CHAPTER VI.

The morning again dawned, and again was Brag “up and stirring.” He read

and reread the narrow strip of paper which had been fastened upon him

by the emissary from Messrs. Tapps, Tatlock, and Shackleton, of Pump

Court, and was very little the wiser for the information he derived

from its contents. Instinct, however, made him very much dislike the

affair, upon which, he concluded, he must consult some lawyer of

his own; but not having such an officer regularly retained in his

household, and knowing but little of the routine of legal business, he

proceeded, in the first instance, to act upon the directions of the imp

from whom he had received the “strip,” and put it into his pocket.

During breakfast he seriously repeated the usual fruitless inquiries

after his servant and equipage, and received the anticipated negative

to his questions with an affectation of high displeasure, strengthened

by one of those brief but emphatic exclamations, which, if uttered

before one of his Majesty’s worshipful justices of the peace, would

have subjected him to a fine of five shillings.

Having despatched his morning meal, he repaired to the stables, and

ran his eye over the horses which were standing in them,--at times

looked knowingly at some of the best,--and spoke technically to the

coachmen or grooms about some of the worst. One pair of coach-horses

particularly struck his fancy:--To whom did they belong?--was his

question to a servant, wearing bright orange plush unmentionables,

who was, without coat, waiscoat, or jacket, working away at one of

them, polishing him up to a degree of brightness and smoothness very

difficult of attainment in horse-skins at the sea-side.

“Whose horses did you say these were?” said Jack.

“Mrs. Peckover’s, sir,” said the man.

“What!” said Jack--“the lady of my friend Mr. Heneage Peckover of

Womanswould in Kent?”

“The same, sir,” said the servant.

“Is Mr. Peckover dead?” said Jack.

“Not particularly, sir,” said the man, continually rubbing and hissing

as hard as he well could; “on the contrary, he is as lively as ever.”

“Because you said Mrs. Peckover’s horses,” said Jack.

“Yes,” said the man, “we calls everything missus’s. What’s master’s is

her’s--and what’s her’s is her own, sir. Master don’t much interfere.”

“Where are they staying?” said Jack.

“At that house, sir,” said the man, stepping out of the stable-door and

pointing, “with the bow-window there, sir.”

“Oh,” said Jack, “I must go and call on them.--Very fine pair of nags

as ever I clapped my eyes upon--good colour, shape, and make: fast

trotters, I take it.”

“Uncommon, sir,” said the man, “and step together like winkin’.”

“All right that,” said Jack, “and no mistake:”--and out he walked,

not sorry, however much he might wish for retirement, at finding an

acquaintance in the place, who was not very well known either to,

or by the persons with whom he, for the present, desired to have no

particular connexion.

Jack had met Mr. Peckover out with hounds round London. He was a hale,

portly man, of some fifty-six, with rosy cheeks and strong limbs; the

voice of a Stentor; and a laugh which, when excited, might be heard “a

goodly league at sea.”

It is said that men’s characters sometimes agree with their names,

although James Smith has given us an excellent song to exhibit “the

rule of contraries” in this particular. Certain it is, however, that

Heneage Peckover, of Womanswould in the county of Kent, Esq. was--tall

as he was, broad as he was, heavy as he was, and loud as he was--the

mere slave of his wife, from whom, it may be necessary to observe, he

had derived nearly the whole of the fortune which enabled him to make

the figure he made in society. What he originally _had_ been, history

has not accurately recorded; but the aristocratic character of the

former of his two names (christian-name it can scarcely be called)

led people to suppose that his connexions must somehow have been of a

superior order.

Jack had never seen the lady,--nor indeed had any of the “friends” with

whom Mr. Peckover was in the habit of hunting.--Not to hear of her,

after having been five minutes in her husband’s society, would have

been impossible. It was not enough that she directed his conduct and

controlled his actions; nor that he paid her every deference whilst in

her society, and followed her instructions with the implicit obedience

of a well-broken spaniel, whenever she thought fit to fulminate them.

The habit of submission was so strongly impressed upon his mind,

that it had induced something like a veneration for her opinions and

decisions, by which his whole conduct in life was regulated; so that

although, when away from her, he really was what may be called a

capital jolly country gentleman; and laughed, and joked, in _his_ way,

with the greatest earnestness and fervour, still he had neither taste

nor judgment of his own; and his conversation was therefore made up of

continued references to “Mrs. Peckover,” and her views, her opinions,

her _dicta_, and her decisions upon all subjects, which were rendered

the more strikingly absurd to his ordinary companions, inasmuch as they

had never seen the lady, nor ever were likely to see her, since she

peremptorily declined receiving her husband’s sporting acquaintance,

the exclusion of whom from _her_ house, (as she invariably called it,)

was the condition alone upon which she permitted him to enjoy what are

called the pleasures of the chase.

The extent of the present scene of action was so small, that all the

inhabitants of the comfortable Kraal were visible to each other in the

course of any one hour of any one day; and not much more than half that

period of time had elapsed, when Jack espied his friend walking with

Colonel Stiffkey, whom he also knew, from having met him occasionally

at Mrs. Dallington’s. This was rather a drawback to the gratification

he experienced in seeing Mr. Peckover, who looked glowingly bright; his

rubicund face shining well over a buttoned-up blue coat, “leathers” of

the old school, and “tops” to match.

“Bless my soul!--Mr. Brag,” exclaimed Peckover; “who the deuce would

have thought of finding you here?”

“I might say the same to you, sir,” said Jack. “How d’ye do, sir?

Needn’t ask--charming well, I am sure.”--“How d’ye do, Colonel?” added

Brag, waiting to see what sort of recognition the colonel would afford

him.

The Colonel’s “Quite well!” was as gracious as possible.

“As for _me_,” said Peckover, “Mrs. Peckover says she never saw me

looking better. True enough;--I’m hearty and hale, and all _that_--ha,

ha, ha! Are you come to stay here, Mr. Brag?”

“For some time, I think,” said Brag. “I have just got away from the

Ilfracombes, and the Dawlishes, and Lord Tom, who have been at Dover.

Lord Tom wanted me to go to Paris to ride his horses, but I know a

trick worth two of that--sure of a wrangle wherever he is concerned; so

I backed out, smack, smooth, and no mistake.”

“Mrs. Peckover says,” said Peckover, “that horse-racing is but ticklish

work, after all:-too much in the hands of other people--jockeys,

trainers, and friends--eh?--ha, ha, ha!”

“I never have been on the turf,” said Stiffkey, with an air of

self-satisfaction which would have induced anybody who did not know

him, to believe that his abstinence had not proceeded from the positive

want of money and horses.

“Mr. Brag,” said Peckover, “is a capital jockey, if you come to that.

Well--where do you dine to day?”

This question was asked, first, in the hope that Brag was engaged; and

secondly, because Peckover flattered himself that he could prevail

upon his lady to admit him and the colonel to her table, by explaining

to her that the colonel was _not_ one of his hunting friends, and

concealing from her the fact that Brag _was_.

“I am not engaged anywhere,” said Brag--“I’m at the hotel.”

“So am I,” said the Colonel.

“I’m sure Mrs. Peckover will be delighted to see you,” said Heneage.

“She dines at six--‘because,’ as, she says, ‘early hours, good air,

and plain feeding, are good for one’s health’--and I believe it to be

so--ha, ha, ha!”

“I shall be most happy,” said the Colonel.

“And I,” said Jack.

“That’s a large ship in the offing,” said the Colonel.

“Mrs. Peckover tells me she thinks it’s a man-of-war,” said Peckover.

“I don’t know much about ships, but I dare say it is. She has been

watching it through her glass.”

“For a sea place,” said Jack, “this is uncommon snug--and I like the

look of the country round it.”

“Why,” said Peckover, “Mrs. Peckover’s opinion is, that the mixture of

trees, and sea, and corn-fields, and downs, and good roads, and fine

cliffs, is extremely beautiful. For my own part, I don’t profess to

know much about such things; but I take it all as it comes. Ha, ha, ha!”

“That’s the only way to get on in this world,” said the Colonel. “Pray

have you been over to Hurstmonceaux?” added the gallant officer.

“No,” said Peckover; “Mrs. Peckover went there last Tuesday, I think

it was. She has great taste for ruins, and remnants, and relics, and

all that. She took over two or three young ladies, the Miss Gubbinses,

who are here, and there was no room for me in the carriage, so I staid

here, and played billiards with the marker’s boy till she came back.”

“There seems to be no news in the London papers this morning?” said the

Colonel.

“No,” said his friend; “Mrs. Peckover tells _me_, that if Russia,

Austria, and Prussia were to join against France, the odds would be

greatly in favour of the coalition; but I don’t trouble my head much

about politics. Ha, ha, ha!”

“Well,” said Brag, “is there anything to see near at hand? Where is

what they call ‘South,’ because I suspect my fool of a servant has lost

himself and my phaeton, somewhere in the Wilds of Sussex, and I may,

perhaps find him stalled up at ‘The Lamb,’ I think the hotel people

call it.”

“Oh, ah!” said Peckover; “South--they call it South, Mrs. Peckover

tells me, to distinguish it from East, which they call this. Mrs.

Peckover gets all our meat from a butcher at South. I’ll walk with you.”

“With all my heart,” said the Colonel.

“That’s right!” said Jack; “I think a toddle along the road will do us

good, and no mistake!”

“Mrs. Peckover says walking exercise is the best,” said her husband,

“yet, somehow, she generally drives about herself; however, I don’t

pretend to understand these matters. Ha! ha! ha! Come, let’s start.”

And away the trio went, Jack extremely well pleased with his

reception, and resolved to keep quiet and easy, more than ever struck

with his fat friend’s perpetual reference to his better half, and

convinced, by Colonel Stiffkey’s manner towards him, that he had not

been enlightened in any degree upon the subject of the affair with Mrs.

Dallington and Miss Englefield.

The day was delightful, and they had got on the road just as far as

where foot passengers generally strike into the fields, when Brag

perceived a man, who, by the azure hue of his coat, and the bright

orange-colour of his plushes, he knew to be one of Peckover’s footmen,

coming at what he considered a splitting pace in pursuit of them.

“One of your servants, I think,” said Jack.

“Oh,” said Peckover, “most probably Mrs. Peckover wishes to be of our

party.--Well, Stephen, what is it?”

“My missus, sir,” said Stephen, “wants you to come in, if you please.”

“Oh, come in, does she?” said the Herculean infant;--“Why doesn’t she

come out?--it would do her a vast deal more good. What, is she in the

house?”

“Yes, sir,” said Stephen, “and bid me say she was waiting.”

“Why, then, gentlemen,” said Peckover, “I am afraid I must leave you. I

know she has some project for this morning, but I don’t pretend to know

anything of her movements.--I’m coming, Stephen.--I’ll just step home,

and if I can get away I’ll follow you--only don’t mind _me_. Back at

six;--don’t forget--punctual to the minute, for as Mrs. Peckover says,

you can never expect to have a good dinner or a good cook, if you are

not punctual--so mind. Ha, ha, ha!”

“Never fear,” said Jack; “I’ll be at the post, afore the bell rings for

saddling, and no mistake.”

“And I will be the very shadow of Mr. Brag,” said the Colonel.

“That’s one of the comforts of matrimony,” said the Colonel, after

watching Peckover’s hurried return homewards. “That gentle giant is

tied to his lady’s apron string, and beyond its tether, wander he must

not.”

“I think,” said Jack, “if I was as big as he, I should try if I

couldn’t break it.”

“Did you ever see Mrs. Peckover?” said the Colonel.

“Never set eyes on her,” replied Jack.

“She is a delicate looking woman,” said the Colonel; “her figure

small and slight; her nose long, her mouth wide, her voice shrill,

and her tongue exhibiting to the curious in ‘natural mechanism’ the

long-sought-for desideratum of perpetual motion. The only relief she

gives that active member, or her husband, is when she is sulky, upon

which occasions she keeps him sitting in her boudoir, or wherever it

may be, the whole day, without letting him stir out, or speaking a

syllable to him while he stays at home.”

“But why does not he kick?” said Jack;--“rebel; run rusty?”

“Because he believes her to be the cleverest woman in all the world,”

said the Colonel. “As for disputing the excellence of her taste, or

doubting the infallibility of her opinions, he would as soon think of

flying; and such has been the nature of her management in breaking him

in, that he does not in the slightest degree consider her tyranny as

oppressive; on the contrary, he thinks her so far above every other

living creature, that his homage and submission are voluntary tributes

to her perfection.”

“I suppose,” said Jack, “we must not venture to contradict anything she

says at dinner, even in the way of joke?”

“You need not be apprehensive of her doing anything in that line,” said

the Colonel. “I once, and only once, dined with them at their place

Womanswould, and she took offence in the early part of dinner because

Peckover drank wine with somebody without asking _her_ which wine he

ought to drink; and from that moment she stopped her loquacity dead

short, and moped for the rest of the evening.”

“Wouldn’t it be a good thing to affront her a little at starting?”

said Jack; “perhaps it might give him a chance of throwing in a word.”

“Not a bit,” said the Colonel: “if _she_ won’t speak, _he_ mustn’t; so

we should have to keep up the ball between us, unless one or two of

those Miss Gubbinses, who are a good deal with her, should happen to

be of the party. However, we must trust to Fate.--You say you are just

from Dover?”

“Came off the day before yesterday,” said Jack.

“Did you happen to see some old friends of mine there?” said the

Colonel--“the Gunnersburys?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jack; “I dined there the day before I left. Very

pleasant party. The Dullinghams, and Sir Henry Rockley, and a Mr. and

Mrs. Carnaby. What a queer body Lady Gunnersbury is!”

“Monstrous spirits,” said the Colonel.

“Talk of perpetual motion,” said Jack; “I think she’d give Mrs.

Peckover two stone and a distance, and beat her in a canter.”

“Yes, she is an entertaining old lady,” said the Colonel.

“To be sure, how she did go on!” said Jack.

“It is through _her_,” said Stiffkey, “that I am connected with the

family. She is my great-aunt; and I mean to pay them a visit before I

go to London. Indeed, George Gunnersbury has more than half promised to

come over to me here, and in that case we should return together. He is

a capital fellow!”

“Oh, very pleasant indeed!” said Jack.

“He has more real fun about him when he is in a good humour, than

anybody I know,” said Stiffkey.

“Yes,” thought Jack, may be so--at the same moment congratulating

himself that the Colonel’s developement of his connexion with the

family, saved him from something very like a repetition of the

Dullingham affair, out of which he had so recently escaped.

“By the way,” said the Colonel, wishing, as it should seem, to vary the

topics of conversation to suit Jack’s particular taste, “when did you

see our fair friends, the widow and her sister?”

“The day before I left town,” said Jack; “I--in fact--I thought it

better to--withdraw. I like candour--hate what I call sham-abraham.

Give me sincerity--all straight up, right down, and no mistake. And I

thought in my own mind that they were playing what I call a shuffling

game. It looked somehow like a regular cross.”

“I don’t exactly see,” said the Colonel.

“Why, what I say, Colonel, is this,” said Jack;--“if you mean a thing,

say so; and if you don’t mean it, don’t go on worriting and fretting

people about nothing. I saw that Lydiard and Rushton,--two deuced good

fellows in their way--were making themselves miserable about these two

females, so I says to Lydiard, says I, ‘Put a face upon this; don’t be

trifled with:’--and I said the same to Rushton:--and, in course,--as

I know the sex, and shouldn’t speak without knowing regularly what I

was about,--they took my advice: and I’m sure--as you know all the

parties, and,--in course, we are tiled--I brought the whole thing

about, smack, smooth, and no mistake whatever:--opened their eyes to

their own situation; and the night before I left town,--which I did in

uncommon high glee at having made up the matter,--I set them down to

supper, two regular couple, all wrangles over--and _they_, matched for

life as nice as nip, and no mistake.”

It was Jack’s misfortune, whenever he became eloquent, to fall

immediately into his own peculiar style of oratory; and this burst, to

which he had been encouraged by the colonel’s evident ignorance of all

the real facts, brought the gallant officer’s eyes into an almost full

stare of astonishment at the mode in which his voluble, volatile friend

expressed himself.

“I have thought sometimes,” said the Colonel, “when I have had the

pleasure of meeting you there, that you were in the field yourself. It

struck me that you thought Miss Englefield’s singing very charming.”

“So I did,” said Jack, still clinging to the _eclat_ of having been

favoured by anything so charming as Blanche, and yet wishing to convey

the idea that he had been smiled on by both--“so I did; but then I

was taken uncommonly by Mrs. Dallington’s talking. They are both

delightful creechurs! No: I admired them both as a friend--a sincere

friend--nothing more; and so I thought the best thing I could do was,

to pair them off with the men whom they liked, and who liked them.”

“Most marvellous self-denial!” said the Colonel.

By this time they had reached “South,” and the colonel accompanied Brag

to “The New Inn,” and thence to “The Lamb,” in order that he might

go through the ceremony of enquiring for his “fool of a servant, and

his phaeton,” which, to do his acting credit, he performed with the

greatest apparent earnestness.

These matters adjusted, they returned by a circuitous route, and as

they were wending their way through the open gardens at the back of

“The Sea Houses,” they beheld the glittering equipage of Mrs. Peckover

trailing along the road, containing herself and her two favourite

friends, the Gubbinses, and proceeding towards Westham and Pevensey.

“Our friend, taking the air,” said the Colonel.

“Mr. P. isn’t there?” said Jack.

“No, she very seldom takes him out with her,” said the Colonel. “She

says he is too big for the inside of the carriage, and she cannot

dispense with her footman, who, upon these occasions, shares the box

with the coachman. I dare say we shall find him somewhere about; or

perhaps she has sent him to pick up laver for her, which is found here

in plenty and perfection.”

“Well,” said Jack, “if I were Mr. Peckover, sooner than stand _that_, I

would dig stones in a quarry on my own account.”

“There is no accounting for taste,” said the Colonel; “besides,

there are secrets in all families, and we do not perhaps know what

the reciprocal obligations of the parties to each other may be; one

thing is certain, he wears his chains merrily. I never saw a man more

perfectly happy: however, let us proceed to the library, where, if

his lady-wife have not ordered him on some fatigue-party, we shall in

all probability find him knocking the balls about as usual, either by

himself or with the marker’s boy.”

Anything makes a pursuit at a watering-place. A glassblower, whose

performances have been before your eyes for years in London, without

exciting your attention in the slightest degree, at a watering-place

becomes an object of wonder and surprise;--a sick rattle-snake, who

would slumber unseen and disregarded in his flannel waistcoat, at the

Zoological Gardens in London, is visited with the greatest avidity: and

a fish caught the night before, which happens to be two feet longer, or

one foot thicker, than fishes of the same kind generally are, attracts

a crowd of astonished spectators, and elicits a thousand interesting

remarks and observations.

It turned out that Mr. Peckover was not at the library, nor was he

gathering laver; on the contrary, he was sitting on a bench facing the

sea, at which he was looking wistfully, and evidently much depressed.

When he saw Brag and the colonel advancing, he rose to meet them--and

they perceived in a moment that something had worried him.

“I am glad I have found you,” said he. “Upon my life! I am almost

ashamed to say what I am going to say:--Mrs. Peckover tells me that

she has engaged herself to go to Hastings to buy some French things at

a smuggling shop, and that she shan’t be able to have the pleasure of

receiving you at dinner to-day.”

“Oh,” said the Colonel, “never mind--don’t care about _that_:--some

other day. As Mr. Brag and I are both staying at the same hotel, we can

have our little “_portions_” _tête-à-tête_, and you’ll let us come to

you when you are quite disengaged.”

“I saw the carriage going along the road,” said Jack:--“capital

steppers those bays--never saw better: all right that, sir, and no

mistake.”

“Why! Mrs. Peckover tells _me_,” said the husband, “that the Marquess

of Whitechapel says they are the best pair of carriage-horses in

London. I don’t trouble myself much about carriage-horses--she

does:--ha, ha, ha!”

“But suppose,” said the Colonel, “as Mrs. Peckover will not be back in

time for dinner, that you were to join us, _en garçon_, at the hotel.”

“Why,” said Peckover, “that would be very agreeable; but if that were

to be the order of the day, you two might as well dine with _me_ _en

garçon_, at our house; only you see, Mrs. Peckover tells me that she

shall be back early, and--”

“Well,” said the Colonel, “but see, if we were to dine with _you_, we

might be in the way of Mrs. Peckover and her _dames d’honneur_, when

they returned, tired, perhaps, with the excursion; but if _you_ came to

us--”

“Ah!” said the obedient husband, “I don’t think Mrs. Peckover would

like _that_--no, I must be at home to receive her; besides, there are

several letters which Mrs. Peckover has desired me to write--and--no,

some other time Mrs. Peckover will be most happy to receive you; so let

it be as it is. I am very sorry I did not consult her beforehand. I

did not know of her engagement; have you forgiven me, gentlemen?”

“Oh, in course,” said Jack, “and many thanks for your offer.”

“Well,” said the Colonel to Brag, “then we had better go to our inn,

and order our dinner; we will dine early, if you please.”

“Whenever you like,” said Jack. “I’m always agreeable, and no mistake.”

Jack--upon whose heart or mind, events which would have been of killing

interest to others, made no deep impression--was so pleased by the

encouragement of Colonel Stiffkey, that he entirely “forgot his own

griefs.” The melancholy fate of his sister, now and then flashed across

his mind, but since he had ascertained the nature of her defection,

he was less anxious for a letter from his mother, upon the subject.

His defeat at the widow’s had almost become a matter of joke with him;

his rejection by Lord Tom was counterbalanced by the receipt of the

money he had recovered from him, and so upon casting his eye over the

balance-sheet, the debtor and creditor sides seemed pretty equal; and

just now the turn lay rather on the credit side, since he had made good

his footing with his fashionable companion.

Still, one of those clouds which must almost constantly hang over the

heads of quacks and pretenders, was rising in the horizon, in the shape

of the arrival of young Gunnersbury. To quit Eastbourne, where he had

strangely enough secured the society of such a man as Stiffkey, was

most painful. Stiffkey looked down with an air of placid contempt upon

the few inhabitants of Sea Houses, and yet he strolled about familiarly

with Jack. This was agreeable in the highest degree to the little

man’s vanity, although really and truly the gay colonel fell into the

association without reflecting or thinking about it for one moment. He

had met Brag in good society, and in places where he felt evidently

at home; he had heard Lord Tom speak of him in high terms, as what is

called a “sporting chap,” and, moreover, he was somebody to talk to.

There can be little doubt if a more aristocratic friend had arrived,

Jack would have been cast off; for the colonel was one of those who,

soaring eagle-high above the Brags of Jack’s school, was known as one

of the most decided tuft-hunters about town.

The colonel, too, observed with great care the different grades and

degrees of the peerage in the selection of the invitations which he

received; like Brag, he possessed, only upon the greater scale, what

Foote calls, “the paltry ambition of levying and following titles; the

poverty of fastening upon men of distinction in public, for no other

reason but because of their rank, adhering to Sir John till the baronet

is superseded by my lord, quitting the puny peer for an earl, and

sacrificing all three to a duke.”

It is greatly to be lamented in the present much-complained-of--how

justly I do not pretend to decide--absence of talent in dramatic

writing, that the rich and abundant humour of Foote, should, because it

is certainly overlaid by much of that, which, in these days of delicacy

and refinement would not be endured upon the stage, be altogether lost.

Having quoted a line or two from one of his comedies, illustrative of

Colonel Stiffkey’s passion for tufts, I cannot resist the temptation

of extracting that part of the scene, in the “Lame Lover,” in which

he justifies the young lady’s expressed opinion of his addiction to

titles, and practically works it out. The passage is curious as well

as humorous--humorous, because the satire strikes at all ages; and

curious, inasmuch as in twenty lines it familiarises us with customs

and habits characteristic of the time at which it was written (the year

1770), of which now no trace or vestige remains.

Sir Luke, the tuft-hunter, is on the stage, with Serjeant Circuit and

Charlotte, a servant enters and delivers a card to Sir Luke.

SIR LUKE.

(_Reads_) “Sir Gregory Goose desires the honour of Sir Luke Limp’s

company to dine. An answer is desired.”--Gad-so! a little unlucky--I

have been engaged for these three weeks.

SERJEANT.

I find Sir Gregory is returned for the corporation of Fleece’em.

SIR LUKE.

Is he?--Oh, ho!--that alters the case.--George, give my compliments to

Sir Gregory, and say I’ll certainly come and dine there.--Order Joe to

run to Alderman Inkle’s, in Threadneedle-street: sorry can’t wait upon

him; but confined to my bed for two days with the influenza.

CHARLOTTE.

You make light, Sir Luke, of this sort of engagements?

SIR LUKE.

What can a man do? These fellows (when one has the misfortune to meet

them) take scandalous advantage; teazing one with, “Pray when will you

do me the honour, Sir Luke, to take your mutton with me? Do name the

day.” What’s to be done?--they are as bad as a beggar, who attacks your

coach going up-hill, there’s no getting rid of either without a penny

to one, and a promise to the other; not but that upon these occasions

there is no man in England more punctual than--

_Enter a servant, who gives_ SIR LUKE _a letter_.--From whom?

SERVANT.

The Earl of Brentford, Sir Luke. The servant waits for an answer.

SIR LUKE.

Answer!--By your leave, Mr. Serjeant and Charlotte. (_Reads._) “Taste

for music!”--umph!--“Mons. Dupont--fail--dinner upon table at five.”

Gad-so!--I hope Sir Gregory’s servant is not gone.

SERVANT.

Immediately, sir, on receiving the answer.

SIR LUKE.

Run after him, as fast as you can. Tell him--“quite in

despair:--recollect an engagement that can’t in nature be missed:”--and

be back in an instant.

[_Servant runs out._

CHARLOTTE.

You see, sir, the knight must give way to my lord.

SIR LUKE.

No: it isn’t that, my dear Charlotte. You saw that it was quite an

extempore business. No, it isn’t for the title; but, to tell you the

truth, Brentford has more talent than any man in the world: it is

_that_, which makes me fond of his house.

CHARLOTTE.

By the choice of his company he gives an unanswerable instance of

_that_.

SIR LUKE.

You are right, my dear girl. But now, to give you a proof of his

wit:--Brentford’s finances are a little out of repair, which procures

him some visits he would very gladly excuse. One morning a Welsh

coachmaker came to him with his bill; my lord had him up. “You are

called Mr. Lloyd, I think?” said Brentford. “At your lordship’s

service, my lord.” “What!--Lloyd with an L?” “With an L, my lord,”

said the coachmaker. “--Because,” said my lord, “I have heard that in

_your_ part of the world, Lloyd and Floyd are synonymous--the very

same names.” “Always, my lord,” said the coachmaker. “That,” says my

lord, “is rather unlucky: for, you must know, I am paying off my debts

alphabetically; and in four or five years you _might_ have come in

with an F; but I can give you very slight hopes for your L.”--Ha, ha,

ha!--(_Enter a servant abruptly, who runs against_ SIR LUKE.)--Can’t

you see where you are running? you rascal!

SERVANT.

Sir, his grace the Duke of ----

SIR LUKE.

Grace!--where is he?--where?

SERVANT.

In his coach at the door. If you a’n’t better engaged, would be glad of

your company to go into the City, and take a dinner at Dolly’s.

SIR LUKE.

In his own coach, did you say?

SERVANT.

Yes, sir.

SIR LUKE.

With the coronets--or----?

SERVANT.

I believe so.

SIR LUKE.

There’s no resisting that:--bid John run to Sir Gregory Goose’s.

SERVANT.

He is already gone to Alderman Inkle’s.

SIR LUKE.

Then do you step to the knight’s. Hey!--no--you must go to my lord’s.

Hold, hold!--no--I have it:--step first to Sir Greg’s; then pop in at

Lord Brentford’s, just as the company are going to dinner.

SERVANT.

What shall I say to Sir Gregory?

SIR LUKE.

Anything!--what I told you before.

SERVANT.

And what to my lord?

SIR LUKE.

What?--why, tell him that my uncle from Epsom----no,--that won’t

do,--for he knows I don’t care a farthing for _him_. Hey!--tell

him--hold!--I have it:--tell him, that as I was getting into my

chair, to obey his lordship’s commands, I was arrested by a couple of

bailiffs, forced into a hackney-coach, and carried to “The Pied Bull”

in the Borough.--I beg ten thousand pardons for keeping his grace

waiting--but his grace knows my misfor----

And away goes Sir Luke, without taking the slightest notice of either

his learned friend the serjeant, or the dear girl Charlotte, both of

whom he leaves perfectly satisfied with the justness of the character

the latter had drawn of her “lame lover.”

The spirit of this bit, and the peculiarities of contemporaneous

society which it exhibits, will perhaps excuse the quotation. The duke

inviting the knight to a dinner at Dolly’s; the knight getting into

his chair to go to dine with the earl, and resting his apology upon an

arrest by bailiffs, and a transfer to “The Pied Bull” in the Borough,

all sound marvellously strange to modern ears: and yet there are still

those alive who well remember Foote, and who speak of him as a correct

painter of manners, and whose inherent humour received additional

brilliancy from his unquestioned power of “holding the mirror up to

Nature.”

Stiffkey, however, was not Limp, and when he and Jack strolled to

the hotel to order their repast, his countenance brightened up

considerably when the waiter handed him a letter, which had been sent

over by somebody coming from Hailsham, to which place it had been

forwarded by the cross-road coach from Dover, and which he in a moment

recognised as being from George Gunnersbury. His announcement to Jack

of this happy arrival was not quite so well received by the little

gentleman in the cords as he imagined it might have been.

Jack walked about the room while his new friend was reading the

despatch, very much in doubt what the nature of its contents might be;

and hoping, with all possible fervour and earnestness, that at all

events it might announce some insurmountable obstacle in the way of the

writer’s visit to Eastbourne.

“Gad!” said Stiffkey, “George is a capital fellow; he will be here

to-morrow afternoon; he writes the best letter of any fellow I know: he

is particularly shy to strangers, but when one knows him thoroughly,

his sly humour, that I spoke of this morning, is capital. He gives

a description of a dinner party they had the other day, which is

admirable. He says, ‘My dear good father, who is certainly the

best-disposed general in his Majesty’s service, contrives to pick up

the oddest tigers imaginable; we had a day or two ago a German baron,

who spoke no English, and, as nobody in our family, except my sister

Eliza, understands three words of German, the poor gentleman--or, by

courtesy--nobleman, had a bad time of it; but we had also a fellow

presented to us, under the fostering protection of a worthy friend

of ours, who beat anything I had ever seen out of a travelling

caravan,--an animal which certainly talked, and was therefore human,

otherwise I should have taken it for an astounding cross in the breed

between an ape and a horse-jockey: he affronted half the party, after

having disgusted all of it, and made his escape from a pelting of

decanters and wine-glasses by affecting to save some people from a

stranded brig, near which he never went, but, instead of venturing

ancle-deep into the water to rescue the sufferers, retired to bed

‘half-seas-over,’ at least, so I have heard; but of these matters we

will discourse more anon. I will be with you by six at the latest.’”

“Capital fun,” said the Colonel, “isn’t it? A cross between an ape and

a horse-jockey! uncommon good!”

“Deuced funny, indeed!” said Jack, whipping his boots; “that’s a

capital fellow,--eh? straight up, right down, and no mistake. We

_shall_ have fun when _he_ comes.”

The detestation which Mr. George Gunnersbury’s personal conduct had

engendered in Jack’s heart in the first instance, had now grown to

its fullest growth; nor was it in the slightest degree qualified by

the accidental omission of his name, or that of his introducer, (as

Jack called it,) which would certainly have rendered the rest of the

day more disagreeable than it promised to be in the company of the

colonel. For the next, Jack, “in course,” was prepared,--a letter from

Town would call him away; and so everything seemed at the moment to

turn up well, out of all the ills that threatened him; his mother’s

answer to his letter from Hythe would, in all probability, come to

hand in the morning, which would give an air of consistency to his

sudden departure, and satisfy his aristocratic friend of the absolute

necessity for breaking up the agreeable party.

After having ordered dinner, the colonel and Jack strolled down on to

the sands, wrote words on the sand with their sticks; sat down on the

shingle; then wandered towards the watch-house; then came back and

talked to the vestals at the baths,--inquired about laver,--found it

too early in the season to have it good; then looked at the half-dozen

carriages which were standing in the coach-house of the hotel; then

went to Weston’s, and bought some gingerbread nuts; then into the

Library, and played with a little ball that went into a hole at the

top of a twisted tube, and came out at the bottom, and rolled about

a little, and at last settled into a hole of its own; then Stiffkey

looked through a glass, and saw a schooner pitching disagreeably, and

Jack went out and helped a little fat-faced child who wore a straw hat

and feather, and trousers, and scarlet morocco slippers, on to the

back of a donkey; and then the colonel puffed little pellets out of a

pea-shooter, across the shop, at a doll, which one of the young ladies

of the establishment immediately removed; and then Jack looked up at a

little bay-window where a prettyish girl was sitting, who immediately

got up and pulled the blind down; and then they both betook themselves

to throwing stones from the beach into the sea, during which operation

they had the satisfaction of seeing Mrs. Peckover and her party draw

up to the door of _her_ house, it then wanting one hour of their time

of dining, and at least two of that, at which Peckover proposed their

dining with _him_. This settled that affair, and convinced them, as

Mrs. Peckover intended it should, that into _her_ house no such persons

as Jack should set foot. The colonel might have been received; but

the moment that Mrs. Peckover, with her lynx eyes, perceived Jack’s

unfortunate white cords and tops, from her balcony, _his_ fate was

decided. She taxed Peckover with the fact of his being one of his

hunting friends, and P. could not endure the trial;--it was so,--and

admitted,--but then, Mrs. Peckover knew everything intuitively.

In divers and sundry pursuits, equally interesting and exciting with

those which have just been described, the two new friends killed the

enemy, until it was time to dress for dinner; they accordingly repaired

to their rooms, Stiffkey’s servant being in readiness to attend him,

and Jack swearing at the incalculable stupidity of his man who was not

there to dress _him_. Jack affected to bear it all with good-nature and

complacency, and it all went very well till he actually found himself

alone, and then it was that he began to calculate whither he should

next go,--for go he must; the arrival of the hated Gunnersbury would

be the signal for his extinction and extermination; but thought Jack,

“At all events, I’m safe till the morning; and then the letter, and all

that, will get me clear off, if it comes; and if it don’t, I must write

one myself.”

Accordingly Jack proceeded to dress, and made himself look uncommon

nice, with an olive-green coat, and a Pomona-green waistcoat, and a

pair of uncommonly smart black kerseymere trousers, with stockings and

shoes to match: in short, he felt that he had done it; and when he

made allowance for the absence of a servant, the approbation of his

elegant friend would no doubt be unqualified: and so down he went to

the dining-room, where, in a few minutes, he was joined by Stiffkey,

who without any effort had achieved that, which Jack could never have

accomplished with a two-hundred horse power. He looked like a gentleman.

The dinner was served, and put down. Stiffkey proposed some of Toone’s

sherry, and one bottle of champaign between the two;--should it be

_moussu_?--well iced;--certainly--the soup was--soup;--the fish not

entirely blameable, and whatever other things there were, were all

tolerable,--each in its way. Claret followed the champaign; and in

about half an hour after they sat down, they were tranquilly sipping

their wine, with a few watering-place pears and cricket-ball peaches

by way of dessert, discoursing upon topics the most interesting and

agreeable.

“If I stayed here,” said the colonel, “I should get some house or

lodging; this hotel is all very well, but it isn’t quite the thing;

and yet I don’t know about a house for a single man,--and, probably, I

shall go back with George in two or three days.”

“There’s certainly a difference,” said Jack, “between this and the

‘Ship’ at Dover: the ‘Ship’ is, in course, the only house fit to go to

there: for my own part, I think that _is_ the worst of travelling;--the

chances and changes,--and then to be ‘run to earth’ here without a

slavey. It is the very deuce,--eh!--uncommon slow, and no mistake.”

“Help yourself to some claret,” said the colonel, cracking a biscuit;

“yes,--it _is_ a bore to be sure. I think you live in Grosvenor street,

when you are in town?--at least I have seen your name on a door there.”

“Yes,” said Jack; “I’m very little at home;--I’m what you call,

everywhere;--I hate being still; whenever I can, I run down to a little

place I have out of town, where I shut myself up whenever I am able.”

“Have you much wood about your place?” said Stiffkey.

Jack recollected the carpenter’s-shop, and said, confidently,--“Yes,

lots.”

“Well,” said the colonel, “I declare I thought you would have married

that Mrs. Dallington.”

“No,” said Jack; “there are many things more than meet the ear;--there

_are_ objections,--so I made way for those, who couldn’t make their

own.”

At this moment the waiter entered the room, and announced that the

London coach had just arrived, and that a lady and gentleman, on the

outside, were inquiring for Mr. Brag.

“For me!” said Jack, a thousand horrid ideas rushing into his brain.

“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, “they are in the hall.”

This announcement startled Jack most tremendously:--a lady enquiring

for him--just arrived. Who could it be?--neither the widow Dallington

nor Miss Blanche Englefield--certainly not. But might it not be

Anne--Nancy? That she had been most violently agitated at beholding

him, was perfectly certain; that the only account he had received of

her feelings or wishes as to breaking off their acquaintance for ever,

was derived from her husband, who might have assumed a tone which,

after all he was not justified by facts in adopting. Perhaps she still

loved him,--still resolved to prove her affection: after struggling

for years, her firmness had yielded, and she had eloped from her new

husband to pass the rest of her life with him.

The first flash of this thought was delightful:

interest--adventure--escape--pursuit--vanity--notoriety--action for

crim. con.--damages--a duel--“a bullet in the thorax”--all whirled

through his well-curled head, as he jumped from his seat at table to

shield and screen the interesting object of his hopes and wishes from

the gaze of Stiffkey, until he was quite sure of his bird;--when,

before he could reach the door, his eyes were greeted, and his ears

astounded, by the appearance of his exemplary mother, and a cry of

“Jack, my boy, how are you?” uttered by that respectable matron.

“My dear ma’am,” said Jack, almost petrified, and extending his

arms,--not for an embrace, but to endeavour to prevent her farther

entrance into the room--“what on earth has brought you here?”

“The stage-coach,” said the old lady. “Come, git out of the way; let us

come in and sit down.”

Saying which, she pushed by her son, to the astonishment of Stiffkey,

who immediately rose from his seat.

“Don’t disturb yourself, sir,” said the lady; “there’s plenty of

room:--only coming outside, the wind blows up all about one, and I’m as

cold as charity--though Jim made me have a glass of hot rum and water

at the last place we stopped at.”

“Very nice beverage, ma’am,” said Stiffkey, with one of his most

graceful bows.

“My dear ma’am,” said Jack, “wouldn’t you rather have another room? We

have scarcely finished dinner, and it would be more comfortable to have

a sitting-room to yourself.”

“They haven’t got another sitting-room disengaged,” said the lady; “Jim

asked them. No matter: what’s good enough for _you_, Jack, is good

enough for _me_; so this will do for us till bed-time.”

“My dear colonel,” said Jack--

“My dear sir,” said Stiffkey, “no apologies. I am too glad to see any

friends of yours--if I don’t intrude.”

“Intrude!” said the lady--“not a bit: we have no secrets, sir. To be

sure, things have turned out queerish: however, you have as much right

here as we, and we as you--so we won’t make no words of that. Why, you

dine late, Jack!”

“No, on the contrary, rather early,” said Jack, perfectly at a loss

what to do, overcome by the unexpectedness of the visit, from its

being so particularly ill-timed, and by the malicious determination

which Stiffkey had too evidently formed of not stirring: indeed,

the announcement of the fact, that there was no other sitting-room

disengaged, would of itself have justified his remaining in what really

was his own apartment, even if he had not wished to stay out a scene

which promised him some amusement.

“Jack,” said the lady, “I want you just to look out and see if Jim is

getting in all the bundles and things.”

“Who is Jim?” said Jack in an under tone.

“Jim Salmon,” said the lady.

“What! is _he_ with you?”

“Yes,” said his mother, “where else should he be?”

At this moment Jem made his appearance, dressed in a tight light

green coat, and a buff-waistcoat, with striped blue and white cotton

trousers, made tightish to his plump figure, a coloured check

handkerchief round his neck, and a white hat stuck on one side of his

head, with a bunch of whitish-red curls sticking out from under it.

“Ah!” said Jem, “Brag, how d’ye do?”--“didn’t expect us. I

reckoned--skimming down here--eh? Titsy would come--agreeable

surprise--twig?”

“Very agreeable, indeed!” said Brag, drawing back somewhat indignantly

from the familiar approach of the _ci-devant_ shopboy.

“Have you got all the parcels up to the bed-room, J. S.?” said the lady.

“Yes, Titsy,” said Jem.

“Got the umbrella, J. S.?” said the lady.

“No, Titsy,” replied Jem, “but I’ll be after it in no time--twig?”

Jack’s dismay and mortification had now risen to a considerable height.

What could have induced his mother to make Jem Salmon her travelling

companion?--what could have induced her to undertake the journey?--or

what Jem could mean by calling his respectable parent “Titsy,” were

to him questions unsolvable. One thing, however, appeared necessary:

the old lady had evidently planted herself for the evening where she

was; Stiffkey, who had scarcely begun his wine, and had no engagement

elsewhere, had quietly deposited himself in an arm-chair: Jack,

therefore, felt it absolutely essential to introduce the colonel

to their fair visiter, resolving, afterwards, to check her in her

conversation, so as to prevent the developement of all the real

circumstances of the case, and trust to chance and impudence to wriggle

through and out of this most “untoward affair.”

“This, Colonel,” said Jack, “is my mother:--Colonel Stiffkey, madam.”

Mutual bows ratified the treaty.

“I say,” said the lady, “put a chair for Jim. P’raps, he is taking a

drop of something.”

“Mr. Salmon, ma’am,” said Brag--“is he coming in?”

“I s’pose so,” said the lady.

“Oh!” said Brag.

“Here he is,” said the lady. “All right now, Jim?”

“Yes, Titsy,” said Jem.

Jack’s astonishment at the repetition of this “familiar word” was too

great to admit of concealment, and accordingly betrayed itself in his

countenance.

“Ah!” said his mother, “that’s it--isn’t it, Jim? He doesn’t know all.”

“No,” said Jem--“don’t twig, Titsy.”

“I told you, John, I should surprise you one of these days,” said his

mother:--“J. S. and I are married!”

“Married!” exclaimed Jack.

“Yes,” said Jem, “Titsy is Mrs. Salmon--d’ye twig?”

“My dear mother,” said Jack, “are you serious?”

“No, Jack,” replied Mrs. James Salmon,--for such she really

was,--“never less serious in my life since your daddy died. All

true:--Jim and I were married last Friday was a week at Hornsey church,

and passed the honey-day--we couldn’t stop out longer on account of the

business--at ‘The Sluice House.’”

“This _is_ really a surprise!” said Stiffkey, sipping his claret,

looking, how--it is impossible to describe.

Jack was, as Major Downing says, “catawampously stumped,” and could say

nothing.

“It oughtn’t to be, sir,” said Mrs. Salmon, addressing herself to the

dandy. “Jack knowed well enough what a lone life I led. He never came

near me--never, except for what you could get, Jack--did you? He

advised me to marry, sir--and I could tell you a pretty story about

_that_, if I liked--eh! Jack?--the pickle-shop. Well, so things went

on, till at last--praise afore people’s faces sometimes spoils them--I

took Jim for better or worse.”

“A very prudent resolve, indeed, ma’am,” said the Colonel, taking a

huge pinch of snuff.

“My dear Colonel,” said Jack, “I am sure we ought to apologize for

troubling you with our family affairs. I wish--eh!--isn’t there any

other room--are you sure?”

“A’nt I?” said Jem--“first thing as I axed about--twig?”

“Get yourself something warm, Jim,” said the ancient bride: “I’m sure

if the cold once gets into your poor little stomach, you’ll have no

rest all night. I know what it is myself to be troubled with cold:--and

I tell you what, Johnny, we shall want a bit of something by way of

supper; for though we had three or four mutton-chops at Godstone, which

were very nicely done, and fine meat too, and uncommon fat, still that

was some time ago--and I get peckish at night somehow.”

“Fat!” said Mr. Salmon--“yes, they _were_ fat--reminded me of the shop,

Brag--twig?”

“I should venture to recommend,” said the colonel with the most studied

politeness, “something to drink--a glass of claret--or----”

“Oh, Lor’ no!” said Mrs. Salmon, “no claret for me, sir: as I used to

say to my poor dear first--Jack’s father--don’t talk to me of claret:

it’s a waste of time as well as of money to drink them sort of thin

stuffs! If Jack was to have behaved like what he is, he might have

asked me to take some kind of refreshment before this; for since the

rum and water at--what do they call that last place we stopped at,

Jemes?”--

“Wholesome, Titsy,” said the bridegroom.

“Hailsham, mother,--Hailsham,” said Jack, “is the name of the place.”

“I haven’t had the least drop as is, in my mouth, since Godstone,”

continued Mrs. Salmon.

“And there,” said Salmon, “the hale was uncommon ’eavy.”

“What! ma’am,” said Stiffkey, “had you a storm, coming down?”

“No, no,” said Jack,--who, although he could not, as his mother

would have said, “exasperate” the _h_ himself, was nervously alive

to the absurdity of anybody else who laboured under a similar

incapacity--“ale--the ale was heavy.”

“Come, Mr. Brag,” said the Colonel, “the wine is with you.”

“Yes,” said Jack, “and I’m not the man to stop it--eh? I like it to

go--keep circulating, as we say, right up, straight down, and no

mistake?”

“What do they charge, John, for claret here?” said Mrs. Salmon,

addressing her son.

“Can’t say, I am sure,” said Jack.

“I say,” said Salmon, leaning over towards his wife, with his hand up

to his mouth to hide a very audible whisper--“that’s _it_--they never

pay!--twig? But, I say, Titsy, what will you have--something hot?”

“Whatever you like, dear,” said the respectable matron.

“I tell you what,” said Salmon, “I’ll just go out and brew for you

myself. I know your taste--eh?--don’t I? Sugar, rum, nutmeg--eh?--twig?”

With this most affectionate speech Mr. Salmon left the room, Jack

regularly used up, and the colonel, who was now convinced that

his particular friend must be the identical creature described in

Gunnersbury’s letter from Dover, having thrown himself back in his

chair, waited to hear what might happen next.

“Sad business about Kitty!” said Mrs. Salmon.

“Yes, mother,” said Jack, “but don’t you think we might as well defer

any discussion of that sort till the morning.”

“Why,” said Mrs. Salmon, “I don’t know; if the gentleman is _your_

friend, there’s no harm speaking out before him,--and I can’t stop here

long. I thought I would surprise you; and I think a bit of a-washing

to-morrow in the sea won’t do me no harm. It’s now two-and-thirty--aye,

let me see, more than that--five-and-thirty years since I was in a bath

of any kind, and I thought if I could manage to see _you_, and tell

you all about my wedding, and talk over poor Kitty’s business, and get

a bit of a wash, all under one, it would be doing a great deal; and as

the whole front of the shop has been new painted, and James has had all

those dangling dips, which you didn’t like, taken down--I said to him,

‘Jim,’ says I, ‘now we’ve got this letter from John, what d’ye say of a

bit of a holiday till the stink of the paint goes off, and then we can

tell him all, how, and about it?’ Don’t you think I was right?”

“Perfectly, ma’am,” said Jack, “perfectly--only I don’t quite

comprehend what you are talking about.”

“I say, sir,” said Mrs. Salmon, appealing to the Colonel, who was

enjoying the scene, and gathering in, all he could collect, wherewith

to amuse his friend Gunnersbury when he should arrive--“isn’t that

good? John’s father and I carried on a most excellent business for

five-and-twenty years:--I’ve got the shop-cards in my pocket now, with

the new name introduced ‘Salmon, successor to Brag:’--and yet he

doesn’t comprehend what I am talking about when I tell him about new

painting the shop, and dowsing the danglers, as Jim says.”

“My dear mother,” said Jack, “hadn’t you better go to bed? I assure you

this travelling--eh?--don’t you think--it has upset you--?”

“Upset! no,” said Mrs. Salmon, “I’m not going to bed at half-past seven

o’clock to please the pope--no, nor the lord-mayor neither: I’m going

to have a nice bit of sum’mut for supper. Here, John, jump up and open

the door--I hear Jim knocking: he has got the grog, or whatever it is.”

Jack, utterly discomfited, did as he was bid.

“Scaldings!” cried Mr. Salmon, his father-in-law--“scaldings!--here it

is, Titsy, as hot as hot. Mind your eye, Brag--shut the door: that’s

right--clever lad--eh?--twig?”

Things had gone so far at this period of the business, that Jack,

seeing it was perfectly impossible longer to blind the colonel to the

real state of the case, gave himself up in despair, and felt convinced

that the morning must afford him safety in flight. The coolness of

Stiffkey during the whole of the proceedings, the unbounded civility

with which he treated the old lady, the dignified goodnature with

which he permitted Mr. Salmon to tread over his feet, and even scatter

the “honey-dew” of the hot mixture, which he had himself prepared

and brought into the room, over his shins, killed Jack, who knew by

experience the mode in which good-breeding receives the coarsenesses

and vulgarities of the world, and saw that the whole fabric of his

favour with the colonel, in erecting which he had passed the entire

day, was fast crumbling to atoms.

“Shall we have some more wine?” said the colonel to Brag, doing the

elegant with as much unaffected grace as if Jack’s mother had been a

duchess who had married a fool for the sake of his title.

“As you like, colonel,” said Jack, “only I fear--”

“Fear nothing,” said Stiffkey, “I never was happier; and if I don’t

bore you----”

“Oh!” said Jack bowing.

“Not in the least, sir,” said Salmon, “we are too happy to have you

stay. I’ve always heard say that it is one of the great advantages of

these watering-places getting into genteel company--eh!--twig?”

Jack could have annihilated the shopboy, although he _was_ his

father-in-law.

“But, as I was saying, John,” said Mrs. Salmon, “because, as the

gentleman tells us, we _may_ speak out before _him_--poor Kitty made

a bad mess of it; she was always a wayward girl,--she quite run away

from George, at last,--so he writes me,--went and lived with other

people,--just as it happened;--all came from drinking, John,” here the

old lady mended her draught. “Wasn’t it shocking, sir?”

“Dreadful ma’am!” said Stiffkey, “very dreadful.”

“My dear mother,” said Jack, “don’t trouble the Colonel.”

“The trouble is a pleasure,” said Stiffkey; “some unfortunate creature,

who, being in the habit of drinking, I suppose, ran away from her

husband: a thing that will happen, ma’am, amongst servants even of the

best character.”

“Servants, sir?” cried Mrs. Salmon.

“My dear mother,” said Jack, “never mind.”

“But I _do_ mind, John,” said the lady, who had just arrived at a

point of obfuscation, at which the main points under discussion

are always forgotten, and the minor incidents shine forth most

brilliantly--“why should the gentleman call _my_ daughter Kitty a

servant?--she never was a servant! she made a foolish match,--ran away

with a serjeant--a reglar common soger,--and then ran away _from_

him,--all ill treatment, sir, and the heat of the climate;--and--”

here Mrs. Salmon burst into a flood of tears; whereupon, Jem, in

order to enlighten the Colonel, and utterly annihilate Jack, gave him

a familiar tap on the shoulder, and said, in a confidential tone,

“bolted,--altogether--quite--entirely,--twig?”

The Colonel drew back shrinkingly from the unexpected familiarity,

and signified by a distant bow that he was sufficiently aware of the

circumstances to which the lady had so feelingly alluded.

“However,” said Mrs. Salmon, recovering, “what’s done can’t be undone;

she is now gone to her long home, and it’s of no use raking up old

grievances: she had a good education, and made a bad use of it; and

what’s more, she was cheated into marrying him; and Nance Brown,--she

was at the bottom of it, and yet she has contrived to get up in the

world; and so has George himself,--how, I don’t pretend to say.”

“My dear mother,” said Jack, “let us talk of something else; it cannot

be very entertaining to the colonel to hear all our grievances.”

“Entertaining!” said Mrs. Salmon, “I’m sure I don’t mean to entertain

anybody. When I feels, I speaks; and why shouldn’t I, John?--an’t it

natural for a mother to feel?”

“Don’t take on so, Titsy,” said Salmon. “There’s some cold boiled leg

of mutton and pickles coming; they are only waiting to get a bit of

potato mashed. I didn’t forget to order your early supper,--twig?”

“You are a kind-hearted creetur,” said Mrs. Salmon to her husband, “and

that makes one feel neglect from others the more; however, we won’t

talk about that. J. S. dear, tell John what alterations we are going to

make at home.”

“To be sure,” said Jem. “I say, Brag, you know that big copper on

the left-hand of the melting-house? I mean to have that put farther

back, and git a door made into the lane, behind the cart-house, so

as we can bring the fat in all reg’lar, without coming through the

front-shop,--twig?”

“Yes, yes,” said Jack, “a very good arrangement--and no mistake.”

“Then, I mean to clap a sky-light on the top of the back-parlour,”

continued Mr. Salmon, “which will make it uncommon lively to what

it was. Why, in the old gentleman’s time, when I was a bit of a

boy, it used to be as dark and as dismal as the Plenipotentiary on

Milbank,--twig?”

“And round it, John,” said Mrs. Salmon, “I mean to have ever so many

flower-pots with gerenums, and fooshies, and you can’t think how nice

they will look in the summer if the cats don’t knock ’em down in the

night.”

“Here’s the mutton, Titsy,” said Jem.

And sure enough, in came the waiter, accompanied by a female assistant

with a tray, on which the promised leg appeared, with pickles and other

condiments,--a dish of mashed potatoes, and a plate of chopped onions.

The maid spread out a second table, and speedily dressed it in a snowy

cloth: the waiter handed and arranged the viands; and while doing so,

announced that some hot chops were on their way.

“Waiter, why don’t you bring us another bottle of claret?” said

Stiffkey, to Jack’s most perfect and entire mortification; who, with

all his vanity and self-love, could not shut his eyes to the certainty

that his elegant friend Stiffkey was merely prolonging his stay, in

order to be amused at his expense; and equally well aware that his

mother and the creature whom he was told was his father-in-law, would,

in the course of the evening, afford him as much entertainment as he

could reasonably expect.

“Now, Titsy,” said Mr. Salmon, “let me put you a chair by the

table,--ready ag’in the chops come. I suppose it’s a compliment to ask

you to join us?” added the engaging Jem, himself to Colonel Stiffkey

and addressing Jack.

“We have just dined,” said Colonel Stiffkey, with the most

imperturbable gravity.

The old bride and young bridegroom having drawn close to the board,

Jack considered he might contrive to manage a few minutes’ explanatory

conversation with the colonel, and therefore drew his chair nearer to

him, as if with a view of facilitating, what an Irish gentleman would

call,--the circulation of the bottle between the two.

“To be sure,” whispered Jack, whose whole character for smartness

and sprightliness, and that sort of slang conversation in which he

ordinarily indulged, had been completely destroyed by the appearance of

visitors, not only unexpected _then_, but never to be expected in their

present relative position--“To be sure, Colonel, there _are_ odd things

in the world. Who, when we sat down here, would have expected this

curious coincidence. By Job! what folly,--eh? a woman at her time of

life to throw herself away upon a fellow of that sort!”

“Very odd,” said Stiffkey, in an equally low tone of voice; “but, at

that time of life, these turns will happen. Of what profession is the

young man?”

“A candle-maker,” said Jack, whispering directly in the colonel’s

ear; having hoisted up one of his little fat hands, trumpet-wise, to

prevent the affectionate chop-eaters from hearing the avowal, and

hoping, even at this straw-catching minute, to devolve the whole of

the responsibility of so disgraceful a business upon his respectable

mother, leaving it to be inferred that she had been love-led into a

connexion much beneath herself.

“Oh!” said Stiffkey.

“Love levels ranks: lords down to cellars bears,

And bids the candle-maker walk up stairs.”

“Very true,” said Jack, “all right,--and no mistake.”

“I say, John,” said Mr. Salmon, who fortunately had not heard this

little colloquy, “just come here: did you ever see closer fat than

this cold mutton? I should like to have twenty or thirty ton of it

down, ready for melting. I could sport a dash of hog in him, and no

fear of spluttering.”

“It’s curious to see,” said Jack, in an under tone to the colonel,

“how, when a man sets himself to trade, he turns everything to shop.”

“Very,” said Stiffkey.

And so it is; but it was much more curious to observe the total

alteration produced in Jack’s manner and language by the unexpected

visitation of his parent, and her hopeful help-mate. It seemed as if he

was altogether unstarched; his hair seemed to uncurl itself, and upon

his pale cheek, and contracted brow, evidently lay the whole weight of

his mortification and dismay.

“Titsy,” said Salmon, “don’t you malt?”

“No, my dear J. S.” replied the lady. “I’m all for something more in

the warm line.”

“That’s right;” said Salmon. “Rum and water, hot, I

consider,--eh?--twig?”

“Exactly so,” replied Mrs. Salmon. “I can’t think how you two,”

turning herself round, and addressing the gentlemen at the other

table, “can go on drinking that wishy-washy stuff,--paying, too, so

much as you do for it. As I said before, I consider it a dead waste of

time,--there’s no goodness, no nourishment in it:--they call riding

in a hack cab, taking danger at eight-pence a mile;--but I call

claret-drinking getting the stomach-ache at ten shillings a bottle.”

“Little and good is Titsy’s motto,” said Jem.

“Yes, J. S. dear,” said the matron, smiling; “that’s the reason I took

_you_.”

“Well said, Titsy,” said Salmon, “she shan’t be a bad un after all.”

That Mr. John Brag was not blessed by nature with any superabundant

proportion of feeling, we have had several opportunities of

ascertaining; but it is only fair to say, that during this, in

every point of view humiliating scene to the pretender, his

uneasiness--misery it might almost be called--upon his own personal

account, was not equal to that which he felt on account of his mother.

That she had made herself, at her time of life, a fool, by marrying

her shop-man, or shop-boy rather, was bad enough; but such things--or

things as extraordinary and silly--happen, _matrimonially_, every

day; and besides, he palliated her absurdity in this affair by the

reflection that he himself had first advised her to marry somebody, in

order to rescue his name from the trammels of trade, and that he had

probably accelerated the consummation of her discredit by his facetious

pranks upon Waterloo Bridge, when he himself contrived to expose her

infirmities for the amusement of his fashionable friends; but, what

_did_ nevertheless pain even _him_, was the sight of his parent--of

the being who had given him birth--associated with such a creature as

Jem Salmon, and by him and his endearing diminutives and nick-names

rendered an object of universal ridicule. To hear this wretched animal

calling a woman three times his age and four times his size, Titsy, was

really and truly tormenting, separated from any prospective feeling

of certainty that the degradation of his once respectable relative

would form the subject of Stiffkey’s most animated description of the

humours of Eastbourne, to be hereafter given to his expected visitor

and surrounding friends.

“I say, John,” said Mrs. Salmon, warming with her refreshment, “John,

when you were at home last, you did not think I should get the start of

you, however much you advised it. I haven’t heard of your marrying a

Lady Sally, or a Lady Susan, with forty or fifty thousand pounds tacked

to the title;--I’ve heard of your doings though, in other places.”

“Probably,” said Jack, “one can’t help being talked about.”

“I mean with Mrs. ----, what’s the name? J. S.” said Mrs. Salmon;--“up

there, by ----.”

“Dallington, d’ye mean,” said Jem.

“Yes, that’s it,” said the matron; “we heard that story last week--not

half a day after it happened.”

“What is that?” said Stiffkey, _sotto voce_ to Brag.

“I’m sure I don’t know what my mother means,” said Jack; nor did he,

nor could he comprehend how she came to know the name of the lady.

“Don’t you, Johnny? I do,” said his mother; “so does J. S., don’t

_you_? Now, I think I owe you a turn, for playing me off on the bridge,

so I’ll have a laugh at your expense--all in fun, now it’s over.”

“My dear mother,” said Jack, “pray don’t talk about that affair.”

“No, not a syllable,” said Mrs. Salmon; “only we know all about your

making love to the two sisters at once--don’t we, Jemes?”

“I believe we do too, Titsy,” said Salmon; “two at a time, that’s all,

John--eh--twig?”

“What, ma’am?” said Stiffkey, who found he had completely succeeded in

making Mrs. Salmon consider him “quite the gentleman;” “did our friend

try his ambidextrous fortune with both ladies?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Salmon, “about whose fortune he tried; all I

know he got none--between two stools, Johnny--”

--“I know, my dear mother,” said Jack, “the proverb is by no means new.”

“No,” said the lady, “nor the moral of it neither; the way we come to

know of it was through the lady’s housekeeper; they deal with us for

coarse stock, stores and rushlights.”

“And ile, Titsy,” said Salmon.

“Yes,” said the lady; “and so Jemes, you see, went round collecting,

and so--but you tell the story, J. S., dear.”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself, sir,” said Jack.

“Pray go on, Mr. Salmon,” said Stiffkey.

“Why, I tell you how it was,” said Salmon; “I was a just stepping round

and collecting, as Titsy says,--for we had an unmerciful heavy bill to

pay our broker, and I happens to call at Mrs. Dallington’s--so--the

family was just gone out o’ town--lets see--when was it, Titsy?--one

day late in last week--and so I sees the housekeeper--Mrs. Cropper--I

know’d her in her last place--so I tells her about our little account,

and she says, says she, looking at the bill, ‘I wonder, now, if your

master’s any relation to the little man which my missus sent away a

night or two ago, with a flea in his ear.’”

“I must beg,” said Jack,--“I--shall leave the room if this goes on

any farther--I don’t want to know the secret history of people of my

acquaintance, squeezed out of servants--I don’t want to know about any

little man.”

“No, love, _do_ hear,” said Mrs. Salmon; “it only shows how things gits

round.”

“So, I says, says I,” continued Salmon, “I can’t judge unless you tell

me what sort of a little man he is.--‘Why,’ she says, says she, ‘his

name’s Brag--he’s a smartish kind of a chap, with a curly head; and as

full of the gab as an egg’s full of meat.’--‘A sporting chap?’ says

I.--‘Always a hunting,’ says she.--So then I just rubs up my hair,

and puts up my collar, and gives her a bit of a take-off of you, jist

after your manner, ‘smack, smooth, right up, straight down, and no

mistake.’ Whereupon Mrs. Cropper--she’s an uncommon good-natured old

thing--she claps her two hands together and says, says she, ‘By gosh

that’s he--that’s the chap as wanted somehow to marry my mistress and

her sister too, and got kicked out according_ly_,’--twig?”

“Mr. Salmon,” said Brag, trembling with rage, or something else, and

looking as white as a sheet, “the unfortunate connexion which my mother

has formed with you, keeps me quiet--if--it was not for that----”

“Don’t agitate yourself,” said Stiffkey, with the most perfect _sang

froid_. “Mr. Salmon means no harm, I’m sure.”

“Harm, not he,” said Mrs. Salmon, “he’s only lively, and wants a bit of

fun.”

“Fun! the devil, ma’am!” said Jack: “I shall say nothing; but as for

staying in this room a minute longer, I will not; nor, ma’am, will I

ever set foot in any place in which that person is to be found. I never

was consulted in _your_ match--and sure you might run your own race

without coming crossing and jostling me on _my_ course. Colonel,” added

Jack, “I am quite sure this business must be as disagreeable to you

as it is disgusting to me--perhaps you will follow my example. I shall

be glad, ma’am, to say a few words to _you_ in the morning--and I wish

_you_ a good evening.”

“I am extremely sorry, Mr. Brag,” said the Colonel, “that you are

annoyed. It only seems a little playfulness,--it _must_ be all a joke.”

“No joke at all, sir,” said Mrs. Salmon; “it’s all true, only what I

say to Jack is, them as throws stones shouldn’t live in glass houses.”

“Well, I’m sure, Titsy,” said Jem. “I’d no notion of this blow up when

we came in--I meant to be all pleasant and agreeable.”

“Come, Colonel,” said Jack.

“Good evening, ma’am,” said the Colonel. “I suppose I _must_ go, but I

assure you I am particularly sorry to leave such agreeable society.”

“Where’s Jack?” said Mrs. Salmon.

“Gone out, Titsy,” said Jem.

“Like one of his own rushlights, ma’am,” said the Colonel, who

immediately followed him, putting his finger to his nose, archly, as he

quitted the room.

“Bravo, Colonel,” said Salmon;--“that’s a prime chap, anyhow--eh? Who’d

have thought of John’s bristling up in that kind of hedge-hog fashion.

I’m sure I only wanted to give the Colonel a little touch of _my_ way

of taking off.”

“Yes, my dear J. S.,” said the matron, “and the Colonel seems to have

returned the compliment. I’m sorry you offended Jack, for I wanted you

to be friends.”

“Then, Titsy, why did you set me on,” said Jem;--“you know’d when once

my spirit’s up, I can’t stop it.”

“Why, somehow,” said Mrs. Salmon, “the rum and water was strong.”

“’Twas stiffish--twig?” said Salmon.

“However,” continued the lady, “a fine morning is a good peace-maker,

and I dare say we shall all be friends again for the short time we have

to stay; besides, to tell _you_ the truth, I never quite believed that

Mrs. Cropper’s story.”

“I’d trust her with my life,” said James, “as steady a going cretur,

full of fun as she is, as ever trod shoe leather,--takes a tip of two

pounds per annum, and is quite satisfied; can’t get off with Mr. Evans,

the butler, for twice that. No, no, Titsy, as Jack says, leave me alone

to deal with the fair sex.”

“Oh you divil!” said Mrs. Salmon, “ring the bell, J. S., and let us

retire for the night; early as it is, I’m tired, and a little vexed

into the bargain.”

“Don’t worry yourself, Titsy,” said James. “I dare say it will be all

right to-morrow--eh? smack, smooth, and no mistake,--twig?”

“Now, J. S.,” said Mrs. Salmon, “don’t go on doing _that_, that’s a

dear--there’s nothing folks is so sore about, as being taken off in

that way--don’t do it.--Johnny lives in good company, as you see; it

is true he has got a particular way of talking, and all that you said

about what he had done, and all about the ladies, and Cropper and all,

never stirred him no more than you could stir a fire without a poker;

till you come to mimic him--that it was set his blood up. I saw his

little eyes winking, winking, and his face get as white as a sheet,

and I’m sure I never meant to put him in a passion--only--no--it was

that----”

“Are you cross, Titsy?” said Jem.

“Not a bit cross,” said Mrs. Salmon, “only he’s as touchy as

touch-wood--so don’t go and aggravate him to-morrow.”

“I promise and wow, Titsy,” said Salmon, “I will _that_ do--only you

see, being as I consider now, his superior, what the sogers call

commanding officer, I think he might have treated me with a little more

respect.”

“Never mind _that_,” said the lady, “ring the bell, and let’s bundle.

I’m dead tired--the wind blew so fresh--and I can tell you the top of a

coach is not as soft to sit on, as the cushion of my arm-chair, I’m all

shaken to pieces.”

J. S. did as he was bid, and the chamber-maid speedily appeared to

attend the matronly bride to her chamber, J. S. remaining below as he

thought it proper to do, until he was summoned to his roost. This dull

interval he occupied by imbibing a refreshing glass of some favourite

mixture, and in reflecting upon the unexpected sort of reception he had

met with from his son-in-law. However, he had scarcely finished his

“tipple,” as he called it, when he was summoned by the attendant sylph,

the respected Mrs. Salmon not occupying any very considerable period of

time in making her preparations for what she called “tumbling in.”--Jem

drained his goblet, and ascended the stairs, and “maid-directed,” found

the door of the room which contained his treasure.

By a preconcerted arrangement the waiter had been engaged to go, or

send over, to the library, whither _faute de mieux_, the colonel

and Jack had retreated from the unbearable fire of Mr. Salmon’s

extraordinary liveliness, to let them know when the happy pair

were gone to bed, inasmuch as they might return to their temporary

domicile, and enjoy a few tranquil moments before _they_ retired to

rest. The moment, therefore, that the Salmonean savages had “quitted

the ground,” a message was conveyed to the dandy and his friend,

informing them that the coast was clear; and this message arrived at

the library precisely at the moment when Jack had declined playing any

longer billiards, because he knew nothing of the game, and because he

preferred _ecarté_.

The word _ecarté_ sounded mellifluously to the colonel’s ear--_he_

could play the game a little; should they go back to the hotel and try

a hand or two--first directing his servant to open the windows and

“freshen” the room--order broiled bones at twelve, and not play later

than two--positively?

Brag, the moment he heard this proposition from the colonel, was

convinced that all was right, and “no mistake;” the absurdities of

his poor mother, and the grossnesses of his youthful father-in-law

had evidently made no impression. The colonel saw the gentleman in

_him_, and the very suggestion of broiled bones, ventilated rooms, and

_ecarté_ till two, settled the affair. It was all arranged, and Stiff

key’s man was to teach the willing hostess of the hotel how to concoct

a particular sort of punch, which Sir Stumpey Dubs, a wealthy friend

of his master, had invented,--of which composition, averse as the

colonel was from strong drink, the weakest ingredient was Jamaica rum,

the whole compound forming a sort of beverage which reminded you, in

the morning, that you had swallowed it the night before, by a sensation

very much like that which would have been occasioned by the dislocation

of every limb belonging to your body.

Colonel Stiffkey was the most perfect “gentleman”--not to use the term

as Brag would use it, but in its purest and most unquestioned shape.

He was not brilliant as a wit, but he played his part as well as his

associates in the every-day give-and-take conversation of the best

society. The immovable quietude and imperturbable civility which he

displayed before the bride and bridegroom, were part of his system.

Nobody who did not know his heart of hearts could find out whether he

was delighted or distressed by that, which was passing before him. His

mind, with regard to Brag, had been for some hours made up; and in all

probability the next morning would be the last on which he even would

endeavour to recollect his name: but before that morning came, there

intervened an evening,--that evening was to be passed, somehow. Mr.

Brag preferred _ecarté_; we have seen the preparatory arrangements in

consequence of that preference.

Stiffkey and Brag walked back from the library to their sitting-room,

whence had been removed, besides the nuisances, which had removed

themselves, all the “provender,” upon which they had battened. A

card-table had been placed by the colonel’s man, and a small table by

the side of it, on which stood two well-sized glasses, out of which

they were to imbibe a certain quantity of the West-Indian mumbo-jum,

punctiliously prepared according to the recipe of Sir Stumpy.

The room had resumed its former pleasing aspect. Jack found no

difference in the manner of his friend, who, in the kindest manner,

kept periodically praising England as the only nation perhaps in the

world which furnished the brightest ornaments to society from trades

and professions--throwing in an agreeable observation now and then,

that if such were the facility in other countries, the intellects

of the people would prevent their availing themselves of it; and,

in short, that what the French sage had said of our population in

comparing it with our porter, that the top was all froth, the bottom

all dregs, and the middle the “stout and efficient,” was most true.

This encouragement, wonderfully aided by the arrival of Stiffkey’s

servant with a closely covered jug of the invaluable compound, raised

Jack’s spirits so high, that for the moment he threw overboard all the

previous occurrences of the evening, and felt satisfied in his own mind

that the fact of his mother’s having married injudiciously, could and

would have no possible effect upon his future fashionable career.

“Now then,” said the Colonel, “taste _that_: if you don’t like it, I’m

mistaken.”

Jack filled a glass and sipped. “Like it!--Gad! who wouldn’t--eh?--goes

down like milk, and no mistake.”

The resumption of his pet phrases, the renewed twiggle of his

hair, and the revived pull up of his collars, proclaimed “_Johannes

redivivus_.”

“Well,” said the Colonel, with a tone of perfect indifference, “shall

we have a touch at _ecarté_? The broiled bones will come at twelve.”

“All right, and no mistake,” said Jack.

“What shall we play?” said the Colonel, listlessly shuffling one of the

two packs of cards which his servant had put down--“don’t let it be

high--five pound points, and ten pound consequences?”

“Anything you like,” said Jack. “I lost twenty pounds to that man at

billiards. How he pulled up in his play after the bet!”

“Did he?” said the Colonel--“I didn’t observe. Do try some more of that

excellent stuff. We will go to-morrow, if you stay here, to an old

friend of mine who lives about five miles from this, and I’ll show you

how _he_ drinks it: he’ll be delighted to see you.”

This put Jack upon the top of a pinnacle. Colonel Stiffkey, after all

he had seen and heard, proposed the very next day to take him to visit

an old friend at his place five miles off! Poor Jack! Colonel Stiffkey

had no such friend; neither if he had, would he have taken Jack with

him: furthermore, he knew, _that_ which Jack at the moment had himself

quite forgotten, that he could not stay out the following day where his

mother was: but Stiffkey wanted Jack to play _ecarté_ at his ease--and

so he did, knowing no more of the game than a child of ten years old.

The results of the sitting were--broiled bones at half past twelve,

more of Sir Stumpy Dubs’s mixture at half past one, and a retreat at

half past two o’clock in the morning, at which time Mr. John Brag

handed over to Colonel Stiffkey two hundred and fifty pounds of the

cash he had received from Lord Tom Towzle two days before; and an I.

O. U. for three hundred and forty more, which the gallant colonel,

in consideration of the ready money already received, very readily

accepted in part payment of a balance of five hundred and ninety

pounds, which, under the influence of Sir Stumpy Dubs’s mixture, the

curly-headed adept at _ecarté_ had lost to his aristocratic associate.

The friends separated and retired to rest, the colonel’s servant

kindly assisting Mr. Brag to his room,--the colonel, who required no

assistance, going to his room by himself.

It was not, however, until both these worthies--either of them

curiously instructive in his way,--had betaken themselves to their

respective beds--that the innate truth of their characters was made

manifest. Jack, broken down by the most extraordinary combination of

circumstances,--abused, degraded, and exposed by the man whom his

mother had by way of an agreeable surprise, brought down to see and

present to him, in the hope of conciliating everything, lay desponding,

as deeply as he could in his peculiar state, as to the mischief his

unhappy parent might have done him by her appearance there; consoling

himself, on the other hand, in his blessed ignorance of human nature,

with the belief that the colonel was so entirely his friend, that not

only what had occurred had made no change in his sentiments, but that

not a syllable of the events of the preceding evening would transpire;

and absolutely revelling in the idea that the loss of his five hundred

and ninety pounds would not only ensure this much-desired secrecy, but

cement a long and lasting friendship between them.

The colonel, who, like a skilful practitioner, had carefully abstained

from swallowing the draughts which he had prescribed, laid his cool

unthrobbing head upon his pillow, perfectly satisfied with having so

well executed his ingenuity in the up-turning of kings, and other

curious arrangements of the cards; consoling himself with the justice

of outwitting so complete a charlatan as his temporary companion of the

tallow tribe; and concluding if he never received one farthing’s worth

of value for the I. O. U., the worth of which he considered somewhat

equivocal, that he had adequately paid himself for the smell of onions

and hot rum and water, and the still more oppressive conversation of

his friend’s intimate connexions immediately after dinner, by the

first receipt of the two hundred and fifty pounds cash in Bank notes.

Such were the thoughts and reflections of Mr. John Brag and his

aristocratic friend as they dropped off to their slumber on this

memorable night. What visions might have occupied the minds of Mrs.

Salmon and her dear J. S. it is not our province even to surmise: they

are asleep, and lest the reader should fall into a similar state of

quiescence, the chapter ends.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY,

Dorset Street, Fleet Street.

Transcriber’s Notes

1. Page 33, line 4: miuutes --> minutes (two or three minutes).

2. Page 291, last line: repectable --> respectable (said the respectable

matron).

3. In text file: Italic text represented with surrounding _underscores_.

4. In text file: Small caps represented with ALLCAPS.