gave a smart slap of his hands

between each touch, working himself all the time about and about the composition"when I lighten the

bloom of my grapesshade off the orange in my rainbowdot the i of my Britonsthrow a yellow light

into my cowcumBERinsinuate another morsel of fat into my shoulder of muttondart another zigzag

He seemed to do this so neatly, and was so nimble about it, that the halfpence came flying in.

"Thanks, generous public, thanks!" said the professor. "You will stimulate me to further exertions. My name

will be found in the list of British Painters yet. I shall do better than this, with encouragement. I shall indeed."

"You never can do better than that bunch of grapes," said Henrietta. "Oh, Thomas, them grapes!"

"Not better than THAT, lady? I hope for the time when I shall paint anything but your own bright eyes and

"(Thomas, did you ever?) But it must take a long time, sir," said Henrietta, blushing, "to paint equal to that."

"I was prenticed to it, miss," said the young man, smartly touching up the composition"prenticed to it in

There was a laugh from the crowd; and a new man who had worked himself in next me, said, "He's a smart

"He couldn't come that 'ere burning mountain without a eye," said the man. He had got himself accepted as an

authority, somehow, and everybody looked at his finger as it pointed out Vesuvius. "To come that effect in a

general illumination would require a eye; but to come it with two dipswhy, it's enough to blind him!"

That impostor, pretending not to have heard what was said, now winked to any extent with both eyes at once,

as if the strain upon his sight was too much, and threw back his long hairit was very longas if to cool his

fevered brow. I was watching him doing it, when Henrietta suddenly whispered, "Oh, Thomas, how horrid

Remembering Mr. Click's words, I was confused when I retorted, "What do you mean by horrid?"

"Oh gracious! Why, you looked," said Henrietta, "as if you would have his blood."

I was going to answer, "So I would, for twopencefrom his nose," when I checked myself and remained

We returned home in silence. Every step of the way, the softer sentiments that had flowed, ebbed twenty mile

an hour. Adapting my conduct to the ebbing, as I had done to the flowing, I let my arm drop limp, so as she

could scarcely keep hold of it, and I wished her such a cold goodnight at parting, that I keep within the

"Henrietta informs Thomas that my eyes are open to you. I must ever wish you well, but walking and us is

separated by an unfarmable abyss. One so malignant to superiorityOh that look at him!can never never

Yielding to the easiness of my disposition, I went to bed for a week, after receiving this letter. During the

whole of such time, London was bereft of the usual fruits of my labour. When I resumed it, I found that

Did I say to the artist? What fell words were those, expressive of what a galling hollowness, of what a bitter

mockery! IIIam the artist. I was the real artist of Piccadilly, I was the real artist of the Waterloo

Road, I am the only artist of all those pavementsubjects which daily and nightly arouse your admiration. I

do 'em, and I let 'em out. The man you behold with the papers of chalks and the rubbers, touching up the

downstrokes of the writing and shading off the salmon, the man you give the credit to, the man you give the

money to, hiresyes! and I live to tell it!hires those works of art of me, and brings nothing to 'em but the

Such is genius in a commercial country. I am not up to the shivering, I am not up to the liveliness, I am not

up to the wantingemploymentinanoffice move; I am only up to originating and executing the work. In

consequence of which you never see me; you think you see me when you see somebody else, and that

somebody else is a mere Commercial character. The one seen by self and Mr. Click in the Waterloo Road can

only write a single word, and that I taught him, and it's MULTIPLICATIONwhich you may see him

execute upside down, because he can't do it the natural way. The one seen by self and Henrietta by the Green

Park railings can just smear into existence the two ends of a rainbow, with his cuff and a rubberif very

hard put upon making a showbut he could no more come the arch of the rainbow, to save his life, than he

could come the moonlight, fish, volcano, shipwreck, mutton, hermit, or any of my most celebrated effects.

To conclude as I began: if there's a blighted public character going, I am the party. And often as you have

seen, do see, and will see, my Works, it's fifty thousand to one if you'll ever see me, unless, when the candles

are burnt down and the Commercial character is gone, you should happen to notice a neglected young man

perseveringly rubbing out the last traces of the pictures, so that nobody can renew the same. That's me.

It will have been, ere now, perceived that I sold the foregoing writings. From the fact of their being printed in

these pages, the inference will, ere now, have been drawn by the reader (may I add, the gentle reader?) that I

Having parted with the writings on most satisfactory terms,for, in opening negotiations with the present

Journal, was I not placing myself in the hands of One of whom it may be said, in the words of Another,

{2,}resumed my usual functions. But I too soon discovered that peace of mind had fled from a brow

which, up to that time, Time had merely took the hair off, leaving an unruffled expanse within.

Yes, over that brow uneasiness gathered like the sable wing of the fabled bird, asas no doubt will be easily

identified by all right minded individuals. If not, I am unable, on the spur of the moment, to enter into

particulars of him. The reflection that the writings must now inevitably get into print, and that He might yet

live and meet with them, sat like the Hag of Night upon my jaded form. The elasticity of my spirits departed.

Fruitless was the Bottle, whether Wine or Medicine. I had recourse to both, and the effect of both upon my

In this state of depression, into which I subsided when I first began to revolve what could I ever say if

Hethe unknownwas to appear in the Coffeeroom and demand reparation, I one forenoon in this last

November received a turn that appeared to be given me by the finger of Fate and Conscience, hand in hand. I

was alone in the Coffeeroom, and had just poked the fire into a blaze, and was standing with my back to it,

trying whether heat would penetrate with soothing influence to the Voice within, when a young man in a cap,

The young man shook his hair out of his vision,which it impeded, to a packet from his breast, and

handing it over to me, said, with his eye (or did I dream?) fixed with a lambent meaning on me, "THE

Although I smelt my coattails singeing at the fire, I had not the power to withdraw them. The young man

put the packet in my faltering grasp, and repeated,let me do him the justice to add, with civility:

A. Y. R.? And You Remember. Was that his meaning? At Your Risk. Were the letters short for THAT

reminder? Anticipate Your Retribution. Did they stand for THAT warning? Outdacious Youth Repent? But

I opened the packet, and found that its contents were the foregoing writings printed just as the reader (may I

add the discerning reader?) peruses them. In vain was the reassuring whisper,A.Y.R., All the Year

Round,it could not cancel the Proofs. Too appropriate name. The Proofs of my having sold the Writings.

My wretchedness daily increased. I had not thought of the risk I ran, and the defying publicity I put my head

into, until all was done, and all was in print. Give up the money to be off the bargain and prevent the

publication, I could not. My family was down in the world, Christmas was coming on, a brother in the

hospital and a sister in the rheumatics could not be entirely neglected. And it was not only ins in the family

that had told on the resources of one unaided Waitering; outs were not wanting. A brother out of a situation,

and another brother out of money to meet an acceptance, and another brother out of his mind, and another

brother out at New York (not the same, though it might appear so), had really and truly brought me to a stand

till I could turn myself round. I got worse and worse in my meditations, constantly reflecting "The Proofs,"

and reflecting that when Christmas drew nearer, and the Proofs were published, there could be no safety from

hour to hour but that He might confront me in the Coffeeroom, and in the face of day and his country

The impressive and unlookedfor catastrophe towards which I dimly pointed the reader (shall I add, the

It was November still, but the last echoes of the Guy Foxes had long ceased to reverberate. We was

slack,several joints under our average mark, and wine, of course, proportionate. So slack had we become

at last, that Beds Nos. 26, 27, 28, and 31, having took their six o'clock dinners, and dozed over their

respective pints, had drove away in their respective Hansoms for their respective Night Mailtrains and left

I had took the evening paper to No. 6 table,which is warm and most to be preferred,and, lost in the

allabsorbing topics of the day, had dropped into a slumber. I was recalled to consciousness by the

wellknown intimation, "Waiter!" and replying, "Sir!" found a gentleman standing at No. 4 table. The reader

(shall I add, the observant reader?) will please to notice the locality of the gentleman,AT NO. 4 TABLE.

He had one of the newfangled uncollapsable bags in his hand (which I am against, for I don't see why you

shouldn't collapse, while you are about it, as your fathers collapsed before you), and he said:

I rang the chambermaid's bell; and Mrs. Pratchett marched in, according to custom, demurely carrying a

lighted flat candle before her, as if she was one of a long public procession, all the other members of which

In the meanwhile the gentleman had gone up to the mantelpiece, right in front of the fire, and had laid his

forehead against the mantelpiece (which it is a low one, and brought him into the attitude of leapfrog), and

had heaved a tremenjous sigh. His hair was long and lightish; and when he laid his forehead against the

mantelpiece, his hair all fell in a dusty fluff together over his eyes; and when he now turned round and lifted

up his head again, it all fell in a dusty fluff together over his ears. This give him a wild appearance, similar to

"O! The chambermaid. Ah!" He was turning something in his mind. "To be sure. Yes. I won't go upstairs

now, if you will take my bag. It will be enough for the present to know my number.Can you give me 24

Mrs. Pratchett allotted him the room, and took his bag to it. He then went back before the fire, and fell a

"Waiter!" biting between the words, "give me," bite, "pen and paper; and in five minutes," bite, "let me have,

Unmindful of his waning soup, he wrote and sent off six notes before he touched his dinner. Three were City;

three WestEnd. The City letters were to Cornhill, Ludgatehill, and Farringdon Street. The WestEnd

letters were to Great Marlborough Street, New Burlington Street, and Piccadilly. Everybody was

systematically denied at every one of the six places, and there was not a vestige of any answer. Our light

But before then he had cleared off his dinner, and his bottle of wine. He nowmark the concurrence with the

document formerly given in full!knocked a plate of biscuits off the table with his agitated elber (but

Now fully convinced that it was Himself, I perspired with the utmost freedom. When he became flushed with

the heated stimulant referred to, he again demanded pen and paper, and passed the succeeding two hours in

producing a manuscript which he put in the fire when completed. He then went up to bed, attended by Mrs.

Pratchett. Mrs. Pratchett (who was aware of my emotions) told me, on coming down, that she had noticed his

eye rolling into every corner of the passages and staircase, as if in search of his Luggage, and that, looking

back as she shut the door of 24 B, she perceived him with his coat already thrown off immersing himself

bodily under the bedstead, like a chimleysweep before the application of machinery.

The next dayI forbear the horrors of that nightwas a very foggy day in our part of London, insomuch

that it was necessary to light the Coffeeroom gas. We was still alone, and no feverish words of mine can do

justice to the fitfulness of his appearance as he sat at No. 4 table, increased by there being something wrong

Having again ordered his dinner, he went out, and was out for the best part of two hours. Inquiring on his

return whether any of the answers had arrived, and receiving an unqualified negative, his instant call was for

Feeling that the mortal struggle was now at hand, I also felt that I must be equal to him, and with that view

resolved that whatever he took I would take. Behind my partition, but keeping my eye on him over the

curtain, I therefore operated on Mulligatawny, Cayenne Pepper, and Orange Brandy. And at a later period of

the day, when he again said, "Orange Brandy," I said so too, in a lower tone, to George, my Second

Throughout that awful day he walked about the Coffeeroom continually. Often he came close up to my

partition, and then his eye rolled within, too evidently in search of any signs of his Luggage. Halfpast six

came, and I laid his cloth. He ordered a bottle of old Brown. I likewise ordered a bottle of old Brown. He

drank his. I drank mine (as nearly as my duties would permit) glass for glass against his. He topped with

coffee and a small glass. I topped with coffee and a small glass. He dozed. I dozed. At last, "Waiter!"and

he ordered his bill. The moment was now at hand when we two must be locked in the deadly grapple.

Swift as the arrow from the bow, I had formed my resolution; in other words, I had hammered it out between

nine and nine. It was, that I would be the first to open up the subject with a full acknowledgment, and would

offer any gradual settlement within my power. He paid his bill (doing what was right by attendance) with his

eye rolling about him to the last for any tokens of his Luggage. One only time our gaze then met, with the

lustrous fixedness (I believe I am correct in imputing that character to it?) of the well known Basilisk. The

With a tolerable steady hand, though with humility, I laid The Proofs before him.

"Gracious Heavens!" he cries out, leaping up, and catching hold of his hair. "What's this? Print!"

"Sir," I replied, in a calming voice, and bending forward, "I humbly acknowledge to being the unfortunate

cause of it. But I hope, sir, that when you have heard the circumstances explained, and the innocence of my

To my amazement, I was stopped short by his catching me in both his arms, and pressing me to his

breastbone; where I must confess to my face (and particular, nose) having undergone some temporary

vexation from his wearing his coat buttoned high up, and his buttons being uncommon hard.

"Ha, ha, ha!" he cries, releasing me with a wild laugh, and grasping my hand. "What is your name, my

"My name, sir" (I was crumpled, and puzzled to make him out), "is Christopher; and I hope, sir, that, as such,

"In print!" he exclaims again, dashing the proofs over and over as if he was bathing in them."In print!! O

Christopher! Philanthropist! Nothing can recompense you,but what sum of money would be acceptable to

I had drawn a step back from him, or I should have suffered from his buttons again.

"No, no, Christopher! Don't talk like that! What sum of money would be acceptable to you, Christopher?

However great my surprise, I naturally found words to say, "Sir, I am not aware that the man was ever yet

born without more than the average amount of water on the brain as would not find twenty pounds

acceptable. Butextremely obliged to you, sir, I'm sure;" for he had tumbled it out of his purse and crammed

it in my hand in two banknotes; "but I could wish to know, sir, if not intruding, how I have merited this

"Know then, my Christopher," he says, "that from boyhood's hour I have unremittingly and unavailingly

endeavoured to get into print. Know, Christopher, that all the Booksellers aliveand several dead have

refused to put me into print. Know, Christopher, that I have written unprinted Reams. But they shall be read

Seeing the great danger I was in, I had the presence of mind to answer, "Never!" To make it more final, I

"Well," says he, thinking no more about that, and chuckling at his proofs again. "But I am in print! The first

flight of ambition emanating from my father's lowly cot is realised at length! The golden bow"he was

getting on,"struck by the magic hand, has emitted a complete and perfect sound! When did this happen,

When I had given him my detailed account of it, he grasped me by the hand again, and said:

"Dear Christopher, it should be gratifying to you to know that you are an instrument in the hands of Destiny.

A passing Something of a melancholy cast put it into my head to shake it, and to say, "Perhaps we all are."

"I don't mean that," he answered; "I don't take that wide range; I confine myself to the special case. Observe

me well, my Christopher! Hopeless of getting rid, through any effort of my own, of any of the manuscripts

among my Luggage,all of which, send them where I would, were always coming back to me,it is now

some seven years since I left that Luggage here, on the desperate chance, either that the too, too faithful

manuscripts would come back to me no more, or that some one less accursed than I might give them to the

"Pretty well, sir." I followed him so far as to judge that he had a weak head, and that the Orange, the Boiling,

and Old Brown combined was beginning to tell. (The Old Brown, being heady, is best adapted to seasoned

"Years elapsed, and those compositions slumbered in dust. At length, Destiny, choosing her agent from all

mankind, sent You here, Christopher, and lo! the Casket was burst asunder, and the Giant was free!"

"But," he reminded himself in a state of excitement, "we must sit up all night, my Christopher. I must correct

these Proofs for the press. Fill all the inkstands, and bring me several new pens."

He smeared himself and he smeared the Proofs, the night through, to that degree that when Sol gave him

warning to depart (in a four wheeler), few could have said which was them, and which was him, and which

was blots. His last instructions was, that I should instantly run and take his corrections to the office of the

present Journal. I did so. They most likely will not appear in print, for I noticed a message being brought

round from Beauford Printing House, while I was a throwing this concluding statement on paper, that the ole

resources of that establishment was unable to make out what they meant. Upon which a certain gentleman in

company, as I will not more particularly name,but of whom it will be sufficient to remark, standing on the

broad basis of a wavegirt isle, that whether we regard him in the light of,{3} laughed, and put the

{1} Its name and address at length, with other full particulars, all editorially struck out.