“'I clapped chains, shrieking and darkness, on my physician, Dr. Pinel.

The keepers I shall cause to be roasted alive. I summoned my allies

round about me. The high contracting Powers came to my bidding:

monarchs from all parts of the earth; sovereigns from the Moon and other

illumined orbits; the white necromancers, and the pale imprisoned genii.

I whispered the mystic sign, and the doors flew open. We entered Paris

in triumph, by the Charenton bridge. Our luggage was not examined at the

Octroi. The bottle-green ones were scared at our shouts, and retreated,

howling: they knew us, and trembled.

“'My faithful Peers and Deputies will rally around me. I have a friend

in Turkey--the Grand Vizier of the Mussulmans: he was a Protestant

once--Lord Brougham by name. I have sent to him to legislate for us:

he is wise in the law, and astrology, and all sciences; he shall aid my

Ministers in their councils. I have written to him by the post. There

shall be no more infamous mad-houses in France, where poor souls shiver

in strait-waistcoats.

“'I recognized Louis Philippe, my good cousin. He was in his

counting-house, counting out his money, as the old prophecy warned me.

He gave me up the keys of his gold; I shall know well how to use it.

Taught by adversity, I am not a spendthrift, neither am I a miser. I

will endow the land with noble institutions instead of diabolical

forts. I will have no more cannon founded. They are a curse and shall

be melted--the iron ones into railroads; the bronze ones into statues of

beautiful saints, angels, and wise men; the copper ones into money, to

be distributed among my poor. I was poor once, and I love them.

“'There shall be no more poverty; no more wars; no more avarice; no more

passports; no more custom-houses; no more lying: no more physic.

“'My Chambers will put the seal to these reforms. I will it. I am the

king.

(Signed) 'Louis.'”

“Some alarm was created yesterday by the arrival of a body of the

English Foot-Guard under the Duke of Jenkins; they were at first about

to sack the city, but on hearing that the banner of the lilies was once

more raised in France, the Duke hastened to the Tuileries, and offered

his allegiance to his Majesty. It was accepted: and the Plush Guard

has been established in place of the Swiss, who waited on former

sovereigns.”

“The Irish Brigade quartered in the Tuileries are to enter our service.

Their commander states that they took every one of the forts round

Paris, and having blown them up, were proceeding to release Louis

XVII., when they found that august monarch, happily, free. News of their

glorious victory has been conveyed to Dublin, to his Majesty the King of

the Irish. It will be a new laurel to add to his green crown!”

And thus have we brought to a conclusion our history of the great

French Revolution of 1884. It records the actions of great and various

characters; the deeds of various valor; it narrates wonderful reverses

of fortune; it affords the moralist scope for his philosophy; perhaps it

gives amusement to the merely idle reader. Nor must the latter imagine,

because there is not a precise moral affixed to the story, that its

tendency is otherwise than good. He is a poor reader, for whom

his author is obliged to supply a moral application. It is well in

spelling-books and for children; it is needless for the reflecting

spirit. The drama of Punch himself is not moral: but that drama has had

audiences all over the world. Happy he, who in our dark times can cause

a smile! Let us laugh then, and gladden in the sunshine, though it be

but as the ray upon the pool, that flickers only over the cold black

depths below!

COX'S DIARY.

THE ANNOUNCEMENT.

On the 1st of January, 1838, I was the master of a lovely shop in the

neighborhood of Oxford Market; of a wife, Mrs. Cox; of a business, both

in the shaving and cutting line, established three-and-thirty years; of

a girl and boy respectively of the ages of eighteen and thirteen; of

a three-windowed front, both to my first and second pair; of a young

foreman, my present partner, Mr. Orlando Crump; and of that celebrated

mixture for the human hair, invented by my late uncle, and called

Cox's Bohemian Balsam of Tokay, sold in pots at two-and-three and

three-and-nine. The balsam, the lodgings, and the old-established

cutting and shaving business brought me in a pretty genteel income. I

had my girl, Jemimarann, at Hackney, to school; my dear boy, Tuggeridge,

plaited her hair beautifully; my wife at the counter (behind the tray of

patent soaps, &c.) cut as handsome a figure as possible; and it was my

hope that Orlando and my girl, who were mighty soft upon one another,

would one day be joined together in Hyming, and, conjointly with my son

Tug, carry on the business of hairdressers when their father was either

dead or a gentleman: for a gentleman me and Mrs. C. determined I should

be.

Jemima was, you see, a lady herself, and of very high connections:

though her own family had met with crosses, and was rather low. Mr.

Tuggeridge, her father, kept the famous tripe-shop near the “Pigtail and

Sparrow,” in the Whitechapel Road; from which place I married her; being

myself very fond of the article, and especially when she served it to

me--the dear thing!

Jemima's father was not successful in business: and I married her, I am

proud to confess it, without a shilling. I had my hands, my house, and

my Bohemian balsam to support her!--and we had hopes from her uncle,

a mighty rich East India merchant, who, having left this country sixty

years ago as a cabin-boy, had arrived to be the head of a great house in

India, and was worth millions, we were told.

Three years after Jemimarann's birth (and two after the death of my

lamented father-in-law), Tuggeridge (head of the great house of Budgurow

and Co.) retired from the management of it; handed over his shares to

his son, Mr. John Tuggeridge, and came to live in England, at Portland

Place, and Tuggeridgeville, Surrey, and enjoy himself. Soon after, my

wife took her daughter in her hand and went, as in duty bound, to

visit her uncle: but whether it was that he was proud and surly, or she

somewhat sharp in her way, (the dear girl fears nobody, let me have you

to know,) a desperate quarrel took place between them; and from that

day to the day of his death, he never set eyes on her. All that he would

condescend to do, was to take a few dozen of lavender-water from us in

the course of the year, and to send his servants to be cut and shaved by

us. All the neighbors laughed at this poor ending of our expectations,

for Jemmy had bragged not a little; however, we did not care, for the

connection was always a good one, and we served Mr. Hock, the valet;

Mr. Bar, the coachman; and Mrs. Breadbasket, the housekeeper, willingly

enough. I used to powder the footman, too, on great days, but never in

my life saw old Tuggeridge, except once: when he said “Oh, the barber!”

tossed up his nose, and passed on.

One day--one famous day last January--all our Market was thrown into

a high state of excitement by the appearance of no less than three

vehicles at our establishment. As me, Jemmy, my daughter, Tug, and

Orlando, were sitting in the back-parlor over our dinner (it being

Christmas-time, Mr. Crump had treated the ladies to a bottle of port,

and was longing that there should be a mistletoe-bough: at which

proposal my little Jemimarann looked as red as a glass of negus):--we

had just, I say, finished the port, when, all of a sudden, Tug bellows

out, “La, Pa, here's uncle Tuggeridge's housekeeper in a cab!”

And Mrs. Breadbasket it was, sure enough--Mrs. Breadbasket in deep

mourning, who made her way, bowing and looking very sad, into the back

shop. My wife, who respected Mrs. B. more than anything else in the

world, set her a chair, offered her a glass of wine, and vowed it was

very kind of her to come. “La, mem,” says Mrs. B., “I'm sure I'd

do anything to serve your family, for the sake of that poor dear

Tuck-Tuck-tug-guggeridge, that's gone.”

“That's what?” cries my wife.

“What, gone?” cried Jemimarann, bursting out crying (as little girls

will about anything or nothing); and Orlando looking very rueful, and

ready to cry too.

“Yes, gaw--” Just as she was at this very “gaw” Tug roars out, “La, Pa!

here's Mr. Bar, uncle Tug's coachman!”

It was Mr. Bar. When she saw him, Mrs. Breadbasket stepped suddenly back

into the parlor with my ladies. “What is it, Mr. Bar?” says I; and as

quick as thought, I had the towel under his chin, Mr. Bar in the chair,

and the whole of his face in a beautiful foam of lather. Mr. Bar made

some resistance.--“Don't think of it, Mr. Cox,” says he; “don't trouble

yourself, sir.” But I lathered away and never minded. “And what's this

melancholy event, sir,” says I, “that has spread desolation in your

family's bosoms? I can feel for your loss, sir--I can feel for your

loss.”

I said so out of politeness, because I served the family, not because

Tuggeridge was my uncle--no, as such I disown him.

Mr. Bar was just about to speak. “Yes, sir,” says he, “my master's

gaw--” when at the “gaw” in walks Mr. Hock, the own man!--the finest

gentleman I ever saw.

“What, YOU here, Mr. Bar!” says he.

“Yes, I am, sir; and haven't I a right, sir?”

“A mighty wet day, sir,” says I to Mr. Hock--stepping up and making my

bow. “A sad circumstance too, sir! And is it a turn of the tongs that

you want to-day, sir? Ho, there, Mr. Crump!”

“Turn, Mr. Crump, if you please, sir,” said Mr. Hock, making a bow:

“but from you, sir, never--no, never, split me!--and I wonder how some

fellows can have the INSOLENCE to allow their MASTERS to shave them!”

With this, Mr. Hock flung himself down to be curled: Mr. Bar suddenly

opened his mouth in order to reply; but seeing there was a tiff between

the gentlemen, and wanting to prevent a quarrel, I rammed the Advertiser

into Mr. Hock's hands, and just popped my shaving-brush into Mr. Bar's

mouth--a capital way to stop angry answers.

Mr. Bar had hardly been in the chair one second, when whir comes a

hackney-coach to the door, from which springs a gentleman in a black

coat with a bag.

“What, you here!” says the gentleman. I could not help smiling, for it

seemed that everybody was to begin by saying, “What, YOU here!” “Your

name is Cox, sir?” says he; smiling too, as the very pattern of mine.

“My name, sir, is Sharpus,--Blunt, Hone and Sharpus, Middle Temple

Lane,--and I am proud to salute you, sir; happy,--that is to say, sorry

to say that Mr. Tuggeridge, of Portland Place, is dead, and your lady

is heiress, in consequence, to one of the handsomest properties in the

kingdom.”

At this I started, and might have sunk to the ground, but for my hold of

Mr. Bar's nose; Orlando seemed putrified to stone, with his irons fixed

to Mr. Hock's head; our respective patients gave a wince out:--Mrs. C.,

Jemimarann, and Tug, rushed from the back shop, and we formed a splendid

tableau such as the great Cruikshank might have depicted.

“And Mr. John Tuggeridge, sir?” says I.

“Why--hee, hee, hee!” says Mr. Sharpus. “Surely you know that he was

only the--hee, hee, hee!--the natural son!”

You now can understand why the servants from Portland Place had been so

eager to come to us. One of the house-maids heard Mr. Sharpus say there

was no will, and that my wife was heir to the property, and not Mr. John

Tuggeridge: this she told in the housekeeper's room; and off, as soon as

they heard it, the whole party set, in order to be the first to bear the

news.

We kept them, every one in their old places; for, though my wife would

have sent them about their business, my dear Jemimarann just hinted,

“Mamma, you know THEY have been used to great houses, and we have not;

had we not better keep them for a little?”--Keep them, then, we did, to

show us how to be gentlefolks.

I handed over the business to Mr. Crump without a single farthing of

premium, though Jemmy would have made me take four hundred pounds for

it; but this I was above: Crump had served me faithfully, and have the

shop he should.

FIRST ROUT.

We were speedily installed in our fine house: but what's a house without

friends? Jemmy made me CUT all my old acquaintances in the Market, and

I was a solitary being; when, luckily, an old acquaintance of ours,

Captain Tagrag, was so kind as to promise to introduce us into

distinguished society. Tagrag was the son of a baronet, and had done us

the honor of lodging with us for two years; when we lost sight of him,

and of his little account, too, by the way. A fortnight after, hearing

of our good fortune, he was among us again, however; and Jemmy was not a

little glad to see him, knowing him to be a baronet's son, and very fond

of our Jemimarann. Indeed, Orlando (who is as brave as a lion) had on

one occasion absolutely beaten Mr. Tagrag for being rude to the poor

girl: a clear proof, as Tagrag said afterwards, that he was always fond

of her.

Mr. Crump, poor fellow, was not very much pleased by our good fortune,

though he did all he could to try at first; and I told him to come and

take his dinner regular, as if nothing had happened. But to this Jemima

very soon put a stop, for she came very justly to know her stature, and

to look down on Crump, which she bid her daughter to do; and, after a

great scene, in which Orlando showed himself very rude and angry, he was

forbidden the house--for ever!

So much for poor Crump. The Captain was now all in all with us. “You

see, sir,” our Jemmy would say, “we shall have our town and country

mansion, and a hundred and thirty thousand pounds in the funds, to leave

between our two children; and, with such prospects, they ought surely to

have the first society of England.” To this Tagrag agreed, and promised

to bring us acquainted with the very pink of the fashion; ay, and what's

more, did.

First, he made my wife get an opera-box, and give suppers on Tuesdays

and Saturdays. As for me, he made me ride in the Park: me and

Jemimarann, with two grooms behind us, who used to laugh all the way,

and whose very beards I had shaved. As for little Tug, he was sent

straight off to the most fashionable school in the kingdom, the Reverend

Doctor Pigney's, at Richmond.

Well, the horses, the suppers, the opera-box, the paragraphs in the

papers about Mr. Coxe Coxe (that's the way: double your name and stick

an “e” to the end of it, and you are a gentleman at once), had an effect

in a wonderfully short space of time, and we began to get a very pretty

society about us. Some of old Tug's friends swore they would do anything

for the family, and brought their wives and daughters to see dear Mrs.

Coxe and her charming girl; and when, about the first week in

February, we announced a grand dinner and ball for the evening of the

twenty-eighth, I assure you there was no want of company: no, nor

of titles neither; and it always does my heart good even to hear one

mentioned.

Let me see. There was, first, my Lord Dunboozle, an Irish peer, and his

seven sons, the Honorable Messieurs Trumper (two only to dinner): there

was Count Mace, the celebrated French nobleman, and his Excellency Baron

von Punter from Baden; there was Lady Blanche Bluenose, the eminent

literati, author of “The Distrusted” “The Distorted,” “The Disgusted,”

“The Disreputable One,” and other poems; there was the Dowager Lady

Max and her daughter, the Honorable Miss Adelaide Blueruin; Sir Charles

Codshead, from the City; and Field-Marshal Sir Gorman O'Gallagher, K.A.,

K.B., K.C., K.W., K.X., in the service of the Republic of Guatemala:

my friend Tagrag and his fashionable acquaintance, little Tom Tufthunt,

made up the party. And when the doors were flung open, and Mr. Hock, in

black, with a white napkin, three footmen, coachman, and a lad whom Mrs.

C. had dressed in sugar-loaf buttons and called a page, were seen round

the dinner-table, all in white gloves, I promise you I felt a thrill of

elation, and thought to myself--Sam Cox, Sam Cox, who ever would have

expected to see you here?

After dinner, there was to be, as I said, an evening-party; and to this

Messieurs Tagrag and Tufthunt had invited many of the principal nobility

that our metropolis had produced. When I mention, among the company to

tea, her Grace the Duchess of Zero, her son the Marquis of Fitzurse,

and the Ladies North Pole her daughters; when I say that there were yet

OTHERS, whose names may be found in the Blue Book, but shan't, out of

modesty, be mentioned here, I think I've said enough to show that, in

our time, No. 96, Portland Place, was the resort of the best of company.

It was our first dinner, and dressed by our new cook, Munseer

Cordongblew. I bore it very well; eating, for my share, a filly dysol

allamater dotell, a cutlet soubeast, a pully bashymall, and other French

dishes: and, for the frisky sweet wine, with tin tops to the bottles,

called Champang, I must say that me and Mrs. Coxe-Tuggeridge Coxe drank

a very good share of it (but the Claret and Jonnysberger, being sour, we

did not much relish). However, the feed, as I say, went off very well:

Lady Blanche Bluenose sitting next to me, and being so good as to put

me down for six copies of all her poems; the Count and Baron von Punter

engaging Jemimarann for several waltzes, and the Field-Marshal plying my

dear Jemmy with Champagne, until, bless her! her dear nose became as

red as her new crimson satin gown, which, with a blue turban and

bird-of-paradise feathers, made her look like an empress, I warrant.

Well, dinner past, Mrs. C. and the ladies went off:--thunder-under-under

came the knocks at the door; squeedle-eedle-eedle, Mr. Wippert's

fiddlers began to strike up; and, about half-past eleven, me and the

gents thought it high time to make our appearance. I felt a LITTLE

squeamish at the thought of meeting a couple of hundred great people;

but Count Mace and Sir Gorman O'Gallagher taking each an arm, we

reached, at last, the drawing-room.

The young ones in company were dancing, and the Duchess and the great

ladies were all seated, talking to themselves very stately, and working

away at the ices and macaroons. I looked out for my pretty Jemimarann

amongst the dancers, and saw her tearing round the room along with Baron

Punter, in what they call a gallypard; then I peeped into the circle

of the Duchesses, where, in course, I expected to find Mrs. C.; but she

wasn't there! She was seated at the further end of the room, looking

very sulky; and I went up and took her arm, and brought her down to the

place where the Duchesses were. “Oh, not there!” said Jemmy, trying to

break away. “Nonsense, my dear,” says I: “you are missis, and this is

your place.” Then going up to her ladyship the Duchess, says I, “Me and

my missis are most proud of the honor of seeing of you.”

The Duchess (a tall red-haired grenadier of a woman) did not speak.

I went on: “The young ones are all at it, ma'am, you see; and so we

thought we would come and sit down among the old ones. You and I, ma'am,

I think, are too stiff to dance.”

“Sir!” says her Grace.

“Ma'am,” says I, “don't you know me? My name's Cox. Nobody's introduced

me; but, dash it, it's my own house, and I may present myself--so give

us your hand, ma'am.”

And I shook hers in the kindest way in the world; but--would you

believe it?--the old cat screamed as if my hand had been a hot 'tater.

“Fitzurse! Fitzurse!” shouted she, “help! help!” Up scuffled all the

other Dowagers--in rushed the dancers. “Mamma! mamma!” squeaked Lady

Julia North Pole. “Lead me to my mother,” howled Lady Aurorer: and both

came up and flung themselves into her arms. “Wawt's the raw?” said Lord

Fitzurse, sauntering up quite stately.

“Protect me from the insults of this man,” says her Grace. “Where's

Tufthunt? he promised that not a soul in this house should speak to me.”

“My dear Duchess,” said Tufthunt, very meek.

“Don't Duchess ME, sir. Did you not promise they should not speak;

and hasn't that horrid tipsy wretch offered to embrace me? Didn't his

monstrous wife sicken me with her odious familiarities? Call my people,

Tufthunt! Follow me, my children!”

“And my carriage,” “And mine,” “And mine!” shouted twenty more voices.

And down they all trooped to the hall: Lady Blanche Bluenose and Lady

Max among the very first; leaving only the Field-Marshal and one or two

men, who roared with laughter ready to split.

“Oh, Sam,” said my wife, sobbing, “why would you take me back to them?

they had sent me away before! I only asked the Duchess whether she

didn't like rum-shrub better than all your Maxarinos and Curasosos:

and--would you believe it?--all the company burst out laughing; and the

Duchess told me just to keep off, and not to speak till I was spoken to.

Imperence! I'd like to tear her eyes out.”

And so I do believe my dearest Jemmy would!

A DAY WITH THE SURREY HOUNDS.

Our ball had failed so completely that Jemmy, who was bent still

upon fashion, caught eagerly at Tagrag's suggestion, and went down to

Tuggeridgeville. If we had a difficulty to find friends in town, here

there was none: for the whole county came about us, ate our dinners and

suppers, danced at our balls--ay, and spoke to us too. We were great

people in fact: I a regular country gentleman; and as such, Jemmy

insisted that I should be a sportsman, and join the county hunt. “But,”

says I, “my love, I can't ride.” “Pooh! Mr. C.” said she, “you're always

making difficulties: you thought you couldn't dance a quadrille; you

thought you couldn't dine at seven o'clock; you thought you couldn't lie

in bed after six; and haven't you done every one of these things? You

must and you shall ride!” And when my Jemmy said “must and shall,” I

knew very well there was nothing for it: so I sent down fifty guineas to

the hunt, and, out of compliment to me, the very next week, I received

notice that the meet of the hounds would take place at Squashtail

Common, just outside my lodge-gates.

I didn't know what a meet was; and me and Mrs. C. agreed that it was

most probable the dogs were to be fed there. However, Tagrag explained

this matter to us, and very kindly promised to sell me a horse, a

delightful animal of his own; which, being desperately pressed for

money, he would let me have for a hundred guineas, he himself having

given a hundred and fifty for it.

Well, the Thursday came: the hounds met on Squashtail Common; Mrs. C.

turned out in her barouche to see us throw off; and, being helped up

on my chestnut horse, Trumpeter, by Tagrag and my head groom, I came

presently round to join them.

Tag mounted his own horse; and, as we walked down the avenue, “I

thought,” he said, “you told me you knew how to ride; and that you had

ridden once fifty miles on a stretch!”

“And so I did,” says I, “to Cambridge, and on the box too.”

“ON THE BOX!” says he; “but did you ever mount a horse before?”

“Never,” says I, “but I find it mighty easy.”

“Well,” says he, “you're mighty bold for a barber; and I like you, Coxe,

for your spirit.” And so we came out of the gate.

As for describing the hunt, I own, fairly, I can't. I've been at a hunt,

but what a hunt is--why the horses WILL go among the dogs and ride them

down--why the men cry out “yooooic”--why the dogs go snuffing about in

threes and fours, and the huntsman says, “Good Towler--good Betsy,” and

we all of us after him say, “Good Towler--good Betsy” in course: then,

after hearing a yelp here and a howl there, tow, row, yow, yow, yow!

burst out, all of a sudden, from three or four of them, and the chap

in a velvet cap screeches out (with a number of oaths I shan't repeat

here), “Hark, to Ringwood!” and then, “There he goes!” says some one;

and all of a sudden, helter skelter, skurry hurry, slap bang, whooping,

screeching and hurraing, blue-coats and red-coats, bays and grays,

horses, dogs, donkeys, butchers, baro-knights, dustmen, and blackguard

boys, go tearing all together over the common after two or three of the

pack that yowl loudest. Why all this is, I can't say; but it all took

place the second Thursday of last March, in my presence.

Up to this, I'd kept my seat as well as the best, for we'd only been

trotting gently about the field until the dogs found; and I managed

to stick on very well; but directly the tow-rowing began, off went

Trumpeter like a thunderbolt, and I found myself playing among the

dogs like the donkey among the chickens. “Back, Mr. Coxe,” holloas

the huntsman; and so I pulled very hard, and cried out, “Wo!” but he

wouldn't; and on I went galloping for the dear life. How I kept on is a

wonder; but I squeezed my knees in very tight, and shoved my feet very

hard into the stirrups, and kept stiff hold of the scruff of Trumpeter's

neck, and looked betwixt his ears as well as ever I could, and trusted

to luck: for I was in a mortal fright, sure enough, as many a better man

would be in such a case, let alone a poor hairdresser.

As for the hounds, after my first riding in among them, I tell you

honestly, I never saw so much as the tip of one of their tails; nothing

in this world did I see except Trumpeter's dun-colored mane, and that I

gripped firm: riding, by the blessing of luck, safe through the walking,

the trotting, the galloping, and never so much as getting a tumble.

There was a chap at Croydon very well known as the “Spicy Dustman,” who,

when he could get no horse to ride to the hounds, turned regularly out

on his donkey; and on this occasion made one of us. He generally managed

to keep up with the dogs by trotting quietly through the cross-roads,

and knowing the country well. Well, having a good guess where the hounds

would find, and the line that sly Reynolds (as they call the fox) would

take, the Spicy Dustman turned his animal down the lane from Squashtail

to Cutshins Common; across which, sure enough, came the whole hunt.

There's a small hedge and a remarkably fine ditch here: some of the

leading chaps took both, in gallant style; others went round by a gate,

and so would I, only I couldn't; for Trumpeter would have the hedge, and

be hanged to him, and went right for it.

Hoop! if ever you DID try a leap! Out go your legs, out fling your arms,

off goes your hat; and the next thing you feel--that is, I did--is a

most tremendous thwack across the chest, and my feet jerked out of the

stirrups: me left in the branches of a tree; Trumpeter gone clean from

under me, and walloping and floundering in the ditch underneath. One of

the stirrup-leathers had caught in a stake, and the horse couldn't get

away: and neither of us, I thought, ever WOULD have got away: but all of

a sudden, who should come up the lane but the Spicy Dustman!

“Holloa!” says I, “you gent, just let us down from this here tree!”

“Lor'!” says he, “I'm blest if I didn't take you for a robin.”

“Let's down,” says I; but he was all the time employed in disengaging

Trumpeter, whom he got out of the ditch, trembling and as quiet as

possible. “Let's down,” says I. “Presently,” says he; and taking off

his coat, he begins whistling and swishing down Trumpeter's sides and

saddle; and when he had finished, what do you think the rascal did?--he

just quietly mounted on Trumpeter's back, and shouts out, “Git down

yourself, old Bearsgrease; you've only to drop! I'LL give your 'oss a

hairing arter them 'ounds; and you--vy, you may ride back my pony

to Tuggeridgeweal!” And with this, I'm blest if he didn't ride away,

leaving me holding, as for the dear life, and expecting every minute the

branch would break.

It DID break too, and down I came into the slush; and when I got out of

it, I can tell you I didn't look much like the Venuses or the Apollor

Belvidearis what I used to dress and titivate up for my shop window

when I was in the hairdressing line, or smell quite so elegant as our

rose-oil. Faugh! what a figure I was!

I had nothing for it but to mount the dustman's donkey (which was very

quietly cropping grass in the hedge), and to make my way home; and after

a weary, weary journey, I arrived at my own gate.

A whole party was assembled there. Tagrag, who had come back; their

Excellencies Mace and Punter, who were on a visit; and a number of

horses walking up and down before the whole of the gentlemen of the

hunt, who had come in after losing their fox! “Here's Squire Coxe!”

shouted the grooms. Out rushed the servants, out poured the gents of

the hunt, and on trotted poor me, digging into the donkey, and everybody

dying with laughter at me.

Just as I got up to the door, a horse came galloping up, and passed me;

a man jumped down, and taking off a fantail hat, came up, very gravely,

to help me down.

“Squire,” says he, “how came you by that there hanimal? Jist git down,

will you, and give it to its howner?”

“Rascal!” says I, “didn't you ride off on my horse?”

“Was there ever sich ingratitude?” says the Spicy. “I found this year

'oss in a pond, I saves him from drowning, I brings him back to his

master, and he calls me a rascal!”

The grooms, the gents, the ladies in the balcony, my own servants, all

set up a roar at this; and so would I, only I was so deucedly ashamed,

as not to be able to laugh just then.

And so my first day's hunting ended. Tagrag and the rest declared I

showed great pluck, and wanted me to try again; but “No,” says I, “I

HAVE been.”

THE FINISHING TOUCH.

I was always fond of billiards: and, in former days, at Grogram's in

Greek Street, where a few jolly lads of my acquaintance used to meet

twice a week for a game, and a snug pipe and beer, I was generally voted

the first man of the club; and could take five from John the marker

himself. I had a genius, in fact, for the game; and now that I was

placed in that station of life where I could cultivate my talents,

I gave them full play, and improved amazingly. I do say that I think

myself as good a hand as any chap in England.

The Count and his Excellency Baron von Punter were, I can tell you,

astonished by the smartness of my play: the first two or three rubbers

Punter beat me, but when I came to know his game, I used to knock him

all to sticks; or, at least, win six games to his four: and such was the

betting upon me; his Excellency losing large sums to the Count, who knew

what play was, and used to back me. I did not play except for shillings,

so my skill was of no great service to me.

One day I entered the billiard-room where these three gentlemen were

high in words. “The thing shall not be done,” I heard Captain Tagrag

say: “I won't stand it.”

“Vat, begause you would have de bird all to yourzelf, hey?” said the

Baron.

“You sall not have a single fezare of him, begar,” said the Count: “ve

vill blow you, M. de Taguerague; parole d'honneur, ve vill.”

“What's all this, gents,” says I, stepping in, “about birds and

feathers?”

“Oh,” says Tagrag, “we were talking about--about--pigeon-shooting; the

Count here says he will blow a bird all to pieces at twenty yards, and I

said I wouldn't stand it, because it was regular murder.”

“Oh, yase, it was bidgeon-shooting,” cries the Baron: “and I know no

better sbort. Have you been bidgeon-shooting, my dear Squire? De fon is

gabidal.”

“No doubt,” says I, “for the shooters, but mighty bad sport for the

PIGEON.” And this joke set them all a-laughing ready to die. I didn't

know then what a good joke it WAS, neither; but I gave Master Baron,

that day, a precious good beating, and walked off with no less than

fifteen shillings of his money.

As a sporting man, and a man of fashion, I need not say that I took

in the Flare-up regularly; ay, and wrote one or two trifles in that

celebrated publication (one of my papers, which Tagrag subscribed for

me, Philo-pestitiaeamicus, on the proper sauce for teal and widgeon--and

the other, signed Scru-tatos, on the best means of cultivating the

kidney species of that vegetable--made no small noise at the time, and

got me in the paper a compliment from the editor). I was a constant

reader of the Notices to Correspondents, and, my early education having

been rayther neglected (for I was taken from my studies and set, as is

the custom in our trade, to practise on a sheep's head at the tender

age of nine years, before I was allowed to venture on the humane

countenance,)--I say, being thus curtailed and cut off in my classical

learning, I must confess I managed to pick up a pretty smattering of

genteel information from that treasury of all sorts of knowledge; at

least sufficient to make me a match in learning for all the noblemen

and gentlemen who came to our house. Well, on looking over the Flare-up

notices to correspondents, I read, one day last April, among the

notices, as follows:--

“'Automodon.' We do not know the precise age of Mr. Baker of Covent

Garden Theatre; nor are we aware if that celebrated son of Thespis is a

married man.

“'Ducks and Green-peas' is informed, that when A plays his rook to B's

second Knight's square, and B, moving two squares with his Queen's pawn,

gives check to his adversary's Queen, there is no reason why B's Queen

should not take A's pawn, if B be so inclined.

“'F. L. S.' We have repeatedly answered the question about Madame

Vestris: her maiden name was Bartolozzi, and she married the son of

Charles Mathews, the celebrated comedian.

“'Fair Play.' The best amateur billiard and ecarte player in England,

is Coxe Tuggeridge Coxe, Esq., of Portland Place, and Tuggeridgeville:

Jonathan, who knows his play, can only give him two in a game of a

hundred; and, at the cards, NO man is his superior. Verbum sap.

“'Scipio Americanus' is a blockhead.”

I read this out to the Count and Tagrag, and both of them wondered how

the Editor of that tremendous Flare-up should get such information; and

both agreed that the Baron, who still piqued himself absurdly on his

play, would be vastly annoyed by seeing me preferred thus to himself. We

read him the paragraph, and preciously angry he was. “Id is,” he cried,

“the tables” (or “de DABELS,” as he called them),--“de horrid dabels;

gom viz me to London, and dry a slate-table, and I vill beat you.”

We all roared at this; and the end of the dispute was, that, just to

satisfy the fellow, I agreed to play his Excellency at slate-tables, or

any tables he chose.

“Gut,” says he, “gut; I lif, you know, at Abednego's, in de Quadrant;

his dabels is goot; ve vill blay dere, if you vill.” And I said I would:

and it was agreed that, one Saturday night, when Jemmy was at the Opera,

we should go to the Baron's rooms, and give him a chance.

We went, and the little Baron had as fine a supper as ever I saw: lots

of Champang (and I didn't mind drinking it), and plenty of laughing and

fun. Afterwards, down we went to billiards. “Is dish Misther Coxsh, de

shelebrated player?” says Mr. Abednego, who was in the room, with one

or two gentlemen of his own persuasion, and several foreign noblemen,

dirty, snuffy, and hairy, as them foreigners are. “Is dish Misther

Coxsh? blesh my hart, it is a honor to see you; I have heard so much of

your play.”

“Come, come,” says I, “sir”--for I'm pretty wide awake--“none of your

gammon; you're not going to book ME.”

“No, begar, dis fish you not catch,” says Count Mace.

“Dat is gut!--haw! haw!” snorted the Baron. “Hook him! Lieber Himmel,

you might dry and hook me as well. Haw! haw!”

Well, we went to play. “Five to four on Coxe,” screams out the

Count.--“Done and done,” says another nobleman. “Ponays,” says the

Count.--“Done,” says the nobleman. “I vill take your six crowns to

four,” says the Baron.--“Done,” says I. And, in the twinkling of an eye,

I beat him once making thirteen off the balls without stopping.

We had some more wine after this; and if you could have seen the long

faces of the other noblemen, as they pulled out their pencils and wrote

I.O.U.'s for the Count! “Va toujours, mon cher,” says he to me, “you

have von for me three hundred pounds.”

“I'll blay you guineas dis time,” says the Baron. “Zeven to four you

must give me though.” And so I did: and in ten minutes THAT game was

won, and the Baron handed over his pounds. “Two hundred and sixty more,

my dear, dear Coxe,” says the Count: “you are mon ange gardien!” “Wot a

flat Misther Coxsh is, not to back his luck,” I hoard Abednego whisper

to one of the foreign noblemen.

“I'll take your seven to four, in tens,” said I to the Baron. “Give me

three,” says he, “and done.” I gave him three, and lost the game by one.

“Dobbel, or quits,” says he. “Go it,” says I, up to my mettle: “Sam Coxe

never says no;” and to it we went. I went in, and scored eighteen to

his five. “Holy Moshesh!” says Abednego, “dat little Coxsh is a vonder!

who'll take odds?”

“I'll give twenty to one,” says I, “in guineas.”

“Ponays; yase, done,” screams out the Count.

“BONIES, done,” roars out the Baron: and, before I could speak, went in,

and--would you believe it?--in two minutes he somehow made the game!

*****

Oh, what a figure I cut when my dear Jemmy heard of this afterwards! In

vain I swore it was guineas: the Count and the Baron swore to ponies;

and when I refused, they both said their honor was concerned, and they

must have my life, or their money. So when the Count showed me actually

that, in spite of this bet (which had been too good to resist) won from

me, he had been a very heavy loser by the night; and brought me the word

of honor of Abednego, his Jewish friend, and the foreign noblemen, that

ponies had been betted;--why, I paid them one thousand pounds sterling

of good and lawful money.--But I've not played for money since: no, no;

catch me at THAT again if you can.

A NEW DROP-SCENE AT THE OPERA.

No lady is a lady without having a box at the Opera: so my Jemmy, who

knew as much about music,--bless her!--as I do about Sanscrit, algebra,

or any other foreign language, took a prime box on the second tier. It

was what they called a double box; it really COULD hold two, that is,

very comfortably; and we got it a great bargain--for five hundred

a year! Here, Tuesdays and Saturdays, we used regularly to take our

places, Jemmy and Jemimarann sitting in front; me, behind: but as my

dear wife used to wear a large fantail gauze hat with ostrich feathers,

birds-of-paradise, artificial flowers, and tags of muslin or satin,

scattered all over it, I'm blest if she didn't fill the whole of the

front of the box; and it was only by jumping and dodging, three or four

times in the course of the night, that I could manage to get a sight

of the actors. By kneeling down, and looking steady under my darling

Jemmy's sleeve, I DID contrive, every now and then, to have a peep of

Senior Lablash's boots, in the “Puritanny,” and once actually saw Madame

Greasi's crown and head-dress in “Annybalony.”

What a place that Opera is, to be sure! and what enjoyments us

aristocracy used to have! Just as you have swallowed down your three

courses (three curses I used to call them;--for so, indeed, they are,

causing a deal of heartburns, headaches, doctor's bills, pills, want of

sleep, and such like)--just, I say, as you get down your three courses,

which I defy any man to enjoy properly unless he has two hours of drink

and quiet afterwards, up comes the carriage, in bursts my Jemmy, as

fine as a duchess, and scented like our shop. “Come, my dear,” says she,

“it's 'Normy' to--night” (or “Annybalony,” or the “Nosey di Figaro,”

or the “Gazzylarder,” as the case may be). “Mr. Foster strikes off

punctually at eight, and you know it's the fashion to be always present

at the very first bar of the aperture.” And so off we are obliged to

budge, to be miserable for five hours, and to have a headache for the

next twelve, and all because it's the fashion!

After the aperture, as they call it, comes the opera, which, as I am

given to understand, is the Italian for singing. Why they should sing in

Italian, I can't conceive; or why they should do nothing BUT sing. Bless

us! how I used to long for the wooden magpie in the “Gazzylarder” to fly

up to the top of the church-steeple, with the silver spoons, and see the

chaps with the pitchforks come in and carry off that wicked Don June.

Not that I don't admire Lablash, and Rubini, and his brother, Tomrubini:

him who has that fine bass voice, I mean, and acts the Corporal in the

first piece, and Don June in the second; but three hours is a LITTLE too

much, for you can't sleep on those little rickety seats in the boxes.

The opera is bad enough; but what is that to the bally? You SHOULD

have seen my Jemmy the first night when she stopped to see it; and

when Madamsalls Fanny and Theresa Hustler came forward, along with a

gentleman, to dance, you should have seen how Jemmy stared, and our girl

blushed, when Madamsall Fanny, coming forward, stood on the tips of only

five of her toes, and raising up the other five, and the foot belonging

to them, almost to her shoulder, twirled round, and round, and round,

like a teetotum, for a couple of minutes or more; and as she settled

down, at last, on both feet, in a natural decent posture, you should

have heard how the house roared with applause, the boxes clapping with

all their might, and waving their handkerchiefs; the pit shouting,

“Bravo!” Some people, who, I suppose, were rather angry at such an

exhibition, threw bunches of flowers at her; and what do you think she

did? Why, hang me, if she did not come forward, as though nothing had

happened, gather up the things they had thrown at her, smile, press

them to her heart, and begin whirling round again faster than ever. Talk

about coolness, I never saw such in all MY born days.

“Nasty thing!” says Jemmy, starting up in a fury; “if women WILL act so,

it serves them right to be treated so.”

“Oh, yes! she acts beautifully,” says our friend his Excellency, who

along with Baron von Punter and Tagrag, used very seldom to miss coming

to our box.

“She may act very beautifully, Munseer, but she don't dress so; and I am

very glad they threw that orange-peel and all those things at her, and

that the people waved to her to get off.”

Here his Excellency, and the Baron and Tag, set up a roar of laughter.

“My dear Mrs. Coxe,” says Tag, “those are the most famous dancers in the

world; and we throw myrtle, geraniums, and lilies and roses at them, in

token of our immense admiration!”

“Well, I never!” said my wife; and poor Jemimarann slunk behind the

curtain, and looked as red as it almost. After the one had done the next

begun; but when, all of a sudden, a somebody came skipping and bounding

in, like an Indian-rubber ball, flinging itself up, at least six feet

from the stage, and there shaking about its legs like mad, we were more

astonished than ever!

“That's Anatole,” says one of the gentlemen.

“Anna who?” says my wife; and she might well be mistaken: for this

person had a hat and feathers, a bare neck and arms, great black

ringlets, and a little calico frock, which came down to the knees.

“Anatole. You would not think he was sixty-three years old, he's as

active as a man of twenty.”

“HE!” shrieked out my wife; “what, is that there a man? For shame!

Munseer. Jemimarann, dear, get your cloak, and come along; and I'll

thank you, my dear, to call our people, and let us go home.”

You wouldn't think, after this, that my Jemmy, who had shown such a

horror at the bally, as they call it, should ever grow accustomed to

it; but she liked to hear her name shouted out in the crush-room, and

so would stop till the end of everything; and, law bless you! in three

weeks from that time, she could look at the ballet as she would at

a dancing-dog in the streets, and would bring her double-barrelled

opera-glass up to her eyes as coolly as if she had been a born duchess.

As for me, I did at Rome as Rome does; and precious fun it used to be,

sometimes.

My friend the Baron insisted one night on my going behind the scenes;

where, being a subscriber, he said I had what they call my ONTRAY.

Behind, then, I went; and such a place you never saw nor heard of! Fancy

lots of young and old gents of the fashion crowding round and staring

at the actresses practising their steps. Fancy yellow snuffy foreigners,

chattering always, and smelling fearfully of tobacco. Fancy scores of

Jews, with hooked-noses and black muzzles, covered with rings, chains,

sham diamonds, and gold waistcoats. Fancy old men dressed in old

nightgowns, with knock-knees, and dirty flesh-colored cotton stockings,

and dabs of brick-dust on their wrinkled old chops, and tow-wigs (such

wigs!) for the bald ones, and great tin spears in their hands mayhap,

or else shepherds' crooks, and fusty garlands of flowers made of red and

green baize. Fancy troops of girls giggling, chattering, pushing to and

fro, amidst old black canvas, Gothic halls, thrones, pasteboard Cupids,

dragons, and such like. Such dirt, darkness, crowd, confusion and gabble

of all conceivable languages was never known!

If you COULD but have seen Munseer Anatole! Instead of looking twenty,

he looked a thousand. The old man's wig was off, and a barber was giving

it a touch with the tongs; Munseer was taking snuff himself, and a boy

was standing by with a pint of beer from the public-house at the corner

of Charles Street.

I met with a little accident during the three-quarters of an hour which

they allow for the entertainment of us men of fashion on the stage,

before the curtain draws up for the bally, while the ladies in the boxes

are gaping, and the people in the pit are drumming with their feet and

canes in the rudest manner possible, as though they couldn't wait.

Just at the moment before the little bell rings and the curtain flies

up, and we scuffle off to the sides (for we always stay till the very

last moment), I was in the middle of the stage, making myself very

affable to the fair figgerantys which was spinning and twirling about

me, and asking them if they wasn't cold, and such like politeness, in

the most condescending way possible, when a bolt was suddenly withdrawn,

and down I popped, through a trap in the stage, into the place below.

Luckily I was stopped by a piece of machinery, consisting of a heap of

green blankets and a young lady coming up as Venus rising from the

sea. If I had not fallen so soft, I don't know what might have been the

consequence of the collusion. I never told Mrs. Coxe, for she can't bear

to hear of my paying the least attention to the fair sex.

STRIKING A BALANCE.

Next door to us, in Portland Place, lived the Right Honorable the Earl

of Kilblazes, of Kilmacrasy Castle, County Kildare, and his mother the

Dowager Countess. Lady Kilblazes had a daughter, Lady Juliana Matilda

MacTurk, of the exact age of our dear Jemimarann; and a son, the

Honorable Arthur Wellington Anglesea Blucher Bulow MacTurk, only ten

months older than our boy Tug.

My darling Jemmy is a woman of spirit, and, as become her station, made

every possible attempt to become acquainted with the Dowager Countess of

Kilblazes, which her ladyship (because, forsooth, she was the daughter

of the Minister, and Prince of Wales's great friend, the Earl of

Portansherry) thought fit to reject. I don't wonder at my Jemmy growing

so angry with her, and determining, in every way, to put her ladyship

down. The Kilblazes' estate is not so large as the Tuggeridge property

by two thousand a year at least; and so my wife, when our neighbors kept

only two footmen, was quite authorized in having three; and she made it

a point, as soon as ever the Kilblazes' carriage-and-pair came round, to

have out her own carriage-and-four.

Well, our box was next to theirs at the Opera; only twice as big.

Whatever masters went to Lady Juliana, came to my Jemimarann; and what

do you think Jemmy did? she got her celebrated governess, Madame de

Flicflac, away from the Countess, by offering a double salary. It was

quite a treasure, they said, to have Madame Flicflac: she had been (to

support her father, the Count, when he emigrated) a FRENCH dancer at the

ITALIAN Opera. French dancing, and Italian, therefore, we had at once,

and in the best style: it is astonishing how quick and well she used to

speak--the French especially.

Master Arthur MacTurk was at the famous school of the Reverend Clement

Coddler, along with a hundred and ten other young fashionables, from the

age of three to fifteen; and to this establishment Jemmy sent our Tug,

adding forty guineas to the hundred and twenty paid every year for the

boarders. I think I found out the dear soul's reason; for, one day,

speaking about the school to a mutual acquaintance of ours and the

Kilblazes, she whispered to him that “she never would have thought of

sending her darling boy at the rate which her next-door neighbors paid;

THEIR lad, she was sure, must be starved: however, poor people, they did

the best they could on their income!”

Coddler's, in fact, was the tip-top school near London: he had been

tutor to the Duke of Buckminster, who had set him up in the school, and,

as I tell you, all the peerage and respectable commoners came to it. You

read in the bill, (the snopsis, I think, Coddler called it,) after the

account of the charges for board, masters, extras, &c.--“Every young

nobleman (or gentleman) is expected to bring a knife, fork, spoon, and

goblet of silver (to prevent breakage), which will not be returned; a

dressing-gown and slippers; toilet-box, pomatum, curling-irons, &c. &c.

The pupil must on NO ACCOUNT be allowed to have more than ten guineas of

pocket-money, unless his parents particularly desire it, or he be above

fifteen years of age. WINE will be an extra charge; as are warm, vapor,

and douche baths. CARRIAGE EXERCISE will be provided at the rate of

fifteen guineas per quarter. It is EARNESTLY REQUESTED that no young

nobleman (or gentleman) be allowed to smoke. In a place devoted to

THE CULTIVATION OF POLITE LITERATURE, such an ignoble enjoyment were

profane.

“CLEMENT CODDLER, M. A.,

“Chaplain and late tutor to his Grace the Duke of Buckminster.

“MOUNT PARNASSUS, RICHMOND, SURREY.”

To this establishment our Tug was sent. “Recollect, my dear,” said his

mamma, “that you are a Tuggeridge by birth, and that I expect you to

beat all the boys in the school; especially that Wellington MacTurk,

who, though he is a lord's son, is nothing to you, who are the heir of

Tuggeridgeville.”

Tug was a smart young fellow enough, and could cut and curl as well as

any young chap of his age: he was not a bad hand at a wig either, and

could shave, too, very prettily; but that was in the old time, when we

were not great people: when he came to be a gentleman, he had to learn

Latin and Greek, and had a deal of lost time to make up for, on going to

school.

However, we had no fear; for the Reverend Mr. Coddler used to send

monthly accounts of his pupil's progress, and if Tug was not a wonder of

the world, I don't know who was. It was

General behavior......excellent.

English...............very good.

French................tres bien.

Latin.................optime.

And so on:--he possessed all the virtues, and wrote to us every month

for money. My dear Jemmy and I determined to go and see him, after he

had been at school a quarter; we went, and were shown by Mr. Coddler,

one of the meekest, smilingest little men I ever saw, into the bedrooms

and eating-rooms (the dromitaries and refractories he called them),

which were all as comfortable as comfortable might be. “It is a

holiday, today,” said Mr. Coddler; and a holiday it seemed to be. In

the dining-room were half a dozen young gentlemen playing at cards (“All

tip-top nobility,” observed Mr. Coddler);--in the bedrooms there was

only one gent: he was lying on his bed, reading novels and smoking

cigars. “Extraordinary genius!” whispered Coddler. “Honorable Tom

Fitz-Warter, cousin of Lord Byron's; smokes all day; and has written the

SWEETEST poems you can imagine. Genius, my dear madam, you know--genius

must have its way.” “Well, UPON my word,” says Jemmy, “if that's genius,

I had rather that Master Tuggeridge Coxe Tuggeridge remained a dull

fellow.”

“Impossible, my dear madam,” said Coddler. “Mr. Tuggeridge Coxe COULDN'T

be stupid if he TRIED.”

Just then up comes Lord Claude Lollypop, third son of the Marquis of

Allycompane. We were introduced instantly: “Lord Claude Lollypop, Mr.

and Mrs. Coxe.” The little lord wagged his head, my wife bowed very

low, and so did Mr. Coddler; who, as he saw my lord making for the

playground, begged him to show us the way.--“Come along,” says my lord;

and as he walked before us, whistling, we had leisure to remark the

beautiful holes in his jacket, and elsewhere.

About twenty young noblemen (and gentlemen) were gathered round a

pastry-cook's shop at the end of the green. “That's the grub-shop,” said

my lord, “where we young gentlemen wot has money buys our wittles, and

them young gentlemen wot has none, goes tick.”

Then we passed a poor red-haired usher sitting on a bench alone. “That's

Mr. Hicks, the Husher, ma'am,” says my lord. “We keep him, for he's very

useful to throw stones at, and he keeps the chaps' coats when there's a

fight, or a game at cricket.--Well, Hicks, how's your mother? what's the

row now?” “I believe, my lord,” said the usher, very meekly, “there is a

pugilistic encounter somewhere on the premises--the Honorable Mr. Mac--”

“Oh! COME along,” said Lord Lollypop, “come along: this way, ma'am! Go

it, ye cripples!” And my lord pulled my dear Jemmy's gown in the kindest

and most familiar way, she trotting on after him, mightily pleased to

be so taken notice of, and I after her. A little boy went running

across the green. “Who is it, Petitoes?” screams my lord. “Turk and the

barber,” pipes Petitoes, and runs to the pastry-cook's like mad. “Turk

and the ba--,” laughs out my lord, looking at us. “HURRA! THIS way,

ma'am!” And turning round a corner, he opened a door into a court-yard,

where a number of boys were collected, and a great noise of shrill

voices might be heard. “Go it, Turk!” says one. “Go it, barber!” says

another. “PUNCH HITH LIFE OUT!” roars another, whose voice was just

cracked, and his clothes half a yard too short for him!

Fancy our horror when, on the crowd making way, we saw Tug pummelling

away at the Honorable Master MacTurk! My dear Jemmy, who don't

understand such things, pounced upon the two at once, and, with one hand

tearing away Tug, sent him spinning back into the arms of his seconds,

while, with the other, she clawed hold of Master MacTurk's red hair,

and, as soon as she got her second hand free, banged it about his face

and ears like a good one.

“You nasty--wicked--quarrelsome--aristocratic” (each word was a

bang)--“aristocratic--oh! oh! oh!”--Here the words stopped; for what

with the agitation, maternal solicitude, and a dreadful kick on the

shins which, I am ashamed to say, Master MacTurk administered, my dear

Jemmy could bear it no longer, and sunk fainting away in my arms.

DOWN AT BEULAH.

Although there was a regular cut between the next-door people and us,

yet Tug and the Honorable Master MacTurk kept up their acquaintance

over the back-garden wall, and in the stables, where they were fighting,

making friends, and playing tricks from morning to night, during the

holidays. Indeed, it was from young Mac that we first heard of Madame

de Flicflac, of whom my Jemmy robbed Lady Kilblazes, as I before have

related. When our friend the Baron first saw Madame, a very tender

greeting passed between them; for they had, as it appeared, been old

friends abroad. “Sapristie,” said the Baron, in his lingo, “que fais-tu

ici, Amenaide?” “Et toi, mon pauvre Chicot,” says she, “est-ce qu'on

t'a mis a la retraite? Il parait que tu n'es plus General chez Franco--”

“CHUT!” says the Baron, putting his finger to his lips.

“What are they saying, my dear?” says my wife to Jemimarann, who had a

pretty knowledge of the language by this time.

“I don't know what 'Sapristie' means, mamma; but the Baron asked Madame

what she was doing here? and Madame said, 'And you, Chicot, you are no

more a General at Franco.'--Have I not translated rightly, Madame?”

“Oui, mon chou, mon ange. Yase, my angel, my cabbage, quite right.

Figure yourself, I have known my dear Chicot dis twenty years.”

“Chicot is my name of baptism,” says the Baron; “Baron Chicot de Punter

is my name.”

“And being a General at Franco,” says Jemmy, “means, I suppose, being a

French General?”

“Yes, I vas,” said he, “General Baron de Punter--n'est 'a pas,

Amenaide?”

“Oh, yes!” said Madame Flicflac, and laughed; and I and Jemmy laughed

out of politeness: and a pretty laughing matter it was, as you shall

hear.

About this time my Jemmy became one of the Lady-Patronesses of that

admirable institution, “The Washerwoman's-Orphans' Home;” Lady de

Sudley was the great projector of it; and the manager and chaplain, the

excellent and Reverend Sidney Slopper. His salary, as chaplain, and that

of Doctor Leitch, the physician (both cousins of her ladyship's), drew

away five hundred pounds from the six subscribed to the Charity: and

Lady de Sudley thought a fete at Beulah Spa, with the aid of some of the

foreign princes who were in town last year, might bring a little more

money into its treasury. A tender appeal was accordingly drawn up, and

published in all the papers:--

“APPEAL.

“BRITISH WASHERWOMAN'S-ORPHANS' HOME.

“The 'Washerwoman's-Orphans' Home' has now been established seven years:

and the good which it has effected is, it may be confidently stated,

INCALCULABLE. Ninety-eight orphan children of Washerwomen have been

lodged within its walls. One hundred and two British Washerwomen

have been relieved when in the last state of decay. ONE HUNDRED AND

NINETY-EIGHT THOUSAND articles of male and female dress have been

washed, mended, buttoned, ironed, and mangled in the Establishment. And,

by an arrangement with the governors of the Foundling, it is hoped

that THE BABY-LINEN OF THAT HOSPITAL will be confided to the British

Washerwoman's Home!

“With such prospects before it, is it not sad, is it not lamentable to

think, that the Patronesses of the Society have been compelled to reject

the applications of no less than THREE THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED AND ONE

BRITISH WASHERWOMEN, from lack of means for their support? Ladies of

England! Mothers of England! to you we appeal. Is there one of you that

will not respond to the cry in behalf of these deserving members of our

sex?

“It has been determined by the Ladies-Patronesses to give a fete at

Beulah Spa, on Thursday, July 25; which will be graced with the first

foreign and native TALENT; by the first foreign and native RANK; and

where they beg for the attendance of every WASHERWOMAN'S FRIEND.”

Her Highness the Princess of Schloppenzollernschwigmaringen, the Duke

of Sacks-Tubbingen, His Excellency Baron Strumpff, His Excellency

Lootf-Allee-Koolee-Bismillah-Mohamed-Rusheed-Allah, the Persian

Ambassador, Prince Futtee-Jaw, Envoy from the King of Oude, His

Excellency Don Alonzo di Cachachero-y-Fandango-y-Castanete, the Spanish

Ambassador, Count Ravioli, from Milan, the Envoy of the Republic of

Topinambo, and a host of other fashionables, promised to honor the

festival: and their names made a famous show in the bills. Besides

these, we had the celebrated band of Moscow-musiks, the seventy-seven

Transylvanian trumpeters, and the famous Bohemian Minnesingers; with

all the leading artists of London, Paris, the Continent, and the rest of

Europe.

I leave you to fancy what a splendid triumph for the British

Washerwoman's Home was to come off on that day. A beautiful tent was

erected, in which the Ladies-Patronesses were to meet: it was hung round

with specimens of the skill of the washerwomen's orphans; ninety-six

of whom were to be feasted in the gardens, and waited on by the

Ladies-Patronesses.

Well, Jemmy and my daughter, Madame de Flicflac, myself, the Count,

Baron Punter, Tug, and Tagrag, all went down in the chariot and

barouche-and-four, quite eclipsing poor Lady Kilblazes and her

carriage-and-two.

There was a fine cold collation, to which the friends of the

Ladies-Patronesses were admitted; after which, my ladies and their beaux

went strolling through the walks; Tagrag and the Count having each an

arm of Jemmy; the Baron giving an arm apiece to Madame and Jemimarann.

Whilst they were walking, whom should they light upon but poor Orlando

Crump, my successor in the perfumery and hair-cutting.

“Orlando!” says Jemimarann, blushing as red as a label, and holding out

her hand.

“Jemimar!” says he, holding out his, and turning as white as pomatum.

“SIR!” says Jemmy, as stately as a duchess.

“What! madam,” says poor Crump, “don't you remember your shopboy?”

“Dearest mamma, don't you recollect Orlando?” whimpers Jemimarann, whose

hand he had got hold of.

“Miss Tuggeridge Coxe,” says Jemmy, “I'm surprised of you. Remember,

sir, that our position is altered, and oblige me by no more

familiarity.”

“Insolent fellow!” says the Baron, “vat is dis canaille?”

“Canal yourself, Mounseer,” says Orlando, now grown quite furious: he

broke away, quite indignant, and was soon lost in the crowd. Jemimarann,

as soon as he was gone, began to look very pale and ill; and her mamma,

therefore, took her to a tent, where she left her along with Madame

Flicflac and the Baron; going off herself with the other gentlemen, in

order to join us.

It appears they had not been seated very long, when Madame Flicflac

suddenly sprung up, with an exclamation of joy, and rushed forward to a

friend whom she saw pass.

The Baron was left alone with Jemimarann; and, whether it was the

champagne, or that my dear girl looked more than commonly pretty, I

don't know; but Madame Flicflac had not been gone a minute, when the

Baron dropped on his knees, and made her a regular declaration.

Poor Orlando Crump had found me out by this time, and was standing by

my side, listening, as melancholy as possible, to the famous Bohemian

Minnesingers, who were singing the celebrated words of the poet Gothy:--

“Ich bin ya hupp lily lee, du bist ya hupp lily lee.

Wir sind doch hupp lily lee, hupp la lily lee.”

“Chorus--Yodle-odle-odle-odle-odle-odle hupp! yodle-odle-aw-o-o-o!”

They were standing with their hands in their waistcoats, as usual,

and had just come to the “o-o-o,” at the end of the chorus of the

forty-seventh stanza, when Orlando started: “That's a scream!” says he.

“Indeed it is,” says I; “and, but for the fashion of the thing, a very

ugly scream too:” when I heard another shrill “Oh!” as I thought; and

Orlando bolted off, crying, “By heavens, it's HER voice!” “Whose voice?”

says I. “Come and see the row,” says Tag. And off we went, with a

considerable number of people, who saw this strange move on his part.

We came to the tent, and there we found my poor Jemimarann fainting;

her mamma holding a smelling-bottle; the Baron, on the ground, holding

a handkerchief to his bleeding nose; and Orlando squaring at him, and

calling on him to fight if he dared.

My Jemmy looked at Crump very fierce. “Take that feller away,” says she;

“he has insulted a French nobleman, and deserves transportation, at the

least.”

Poor Orlando was carried off. “I've no patience with the little minx,”

says Jemmy, giving Jemimarann a pinch. “She might be a Baron's lady; and

she screams out because his Excellency did but squeeze her hand.”

“Oh, mamma! mamma!” sobs poor Jemimarann, “but he was t-t-tipsy.”

“T-t-tipsy! and the more shame for you, you hussy, to be offended with a

nobleman who does not know what he is doing.”

A TOURNAMENT.

“I say, Tug,” said MacTurk, one day soon after our flareup at Beulah,

“Kilblazes comes of age in October, and then we'll cut you out, as I

told you: the old barberess will die of spite when she hears what we

are going to do. What do you think? we're going to have a tournament!”

“What's a tournament?” says Tug, and so said his mamma when she heard

the news; and when she knew what a tournament was, I think, really, she

WAS as angry as MacTurk said she would be, and gave us no peace for days

together. “What!” says she, “dress up in armor, like play-actors, and

run at each other with spears? The Kilblazes must be mad!” And so I

thought, but I didn't think the Tuggeridges would be mad too, as they

were: for, when Jemmy heard that the Kilblazes' festival was to be, as

yet, a profound secret, what does she do, but send down to the Morning

Post a flaming account of

“THE PASSAGE OF ARMS AT TUGGERIDGEVIILLE!

“The days of chivalry are NOT past. The fair Castellane of

T-gg-r-dgeville, whose splendid entertainments have so often been

alluded to in this paper, has determined to give one, which shall exceed

in splendor even the magnificence of the Middle Ages. We are not at

liberty to say more; but a tournament, at which His Ex-l-ncy B-r-n de

P-nt-r and Thomas T-gr-g, Esq., eldest son of Sir Th--s T-gr-g, are

to be the knights-defendants against all comers; a QUEEN OF BEAUTY,

of whose loveliness every frequenter of fashion has felt the power; a

banquet, unexampled in the annals of Gunter; and a ball, in which the

recollections of ancient chivalry will blend sweetly with the soft tones

of Weippert and Collinet, are among the entertainments which the Ladye

of T-gg-ridgeville has prepared for her distinguished guests.”

The Baron was the life of the scheme; he longed to be on horseback, and

in the field at Tuggeridgeville, where he, Tagrag, and a number of our

friends practised: he was the very best tilter present; he vaulted over

his horse, and played such wonderful antics, as never were done except

at Ducrow's.

And now--oh that I had twenty pages, instead of this short chapter, to

describe the wonders of the day!--Twenty-four knights came from Ashley's

at two guineas a head. We were in hopes to have had Miss Woolford in the

character of Joan of Arc, but that lady did not appear. We had a

tent for the challengers, at each side of which hung what they called

ESCOACHINGS, (like hatchments, which they put up when people die,) and

underneath sat their pages, holding their helmets for the tournament.

Tagrag was in brass armor (my City connections got him that famous

suit); his Excellency in polished steel. My wife wore a coronet,

modelled exactly after that of Queen Catharine, in “Henry V.;” a tight

gilt jacket, which set off dear Jemmy's figure wonderfully, and a train

of at least forty feet. Dear Jemimarann was in white, her hair braided

with pearls. Madame de Flicflac appeared as Queen Elizabeth; and Lady

Blanche Bluenose as a Turkish princess. An alderman of London and his

lady; two magistrates of the county, and the very pink of Croydon;

several Polish noblemen; two Italian counts (besides our Count);

one hundred and ten young officers, from Addiscombe College, in full

uniform, commanded by Major-General Sir Miles Mulligatawney, K.C.B.,

and his lady; the Misses Pimminy's Finishing Establishment, and fourteen

young ladies, all in white: the Reverend Doctor Wapshot, and forty-nine

young gentlemen, of the first families, under his charge--were SOME

only of the company. I leave you to fancy that, if my Jemmy did seek for

fashion, she had enough of it on this occasion. They wanted me to have

mounted again, but my hunting-day had been sufficient; besides, I ain't

big enough for a real knight: so, as Mrs. Coxe insisted on my opening

the Tournament--and I knew it was in vain to resist--the Baron and

Tagrag had undertaken to arrange so that I might come off with safety,

if I came off at all. They had procured from the Strand Theatre a famous

stud of hobby-horses, which they told me had been trained for the use of

the great Lord Bateman. I did not know exactly what they were till they

arrived; but as they had belonged to a lord, I thought it was all right,

and consented; and I found it the best sort of riding, after all, to

appear to be on horseback and walk safely a-foot at the same time;

and it was impossible to come down as long as I kept on my own legs:

besides, I could cuff and pull my steed about as much as I liked,

without fear of his biting or kicking in return. As Lord of the

Tournament, they placed in my hands a lance, ornamented spirally, in

blue and gold: I thought of the pole over my old shop door, and almost

wished myself there again, as I capered up to the battle in my helmet

and breastplate, with all the trumpets blowing and drums beating at

the time. Captain Tagrag was my opponent, and preciously we poked each

other, till, prancing about, I put my foot on my horse's petticoat

behind, and down I came, getting a thrust from the Captain, at the same

time, that almost broke my shoulder-bone. “This was sufficient,” they

said, “for the laws of chivalry;” and I was glad to get off so.

After that the gentlemen riders, of whom there were no less than seven,

in complete armor, and the professionals, now ran at the ring; and the

Baron was far, far the most skilful.

“How sweetly the dear Baron rides,” said my wife, who was always ogling

at him, smirking, smiling, and waving her handkerchief to him. “I say,

Sam,” says a professional to one of his friends, as, after their course,

they came cantering up, and ranged under Jemmy's bower, as she called

it:--“I say, Sam, I'm blowed if that chap in harmer mustn't have been

one of hus.” And this only made Jemmy the more pleased; for the fact is,

the Baron had chosen the best way of winning Jemimarann by courting her

mother.

The Baron was declared conqueror at the ring; and Jemmy awarded him

the prize, a wreath of white roses, which she placed on his lance; he

receiving it gracefully, and bowing, until the plumes of his helmet

mingled with the mane of his charger, which backed to the other end of

the lists; then galloping back to the place where Jemimarann was seated,

he begged her to place it on his helmet. The poor girl blushed very

much, and did so. As all the people were applauding, Tagrag rushed up,

and, laying his hand on the Baron's shoulder, whispered something in his

ear, which made the other very angry, I suppose, for he shook him off

violently. “Chacun pour soi,” says he, “Monsieur de Taguerague,”--which

means, I am told, “Every man for himself.” And then he rode away,

throwing his lance in the air, catching it, and making his horse caper

and prance, to the admiration of all beholders.

After this came the “Passage of Arms.” Tagrag and the Baron ran courses

against the other champions; ay, and unhorsed two apiece; whereupon the

other three refused to turn out; and preciously we laughed at them, to

be sure!

“Now, it's OUR turn, Mr. CHICOT,” says Tagrag, shaking his fist at the

Baron: “look to yourself, you infernal mountebank, for, by Jupiter,

I'll do my best!” And before Jemmy and the rest of us, who were quite

bewildered, could say a word, these two friends were charging away,

spears in hand, ready to kill each other. In vain Jemmy screamed; in

vain I threw down my truncheon: they had broken two poles before I could

say “Jack Robinson,” and were driving at each other with the two new

ones. The Baron had the worst of the first course, for he had almost

been carried out of his saddle. “Hark you, Chicot!” screamed out Tagrag,

“next time look to your head!” And next time, sure enough, each aimed at

the head of the other.

Tagrag's spear hit the right place; for it carried off the Baron's

helmet, plume, rose-wreath and all; but his Excellency hit truer

still--his lance took Tagrag on the neck, and sent him to the ground

like a stone.

“He's won! he's won!” says Jemmy, waving her handkerchief; Jemimarann

fainted, Lady Blanche screamed, and I felt so sick that I thought I

should drop. All the company were in an uproar: only the Baron looked

calm, and bowed very gracefully, and kissed his hand to Jemmy; when,

all of a sudden, a Jewish-looking man springing over the barrier, and

followed by three more, rushed towards the Baron. “Keep the gate, Bob!”

he holloas out. “Baron, I arrest you, at the suit of Samuel Levison,

for--”

But he never said for what; shouting out, “Aha!” and “Sapprrrristie!”

and I don't know what, his Excellency drew his sword, dug his spurs into

his horse, and was over the poor bailiff, and off before another word.

He had threatened to run through one of the bailiff's followers, Mr.

Stubbs, only that gentleman made way for him; and when we took up the

bailiff, and brought him round by the aid of a little brandy-and-water,

he told us all. “I had a writ againsht him, Mishter Coxsh, but I didn't

vant to shpoil shport; and, beshidesh, I didn't know him until dey

knocked off his shteel cap!”

*****

Here was a pretty business!

OVER-BOARDED AND UNDER-LODGED.

We had no great reason to brag of our tournament at Tuggeridgeville:

but, after all, it was better than the turn-out at Kilblazes, where poor

Lord Heydownderry went about in a black velvet dressing-gown, and

the Emperor Napoleon Bonypart appeared in a suit of armor and silk

stockings, like Mr. Pell's friend in Pickwick; we, having employed

the gentlemen from Astley's Antitheatre, had some decent sport for our

money.

We never heard a word from the Baron, who had so distinguished himself

by his horsemanship, and had knocked down (and very justly) Mr. Nabb,

the bailiff, and Mr. Stubbs, his man, who came to lay hands upon him. My

sweet Jemmy seemed to be very low in spirits after his departure, and

a sad thing it is to see her in low spirits: on days of illness she no

more minds giving Jemimarann a box on the ear, or sending a plate of

muffins across a table at poor me, than she does taking her tea.

Jemmy, I say, was very low in spirits; but, one day (I remember it was

the day after Captain Higgins called, and said he had seen the Baron at

Boulogne), she vowed that nothing but change of air would do her good,

and declared that she should die unless she went to the seaside in

France. I knew what this meant, and that I might as well attempt to

resist her as to resist her Gracious Majesty in Parliament assembled; so

I told the people to pack up the things, and took four places on board

the “Grand Turk” steamer for Boulogne.

The travelling-carriage, which, with Jemmy's thirty-seven boxes and my

carpet-bag, was pretty well loaded, was sent on board the night before;

and we, after breakfasting in Portland Place (little did I think it was

the--but, poh! never mind), went down to the Custom House in the other

carriage, followed by a hackney-coach and a cab, with the servants, and

fourteen bandboxes and trunks more, which were to be wanted by my dear

girl in the journey.

The road down Cheapside and Thames Street need not be described: we

saw the Monument, a memento of the wicked Popish massacre of St.

Bartholomew;--why erected here I can't think, as St. Bartholomew is in

Smithfield;--we had a glimpse of Billingsgate, and of the Mansion House,

where we saw the two-and-twenty-shilling-coal smoke coming out of

the chimneys, and were landed at the Custom House in safety. I felt

melancholy, for we were going among a people of swindlers, as all

Frenchmen are thought to be; and, besides not being able to speak the

language, leaving our own dear country and honest countrymen.

Fourteen porters came out, and each took a package with the greatest

civility; calling Jemmy her ladyship, and me your honor; ay, and your

honoring and my ladyshipping even my man and the maid in the cab. I

somehow felt all over quite melancholy at going away. “Here, my fine

fellow,” says I to the coachman, who was standing very respectful,

holding his hat in one hand and Jemmy's jewel-case in the other--“Here,

my fine chap,” says I, “here's six shillings for you;” for I did not

care for the money.

“Six what?” says he.

“Six shillings, fellow,” shrieks Jemmy, “and twice as much as your

fare.”

“Feller, marm!” says this insolent coachman. “Feller yourself, marm: do

you think I'm a-going to kill my horses, and break my precious back, and

bust my carriage, and carry you, and your kids, and your traps for six

hog?” And with this the monster dropped his hat, with my money in it,

and doubling his fist put it so very near my nose that I really thought

he would have made it bleed. “My fare's heighteen shillings,” says he,

“hain't it?--hask hany of these gentlemen.”

“Why, it ain't more than seventeen-and-six,” says one of the fourteen

porters; “but if the gen'l'man IS a gen'l'man, he can't give no less

than a suffering anyhow.”

I wanted to resist, and Jemmy screamed like a Turk; but, “Holloa!” says

one. “What's the row?” says another. “Come, dub up!” roars a third. And

I don't mind telling you, in confidence, that I was so frightened that

I took out the sovereign and gave it. My man and Jemmy's maid had

disappeared by this time: they always do when there's a robbery or a row

going on.

I was going after them. “Stop, Mr. Ferguson,” pipes a young gentleman of

about thirteen, with a red livery waistcoat that reached to his ankles,

and every variety of button, pin, string, to keep it together. “Stop,

Mr. Heff,” says he, taking a small pipe out of his mouth, “and don't

forgit the cabman.”

“What's your fare, my lad?” says I.

“Why, let's see--yes--ho!--my fare's seven-and-thirty and eightpence

eggs--acly.”

The fourteen gentlemen holding the luggage, here burst out and laughed

very rudely indeed; and the only person who seemed disappointed was,

I thought, the hackney-coachman. “Why, YOU rascal!” says Jemmy, laying

hold of the boy, “do you want more than the coachman?”

“Don't rascal ME, marm!” shrieks the little chap in return. “What's the

coach to me? Vy, you may go in an omlibus for sixpence if you like; vy

don't you go and buss it, marm? Vy did you call my cab, marm? Vy am I to

come forty mile, from Scarlot Street, Po'tl'nd Street, Po'tl'nd Place,

and not git my fare, marm? Come, give me a suffering and a half, and

don't keep my hoss avaiting all day.” This speech, which takes some time

to write down, was made in about the fifth part of a second; and, at

the end of it, the young gentleman hurled down his pipe, and, advancing

towards Jemmy, doubled his fist, and seemed to challenge her to fight.

My dearest girl now turned from red to be as pale as white Windsor,

and fell into my arms. What was I to do? I called “Policeman!” but a

policeman won't interfere in Thames Street; robbery is licensed there.

What was I to do? Oh! my heart beats with paternal gratitude when I

think of what my Tug did!

As soon as this young cab-chap put himself into a fighting attitude,

Master Tuggeridge Coxe--who had been standing by laughing very rudely,

I thought--Master Tuggeridge Coxe, I say, flung his jacket suddenly into

his mamma's face (the brass buttons made her start and recovered her

a little), and, before we could say a word was in the ring in which we

stood (formed by the porters, nine orangemen and women, I don't know

how many newspaper-boys, hotel-cads, and old-clothesmen), and, whirling

about two little white fists in the face of the gentleman in the red

waistcoat, who brought up a great pair of black ones to bear on the

enemy, was engaged in an instant.

But la bless you! Tug hadn't been at Richmond School for nothing; and

MILLED away one, two, right and left--like a little hero as he is, with

all his dear mother's spirit in him. First came a crack which sent a

long dusky white hat--that looked damp and deep like a well, and had

a long black crape-rag twisted round it--first came a crack which sent

this white hat spinning over the gentleman's cab and scattered among the

crowd a vast number of things which the cabman kept in it,--such as

a ball of string, a piece of candle, a comb, a whip-lash, a little

warbler, a slice of bacon, &c. &c.

The cabman seemed sadly ashamed of this display, but Tug gave him no

time: another blow was planted on his cheekbone; and a third, which hit

him straight on the nose, sent this rude cabman straight down to the

ground.

“Brayvo, my lord!” shouted all the people around.

“I won't have no more, thank yer,” said the little cabman, gathering

himself up. “Give us over my fare, vil yer, and let me git away?”

“What's your fare, NOW, you cowardly little thief?” says Tug.

“Vy, then, two-and-eightpence,” says he. “Go along,--you KNOW it is!”

and two-and-eightpence he had; and everybody applauded Tug, and

hissed the cab-boy, and asked Tug for something to drink. We heard the

packet-bell ringing, and all run down the stairs to be in time.

I now thought our troubles would soon be over; mine were, very nearly

so, in one sense at least: for after Mrs. Coxe and Jemimarann, and Tug,

and the maid, and valet, and valuables had been handed across, it came

to my turn. I had often heard of people being taken up by a PLANK, but

seldom of their being set down by one. Just as I was going over, the

vessel rode off a little, the board slipped, and down I soused into the

water. You might have heard Mrs. Coxe's shriek as far as Gravesend; it

rung in my ears as I went down, all grieved at the thought of leaving

her a disconsolate widder. Well, up I came again, and caught the brim of

my beaver-hat--though I have heard that drowning men catch at straws:--I

floated, and hoped to escape by hook or by crook; and, luckily, just

then, I felt myself suddenly jerked by the waistband of my whites, and

found myself hauled up in the air at the end of a boat-hook, to the

sound of “Yeho! yeho! yehoi! yehoi!” and so I was dragged aboard. I

was put to bed, and had swallowed so much water that it took a very

considerable quantity of brandy to bring it to a proper mixture in my

inside. In fact, for some hours I was in a very deplorable state.

NOTICE TO QUIT.

Well, we arrived at Boulogne; and Jemmy, after making inquiries, right

and left, about the Baron, found that no such person was known there;

and being bent, I suppose, at all events, on marrying her daughter to a

lord, she determined to set off for Paris, where, as he had often said,

he possessed a magnificent ---- hotel he called it;--and I remember

Jemmy being mightily indignant at the idea; but hotel, we found

afterwards, means only a house in French, and this reconciled her. Need

I describe the road from Boulogne to Paris? or need I describe that

Capitol itself? Suffice it to say, that we made our appearance there,

at “Murisse's Hotel,” as became the family of Coxe Tuggeridge; and saw

everything worth seeing in the metropolis in a week. It nearly killed

me, to be sure; but, when you're on a pleasure-party in a foreign

country, you must not mind a little inconvenience of this sort.

Well, there is, near the city of Paris, a splendid road and row of

trees, which--I don't know why--is called the Shandeleezy, or Elysian

Fields, in French: others, I have heard, call it the Shandeleery; but

mine I know to be the correct pronunciation. In the middle of this

Shandeleezy is an open space of ground, and a tent where, during the

summer, Mr. Franconi, the French Ashley, performs with his horses and

things. As everybody went there, and we were told it was quite the

thing, Jemmy agreed that we should go too; and go we did.

It's just like Ashley's: there's a man just like Mr. Piddicombe, who

goes round the ring in a huzzah-dress, cracking a whip; there are a

dozen Miss Woolfords, who appear like Polish princesses, Dihannas,

Sultannas, Cachuchas, and heaven knows what! There's the fat man, who

comes in with the twenty-three dresses on, and turns out to be the

living skeleton! There's the clowns, the sawdust, the white horse that

dances a hornpipe, the candles stuck in hoops, just as in our own dear

country.

My dear wife, in her very finest clothes, with all the world looking

at her, was really enjoying this spectacle (which doesn't require any

knowledge of the language, seeing that the dumb animals don't talk it),

when there came in, presently, “the great Polish act of the Sarmatian

horse-tamer, on eight steeds,” which we were all of us longing to see.

The horse-tamer, to music twenty miles an hour, rushed in on four of

his horses, leading the other four, and skurried round the ring. You

couldn't see him for the sawdust, but everybody was delighted, and

applauded like mad. Presently, you saw there were only three horses in

front: he had slipped one more between his legs, another followed, and

it was clear that the consequences would be fatal, if he admitted any

more. The people applauded more than ever; and when, at last, seven and

eight were made to go in, not wholly, but sliding dexterously in and

out, with the others, so that you did not know which was which, the

house, I thought, would come down with applause; and the Sarmatian

horse-tamer bowed his great feathers to the ground. At last the

music grew slower, and he cantered leisurely round the ring; bending,

smirking, seesawing, waving his whip, and laying his hand on his heart,

just as we have seen the Ashley's people do. But fancy our astonishment

when, suddenly, this Sarmatian horse-tamer, coming round with his four

pair at a canter, and being opposite our box, gave a start, and a--hupp!

which made all his horses stop stock-still at an instant.

“Albert!” screamed my dear Jemmy: “Albert! Bahbahbah--baron!” The

Sarmatian looked at her for a minute; and turning head over heels, three

times, bolted suddenly off his horses, and away out of our sight.

It was HIS EXCELLENCY THE BARON DE PUNTER!

Jemmy went off in a fit as usual, and we never saw the Baron again; but

we heard, afterwards, that Punter was an apprentice of Franconi's, and

had run away to England, thinking to better himself, and had joined Mr.

Richardson's army; but Mr. Richardson, and then London, did not agree

with him; and we saw the last of him as he sprung over the barriers at

the Tuggeridgeville tournament.

“Well, Jemimarann,” says Jemmy, in a fury, “you shall marry Tagrag;

and if I can't have a baroness for a daughter, at least you shall be a

baronet's lady.” Poor Jemimarann only sighed: she knew it was of no use

to remonstrate.

Paris grew dull to us after this, and we were more eager than ever to

go back to London: for what should we hear, but that that monster,

Tuggeridge, of the City--old Tug's black son, forsooth!--was going to

contest Jemmy's claim to the property, and had filed I don't know how

many bills against us in Chancery! Hearing this, we set off immediately,

and we arrived at Boulogne, and set off in that very same “Grand Turk”

which had brought us to France.

If you look in the bills, you will see that the steamers leave London on

Saturday morning, and Boulogne on Saturday night; so that there is often

not an hour between the time of arrival and departure. Bless us! bless

us! I pity the poor Captain that, for twenty-four hours at a time, is on

a paddle-box, roaring out, “Ease her! Stop her!” and the poor servants,

who are laying out breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, supper;--breakfast,

lunch, dinner, tea, supper again;--for layers upon layers of travellers,

as it were; and most of all, I pity that unhappy steward, with those

unfortunate tin-basins that he must always keep an eye over. Little did

we know what a storm was brooding in our absence; and little were we

prepared for the awful, awful fate that hung over our Tuggeridgeville

property.

Biggs, of the great house of Higgs, Biggs, and Blatherwick, was our man

of business: when I arrived in London I heard that he had just set off

to Paris after me. So we started down to Tuggeridgeville instead of

going to Portland Place. As we came through the lodge-gates, we found

a crowd assembled within them; and there was that horrid Tuggeridige on

horseback, with a shabby-looking man, called Mr. Scapgoat, and his man

of business, and many more. “Mr. Scapgoat,” says Tuggeridge, grinning,

and handing him over a sealed paper, “here's the lease; I leave you in

possession, and wish you good morning.”

“In possession of what?” says the rightful lady of Tuggeridgeville,

leaning out of the carriage-window. She hated black Tuggeridge, as she

called him, like poison: the very first week of our coming to Portland

Place, when he called to ask restitution of some plate which he said was

his private property, she called him a base-born blackamoor, and told

him to quit the house. Since then there had been law squabbles between

us without end, and all sorts of writings, meetings, and arbitrations.

“Possession of my estate of Tuggeridgeville, madam,” roars he, “left me

by my father's will, which you have had notice of these three weeks, and

know as well as I do.”

“Old Tug left no will,” shrieked Jemmy; “he didn't die to leave his

estates to blackamoors--to negroes--to base-born mulatto story-tellers;

if he did may I be -----”

“Oh, hush! dearest mamma,” says Jemimarann. “Go it again, mother!” says

Tug, who is always sniggering.

“What is this business, Mr. Tuggeridge?” cried Tagrag (who was the only

one of our party that had his senses). “What is this will?”

“Oh, it's merely a matter of form,” said the lawyer, riding up. “For

heaven's sake, madam, be peaceable; let my friends, Higgs, Biggs, and

Blatherwick, arrange with me. I am surprised that none of their people

are here. All that you have to do is to eject us; and the rest will

follow, of course.”

“Who has taken possession of this here property?” roars Jemmy, again.

“My friend Mr. Scapgoat,” said the lawyer.--Mr. Scapgoat grinned.

“Mr. Scapgoat,” said my wife, shaking her fist at him (for she is a

woman of no small spirit), “if you don't leave this ground I'll have

you pushed out with pitchforks, I will--you and your beggarly blackamoor

yonder.” And, suiting the action to the word, she clapped a stable fork

into the hands of one of the gardeners, and called another, armed with

a rake, to his help, while young Tug set the dog at their heels, and I

hurrahed for joy to see such villany so properly treated.

“That's sufficient, ain't it?” said Mr. Scapgoat, with the calmest air

in the world. “Oh, completely,” said the lawyer. “Mr. Tuggeridge, we've

ten miles to dinner. Madam, your very humble servant.” And the whole

posse of them rode away.

LAW LIFE ASSURANCE.

We knew not what this meant, until we received a strange document from

Higgs, in London--which begun, “Middlesex to wit. Samuel Cox, late of

Portland Place, in the city of Westminster, in the said county, was

attached to answer Samuel Scapgoat, of a plea, wherefore, with force and

arms, he entered into one messuage, with the appurtenances, which John

Tuggeridge, Esq., demised to the said Samuel Scapgoat, for a term which

is not yet expired, and ejected him.” And it went on to say that “we,

with force of arms, viz, with swords, knives, and staves, had ejected

him.” Was there ever such a monstrous falsehood? when we did but stand

in defence of our own; and isn't it a sin that we should have been

turned out of our rightful possessions upon such a rascally plea?

Higgs, Biggs, and Blatherwick had evidently been bribed; for would you

believe it?--they told us to give up possession at once, as a will

was found, and we could not defend the action. My Jemmy refused

their proposal with scorn, and laughed at the notion of the will: she

pronounced it to be a forgery, a vile blackamoor forgery; and believes,

to this day, that the story of its having been made thirty years ago,

in Calcutta, and left there with old Tug's papers, and found there, and

brought to England, after a search made by order of Tuggeridge junior,

is a scandalous falsehood.

Well, the cause was tried. Why need I say anything concerning it? What

shall I say of the Lord Chief Justice, but that he ought to be ashamed

of the wig he sits in? What of Mr. ---- and Mr. ----, who exerted their

eloquence against justice and the poor? On our side, too, was no less

a man than Mr. Serjeant Binks, who, ashamed I am, for the honor of the

British bar, to say it, seemed to have been bribed too: for he actually

threw up his case! Had he behaved like Mr. Mulligan, his junior--and to

whom, in this humble way, I offer my thanks--all might have been well. I

never knew such an effect produced, as when Mr. Mulligan, appearing for

the first time in that court, said, “Standing here upon the pidestal of

secred Thamis; seeing around me the arnymints of a profission I rispict;

having before me a vinnerable judge, and an enlightened jury--the

counthry's glory, the netion's cheap defender, the poor man's priceless

palladium: how must I thrimble, my lard, how must the blush bejew

my cheek--” (somebody cried out, “O CHEEKS!” In the court there was a

dreadful roar of laughing; and when order was established, Mr.

Mulligan continued:)--“My lard, I heed them not; I come from a counthry

accustomed to opprission, and as that counthry--yes, my lard, THAT

IRELAND--(do not laugh, I am proud of it)--is ever, in spite of her

tyrants, green, and lovely, and beautiful: my client's cause, likewise,

will rise shuperior to the malignant imbecility--I repeat, the MALIGNANT

IMBECILITY--of those who would thrample it down; and in whose teeth,

in my client's name, in my counthry's--ay, and MY OWN--I, with folded

arrums, hurl a scarnful and eternal defiance!”

“For heaven's sake, Mr. Milligan”--(“MULLIGAN, ME LARD,” cried my

defender)--“Well, Mulligan, then, be calm, and keep to your brief.”

Mr. Mulligan did; and for three hours and a quarter, in a speech crammed

with Latin quotations, and unsurpassed for eloquence, he explained the

situation of me and my family; the romantic manner in which Tuggeridge

the elder gained his fortune, and by which it afterwards came to my

wife; the state of Ireland; the original and virtuous poverty of the

Coxes--from which he glanced passionately, for a few minutes (until the

judge stopped him), to the poverty of his own country; my excellence as

a husband, father, landlord; my wife's, as a wife, mother, landlady. All

was in vain--the trial went against us. I was soon taken in execution

for the damages; five hundred pounds of law expenses of my own, and as

much more of Tuggeridge's. He would not pay a farthing, he said, to get

me out of a much worse place than the Fleet. I need not tell you that

along with the land went the house in town, and the money in the funds.

Tuggeridge, he who had thousands before, had it all. And when I was in

prison, who do you think would come and see me? None of the Barons, nor

Counts, nor Foreign Ambassadors, nor Excellencies, who used to fill

our house, and eat and drink at our expense,--not even the ungrateful

Tagrag!

I could not help now saying to my dear wife, “See, my love, we have been

gentlefolks for exactly a year, and a pretty life we have had of it.

In the first place, my darling, we gave grand dinners, and everybody

laughed at us.”

“Yes, and recollect how ill they made you,” cries my daughter.

“We asked great company, and they insulted us.”

“And spoilt mamma's temper,” said Jemimarann.

“Hush! Miss,” said her mother; “we don't want YOUR advice.”

“Then you must make a country gentleman of me.”

“And send Pa into dunghills,” roared Tug.

“Then you must go to operas, and pick up foreign Barons and Counts.”

“Oh, thank heaven, dearest papa, that we are rid of them,” cries my

little Jemimarann, looking almost happy, and kissing her old pappy.

“And you must make a fine gentleman of Tug there, and send him to a fine

school.”

“And I give you my word,” says Tug, “I'm as ignorant a chap as ever

lived.”

“You're an insolent saucebox,” says Jemmy; “you've learned that at your

fine school.”

“I've learned something else, too, ma'am; ask the boys if I haven't,”

grumbles Tug.

“You hawk your daughter about, and just escape marrying her to a

swindler.”

“And drive off poor Orlando,” whimpered my girl.

“Silence! Miss,” says Jemmy, fiercely.

“You insult the man whose father's property you inherited, and bring me

into this prison, without hope of leaving it: for he never can help us

after all your bad language.” I said all this very smartly; for the fact

is, my blood was up at the time, and I determined to rate my dear girl

soundly.

“Oh! Sammy,” said she, sobbing (for the poor thing's spirit was quite

broken), “it's all true; I've been very, very foolish and vain, and I've

punished my dear husband and children by my follies, and I do so,

so repent them!” Here Jemimarann at once burst out crying, and flung

herself into her mamma's arms, and the pair roared and sobbed for ten

minutes together. Even Tug looked queer: and as for me, it's a most

extraordinary thing, but I'm blest if seeing them so miserable didn't

make me quite happy.--I don't think, for the whole twelve months of

our good fortune, I had ever felt so gay as in that dismal room in the

Fleet, where I was locked up.

Poor Orlando Crump came to see us every day; and we, who had never

taken the slightest notice of him in Portland Place, and treated him so

cruelly that day at Beulah Spa, were only too glad of his company now.

He used to bring books for my girl, and a bottle of sherry for me; and

he used to take home Jemmy's fronts and dress them for her; and when

locking-up time came, he used to see the ladies home to their little

three-pair bedroom in Holborn, where they slept now, Tug and all. “Can

the bird forget its nest?” Orlando used to say (he was a romantic

young fellow, that's the truth, and blew the flute and read Lord Byron

incessantly, since he was separated from Jemimarann). “Can the bird, let

loose in eastern climes, forget its home? Can the rose cease to remember

its beloved bulbul?--Ah, no! Mr. Cox, you made me what I am, and what I

hope to die--a hairdresser. I never see a curling-irons before I entered

your shop, or knew Naples from brown Windsor. Did you not make over your

house, your furniture, your emporium of perfumery, and nine-and-twenty

shaving customers, to me? Are these trifles? Is Jemimarann a trifle? if

she would allow me to call her so. Oh, Jemimarann, your Pa found me

in the workhouse, and made me what I am. Conduct me to my grave, and I

never, never shall be different!” When he had said this, Orlando was so

much affected, that he rushed suddenly on his hat and quitted the room.

Then Jemimarann began to cry too. “Oh, Pa!” said she, “isn't he--isn't

he a nice young man?”

“I'm HANGED if he ain't,” says Tug. “What do you think of his giving me

eighteenpence yesterday, and a bottle of lavender-water for Mimarann?”

“He might as well offer to give you back the shop at any rate,” says

Jemmy.

“What! to pay Tuggeridge's damages? My dear, I'd sooner die than give

Tuggeridge the chance.”

FAMILY BUSTLE.

Tuggeridge vowed that I should finish my days there, when he put me in

prison. It appears that we both had reason to be ashamed of ourselves;

and were, thank God! I learned to be sorry for my bad feelings toward

him, and he actually wrote to me to say--

“SIR,--I think you have suffered enough for faults which, I believe, do

not lie with you, so much as your wife; and I have withdrawn my claims

which I had against you while you were in wrongful possession of my

father's estates. You must remember that when, on examination of my

father's papers, no will was found, I yielded up his property, with

perfect willingness, to those who I fancied were his legitimate heirs.

For this I received all sorts of insults from your wife and yourself

(who acquiesced in them); and when the discovery of a will, in India,

proved MY just claims, you must remember how they were met, and the

vexatious proceedings with which you sought to oppose them.

“I have discharged your lawyer's bill; and, as I believe you are more

fitted for the trade you formerly exercised than for any other, I will

give five hundred pounds for the purchase of a stock and shop, when you

shall find one to suit you.

“I enclose a draft for twenty pounds to meet your present expenses. You

have, I am told, a son, a boy of some spirit: if he likes to try

his fortune abroad, and go on board an Indiaman, I can get him an

appointment; and am, Sir, your obedient servant,

“JOHN TUGGERIDGE”

It was Mrs. Breadbasket, the housekeeper, who brought this letter, and

looked mighty contemptuous as she gave it.

“I hope, Breadbasket, that your master will send me my things at any

rate,” cries Jemmy. “There's seventeen silk and satin dresses, and a

whole heap of trinkets, that can be of no earthly use to him.”

“Don't Breadbasket me, mem, if you please, mem. My master says that them

things is quite obnoxious to your sphere of life. Breadbasket, indeed!”

And so she sailed out.

Jemmy hadn't a word; she had grown mighty quiet since we have been in

misfortune: but my daughter looked as happy as a queen; and Tug, when

he heard of the ship, gave a jump that nearly knocked down poor Orlando.

“Ah, I suppose you'll forget me now?” says he with a sigh; and seemed

the only unhappy person in company.

“Why, you conceive, Mr. Crump,” says my wife, with a great deal of

dignity, “that, connected as we are, a young man born in a work--”

“Woman!” cried I (for once in my life determined to have my own way),

“hold your foolish tongue. Your absurd pride has been the ruin of us

hitherto; and, from this day, I'll have no more of it. Hark ye, Orlando,

if you will take Jemimarann, you may have her; and if you'll take five

hundred pounds for a half-share of the shop, they're yours; and THAT'S

for you, Mrs. Cox.”

And here we are, back again. And I write this from the old back shop,

where we are all waiting to see the new year in. Orlando sits yonder,

plaiting a wig for my Lord Chief Justice, as happy as may be; and

Jemimarann and her mother have been as busy as you can imagine all

day long, and are just now giving the finishing touches to the

bridal-dresses: for the wedding is to take place the day after

to-morrow. I've cut seventeen heads off (as I say) this very day; and as

for Jemmy, I no more mind her than I do the Emperor of China and all

his Tambarins. Last night we had a merry meeting of our friends and

neighbors, to celebrate our reappearance among them; and very merry we

all were. We had a capital fiddler, and we kept it up till a pretty tidy

hour this morning. We begun with quadrills, but I never could do 'em

well; and after that, to please Mr. Crump and his intended, we tried a

gallopard, which I found anything but easy: for since I am come back to

a life of peace and comfort, it's astonishing how stout I'm getting. So

we turned at once to what Jemmy and me excels in--a country dance; which

is rather surprising, as we was both brought up to a town life. As for

young Tug, he showed off in a sailor's hornpipe: which Mrs. Cox says is

very proper for him to learn, now he is intended for the sea. But stop!

here comes in the punchbowls; and if we are not happy, who is? I say I

am like the Swish people, for I can't flourish out of my native HAIR.

End of Project Gutenberg's Burlesques, by William Makepeace Thackeray