While thus idling away his time, and picturing in his mind's eye the

perplexed visages of Mr. Smith and his guest when they should become

acquainted with the extent of their calamity, Dick's attention was

suddenly directed to the sound of voices near him. He listened; and,

from the dulcet accents in which the conversation was carried on, felt

persuaded that the parties were making love. Curious to ascertain who

they were, he retreated behind one of the broadest elms on the terrace,

and there beheld a dry old maid, thin as a thread-paper, and straight

as a stick of sealing-wax, smirking and affecting to blush at something

that was whispered in her ear by a young man. Our adventurer fancied

that the latter's person was familiar to him; so, the instant the

enamoured turtles separated, he emerged from his hiding-place, and saw,

advancing towards the bench he had just quitted, an old com-rogue, to

whom in his better days he had lost many a sum at the gaming-table.

The recognition was mutual.

"What! Dick Diddler?"

"What! Sam Spragge?"

"Why, Sam, what has brought you here at this hour?" quoth our hero.

Samuel smiled, and pointed significantly towards the ancient virgin, who

was just then crossing the Heath, near the donkey-stand.

"Hem! I understand. Much property?"

"Eight hundred a year at her own disposal, and two thousand _three per

cents_ at the death of a crusty, invalid brother-in-law, who lives with

her in that old-fashioned house she is now entering."

"Eight hundred a year!" said Dick musing; "lucky dog! And how long have

you known her?"

"Oh! an eternity. Three days."

"And where did you pick her up?"

"Under a gateway in Camden Town, where we were both standing up from the

rain."

"You seem to have made excellent use of your time."

"Nothing easier. I could see at a glance that she was quite as anxious

for a husband as I am for a rich wife; so, after some indifferent chat

about the weather, &c. I prevailed on her to accept of my escort home;

talked lots of sentiment as we jogged along under my umbrella; praised

her beauty to the skies,--for she is inordinately vain, though ugly

enough, as you must have seen, to scare a ghost--and, in short, did not

quit her till she had promised to meet me on the following day."

"And she kept her word, no doubt?"

"Yes, I have now seen her four times, and am sure that if I could but

muster up funds enough for a Gretna-green trip,--for she has all the

romance of a boarding-school girl,--I could carry her off this very

night. But I cannot, Dick, I cannot;" and Sam heaved a sigh that was

quite pathetic.

"Can you not borrow of her?--'tis for her own good, you know."

"Impossible! I have represented myself as a man of substance; and,

were she once to suppose me otherwise, so quick-witted is she on money

matters, that she would instantly give me my dismissal."

"And what is your angel's name?"

"Priscilla Spriggins."

"My dear fellow," exclaimed Dick with a sudden burst of emotion, "from

my soul I pity you; but, alas! sympathy is all I have to offer:--look

here!" and, turning his empty pockets inside out, he displayed two holes

therein, about as big as the aperture of a mousetrap.

An expressive pause followed this touching exhibition; shortly after

which the two adventurers parted,--Sam returning towards London, with a

view, no doubt, of seeking, like Apollyon, "whom he might devour;" and

Dick remaining where he was, casting ever and anon a glance towards the

house where the fair Priscilla vegetated, and meditating, the while, on

the revelation that had just been made to him.

Tired at length of reverie, he rose from the bench, and made his way

back into Hampstead,--slowly, for every step was bringing him nearer the

residence of his unreasonable landlady. On passing down by Mount Vernon,

he beheld the walls on either side of him placarded with hand-bills

announcing that an auction was to take place that day at a large old

family mansion (the by-streets of Hampstead abound in such) close by:

and, on moving towards the spot, he saw, by the groups of people who

were lounging at the open door, that the sale had already begun. By way

of killing an idle half-hour or so, Dick entered; and, elbowing his way

up stairs, soon found himself in a spacious drawing-room, crowded with

pictures, vases, old porcelain, and other articles of _virtù_.

Just at that moment the auctioneer put up a landscape painting by one of

the old masters, on which he expatiated with the customary professional

eloquence. "Going, ladies and gentlemen, going for two hundred

pounds--undoubted Paul Potter--highly admired by the late lamented

Lawrence--sheep so naturally coloured, you'd swear you could hear 'em

bleat--frame, too, in excellent condition--going--going----"

"Two hundred and thirty!" said a small gentleman in spectacles, raising

himself on tip-toe to catch the auctioneer's eye.

"Two hundred and fifty" shouted another.

"Going for two hundred and fifty," said the man in the rostrum; after

a pause, "upon my word, ladies and gentlemen, this is giving away the

picture. Pray look at that fore-shortened old ram in the background;

why, his two horns alone are worth the money. Let me beg, for the honour

of art, that----"

"Three hundred!" roared Dick, with an intrepid effrontery that extorted

universal respect,--for to his other amiable qualities he added that of

being a "brag" of the first water, and was proud, even though it were

but for a moment, of displaying his consequence among strangers.

As this was the highest bidding, the picture was knocked down to our

hero, who, having cracked his joke, and gratified his swaggering

propensities, was about to beat a retreat, when he found his elbow

twitched by a nervous, eager little man,--a duodecimo edition of a

virtuoso,--who had only that moment entered the room.

"So you have purchased that Paul Potter, sir, I understand," said the

stranger, wiping the perspiration from his bald head, and evidently

struggling with his vexation.

Dick nodded an affirmative, not a little curious to know what would come

next.

"Bless my soul, how unlucky! To think that I should have been only five

minutes too late, and such a run as I had for it! Excuse the liberty

I am taking, but have you any wish to be off your bargain, sir?--not

that I am particularly anxious about the picture--I merely ask for

information; that's all, sir, I assure you," added the virtuoso, aware

that he had committed himself, and endeavouring to retrieve his blunder.

Dick cast one of his most searching glances at the stranger; and,

reading in his countenance the anxiety he would fain have concealed

under a show of indifference, said in his slyest and most composed

manner, "May I beg to be favoured with your name, sir?"

"Smithson, sir,--Richard Smithson, agent to Lord Theodore Thickskull,

whose picture-gallery I have the honour of a commission to furnish;

and happening to read a day or two ago in the "Times" that a few old

paintings were to be disposed of by auction here on the premises, I

thought, perhaps----"

"Indeed! That alters the case," replied our hero with an air of

dignified courtesy, "for I have some slight acquaintance with his

lordship myself."

"Bless my soul, how odd!--how uncommon odd! Possibly, then, for my

lord's sake, you will not object to----"

"No," replied Dick smiling, "I did not say that."

"Rely on it, sir," continued the fidgety little virtuoso, "you are

mistaken in your estimate of that painting. They say it is a Paul

Potter; but it's no such thing--no such thing, sir."

"Then why are you so anxious to get possession of it?"

"Who? I, sir? Bless my soul, I'm not anxious. I merely thought that

as his lordship was particularly partial to landscapes, he might be

tempted, perhaps, to give more--"

"Well," said Dick, eager to bring the matter to a conclusion, "as I have

no very pressing desire to retain the picture, though it is the very

thing for my library in Mount-street, you shall have it; but on certain

conditions."

"Name them, my dear sir, name them," said the virtuoso, his eyes

sparkling with animation.

"I have bought the painting," resumed Dick, "for three hundred guineas;

now, you shall have it for six hundred. You see I put the matter quite

on a footing of business, without the slightest reference to his

lordship."

"Six hundred guineas! Bless my soul, impossible!"

"As you please," replied our hero with exquisite nonchalance; "I am

indifferent about the matter."

"Say four hundred, sir."

"Not a farthing less. The pictures in this house, as the advertisement

which brought me up here at this unseasonable hour, before I had

even time to complete my toilette, justly observes, have been long

celebrated, and----"

"I'll give you five hundred," replied Smithson, cutting short Dick's

remarks.

"Well, well, for his lordship's sake----"

"Good!" exclaimed the virtuoso; and hurrying Dick to a more quiet corner

of the room, he took out pen and inkhorn, wrote a check on a West-end

banker for the amount of the balance, thrust it into his hand, and then,

after assuring him that he would arrange everything with the auctioneer,

and would not trouble him to stay longer, hurried away towards the

rostrum, as though he feared our hero would repent the transfer of a

painting for which he himself imagined he should be able to screw about

eight hundred pounds out of his lordship, who was remarkable for the

readiness with which he paid through the nose.

No sooner had Dick lost sight of Mr. Smithson, than away he flew from

the house, bounding and taking big leaps like a ram, till he reached

the main street, when, changing his exultant pace for a more sober

and gentlemanlike one, he hailed the Hampstead coach, which was about

leaving the office, snugly ensconced himself inside, and within the hour

was deposited at Charing-cross.

"Coachman," quoth our hero, as the Jehu, having descended from his box,

held out his hand to receive the usual fare, "I am rather delicately

situated."

"Humph!" replied the man, who seemed perfectly to comprehend, though not

to sympathise with, the delicacy of the case, "sorry for it; but master

always says, says he----"

"The fact is," continued Dick, interrupting what bade fair to become a

prolix Philippic, "though I have not a farthing in my pocket, having

forgotten to take out my purse this morning, yet as I am just going

to receive cash for a two hundred pound cheque, and shall return with

you to Hampstead, I presume the delay of an hour will make no great

difference."

The coachman, whose white round face usually beamed with all the bland

expression of a turnip, evinced symptoms of an uneasy distrust at this

speech; but when Dick exhibited the cheque--not relishing the idea of a

"bolt," long experience having no doubt taught him that coachmen running

after a fare are apt to run with most inconvenient velocity--when,

I say, Dick exhibited this convincing scrap of paper, all Jehu's

suspicions vanished, and, touching the shining edge of his hat, he

absolved our hero from extempore payment, with a bow that might have

done honour to a Margate dancing-master.

This knotty point settled, the ingenious Richard next posted off in a

cab to the banker's,--for it was beneath his dignity to walk,--presented

his cheque, received the amount, placed it securely in his waistcoat

pocket, and then made all possible haste to a well-known shop in the

neighbourhood of Piccadilly, where every item necessary to perfect the

man of fashion may be procured at a minute's notice.

Our hero entered the shop in a condition bordering upon the shabby

genteel, though his person and address were a handsome set-off against

the infirmities of his apparel: he came out dressed in the very height

of ton. The hue of his linen was unimpeachable; his pantaloons fitted

to a miracle; his coat was guiltless of a wrinkle. Then his gay, glossy

silk waistcoat, to say nothing of--but enough; the metamorphosis was

complete--the snake had cast its skin--the grub was transformed into the

butterfly.

But, startling as was the change which his Hampstead speculation had

wrought in his person, still more so was its effect on his mind. Here

an entire revolution was already in full activity. Vast ideas fermented

in his brain. He no longer crept along with the downcast look of an

adventurer, but stared boldly about him, as one conscious that he was

somebody. And so he was. It is not every one who cuts a figure at the

West-end that can boast of the possession of two hundred pounds!

On his road back to Charing-cross, the first object which caught our

hero's eye was the Hampstead coach preparing to set out on its return.

The sight brought to his recollection the fair Priscilla Spriggins; and

in an instant, with the decision of a Napoleon, he resolved to make a

"Bold Stroke for a Wife," and carry her of to Gretna that very night.

The scheme was hopeless, you will say: granted; but Dick was formed to

vanquish, not be vanquished by, circumstances. "Faint heart never won

fair lady," said he; "so here goes;" and in he popped.

It was now about two o'clock, the hour when the fair inhabitants of

our cockney Arcadia are in the habit of taking the air on the Heath,

some with work-bags, some with the "last new novel," but the majority

with "Bentley's Miscellany" in their hands. Dick no sooner reached the

donkey-stand, than he seated himself on a bench close by,--where two

young ladies were standing, fondly imagining that they beheld Windsor

Castle through a spyglass,--and looked anxiously about him, to see if he

could detect Miss Spriggins among the peripatetics. But no Priscilla was

visible. How, therefore, should he act? "Wait," said common sense; so

Dick waited.

Half an hour had elapsed, and he was beginning to get impatient, when

suddenly, on casting his eyes towards the lady's house, he saw the door

open, and Miss Spriggins herself stepped forth, with a novel in one

hand, and a pea-green parasol in the other. Dick watched her motions as

a cat watches a mouse: saw her steal away towards a retired quarter of

the Heath, and, having made up his mind as to the line of conduct he

should pursue, started from his seat and followed quickly in her wake.

On reaching her side, "Miss Spriggins, I presume?" said he with a

profound obeisance.

"The same, sir," replied the surprised Priscilla.

"Ah! madam," resumed Dick, bursting at once into a sentimental vein,

for he felt that every minute was precious, "happy am I to see that

enchanting face once more."

"Excuse me, sir," said Miss Spriggins, affecting to bridle up; "but

really I do not comprehend----"

"Comprehend, madam!--and how should you? I scarcely comprehend myself.

But how should it be otherwise, when for weeks past I have daily

wandered over this romantic heath, hoping, but, alas! in vain, to

catch one stray gleam of that sunny beauty which last April--how well

I remember the date!--so riveted my fancy as it flashed on me from

the front drawing-room of yonder house;" and Dick pointed towards

Priscilla's dwelling.

"Really, sir, this language----"

"Is the language of frenzy, maybe; but it is the language also of

passion. Ah! madam, if you but knew the flame that that one casual

glimpse of your bewitching countenance lit up in my unhappy heart,

you would pity what I now feel. Would to God that you were as much a

stranger to me as I am to you, for then I should cease to be the wretch

I am;" and Dick, having no onion ready, turned away his head, and

covered his face with his handkerchief.

"Sir," replied Miss Spriggins, startled, yet far from displeased, "I

really know not what answer to make to this most extraordinary----"

"Extraordinary, madam? Is it extraordinary to admire beauty--to

reverence perfection--to live but in the hope of again seeing her who,

once seen, can never be forgotten--is this extraordinary? If so, then am

I the most extraordinary of men. Revered Priscilla,--Miss Spriggins, I

should say,--your beauty has undone me. I should have joined my regiment

at Carlisle ere now; but you, and you only, have kept me lingering in

this sylvan district. Ah, lady! Captain Felix O'Flam was happy till he

saw you,--happy, even though deceived by one whom he once thought his

friend."

The fair Priscilla, whose predominant infirmity, as has been before

observed, was an indigestion of celibacy, could not witness the

affliction of the dashing young man before her, without sympathising

with him; perceiving which, Dick continued, "I see you pity me, lady,

and your pity would be still more profound did you know all. It is

no later than last week that I became acquainted with the arts of an

adventurer named Spragge, who, for months previously, having wormed

himself into my confidence, had led me to believe that----"

"Spragge!" interrupted Miss Spriggins with a look of huge dismay; "and

pray what sort of a person may he have been?"

In reply, Dick described Sam to the life; whereupon his companion, no

longer able to conceal her rage, exclaimed abruptly, "The wretch!--what

an escape have I had!"

"Escape, madam! How so? Has the villain dared to deceive you, as he has

me? I know that he is one of those plausible, unprincipled adventurers

about town, who make a point of preying on the unwary--and such he must

have considered me, when he introduced himself one morning as a relation

of the commanding officer of my regiment;--but that he should have

presumed to----"

"Oh no, captain," replied Miss Spriggins with evident embarrassment; "I

was never his dupe. He merely called,--if indeed it be the same person,

as I feel convinced it is,--one day last week at my brother's, on some

pretence or other, which--which--But I have done with him, the monster!"

"Call on you, madam!" replied Dick, adroitly giving in to the lady's

little deviation from fact, "call on you, when _I_ dared not approach

your threshold! But enough--I'll cut his throat!"

"No, no, captain; believe me, he is unworthy of your revenge."

"You say right, madam; for, since I have found reason to suspect him,

I have instituted inquiries into his character, and am told that he is

beneath contempt. Why--would you believe it?--the fellow has been twice

ducked in a horse-pond, for thimble-rigging, at Epsom,--flogged at the

cart's tail for petty larceny, rubbed down with vinegar and set in the

black-hole to dry."

"Mercy on us! you don't say so?"

"Fact. But to quit this unworthy theme, and revert to a more pleasing

one:--May I, lady,"--and Dick here put on his most wheedling air,--"may,

I, having at length been honoured with one interview with you, presume

to hope for a second? Say only that we may again meet,--nay, that this

very evening we may take a stroll together through these sequestered

shades,--and make me the happiest of men. Alas! I once thought that

fortune alone was necessary to constitute felicity; but, now that I

have _that_, I feel 'tis as nothing; and that love,--disinterested,

impassioned love,--is the main ingredient in the cup of human bliss.

Give me but the woman I adore, and I ask--I expect nothing further; but

wealth without her is a mere mockery."

This rhapsody had more effect on his companion than anything Dick had

yet said. It was a shot between wind and water.

"Oh, captain!" replied Priscilla, "I appreciate your generous

sentiments; and, to convince you that I am not unworthy to share them,

will--however strange it may appear in a young and timid female--consent

to see you once more. But, remember, it must be our last interview;" and

she sighed,--and so did Dick.

"Adieu, then, idol of my soul! if so I may presume to call you,"

exclaimed this ingenuous young man; "adieu, till the shades of twilight

lengthen along the horse-pond hard by the donkey-stand, when we will

meet again, and the thrice-blessed Felix----" Dick stopped: seized the

lady's hand, which she faintly struggled to withdraw; imprinted on it

a kiss that "came twanging off," as Massinger would say; and then tore

himself away, as if fearful of trusting himself with farther speech.

On quitting Priscilla's side, Dick rattled across the fields to

Highgate, wondering at the success that had thus far crowned his

efforts. "Will she keep her appointment?" said he. "Yes, yes; I see it

in her eye. The 'captain' has done the business; never was there so

conceited an old lass!" and, thus soliloquizing, he found himself at the

door of the best hotel in Highgate, strutted into the coffee-room, and

rang the bell for the waiter.

The man answered his summons, cast a shrewd glance at his exterior, and,

satisfied with the scrutiny, made a low bow, prefaced by a semicircular

flourish of his napkin.

"Waiter," said Dick, with the air of a prince, "show me into a private

room, and let it be your best."

"Please to follow me, sir," replied the man; and, so saying, he ushered

our hero into a spacious apartment, which commanded a picturesque view

of a brick-field, with a pig-sty in the background.

"Good!" said Dick, and throwing himself full-length on a sofa, he

ordered an early dinner, cold, but of the best quality, together with

one bottle of madeira, and another of port, by way of appendix.

Well; the dinner came, wine ditto, and both were excellent. Glass

after glass was filled and emptied, and Dick felt his spirits mounting

into the seventh heaven of enjoyment. His thoughts were winged; his

prospects radiant with the sunny hues of hope. The fair Priscilla was

his own,--his grievances were at an end,--and he henceforth could snap

his fingers at fate. Happy man!

Having despatched his madeira, and two or three supplementary glasses

of port, so that one bottle might not be jealous of the attentions paid

to the other, Dick summoned the waiter into his presence, paid his bill

like a lord, and concluded by ordering a post-chaise and four to be

ready for him within two hours in a certain lane which he specified, and

which led off the high-road a few yards beyond the turnpike. Of course

the man understood the drift of this order. Dick, however, took no

notice of his knowing simper; but, telling him that he should return in

a short time, stalked from the hotel as if the majesty of England were

centred in his person.

On returning to the Heath, he found, as he had expected, the fair

Priscilla awaiting his advent by the horse-pond. She received him with

a blush, to which he replied by a squeeze; and then, emboldened by the

wine he had drunk, went on in a strain of high-flown panegyric which

rapidly thawed the heart of the too susceptible Miss Spriggins. Dick

was not the lad to do things by halves. Neck or nothing was his motto;

and accordingly, before he had been ten minutes in company with his

fair one, he had succeeded in drawing from her a confession that she

preferred him to all the suitors she had ever had. This point gained,

our hero adroitly changed the conversation; talked of his prospects when

his father's estates in the North should come into his possession; of

his friend Lord Theodore Thickskull, to whom he should be so proud to

introduce his Priscilla; and of his intention to sell out of the army

the instant she consented to be his.

Thus chatting, Dick--accidentally, to all appearance--drew his companion

on towards Highgate, when, suddenly putting on a look of extreme wonder,

he exclaimed, "Who'd have thought it! We are close by the Tunnel. Ah!

dearest Priscilla, you see how time flies when we are with those we

love! And, now that you are here, my angel, you cannot surely refuse to

honour my hotel with your presence. Nay, not a word; it is hard by, and

I am sure you must be fatigued after your walk."

The lady protested that she could not think of entering an hotel with a

single man. She did, however; and was so favourably impressed with the

respect shown to Dick by the waiter, who with his finger beside his nose

implied that all was ready, that had she ever harboured distrust, this

circumstance alone would have effectually banished it from her mind.

No sooner had the parties entered Dick's private apartment, than, strange

to tell, they beheld a bottle of port wine standing on the table.

And, lo! there also were two glasses! Of course our hero could not

but present one to Priscilla, who received it, nothing loth, though

affecting extreme coyness. Its effects were soon visible. Her bleak

blue nose assumed a faint mulberry tinge, her eyes sparkled, and she

simpered, languished, and ogled Dick, sighing the while, with a sort

of die-away sensibility, intended to show the extreme tenderness of

her nature. These blandishments, which our hero returned with compound

interest, were, however, soon put an end to, by the lady's suddenly

rising, and requesting him to _chaperon_ her home, as it was getting

late, and her brother would be uneasy at her absence. Dick complied,

though with apparent reluctance, and, as he passed through the hall with

Priscilla hanging on his arm, he could see the landlady peeping at him

through the yellow gauze blinds of the tap-room window.

It was now confirmed twilight; the dicky-birds were asleep in their

nests; the Highgate toll-bar looked vague and spectral in the gloom;

and nought disturbed the solemn silence of the hour, save the pot-boys

calling "Beer!" at the cottages by the road-side. As Dick rambled on,

under the pretence of leading Miss Spriggins by a short cut home,

his thoughts took the hue of the season, and he became pensive and

abstracted. He looked at Priscilla, and sighed; while she reciprocated

the respiration, heaving up from the depths of her oesophagus a sigh

that might have upset a schooner. And thus the enamoured pair pursued

their walk, Dick every now and then squeezing his companion's hand

with the gentle compression of a blacksmith's vice. 'Twas a spectacle

gratifying to a benevolent heart, the sight of those devoted lovers,

so wrapt up in each other as to be regardless of the extraordinary

beauties of the picturesque scenery about them. The dog-rose bloomed in

the hedge, but they inhaled not its fragrance. The ducks quacked in the

verdant ditch beside their path, but they heeded not their euphonious

ejaculations. Their own sweet thoughts were enough for them. Surrounding

nature was as nought,--they seemed alone in creation,--the sole denizens

of Middlesex!

By this time the moon had climbed the azure vault of heaven; the last

Omnibus had set down the last man; when lo! before he was aware of

his contiguity, Dick found himself close by the turnpike. 'Twas a

critical moment; but the young man was desperate, and desperation

knows no impossibilities. Changing the sentimental tone he had hitherto

adopted, he burst into the most frenzied exclamations of grief; stated

the necessity he was under of immediately joining his regiment at

Carlisle, which he should have done long before had not his love for

Priscilla kept him lingering in the vicinity of Hampstead; that he had

not the heart to state this before; but, now that he had explained his

situation, he felt that he should not survive the shock of a separation.

"There," said he, pointing to the carriage, which was but a few yards

off, "there is the detested vehicle destined to bear me far from thee!

Why had I not the candour to explain my position till this moment?

Alas! who, situated as I am, could have acted otherwise? Lady, I

love--adore--doat--on you to distraction! Let us fly, then, and link our

fates together. You speak not, alas!"

"Good Heavens!" replied the bewildered Miss Spriggins, "impossible! What

would the world say? Oh fie, Captain Felix!--to think that I should have

been exposed to----"

"Come, Priscilla,--my Priscilla,--and let us hasten to be happy. The

respected clergyman at Gretna ----"

"An elopement!--Monstrous!--Oh! that I should have lived to hear such a

proposition!"

Need the sequel be insisted on? Dick wept, prayed, capered, tore his

hair, and acted a thousand shrewd extravagances; swore he would hang

himself to the toll-bar, or cut his throat with an oyster-knife, if his

own dear Priscilla did not consent to unite her destiny with his; and,

in fact, so worked upon the damsel's sensibilities, that she had no help

for it but to gasp forth a reluctant consent. An instant, and all was

ready for departure. Crack went the whip, round went the wheels, and

away went the fond couple to Gretna-green, rattling along the high north

road at the rate of fourteen miles an hour!

Thus he who at nine o'clock in the morning was an adventurer without a

sixpence in his pocket, by the same hour in the evening was a gentleman

in possession of a woman worth eight hundred pounds _per annum_!--Gentle

reader, truth is strange,--stranger than fiction.

THE MAN WITH THE TUFT.

BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

I.

I ever at college

From commoners shrank,

Still craving the knowledge

Of people of rank:

In my glass, my lord's ticket

I eagerly stuffed;

And all call'd me "Riquet,"

The man with the Tuft.

II.

My patron! most noble!

Of highest degree!

Thou never canst probe all

My homage for thee!

Thy hand--oh! I'd lick it,

Though often rebuff'd;

And still I am "Riquet,"

The man with the Tuft!

III.

Too oft the great, shutting

Their doors on the bold,

Do deeds that are cutting,

Say words that are cold!

Through flattery's wicket

_My_ body I've stuff'd,

And _so_ I am "Riquet,"

The man with the Tuft!

IV.

His lordship's a poet,

Enraptured I sit;

He's dull--(and I know it)--

_I_ call him a wit!

His fancy, I nick it,

By me he is puff'd.

And still I am "Riquet,"

The man with the Tuft!

THE MINISTER'S FATE.

A SKETCH OF THE PAST.

Now that the session of parliament is fairly set in, and occupying

public attention, sketches and recollections of public orators, with

touches at the gallery M.P.'s, or "gentlemen of the fourth estate," as

the reporters have been termed, will of course become redundant; but for

scribblers who have known St. Stephen's only a session or two to attempt

a thing of this sort, so as to satisfy those who take a real interest

in the doings of the senate, is out of the question. To deal with such

matters properly, a man, as Pierce Egan says of the important mysteries

of boxing and slang, "must be brought up to the business from a _young

'un_."

It is not my purpose to deal with matters of the day. My sketches might

go a quarter, or probably half a century back: Graham's celestial bed,

Mr. Dodd's execution, and Lord George Gordon's riots, will scarcely be

out of my reach. Though I set off with what relates to the House of

Commons, from having known many of the distinguished writers who have at

various periods laboured there, other scenes will occasionally recur to

me, which it may be worth while to bring, with the details none but an

eyewitness can give, before the reader.

I did not, however, know, but from reading of them in the newspapers,

the parliamentary orators of my time, till after the opening of the

present century. The last stars of a galaxy admitted to be of more

than ordinary splendour, had not yet faded when I made my debut in the

gallery of St. Stephen's Chapel: Pitt and Fox, Lord North and Burke,

had "shuffled off this mortal coil;" but Wyndham, and Sheridan, and

Tierney remained. Of them and of their latter contemporaries I have many

recollections; some of which, as they are connected with matters of

historical interest, it may be entertaining at least, to recall. It will

not be important to observe strict chronological order, so each scene

is kept by itself, the colouring not exaggerated and every fact related

with a scrupulous regard to sacred truth.

Shades of the departed, how ye rise to "my mind's eye" as I prepare to

enter on my task! On the right, as we looked from the gallery of the

old House, that is, to the left of the Speaker's chair, I see Ponsonby,

with his portly form, white hair, and red chubby countenance; Wyndham,

a tall, spare figure, and a head partially bald; Tierney, with his

lowering brow, apparently waiting to spring on his ministerial victim;

Sheridan, exhibiting an aspect but too indicative of the thoughtless

career he pursued; Romilly, maintaining an air of solemn dignity, with

an appearance of exhaustion from severe mental toil; Whitbread, robust,

shrewd, and never weary; his deportment might have passed for that

of a blunt, resolute farmer. Always at his post; during the session,

the House of Commons was his home. Opposed to these I see the keen,

sarcastic, and animated Perceval. He had a bright penetrating eye, and a

nose rather inclining upwards, which the H. B.'s of 1807 converted into

a most ludicrous pug nose; his figure was small, and he had little hair

on the crown of his head; but he wore a long thin queue behind, which

in debate, from the vivacity of his manner, was continually showing

itself over one or other shoulder. Near him sat Castlereagh. He boasted

an elegant figure and handsome countenance, and often carried the polish

of the drawing-room into the tumult of political warfare, but sometimes

abruptly dropped it, to strike the table or the box before him with

almost farcical violence. The capacious forehead and fine features of

Canning were generally by his side. The well-powdered head of Old George

Rose was seldom very distant, and the bald shining skull of "Brother

Bragge," as Mr. Bragge Bathurst had been facetiously called by Canning,

was one of the group.

Memory now turns to the gentlemen up-stairs in the gallery; nor ought

these to be thought beneath some notice, remembering how many have

since descended into the House to furnish occupation to their reporting

posterity. Woodfall formerly sat at the right hand corner of the front

of the gallery, on the seat which was what a goose is for a meal, "too

much for one, but too little for two,"--I mean the continuation of the

member's bench. He commonly held a gold-headed cane in his hand, which

he continually turned round one way when listening to a speech, and then

caused it to revolve the other way attending to the reply. The smiling

suavity of Hogan, the dry good-humour of Donovan, (these gentlemen went

out chief justice and judge advocate to Sierra Leone, where they died,)

the severe glance of Keating, the gracious swagger and laugh of Edward

Quin, the "amiable obliquity of vision" of Peter Finnerty, the ardent

gaiety of Power, and the overflowing merriment of the senior Dowling,

all seem to return, with the peculiarities of many others, who, like

them, are no more, and those of a much greater number who fortunately

survive.

The consequences of a war of unexampled length were severely felt in

1812, and much of the distress which then prevailed was affirmed to have

been produced by our own "orders in council," issued to meet the decrees

of Bonaparte. Earl Grey was their strenuous and persevering opponent.

A parliamentary inquiry into their operation was instituted. In the

Commons Mr. Whitbread greatly exerted himself in support of the views

of his noble friend Earl Grey, and the investigation was entered upon

by the whole House in committee. The interminable examinations which

followed, exhausted public curiosity to such a pitch, that the gentlemen

of the press had instructions not to report them. In consequence of

this, when the order of the day was moved for going into the committee,

they closed their books, entered into conversation, and sometimes even

left the House.

The gallery was at that time on such occasions nearly deserted; two or

three reporters indolently reclining on their seats, and from twelve to

twenty visitors were all the audience the subject commanded.

Of the last-mentioned individuals, some few, from their own interests

being affected by the matter under inquiry, went to the house frequently

enough to get in some degree acquainted with the writers; and among them

was one gentleman who usually took his place on the back seat, though

he was always ready to resign it to those who, as they went there for

business, and not for pleasure, considered that they had a right to

claim it as their own. There was something singular in this person's

manner; and the eagerness with which he surveyed the members, by means

of an opera-glass, often excited the mirth of his waggish neighbours.

He asked many questions, but timed them so well, and always deported

himself with so much respectful good-humour, that any information he

desired was readily given.

One fine summer's afternoon I and some other tired visitors to the House

availed ourselves of the leisure which the sitting of the committee

afforded, to enjoy a walk on the banks of the river. On our return,

near Milbank, a person who had some knowledge of us inquired if we

had heard that a duel had taken place between the Earl of Liverpool

and Mr. Perceval, in which the latter had fallen. We laughed at the

improbability of the story, but were seriously assured that we should

find it true. Still incredulous, we said we would soon ascertain the

fact, and accordingly advanced to Palace Yard. There the closed gates,

the crowd assembled outside, and the information communicated by a

thousand tongues, soon placed it beyond all doubt that the minister

was no more, having within the last hour been shot, not by his noble

colleague, but by a stranger named Bellingham.

Mr. Perceval was in the habit of coming down to the House about five

o'clock. On this day it was a quarter past that hour, when, as he

entered the lobby, he was shot through the heart. He staggered a few

paces, fell against one of the pillars, and almost immediately expired.

The assassin was instantly seized and taken to the bar of the House,

where a crowd of persons, members and strangers mixed in extreme

confusion, assembled round him; and as soon as an attempt at restoring

order could be made, the Speaker directed Mr. Whitbread and other

members to precede and follow the prisoner to a place of safe custody.

This was done, and these facts were generally known to the multitude,

which now beset all the avenue leading to the two Houses.

From mouth to mouth the mournful tidings flew with unexampled rapidity.

The very prominent situation in which Mr. Perceval stood, the active

and important business he was daily seen engaged in, made men almost

seem to doubt if it were possible that such a career could so suddenly

be closed for ever. The rumours sent forth had the same effect on every

one they reached, I might almost say, that it has been shown they had on

me and my companions. All who heard that the right honourable gentleman

was dead, seemed to determine instantly to verify the fact by repairing

to Westminster. It was about a quarter past five in the afternoon of

the 11th of May that Mr. Perceval was shot in the lobby of the House,

and, by six, countless thousands poured down the Strand and all the

streets leading to Charing Cross. Second editions of the evening papers

were got out with astonishing expedition; and, by the time I have

mentioned, one had been carried so far towards Westminster as the end

of Parliament-street, opposite Downing-street. The extreme eagerness of

every one to know all that could be known, I remember, instantly got a

crowd round the bearer of it. Ownership and ceremony were not thought

of: every one who could get hold of the much-coveted broad sheet,

considered that he had a right to it. I, among a host of intruders,

saw there, in the manner described, the first connected detail of the

catastrophe.

As the night closed in, the crowd became immense, and some discreditable

exultation was expressed by the lowest of the mob; but the general

feeling created was that of humane commiseration and unmitigated horror.

Admiring the great talents of Mr. Perceval as I did, and impressed with

a conviction that he was most amiable in private life, my own sorrow

was great; and I rejoiced at the thought that the murderer was in safe

custody, and would possibly, (as the sessions were about to commence,)

before a single week should have elapsed, suffer the last penalty of the

law.

Never shall I forget the spectacle which the House of Commons presented

on the following day. Those who have been in the habit of going there,

must have noticed with some annoyance the ceaseless murmur which

prevails for the first hour, or hour and a half, after the Speaker has

taken the chair, while private bills and petitions of little interest,

are being disposed of, and papers presented at the bar. The monotonous

repetition by the Speaker of the words, "So many as are of that opinion

say '_aye_,' those who are of a contrary opinion say '_no_;' the ayes

have it," on putting questions which are unopposed,--the ceaseless

slamming of doors,--the creaking of shoes of some of those members who

seem to delight in displaying their elegance by marching, or I might

almost say by skating, up and down the body of the House, as if to let

their friends, the strangers in and under the gallery, see how very

grand it is possible for them to look,--and the frequent cry of "Order!

order!" "Bar! bar!" from the Chair, given forth, as was then the case,

with full-toned dignity of Mr. Speaker Abbot (the late Lord Colchester),

altogether gave the idea of a careless, irregular assembly,--of anything

but a place where the most important business of a great nation was to

be transacted. Such was its usual aspect in those days; but on the 12th

of May 1812, most widely different I found the scene. The attendance was

unusually full, but solemn funereal stillness marked the approach of

each member to assist in the proceedings growing out of the recent and

melancholy fate of the minister.

"How silent did his old companions tread"

on that floor over which they had so long been accustomed to pass

with him whose fall they now lamented! Party feeling was annihilated;

all mourned, and many wept, for the deceased, as if he had been their

nearest, dearest friend or relative. A place on the ministerial bench

was pointed at from the gallery as that which Mr. Perceval had been

used to fill. I am not aware, though he generally sat nearly in the

same place, that any precise spot was particularly reserved for him;

and on the occasion which it is my object to recall, certainly no such

theatrical effort at effect was made. The vacant seat was soon occupied

by one of the late right honourable gentleman's colleagues.

Not only was there the abstinence from conversation, which I have noted,

but action--the common ordinary motions of gentlemen meeting in assembly

were suspended. The benches were filled with unwonted regularity; and

their occupants, scarcely venturing on a whisper, and hardly changing

their position, seemed almost like breathing statues, while they awaited

with awful interest the announcement of what steps the government

proposed to take, and what information had been obtained by them

respecting the event which had deprived the administration of its chief.

The silence which prevailed was at length broken by the Speaker, who,

with an effort at firmness, but in a tone somewhat subdued, pronounced

the name of Lord Castlereagh, (the Late Marquis of Londonderry,) who had

at that moment presented himself at the bar.

His lordship, in a faltering voice, stated that he was the bearer of a

message from the Prince Regent.

"Please to bring it up," was the matter-of-course reply, and his

lordship handed the paper to the Chair. It was forthwith read. The

Regent expressed his deep regret for the event, which he could never

cease to deplore, and recommended to the House to make a provision for

the family of Mr. Perceval.

It was then moved that the House should resolve itself into a committee,

to take into consideration the message; and that being done, Lord

Castlereagh took upon himself the task of addressing the members on the

painful subject which they were then to entertain. His lordship spoke

with great feeling. A more than official attachment seemed to connect

his lordship with the late premier. On an occasion then recent, when

the conduct of his lordship had been the subject of grave accusation

respecting the disposal of certain seats in that House, Mr. Perceval

had defended him with great earnestness and success; and, doing so, his

declaration was, "I raise my voice for the man I esteem, and the friend

I love."

In the course of his statement, the noble lord had, in connexion with

the awful event of the preceding day, to make known the conviction of

the ministry, from all the inquiries that had down to that hour been

instituted, that the act of Bellingham was perfectly unconnected with

any general scheme or conspiracy. Proceeding to speak of the domestic

distress it had caused, he said, the children left by Mr. Perceval were

twelve in number. "For the widow," he added, "her happiness in this

world is closed;" and the painful feelings by which he was oppressed so

overpowered him, that he was unable to proceed. He burst into tears, and

with strong emotions raised a handkerchief to his eyes, and concealed

his face for some moments.

With a knowledge of subsequent events, I cannot but recall this passage

of Lord Castlereagh's address, though perfectly appropriate at the

time, with a cynical glance,--a something between mirth and sorrow.

Looking at the picture drawn of Mrs. Perceval, and remembering that

horror at learning the fate of her husband was said to have almost

petrified her; that, wild and unconscious, the most fatal effects were

anticipated from her excessive woe, till, by the advice of her medical

attendants, she was led into the room where the corpse of her lord was

lying, when that ghastly spectacle caused her tears to flow, and thus

afforded the bursting heart some relief; I cannot recall these things,

without connecting with them the news which the fashionable world were

destined at no very distant period to receive, that this afflicted and

heart-broken lady, the mother of twelve children, had been again led

to the altar by a gallant officer much younger than herself. Of the

matrimonial discord that followed, I will not speak.

I am not going to copy from the journals of the House the particulars

of the grant proposed as a provision for the Perceval family, nor from

the papers of the day the debates to which the event gave rise. What

I propose to do is, merely to give a few sketches of the attendant

circumstances, which may be thought interesting now, but were lost sight

of then, from the pressure of matter of greater importance.

Let it then suffice to say that the House cordially approved of the

course recommended by the Crown. Mr. Whitbread, who had been one of

the most unsparing opponents of the departed premier, was frequently

in tears. He bore testimony to the amiable personal character of the

late minister. "I never," said he, "carry hostility to those from whom

I differ on political questions beyond that door," pointing to the door

opening into the lobby: "with that man it was impossible to carry it so

far."

It is due to that honourable gentleman to say that this was not a mere

_post mortem_ compliment. With the deceased he had often come into

collision. Mr. Whitbread was irritable, and was sometimes deeply stung

by the sarcasms launched at him by Mr. Perceval. In one debate the

latter, having adverted to predictions formerly made by Mr. Whitbread,

which had not been borne out by events, and to new ones then hazarded,

applied to his assailant the words of Pope,

"Destroyed his web of sophistry in vain,

The creature's at his dirty work again."

Mr. Whitbread, nettled at this, spoke to order, and demanded that the

words should be taken down. A very brief and simple explanation restored

his good humour, and the subject was dropped. On another occasion, not

long before Mr. Perceval's death, when some personal altercation had

occurred between them, the right honourable gentleman, in explaining

away that which had given offence, took occasion to say that among his

faults--and he had many--want of respect for the honourable member was

not one of them. Mr. Whitbread, in cordially accepting the explanation,

replied, that "among all the right honourable gentleman's virtues--and

he had many--there was none more to be admired than the promptness with

which he could return to friendly conference from the heat of political

debate."

There was, indeed, much affability about Mr. Perceval's manner. Many

anecdotes of his condescension were published at the time. An instance

of his courtesy and good-nature occurs to me which has never appeared in

print.

At a grand city feast in Guildhall, the publisher of a fashionable

journal having taken wine rather freely, was hoaxed by some mischievous

friend with a belief that Mr. Perceval was one of the officers of the

hall, and under this impression, wishing to leave for a short time,

accosted him with a theatrically pompous air, which the individual (a

well-known character at that time among the votaries of the drama,)

loved to assume, and said,

"My good fellow, I wish to step into King-street for a moment; you'll

take notice of me and let me in again," at the same time offering to

slip half-a-crown into the hands of the prime minister. The gift was

declined, and Mr. Perceval replied with a smile, "I am sorry it is not

in my power to oblige you; but you had better speak to some of those

gentlemen," pointing to the marshalmen; "they may be able to do what you

wish."

While the good qualities of the deceased were rehearsed, and the

consequences of his fate to the government and to the country were

discussed, curiosity naturally turned to the cause of the important

change. Great was my surprise to learn that the individual was not

wholly unknown to me; I was soon reminded of the singular personage who

had attracted notice by his manner and his opera-glass in the gallery.

That was no other than Bellingham; and two of the gentlemen who had been

in the habit of meeting, and perhaps of conversing with him there, were

the first who advanced after the dreadful deed to secure him in the

lobby.

The remainder of that unhappy man's story is soon told. In the course

of a day or two the coroner's inquest returned a verdict of wilful

murder, and the grand jury a true bill against him. On the Friday he

stood at the bar of the Old Bailey to take his trial. He made a long

rambling defence, and occasionally his agony was so great, not for his

impending fate, but from recollection of the sufferings of a wife, whom

he described with fondness, that it deeply affected all present. It was

attempted to prove him insane; but certainly there were no grounds for

considering him in that state which the law requires shall be proved to

exempt the murderer from capital punishment. He himself opposed that

plea. A verdict of Guilty was returned, and on the succeeding Monday

the sentence of death was carried into effect. The case was from the

first so clear, the evidence so conclusive, that the prisoner was

perhaps the only man in England who expected any other result. He seemed

to look for an acquittal. With every one else conviction and death

were thought inevitable,--indeed so much matters of course, that the

following singular announcement, through some slip of the pen, in the

_Morning Post_ of Thursday, "The trial will take place to-morrow, the

execution on Monday," was hardly viewed as reprehensible, hazardous, or

extraordinary; though certainly such a one, but in that single instance,

I have never seen. H. T.

EPIGRAM.

"Make _hay_ while the sun shines," cried old Gaffer Grey,

When lounging to make with fair Susan _sweet_ hay.

"Keep off!" said the maiden, whose brow was o'ercast,

"_Your hey-day of life_, pray remember, has past."

R. J.

LOVE IN THE CITY.

PREFACE.

In offering the following dramatic production to a discerning public,

the author respectfully intimates, that, notwithstanding an accidental

similarity in name between this play and one by Mr. William Shakspeare,

in plot, language, and situations, the two dramas will be found to

differ totally. "_Love in the City_" is of that order generally

termed "the Domestic;" and, while the incidents are varied, simple,

and common-place, it is to be hoped that the _dénouement_ will be

acknowledged singularly striking and effective.

To restore the legitimate drama, whose neglect has been so long and

uselessly deplored, has been the author's principal aim; and, in the

construction of the play here presented to the world, he trusts that he

has eminently succeeded. No German horrors have been employed; the use

of thunder and lightning has been dispensed with; not even a dance of

demons has been introduced; and, with the exception of reproducing Mr.

Clipclose, senior, in the second act, after he had shuffled off this

mortal coil, there is not an event in the whole drama, but those of

every-day occurrence.

Although "_Love in the City_" has been expressly written for the eminent

performers whose names are attached to the _dramatis personæ_, the

author will extend a limited privilege of acting to country managers,

he receiving a clear half of the gross receipts of their respective

houses. Any offer short of this stipulation will remain unattended to.

Music-sellers may address proposals for the melodies to Mr. Richard

Bentley; and, should my attempt at piracy be detected,--the copyright

of the drama being duly entered at Stationers' Hall,--persons thus

offending are respectfully informed that they will be subjected to an

action at law.

THE AUTHOR.

Camomile-street, May 1, 1837.

LOVE IN THE CITY;

OR, ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

A MELODRAMATIC EXTRAVAGANZA,

_In Two Acts._

_As it is to be performed at the Theatre-Royal, Drury-Lane, with

rapturous applause._

_The words_ not _by Thomas Moore,_ nor _the music by Henry R. Bishop._

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

_Captain Connor_,--a gentleman from Ireland, with black whiskers and

four wives, six feet two high, a sergeant in the 2nd Life-Guards, in

love with Mrs. Clipclose, _cum multis aliis_,--MR. CHARLES KEMBLE (his

reappearance on the stage for this occasion only).

_Mr. Robert Clipclose_,--an eminent mercer, of amorous disposition, and

in embarrassed circumstances,--MR. SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

_Old Clipclose_,--father to Robert, a retired tradesman, afflicted by

gout and avarice, with a house at Highgate,--MR. WILLIAM FARREN.

_His Ghost_,--MR. T. P. COOKE.

_Jeremiah Scout_,--in the confidence of Mr. and Mrs. Clipclose, and

porter to the establishment,--MR. HARLEY.

_Samuel Snags_, } clerks to Clipclose and Co. and men of fashion,

_Matthew Mags, and_ } their names omitted by mistake in the Court

_Philip Poppleton_, } Calendar,--MESS. LISTON, VINING, and YATES.

_Timothy O'Toole_,--corporal, 2nd Life-Guards, troop No. 4--MR. TYRONE

POWER.

_Benjamin Blowhard_,--trumpeter, same troop,--MR. J. RUSSELL.

_Pieman and All-hot_,--by a POST-CAPTAIN and an ASSISTANT-SURGEON, H.P.

R.N. Their first appearance on any stage.

_Policemen A. and S._--by two gentlemen from the country, of great

provincial celebrity.

_Mrs. Clipclose_,--lady-like and extravagant, in love with Captain

Connor,--MRS. BUTLER, who has kindly promised to come from North America

to sustain the character, and is hourly expected, per the "Silas

Tomkins, of New York."

_Miss Juliana Smashaway_,--a young lady of great personal attraction and

small fortune, in lodgings in Upper Stamford-street, and in love with

Captain Connor,--MISS ELLEN TREE.

_Annette_, vulgò _Netty_,--a maid of all work, engaged to Samuel Snags,

and in love with Captain Connor,--MADAME VESTRIS.

_Captains Wife_, _No. 1_, --MISS HELEN FAUCIT.

_Do._ _No. 2_, --MRS. YATES.

_Do._ _No. 3_, --MRS. NISBIT.

_Do._ _No. 4_, --MISS VINCENT.

_Kitty_,--lady of the bed-chamber to Miss Smashaway,--MISS MORDAUNT.

Men about town, women ditto, apprentices, guardsmen, police A. 27 and F.

63, attendants, &c. &c. &c. _by eminent performers_.

_Time_, rather indefinite. _Scene_, always within sound of Bow-bell, and

chiefly in Ludgate-hill _or_ Upper Stamford-street.

ACT I.--SCENE I.

Morning rather misty; St. Paul's striking

eleven, as the curtain rises to hurried music,

and discovers a haberdasher's shop with plate-glass

windows. _Snags_, _Mags_, and _Poppleton_ with sundry

assistants, their hair in papers; but evidently

preparing for business. Enter _Jeremiah Scout_ with

a watering-pot; he sprinkles the floor, while the

apprentices are arranging their neckcloths. _Snags_

coughs, evincing a recent recovery from influenza. He

comes forward, and sings.

AIR--_Mr. Snags._--(Guy Mannering.)

Oh! sleep, Mr. Clipclose,

You were up all the night;

You commenced at "The Finish,"

And closed with a fight.

Oh! keep yourself quiet, and sleep while you may,

Nor dream that the bailiffs are over the way.

(_When the song ends, Poppleton advances to the front counter, and

waves his yard. Dead silence. All turn to him._)

_Pop._--Gemmen, you know of late that trade is dull,

And the till empty, while the town is full:

Bills have come round, and bankers won't renew;

Our master's dish'd, and we are in a stew.

_Mags._--Alas! my friends, what Poppy says is true;

All's black without, and all within is blue:

Our fates are certain,--Whitecross, or the Fleet;

Writs are sued out, and bums are in the street.

_1st Apprentice_ (_a stout lad, with light hair, and enamelled

shirt-studs--sobbing_).--Short as short credit, shorter than short

whist, Short as a barmaid's anger when she's kiss'd; Shorter than

all, ah! Clipclose, was thy span--Oh, such a master! such a nice

young man!

_Snags_ (_with considerable firmness and feeling_).--Come, hang it!

let's keep heart, tho' trade may fail;

It's only lying six weeks in a jail!

What with good company and sporting play,

Kind friends, sound claret, and a lady gay,

Speed the dull hours, and while the weeks away.

Time's rapid flight men scarce have time to view,

And, old scores clear'd, we open them anew.

(_He pauses, and mounts an elevated desk; his voice and attitude

expressive of desperate determination._)

Here, to the last, I'll take my wonted stand,

Receive the flimsies from each fair one's hand.

Courage my trumps! (_to the apprentices_;) unpaper all your hair;}

Let our gay banner wanton in the air}

To pull in flats, and make the natives stare!}

(_All discard their papillotes, while the junior apprentice seizes a

large placard, and suspends it over the door. On a dark ground,

and in gold capitals, appears the device._

EMPORIUM OF ELEGANCE!

_Clipclose and Co._

_No connexion over the way._

_The youngest may buy._

NO ADVANTAGE TAKEN HERE!!!

_Sundry persons collect about the door; and a yellow cab, No.

1357, stops._)

_Snags (aside) to the apprentices._--Covies, be brisk; our customers

approach!

Go, Pop, and hand yon lady from her coach.

A simpering smile is still a tradesman's treasure;

Give them enough of gammon, and short measure!

_Miss Juliana Smashaway enters._ _Mags bowing obsequiously._

_1st App._--Shall your cab wait, ma'am?

_Miss S._ Ask Jarvey if he's willing.

_Mags._--Gods! what a voice! its tones so soft, so thrilling!

_Pop._ (_aside._)--Now, blow me tight! her beauty's downright killing!

_Snags_ (_from his desk_).--Mags, could you give me coppers for a

shilling?

_App._--What shall I show? silks? purple, yellow, green?

_Miss S._--I merely want a yard of bombasin.

_Snags_ (_in evident admiration_).--Lord! what a flash 'un! Attend

that lady, Pop; And let her have the cheapest in the shop.

(_Poppleton introduces Miss Juliana Smashaway into the back

show-room, and the scene closes._)

SCENE II.--_Ludgate-hill._

A front drawing-room; furniture French-polished,

red silk window-curtains, and green sun-blinds;

breakfast-table laid. Enter, from her

boudoir, L. H. _Mrs. Clipclose_, fashionably dressed

in pink gingham. She advances to the chimney-piece,

and looks at an ormolu clock; her countenance showing

surprise.

_Mrs. C._--What! not astir at almost twelve o'clock?

(_Looks in the glass_). Upon my life, a most becoming frock!

How late Bob sleeps! I think I'm getting fatter.

We both were late. (_Noise heard._) I wonder what's the matter.

I, at Vauxhall; and Bob, upon the batter.

Heigh-ho! these men are very seldom true.

I hope the captain recollects at two

We meet at Charing-cross to drive to Kew.

(_Opens the piano, and sits down._)

AIR--_Mrs. Clipclose._--("I met her at the Fancy fair.")

I met him in an omnibus:

He spoke not; but his sparkling eyes

Told the fond secret of his heart,

And found an answer in my sighs.

(_Enter, from dressing-room_, R. H. _Young Clipclose, in a flowered

morning-gown, and kid slippers. He yawns while arranging sundry rings

upon his fingers._)

TRIO--_Mr. and Mrs. Clipclose, and Annette._

("Jenny put the kettle on.")

_Mr. C._

Dear me! my head is aching so,

This soft white hand is shaking so;

I sure must give up raking, O!

(_Politely turning to his lady._)

Good morning! Mistress C.

(_Annette appears at the door, back of the stage, as if answering the

bell._)

_Mrs. C._

Netty, bring the muffins up,

Put down the cream, and rince a cup;

Your master's had an extra sup--

(_Looking archly at her husband._)

Ah! naughty Mister C.

_Annette_ (_aside, presenting a note to her mistress_).

The potboy brought this _billet-doux_.

(_Aloud._) Oh, Lord! I hear a creaking shoe,

And here will be a sweet too-roo,

With grumpy Mister C.

_Mr. and Mrs. C., and Netty, together._

And here will be a sweet too-roo!

_Gruff voice outside._

I say, where's Bobby C.?

(_Enter, in a passion, Mr. Clipclose, senior._)

_Mr. C. sen._--I say, where's Bob? Not down at twelve o'clock!

I thought to find the scoundrel taking stock;

Or, at the counter, serving folks quite civil.

_Mrs. C._ (_pertly._)--He's going, sir.

(_Bob vanishes._)

_Mr. C. sen._ Ay! quickly, to the devil!

(_Turning angrily to Mrs. C._)

And you, gay madam! Zounds! this gown is new!

What you wore yesterday was sprigged with blue.

Upon the road to ruin, wives drive hard,

When they wear chintz at eight-and-six a yard.

_Mrs. C._ (_disdainfully._)--If you would know the price,

ask Miss Brocard.

_Mr. C. sen._--Hear, haughty madam, while my mind I speak,

If Bob don't mend--(_a long pause_)--I'll marry this day week!

I'll have boys too-- (_A sudden fit of coughing interrupts him._)

_Mrs. C._ (_sarcastically_).--I'm sure the spirit's willing.

_Mr. C. sen._--And I'll cut off your husband with a shilling!

(_Exit, in a desperate rage. Mrs. C. and Netty laugh immoderately._)

_Annette._--Why, bless us, madam, but the man's a bear!

At eighty-one to threat us with an heir.

_Mrs. C._--Pish! 'tis mere dotage; his brains are in the moon.

(_Sits down to the piano._)

What shall I play, Net?

_Annette._ Play "_The Bold Dragoon_."

(_Music soft and expressive. The scene closes._)

SCENE III.--_The back show-room._

Miss Juliana Smashaway surrounded

by shopmen and apprentices, all

presenting various articles, and anxious

individually to attract attention.

_Miss S._--Lord, what nice men! their words are sweet as honey;

And, stranger still, they won't take ready money.

I fork'd a five-pound flimsy out in vain--

They're civil men, and I'll look in again.

_Snags_ (_beseechingly_).--Madam, your card?

_Mags_ (_with deep emotion_). And, might I humbly press

For Miss Juliana Smashaway's address?

_1st App._--Accept these gloves.

_2nd App._ This tabinet from me.

_Clipclose, jun._ (_enters hastily--appears

thunderstruck--starts--pulls off a ring, and, rushing

forward, exclaims as he presents it_,)

And this from your devoted Robert C.!

_Miss S._--Why, this flogs all, and Banaher's[103] beat hollow.

Gemmen, adieu! (_She bows, retiring._)

_Clerks and Apprentices_ (_dolorously_).--She's gone!

_Mr. C._ (_passionately_.) And I will follow!

Exit Miss Smashaway; Clipclose

after her. She jumps into a yellow cab,

and he into a green one. Both start at a

killing pace for Blackfriars' Bridge; yellow

cab upsets a pieman, and green demolishes an

establishment of "all hot." Clerks, shopmen,

and apprentices strike their foreheads with

considerable violence, and return behind the

counters despondingly. Distant music from a

barrel-organ. Scene closes.

SCENE IV.--_Mrs. Clipclose's Boudoir_.

Mrs. C. in sea-green satin,

putting on a cottage bonnet with

artificial flowers. Lavender-coloured gloves

upon the toilet, and _selon la règle_, a

fresh pocket-handkerchief. Netty in attendance.

_Annette._--Upon my life, the gemmen's hearts you'll fleece!

What is so handsome as a green pelisse?

_Mrs. C._--Now for my love. Should Mr. C. return,

Tell him I dine with Mrs. Simon Byrn.

_Annette._--Yes, ma'am.

(_Jeremiah Scout enters the boudoir unannounced._)

_Mrs. C._ (_indignantly._)--How's this? Why, Scout, you're

monstrous rude!

_Jeremiah_ (_with strong exertion_.)--Down, my full heart!

I hope I don't intrude? The saddest news, alas, to tell I'm come!

(_A long and harrowing pause._)

Your husband's tapp'd by Tappington, the bum!

TRIO--_Mrs. C., Annette, and Jerry._--(Bobbing Joan.)

_Jer._

My master's off to jail.

_Mrs C._

Bolts and chains will bind him.

_Netty._

Well! there's a comfort left;

One still knows where to find him.

_Mrs. C._

Grief for him, I'm sure,

This tender heart will smother.

_Jer._

I know a certain cure,

And that's to try another.

_Trio._

Tar-a-la-ra-la, tar-a-la-ra-loo-dy.

_Mrs. C._

At the thought I'll faint.

_Annette._

My lady's over-nice, sir!

_Mrs. C._

Although the cure is quaint,

I'll follow your advice, sir.

_Jer._

I don't, then, make too free?

_Mrs. C._

No, sir; upon my honour!

_Annette._

I'm ready for a spree.

_Mrs. C._

And I for Captain Connor.

_Grand Chorus._

Tar-a-la-ra-la.

(_With a pas de trois in character._)

End of Act 1. Curtain falls amid a thunder of applause, and an

uproarious call for Mrs. Butler, Madame Vestris, and Mr. Harley. They

come reluctantly forward. Audience rise by general consent. Cheers and

clapping continue five minutes. Stage-bell rings. Performers retire with

their hands upon their hearts. Waving of handkerchiefs from the boxes,

bravos from the pit, and whistling from the shilling gallery.

[103] NOTE, _by Dr. Southey._--It may be objected that a lady like Miss

Juliana Smashaway, born in Crutched Friars, and educated in a select

seminary at Kennington Cross, should use the well-known _Hibernicism_,

"This beats Banaher." But let it be remembered that she was devotedly

attached to Captain Connor; consequently, often in his company; and

hence naturally would adopt the language of one whom she "loved not

wisely, but too well." The same remark is applicable to the term

"_Too-roo_," used by Netty in the beautiful _trio_, _Act 1, Scene 2_.

* * * * *

EPIGRAM.

"You're a false, cruel wretch! not a year after marriage,

To try to degrade me, and put down the carriage!"

"A lady, my dear," was the answering reproach,

"Is known by her _carriage_, but not by her _coach_!"

R. J.

MRS. JENNINGS,

"WHO WANTED SOMEBODY TO CARE FOR HER."

Theophilus Bullfinch was a bachelor, middle-aged, and sufficiently

stout to look respectable. A spare man conveys a feeling of spareness

in all things. The eye never rests so contentedly as on a fat and what

is generally termed a "comfortable-looking" personage; a stout man

carries an appearance of wealth in the very folds of his coat, and so

did Theophilus Bullfinch. But, alas! although temptation fell not in his

way, he fell in the way of Mrs. Jennings!

"Time tells a tale,"--and we behold our bachelor located at a

watering-place, no less famous for the civility and unimposing character

of its inhabitants than the select nature of its visiters,--Margate.

This, no one, we are sure, will venture to deny, who has "seasoned" it

for three or four months. The kindly feelings of its inhabitants are

perceptible even in its ass-drivers. Where will you find such fatherly

boys to their donkeys,--such yellow shoes,--such society, as at Margate?

We are sure our readers will say with us, Nowhere!

Theophilus felt this; and ventured a trip, and a house, for he bought

one, urged thereto by a lady acquaintance, by name Mrs. Palaver,--a lady

who drove not only her husband, but a pair of ponies, and astonished

the eyes both of "quality" and "natives" by the way she did the

genteel,--that is, as far as her ponies went: for herself, she had

a soul above mean approbation. Among the "select" at the libraries,

Mrs. P. was the ruling star; and, to judge not only from the redness

of her face, but as her husband could testify, Mars in petticoats.

She shilling-loo'd and "one-in-three'd," even to the hinderance of

"The Concert;" but no one bore interruptions of this nature with so

much philosophical sweetness as Old Bones, the proprietor; and as the

"one-in-threes" bore to him a profit of three to one, the dulcet tones

of the signora of the rooms were often eclipsed by Mrs. P.'s _shake_,

or "_go_," as it is called. Our readers may be curious as to the name

of the "signora:" it was Mrs. Nobs by day, Signora Nobini by night. And

such a voice! The little boys in Hawley-square heard as well as the

company inside,--in fact rather better, for they complained of its being

a _leetle_ too forte.

But although Mrs. Palaver put down shillings, she picked up

friends,--dear souls of the newest importation,--and among the rest

Mrs. Jennings. Mrs. Jennings was a widow who "_wanted somebody to care

for her_." She had a small independence, and, if we may venture to

judge from subsequent events, a _very_ small independence; in fact,

it might be doubted if it were an independence at all. She was tall,

scraggy, and thin--we use a homely simile--as a pancake; the effect of

grief, doubtless. She had lost a husband, she said, who doted on her;

and, having lost so great a treasure, can we wonder at her unwearied

exertions to obtain a fresh supply of affection? Theophilus was a man

of money. Mrs. Jennings could not boast of the same golden fruit; and,

as she wanted "_somebody to care for her_," she fixed her eye--a grey

one--upon Theophilus Bullfinch.

"They met," not in a "crowd," but at a tea and card party; at the

mutual friend's, Mrs. Palaver, where real eighteenpenny Cape, and

diamond-cut sandwiches of the size and thinness of a three-cornered

note, indicated the gentility of the lady of the house. Theophilus

and the widow were partners,--a beginning not to be despised. Mrs.

Jennings looked confusion over her hand, and vowed her heart must

fall to his king of clubs. Theophilus blushed; she sighed, and intent

upon a _new game_, lost the rubber! Theophilus paid for himself; the

widow had a mind above trifles. Theophilus was tempted,--what man is

not at times?--and paid for Mrs. Jennings. The first stone was laid,

and the widow saw the church already built, the door open, and the

parson's hand in the same inviting position. The next morning, Mrs.

Jennings, our bachelor, and the _mutual friend_ were to perambulate

the fields, or rather corn-fields, and numerous of the "quality" were

drifting along the chalky roads on an equestrian tour; asses were at a

premium, and young ladies legs _going up_. Our party wended their way,

and Mrs. J. talked of the days when she and Mr. J. made love in a corn

field. If she had only somebody _to care for her_!--and Mrs. Jennings

squeezed something very like a tear into the corners of her eyes. We

know not what effect they might have had on the dear departed, but to

our bachelor they appeared the essence of affection,--pretty little

drops, distilled from that great alembic, the heart. Theophilus, we

have before hinted, was unused to the sweet witchery of womankind,

and in the simplicity of his soul thought tears must be a natural

production! Let not the wise in the lore of matrimony laugh at his

ignorance,--Theophilus was a bachelor!

He was touched by this unexampled proof of, to him, affection; and,

drawing himself into closer proximity with Mrs. Jennings than he had

before ventured, began--

"My dear ma'am, don't distress yourself. Men are like ears of corn."

"I know it," cried Mrs. Jennings, twisting one round her finger as she

spoke.

"Like grass, ma'am; and Time's scythe mows down husbands and fathers!"

"Oh! oh!" sobbed the widow.

"Is there anything I can do to comfort you, ma'am?" asked Theophilus

inquiringly.

Mrs. Jennings looked assent, and kept twisting the ear of corn.

"A good wife, ma'am, is a jewel,--the tears are still in your eyes,--and

will you allow me to make you an offer----"

"An offer!" said Mrs. Jennings; and the tears, spite of herself, shrunk

back, as though ashamed of what they were doing,--"an offer!"

"Of my handkerchief," said Theophilus.

A clover-field is a dangerous thing to walk in. Philosophers may divine

the cause,--we only know it is so; sentiment is not for the highway:

love and clover are synonymous. Mrs. Jennings knew this, and trotted the

unsuspecting, uninitiated Theophilus into one, accordingly. Poppies,

we know not why, do grow in clover; and Bullfinch--he was fond of

botanising--plucked one, and, lamenting that violets were out of bloom,

gave it to Mrs. Jennings. This was enough; and she whispered to the lady

who was doing _thirdy_, "He must mean something."

The town residence of Theophilus Bullfinch was in one of the squares

in the neighbourhood of the Museum. But what is a house if it want a

woman's smile? So thought Mrs. Jennings and she let no opportunity pass

of "popping in;"--we are grieved to say the _popping_ was all upon her

side. She would call as she was passing--the day was so hot--to

take a rest; or the day was so cold, and she wanted--the truth must be

spoken--a warm! What could Theophilus do? With a grim welcome on his

face, and a "D--n the woman!" in his heart, he grumbled out, "You'd

better take a chair." Mrs. Jennings did, and anything else she could

get. But getting was a point not easily arrived at; for if Bullfinch

loved one thing more than another, it was himself. She would bring him,

by way of treat, wrapt in the corner of her pocket handkerchief; five

or six nice little ginger-cakes, of her own making, of the size, and

bearing a strong family likeness to what children call "sixes;" but

finding all her entreaties thrown away, and her ginger-cakes likely to

be in the same predicament, she would in the liberality of her soul

take them into the kitchen by way of present to the housekeeper, who

"pshaw'd!" as soon as her back was turned, and, enlarging upon the

merits of her own ginger-cakes, gave them to the maid, and she--they

went no farther: servant-maids have good appetites.

What woman could bear these slights of fortune tamely? We can take upon

ourselves to say Mrs. Jennings did not; but, intent upon the one great

object of a woman's life,--a husband,--she let no opportunity pass of

reporting that herself and Theophilus were shortly to be one, fully

convinced of the fact that, though marriages may be made in heaven,

there is nothing like speculating upon them on earth; and hoping, no

doubt, to discover the true philosophers stone, which "turneth all to

gold,"--Theophilus was a man of wealth,--she left no stone unturned to

get him; and, to give things an appearance, she sat herself down--we

tremble as we write--in no less a place than his bedroom, determined not

to quit it until, as she observed, "there was an understanding between

them." Theophilus was horror-stricken, the housekeeper no less so, and

the servant-maid all flutters and ribbons.

"Oh! oh!" gasped the widow, "you base man!--a weak woman as I am!"

"Very!" grunted Theophilus.

The housekeeper here interfered. "What's the use of crying about it? Why

don't you look after somebody else?"

"Ah!" sobbed the widow, "you don't know what's atwixt us!"

"I wish the street-door was," thought Bullfinch.

The lady was inexorable. "The poppy," she said, "had done the business!

If she had only _someone to care for her_!" Her feelings overcame her,

and she lay upon the bed in agony of finely-developed grief, we presume,

for the convenience of fainting.

Theophilus was at his wits' end, and a something very like a "D--n me!"

was at his tongue's; but, "nursing his wrath," and echoing the words

of an Eastern sultan, that "he who finds himself in a fire ought to be

resigned to the Divine will; but whoever is out of the fire ought to be

careful, and keep himself in his happy state." Thus far he thought with

Mahomet; so he put on his hat and sallied forth, leaving Mrs. Jennings

in undisputed possession of his bed. Whether this argued a want of

taste, or was only a chastening of the spirit, we will not attempt

to define; but certain it is he went out, and the widow, finding her

efforts ineffectual, did the ditto.

Days passed, and so did Mrs. Jennings the house; the servant-maid,

with a prudent industry, answering the door in the area. Bullfinch

(in a money-getting lane in the City the curious reader will see the

Co. written after it) was a merchant; and as, in the ordinary course

of things, it is necessary to emerge into the streets previously to

reaching the place "where merchants most do congregate," what was to

be done?--for never did cat watch a rat-hole more patiently, more

hungrily, than the widow the doorway of his house. His modesty was not

widow-proof; and the only way to shun her, was by a back-door, which

opened into a mews: patiently picking his way through mire and dirty

straw, did Theophilus, cursing widows and poppies, wend his way; whilst

she--patience had ceased to be a virtue--vowed vengeance in the streets.

On a wet day, a day of gloom and splash,--the streets running rivers,

and the skies shedding drops like pebbles,--the passengers dripping,

drenching,--and the New Police, all love and oil-skin, sheltering

themselves under doors and gateways,--sat Theophilus Bullfinch, Esq. in

his easy-chair, brightening the blaze of warm fire by a fresh "stir,"

smugly sipping his wine, and in the uprising of his heart wishing

confusion to all widows, and devoting a full glass to the particular

condemnation of Mrs. Jennings. Every now and then he cast an eye to the

patting rain and floating streets, and thanked Heaven which had set the

fruits of fortune ripened for his plucking, and given him that which

made life like a full cup, that he could drink from, nor tire of. He sat

in "contemplation sweet."

"Whence comes that knocking?" he might have said, had not the

servant-maid saved him the trouble, by saying a young man wanted to see

him.

"Me!" ejaculated Theophilus.

"Yes, sir," was the reply, and, after much scrubbing on the doormat,

in a vein endeavour to rub his boots clean, the _young man_ was shown

up, soaked to the skin, and dripping like a watering-pot. Theophilus

opened his eyes; the young man took the same liberty with his mouth, and

inquired if his name was Bullfinch? The answer was in the affirmative.

A chair was set; the servant left the room, and, looking at the muddy

footsteps on the stair-carpets, uttered sundry pretty little sayings

about "dirty feet," "her trouble in the morning;" &c. and retailed her

complaints to the goddess of the kitchen.

The young man commenced by saying he had brought a little account.

"And a great deal of wet," gently murmured Theophilus. "A little

account!"

"Yes, sir,--for board and lodging."

Bullfinch opened his eyes still wider, and echoed "Board and lodging!"

"The bill, sir, is four-and-twenty pounds."

Another echo, and still higher uplifting of the eyebrows: "Where do you

come from?"

"Blackheath, sir."

"Blackheath! What! _through_ the rain?"

The young man ventured a smile as he replied, "No, sir; I wish I had."

"Board and lodging!--you must have made a mistake."

"Oh no, sir," said the young man; "here is the bill,--twenty-four weeks,

at a pound a-week, as a parlour-boarder, at Mrs. Twig's establishment

for young ladies."

Theophilus looked suspiciously at his silver spoons, and eyed the

bell-rope. But a new light seemed to break upon him at the mention of

the word "establishment," as he replied,

"I am afraid, my good sir, the 'establishment' you come from is in St.

George's Fields. I a parlour-boarder at a young ladies' school!"

"No, sir; not _you_."

"Who then?" cried Theophilus.

"Mrs. Jennings, sir."

"Mrs. Who!"

"Jennings, sir."

Bullfinch sunk back into his uneasy-chair. "Mrs. Jennings!--Mrs. Devil!"

and in the bitterness of his spleen he deemed her no less a personage.

"Mrs. ----" The word, like Macbeth's _amen_, "stuck in his throat."

There was a pause. At length, plucking his courage by the ears, he

continued; "And do you expect me to pay for this old ----!" We omit the

word; no lady admires being likened to a dog.

"If you please, sir, I have put 'paid' to the bill."

"That's lucky, for it's the only way you'll ever have the satisfaction

of seeing it 'paid.' Four-and-twenty pounds!--not so many farthings!"

but the goodness of his disposition got the better of his anger as he

added, "unless to buy her a rope."

It is needless to dwell longer upon this occurrence, further than by

saying, that the "young man," finding the bill not in a way of being

"settled," or Mrs, Jennings either, took his beaver, or--we like to be

particular--his four-and-ninepenny, no longer a hat, but a piece of

ornamented brown paper in a fine state of decomposition, and was in the

act of leaving the room, when rat! tat! tat! went the door, and another

young man was announced with a bill for acceptance, drawn by Messrs.

Lutestring & Co. for silks, flannels &c. supplied to--Mrs. Jennings!

Monsieur Tonson was nothing to this! Another knock, and a female was

ushered up with a yard-long bill for millinery, &c. done for--Mrs.

Jennings! The "Storm" upon the grand piano was a mere puff to that

raised by Bullfinch. He swore, raved, ordered them from his house, and

finally, thrusting his head between his hands, groaned a bitter groan,

and, smiting his brow, cried, "Oh, that d--d poppy!"

The following morning, a suspicious-looking person, of a pick-pockety

exterior, and belonging to a similar industrious calling--he was a

lawyer's clerk--knocked at the knocker of Theophilus Bullfinch, and with

that gentlemanly ease and accomplished manner so peculiar to young men

in the law, handed to the aforesaid personage a letter, prettily worded,

and headed "Jennings _versus_ Bullfinch." It was a notice of action for

"breach."

Tremble, oh, ye bachelors!--and oh, ye spinsters! smirk in the hope

of one day convincing the world you _ought_ to have been married. Mrs.

Jennings was of the same opinion, and, in a spirit of justice to her

sex, put her case into the hands of Messrs. Twist and Strainer, as

respectable a firm as ever undertook a "breach of promise case." It is

needless to say they issued their process with becoming expedition; and

Bullfinch, sorely galled, mastered his antipathy,--we cannot but think

a very foolish one,--and applied to an attorney!--in the hope--men

catch at straws--that an attorney _might_ be an honest man! Alas! that

a person of his years should not have more wisdom!--It is perhaps

necessary to inform the reader that the damages were laid at five

thousand pounds.

The day of trial arrived. Theophilus, with a blushing face and tremulous

heart, squeezed himself into a seat beside his legal adviser; his

eyes upon the floor, and his hands feelingly placed in his pockets.

He fancied all eyes bent on his, and smarted under them as they were

burning-glasses. By degrees his timidity abated, and at the bustle

occasioned by the judge coming into court had so far summoned courage

as to raise his eyes. They met, "gently beaming," the eyes of Mrs.

Jennings, who was seated in the gallery. He would rather have looked on

a wolf's; but a sort of fascination, as birds feel looking at serpents,

kept them fixed,--nailed to the eyes of what seemed to him his evil

genius; whilst she, with the bland look of injured innocence, jerked a

few tears into her eyes, and, taking out her pocket-handkerchief,--a

clean one for the occasion,--wept, that is, she appeared to do so; but a

woman's tears, like her ornaments, are not always real.

She looked, and Bullfinch spell-bound met her gaze; but, as a friend of

ours once said, "He gave her a look!"

The proceedings commenced. The learned counsel opened the case by

enlarging upon "the enormity of the defendant's crime, and the

plaintiff's unprotected state; a crime," the learned counsel went on

to say, "unparalleled in the annals of the law; a crime, my lord and

gentlemen, which breaks into the peace of families, and takes from

the lovely and the virtuous that jewel no wealth can barter,--her

reputation, gentlemen, her unspotted, her unblushing reputation! Not

that I would be understood to accuse the defendant of seduction. No,

gentlemen; the lady whose case I am pleading is too fair a flower to be

hurt by his calumniating breath!--she is----"

Here Theophilus uttered a word; we are grieved we cannot repeat it;

but the officer of the court bawled "Silence!" in so loud a tone as

completely to drown it. The learned counsel continued:

"Yes, my lord and gentlemen, the defendant--I blush, gentlemen, I

blush," and the learned counsel was evidently overcome with the novelty

of his situation,--"the defendant is a man," he resumed, "past the

intoxicating meridian of life, when the feelings of youth flutter like

bees sipping flowers of the fairest hue. He has proved himself----"

Another ejaculation from Theophilus, and again the officer "Silence'd!"

"He has proved himself a monster of the blackest dye,--a reptile who

ought to be crushed off the face of the earth! Oh, gentlemen, did you

but know the lady as I do,--have known the sanctity of her private life,

and the ethereal nature of her public one; her loveliness, her virgin

excellence, beloved by relations, idolized by her family!" The lades in

the gallery were visibly affected, and looked daggers at the brute of a

defendant. The counsel, after a pause, resumed: "This, gentlemen, is the

being for whom I am to plead. Englishmen will, I am sure, never desert

the ladies!"

The jury-box felt the appeal, and looked proudly dignified; and after

dwelling for two hours and three quarters on "the villain who by his

insidious wiles"--Theophilus looked patiently unconscious of his Don

Juan accomplishments--"had wormed himself into the lady's affections,

and then basely left her, a daisy on the stalk, to pine!" he called

upon them as husbands,--"Think of your wives," continued the counsel:

they evidently did, and looked anything but pleased; and urging them as

fathers and as men to give the plaintiff such damages as the enormity of

the crime and the wealth of the defendant warranted, the learned counsel

sat down, evidently to the satisfaction of himself and all who heard him.

It is needless to dwell longer upon this interesting trial, as the

curiously inclined may read a full account of it in any newspaper of the

date, and therein they will see it stated in evidence how the "mutual

friend" bore witness to Mr. Bullfinch picking the poppy and paying

for the widow at cards. Theophilus had often accused himself of the

folly, and sundry other little etceteras "too numerous to mention."

The housekeeper, in being cross-examined, also bore evidence, though

much against her will, to the intimacy of the parties. The maid--women

invariably hold by each other--always considered master _'gaged_ to

Mrs. Jennings. The jury seemed to think so too, and returned a verdict

of--Theophilus never recovered the shock--five hundred pounds!

Ye elderly bachelors, and ye bachelors of all degrees, hear this and

pause! There are specks in the sun; can you, in the vanity of your

hearts, think women more immaculate? Alas, the error! Pause then, and,

whenever you play at cards with a lady, think of Theophilus Bullfinch,

and never pay for your partner; and for the rest of your lives, if you

would escape actions for "breach," never pick poppies, or walk in clover

with widows!

"After all," said Theophilus, as he wrote a check for the amount of

damages, and another for the costs, "even this is better than being

bothered by Mrs. Jennings, especially as she _wanted somebody to care

for her_." H. H.

HINTS FOR AN HISTORICAL PLAY,

TO BE CALLED

WILLIAM RUFUS; OR, THE RED ROVER.

ACT 1.

Walter Tyrrel, the son of a Norman Papa,

Has, somehow or other, a Saxon Mamma:

Though humble, yet far above mere vulgar loons,

He's a sort of a Sub in the Rufus dragoons;

Has travell'd but comes home abruptly, the rather

That some unknown rascal has murder'd his father;

And scarce has he pick'd out, and stuck in his quiver,

The arrow that pierc'd the old gentleman's liver,

When he finds, as misfortunes come rarely alone,

That his Sweetheart has bolted,--with whom is not known.

But, as murder will out, he at last finds the lady

At court, with her character grown rather shady;

This gives him the "Blues," and impairs the delight

He'd have otherwise felt when they dub him a Knight

For giving a runaway stallion a check,

And preventing his breaking King Rufus's neck.

ACT 2.

Sir Walter has dress'd himself up like a Ghost,

And frightens a soldier away from his post;

Then, discarding his helmet, he pulls his cloak higher,

Draws it over his ears, and pretends he's a Friar.

This gains him access to his Sweetheart, Miss Faucit;

But, the King coming in, he hides up in her closet,

Where, oddly enough, among some of her things

He discovers some arrows he's sure are the King's,

Of the very same pattern with that which he found

Sticking into his father when dead on the ground!

Forgetting his funk, he bursts open the door,

Bounces into the Drawing-room, stamps on the floor,

With an oath on his tongue, and revenge in his eye,

And blows up King William the Second sky-high,

Swears, storms, shakes his fist, and exhibits such airs,

That his Majesty bids his men kick him down stairs.

ACT 3.

King RUFUS is cross when he comes to reflect

That as King he's been treated with gross disrespect;

So he pens a short note to a holy physician,

And gives him a rather unholy commission,

Viz. to mix up some arsenic and ale in a cup,

Which the chances are Tyrrel may find and drink up.

Sure enough, on the very next morning, Sir Walter

Perceives in his walks this same cup on the altar.

As he feels rather thirsty, he's just about drinking,

When Miss Faucit, in tears, comes in running like winking;

He pauses of course, and, as she's thirsty too,

Says, very politely, "Miss F., after you!"

The young Lady curtsies, and, being so dry,

Raises somehow her fair little-finger so high,

That there's not a drop left him to "wet t'other eye:"

While, the dose is so strong, to his grief and surprise,

She merely says, "Thankee, Sir Walter!" and dies.

At that moment the King, who is riding to cover,

Pops in _en passant_ on the desperate lover,

Who has vow'd, not five minutes before, to transfix him;

--So he does,--he just pulls out his arrow and sticks him.

From the strength of his arm, and the force of his blows,

The Red-bearded Rover falls flat on his nose;

And Sir Walter, thus having concluded his quarrel,

Walks down to the foot-lights, and draws this fine moral.

"Ladies and Gentlemen,

Lead sober lives;--

Don't meddle with other folks' Sweethearts or Wives!--

When you go out a sporting, take care of your Gun,

And--Never shoot elderly people for fun!"

JOHN POOLEDOUNE,

THE VICTIM OF IMPROVEMENTS!

It was on a fine warm day in June, several years before Beulah Spa

was invented, that, eviting leafy Hampstead, and airy Highgate, and

woody Hornsey, John Pooledoune, with a party of companions, sought

the delights of a rural ramble and pic-nic, amid the sylvan scenery

of Norwood. Of the journey thither, the sporting there, the banquet

on the grass, the hilarious after-dinner bumpers, the casting away of

bottles, and the wide-spread waste of orts, there is no occasion to

speak; suffice it to state, that the frolic and profusion attracted a

visit from a couple of dark-haired and bright-glancing Gipsies, whose

sojourn was thereabouts, and who, though reckless of the present, were,

or pretended to be, deeply read in the future. Their appearance added

to the merriment of the occasion; and, with that natural curiosity

which belongs to human nature, our revellers agreed to have a peep into

futurity palmed upon them, at the small cost of a few silver coins.

One after another were their lines submitted to Sibyllic inspection;

and loud were their laughs as the pretty "brows of Egypt" bent over

their destinies, and told of coming estates, and wives, and children,

and, sooth to add, little amours and indiscretions which nevertheless

promised pleasures hardly less acceptable to the expectant listeners. At

length it fell to the turn of Jack Pooledoune, who was indeed so well

off in the world, that he had little either to hope or to fear from the

fickle goddess; when, all at once, a sudden chill crept over the group,

"a change came o'er the spirit of their dream," and the hitherto gay and

giggling priestesses of mystery assumed aspects of horror and dismay.

What before was curiosity was now intense interest. Whence the cause of

this awful alteration?--why had mirth in a moment given place to these

boding looks and signs of terror? Time and our tale will show; and we

have only here to record the prediction reluctantly wrung from one of

the distraught and shuddering Gipsies.

"Oh! strange unfortunate Fortunate!" she exclaimed as she conned John

Pooledoune's hand,

"By making rich, made poor;

By making happy, miserable;

By amending, hurt; by curing, slain;

never Lost on earth, alive or dead, yet Found by numbers; bodiless

corpse; _The Victim of Improvement_, for ever to improve;--

"No hand to close thy eyes,

No eye to see thy grave,

No grave to give thee rest,--

STRANGE BEING!

Dead; resembling Death, yet keeping thy place among the dead and the

living; thy end shall not be an ending, and every one shall know that

thou art and art not!"

With this fearful prophecy the Gipsies took to their heels; and Jack,

with an oath at their impudent mummery, shied half a half-quartern loaf

at their retreating heads. The iced punch was speedily resumed; but, so

strong is the hold of superstition upon us, even when wine and punch

have infused a factitious courage, it was found impossible to re-animate

the convivial festival, and the party returned to town, either in silent

abstraction, or reverting to and commenting on the oddness of the Gipsy

foolery!

Old Roger Pooledoune was one of the busiest and most substantial of

hosiers in the ward of Cheap; a respectable citizen, whose heart and

soul were in his business, to which he attended from morning to night

as if, instead of toil, it were pleasure; and indeed it did comprehend

the mighty pleasure of profit, the be-all and the end-all of many a

cit. Stockings, stocks, and socks, braces, collars, gloves, nightcaps,

and garters, were all the same to honest Roger; and he would serve his

customers with equal cordiality with every one of these articles, from

the price of a grey groat to the cost of sterling gold. Thus he dealt

and throve. His shop was never empty, for his commodities were reputed

to be of good quality; and, in process of years, his industry was

rewarded with such increase, that his neighbours declared him to be a

warm man, and guessed his worth at no less than thirty thousand pounds.

Nor were they far wrong.

Roger, like a man ignorant of Malthus, had in the midst of all his

occupations found leisure to court and win a wife; and, in due process,

a certain portion of the stock in the warehouse, namely, some very small

socks, gaiters, &c. had to be transferred _gratis_ to the nursery,

where Isabella, Matilda, and Margaret, and last, John Pooledoune, the

only son, the fruits of his marriage-bed, required such equipments from

their fond father,--the fonder in consequence of the last family event

having made him a widower. Twenty years had elapsed since that period

of mingled joy and woe, of birth and death,--the conjunction of the two

extremes of human life,--when it occurred to the corporation of the

city of London that it would be a vast improvement in the approaches

thereto, and accommodation to the traffic thereof, to have a new bridge

thrown across the bosom of old Father Thames, just where it suited a

company of keen-sighted, speculative, and money-making gentry to have

that operation performed for the public and their own benefit. It so

happened that the site so agreeable to them was exceedingly disagreeable

to Roger Pooledoune, inasmuch as it created a necessity for carrying a

street, as it were the string of a bow, direct to the bridge, not only

leaving his shop at the farthest bend of the said bow, but plunging it

into an unfrequented valley, or _cul de sac_, at which it was irksome

to look from the popular balustrades of the recent direct and splendid

erections. Old Roger, it is true, claimed and received a handsome,--a

very handsome, and neighbourly, and citizen-like compensation: for

his loss in the daily sale of nightcaps and garters was estimated at

the sum of fourteen thousand eight hundred and seventy-seven pounds

sixteen shillings and fivepence three farthings: but, like Othello, his

occupation was gone. The money obtained in a lump was not like the money

gained by slow and minute degrees. He became uncomfortable, uneasy,

irritable; he would gaze up towards the new street to the new bridge,

and, counting the passing crowds, would calculate on the proportional

passing demand for ready-made hosiery of every description. The whole

was diverted into another channel: he could not bear the sight, he could

not endure the idea; and so he pined, and he sickened, and he died, for

want of a brisk retail.

The disposition of the defunct hosier's property was such as might be

expected from a wealthy and prudent tradesman. He had sunk the fourteen

thousand and odd pounds in annuities on his three daughters, and so tied

them up, that none but themselves--nor brother, nor friend, nor husband,

nor lover--could receive the half-yearly dividends; and, if loan or

mortgage were attempted upon them, they were forfeited for ever. Thus

were they provided with inalienable competencies for the terms of their

natural lives. To John was left the residue, which, when the good will

of the shop was with good will disposed of for nothing, everything else

settled, and affairs wound up, was ascertained to amount to the neat

round sum of two-and-thirty thousand pounds; and thus warmly provided,

the gipsy foredoomed Victim of Improvements began the world, his own

master, and for himself alone.

John Pooledoune had received what is called a first-rate "commercial

and classical education," at a boarding-school near Deptford, where

these identical words were painted in capital letters on a board which

ran along the entire façade of the building. He had thus been prepared

for more general and severer pursuits; and accordingly, about that era

when the first drum was beat for the March of Intellect, he enrolled

himself in the ranks for the diffusion of knowledge, and, to speak

comparatively, soon reached the distinction of a halbert in the cause.

He became a leading man in the Mechanics' Institutes, attended lectures

on every possible subject at least five evenings in every week, was

elected a member of the Society of Arts and of the Statistical Society,

joined the British Association at Bristol,[104] and, in fine, adopted

the most admired course to become a utilitarian of the first water. He

was acknowledged to be an independent, and sensible, and well-informed

individual; he needed neither favour nor assistance, had plenty of ready

money in the funds, and was courted and caressed accordingly. He was, in

short, a faultless monster.

But not only had Fortune been kind to him; Nature was equally liberal:

he was well-proportioned in lith and limb; stout, healthy, and

well-looking. If not a perfect, but, rather, as George the Fourth would

say, an ungentlemanly gentleman, he was not a vulgar plebeian; and,

altogether, hardly ever did a man start in the middle walks of life with

so fair a promise of prosperity and happiness. John Pooledoune had the

silver spoon to his mouth,--the salt of the earth to his portion.

With such qualities, and to such a character, inactivity was impossible.

Inclination and means led to projects of utility, and John was

determined to benefit mankind by his efforts in promoting the ingenious

conceptions of the clever and the "talented." His apartments were

encumbered with models, his chairs and his tables laden with plans; nay,

he even fancied at times that he was himself an inventor. It was, to be

sure, only in a small way, but it kept the ruling passion in a blaze;

and when he took out his first patent for a broom to eat its own dust,

his ecstasies had nearly laid him with the dust, to which he was thus

made doubly akin.

It is wonderful to behold how many of our species, full of the most

extraordinary and indubitable inventions, from which indescribable

riches must accrue, languish in abject poverty: to such, a John

Pooledoune is a god-send, even though it may be that in the issue he

is reduced to fraternization. He was the friend of projectors, the

believer in perfectibility, but singularly unlucky in nearly all his

undertakings. Of these we must mention a few, the leading incidents of a

brief career.

We have alluded to the patent for a dust-consuming broom, with which

John was so marvellously elated. The worst of it was, that it involved

him in a law-suit with Mr. Pratt, who clearly proved to the judge and

jury that he had perfected a similar besom five years before. It was

in vain that John's counsel argued that his broom acted transversely,

not horizontally; and possessed a vertical, not a rotary action; in

vain he asserted that new brooms swept cleanest: the verdict was for

the plaintiff; and the infringement of the right to use a useless brush

cost Mr. Pooledoune within a trifle of a thousand pounds. The lawyers

and attorneys declared that it was a shameful verdict, and advised

Mr. Pooledoune to move for a new trial; but he had sense enough to be

satisfied with one.

Misfortunes, we are told, never come single. Like crows, if you see one

alight on a field, you may be pretty sure there will soon be a few more,

and probably a flock; and so it fell out with our hero's mischances.

A company was formed upon the most admirable principles to supply the

metropolis with pure water instead of the abomination hitherto imbibed

from the polluted river, the grand recipient of the filth of a million

and a half of nasty people. It was to be brought from Tonbridge Wells,

laid on in crystal pipes, and supplied with a bounty that defied

competition. John Pooledoune became a large shareholder and a director;

but somehow or other the stream did not run smooth, the crystal pipes

broke, and so did the company; and John, being a responsible person,

got out with the largest share--of the loss. He next embarked in gas

works, the most prosperous that ever were demonstrated by calculations

and estimates on the tables printed by the projectors. But this design,

alas! also failed: the gas dissolved into thin air; and another

troublesome and expensive law-suit proved that the thousands of tons of

coke which had been consumed were utterly wasted, as their use in that

particular way, custom, and manner, was not sanctioned by Coke upon

Lyttleton.--See _Vesey's Reports_, div. 4, cap. 3, lib. 2, page 1.