‘Glorious!’ replied his companion, in an equally low tone.—This was

Alfred Tomkins. ‘Who would have thought it?’

‘I told you so,’ said Wisbottle, in a most knowing whisper. ‘Lord bless

you, he has paid her most extraordinary attention for the last two

months. I saw ’em when I was sitting at the piano to-night.’

‘Well, do you know I didn’t notice it?’ interrupted Tomkins.

‘Not notice it!’ continued Wisbottle. ‘Bless you; I saw him whispering

to her, and she crying; and then I’ll swear I heard him say something

about to-night when we were all in bed.’

‘They’re talking of _us_!’ exclaimed the agonised Mrs. Tibbs, as the

painful suspicion, and a sense of their situation, flashed upon her

mind.

‘I know it—I know it,’ replied Evenson, with a melancholy consciousness

that there was no mode of escape.

‘What’s to be done? we cannot both stop here!’ ejaculated Mrs. Tibbs,

in a state of partial derangement.

‘I’ll get up the chimney,’ replied Evenson, who really meant what he

said.

‘You can’t,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, in despair. ‘You can’t—it’s a register

stove.’

‘Hush!’ repeated John Evenson.

‘Hush—hush!’ cried somebody down-stairs.

‘What a d-d hushing!’ said Alfred Tomkins, who began to get rather

bewildered.

‘There they are!’ exclaimed the sapient Wisbottle, as a rustling noise

was heard in the store-room.

‘Hark!’ whispered both the young men.

‘Hark!’ repeated Mrs. Tibbs and Evenson.

‘Let me alone, sir,’ said a female voice in the store-room.

‘Oh, Hagnes!’ cried another voice, which clearly belonged to Tibbs, for

nobody else ever owned one like it, ‘Oh, Hagnes—lovely creature!’

‘Be quiet, sir!’ (A bounce.)

‘Hag—’

‘Be quiet, sir—I am ashamed of you. Think of your wife, Mr. Tibbs. Be

quiet, sir!’

‘My wife!’ exclaimed the valorous Tibbs, who was clearly under the

influence of gin-and-water, and a misplaced attachment; ‘I ate her! Oh,

Hagnes! when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and—’

‘I declare I’ll scream. Be quiet, sir, will you?’ (Another bounce and a

scuffle.)

‘What’s that?’ exclaimed Tibbs, with a start.

‘What’s what?’ said Agnes, stopping short.

‘Why that!’

‘Ah! you have done it nicely now, sir,’ sobbed the frightened Agnes, as

a tapping was heard at Mrs. Tibbs’s bedroom door, which would have

beaten any dozen woodpeckers hollow.

‘Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!’ called out Mrs. Bloss. ‘Mrs. Tibbs, pray get

up.’ (Here the imitation of a woodpecker was resumed with tenfold

violence.)

‘Oh, dear—dear!’ exclaimed the wretched partner of the depraved Tibbs.

‘She’s knocking at my door. We must be discovered! What will they

think?’

‘Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!’ screamed the woodpecker again.

‘What’s the matter!’ shouted Gobler, bursting out of the back

drawing-room, like the dragon at Astley’s.

‘Oh, Mr. Gobler!’ cried Mrs. Bloss, with a proper approximation to

hysterics; ‘I think the house is on fire, or else there’s thieves in

it. I have heard the most dreadful noises!’

‘The devil you have!’ shouted Gobler again, bouncing back into his den,

in happy imitation of the aforesaid dragon, and returning immediately

with a lighted candle. ‘Why, what’s this? Wisbottle! Tomkins! O’Bleary!

Agnes! What the deuce! all up and dressed?’

‘Astonishing!’ said Mrs. Bloss, who had run down-stairs, and taken Mr.

Gobler’s arm.

‘Call Mrs. Tibbs directly, somebody,’ said Gobler, turning into the

front drawing-room.—‘What! Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!!’

‘Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!’ repeated everybody, as that unhappy pair

were discovered: Mrs. Tibbs seated in an arm-chair by the fireplace,

and Mr. Evenson standing by her side.

We must leave the scene that ensued to the reader’s imagination. We

could tell, how Mrs. Tibbs forthwith fainted away, and how it required

the united strength of Mr. Wisbottle and Mr. Alfred Tomkins to hold her

in her chair; how Mr. Evenson explained, and how his explanation was

evidently disbelieved; how Agnes repelled the accusations of Mrs. Tibbs

by proving that she was negotiating with Mr. O’Bleary to influence her

mistress’s affections in his behalf; and how Mr. Gobler threw a damp

counterpane on the hopes of Mr. O’Bleary by avowing that he (Gobler)

had already proposed to, and been accepted by, Mrs. Bloss; how Agnes

was discharged from that lady’s service; how Mr. O’Bleary discharged

himself from Mrs. Tibbs’s house, without going through the form of

previously discharging his bill; and how that disappointed young

gentleman rails against England and the English, and vows there is no

virtue or fine feeling extant, ‘except in Ireland.’ We repeat that we

_could_ tell all this, but we love to exercise our self-denial, and we

therefore prefer leaving it to be imagined.

The lady whom we have hitherto described as Mrs. Bloss, is no more.

Mrs. Gobler exists: Mrs. Bloss has left us for ever. In a secluded

retreat in Newington Butts, far, far removed from the noisy strife of

that great boarding-house, the world, the enviable Gobler and his

pleasing wife revel in retirement: happy in their complaints, their

table, and their medicine, wafted through life by the grateful prayers

of all the purveyors of animal food within three miles round.

We would willingly stop here, but we have a painful duty imposed upon

us, which we must discharge. Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs have separated by

mutual consent, Mrs. Tibbs receiving one moiety of 43_l._ 15_s._

10_d._, which we before stated to be the amount of her husband’s annual

income, and Mr. Tibbs the other. He is spending the evening of his days

in retirement; and he is spending also, annually, that small but

honourable independence. He resides among the original settlers at

Walworth; and it has been stated, on unquestionable authority, that the

conclusion of the volunteer story has been heard in a small tavern in

that respectable neighbourhood.

The unfortunate Mrs. Tibbs has determined to dispose of the whole of

her furniture by public auction, and to retire from a residence in

which she has suffered so much. Mr. Robins has been applied to, to

conduct the sale, and the transcendent abilities of the literary

gentlemen connected with his establishment are now devoted to the task

of drawing up the preliminary advertisement. It is to contain, among a

variety of brilliant matter, seventy-eight words in large capitals, and

six original quotations in inverted commas.

CHAPTER II—MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN

Mr. Augustus Minns was a bachelor, of about forty as he said—of about

eight-and-forty as his friends said. He was always exceedingly clean,

precise, and tidy; perhaps somewhat priggish, and the most retiring man

in the world. He usually wore a brown frock-coat without a wrinkle,

light inexplicables without a spot, a neat neckerchief with a

remarkably neat tie, and boots without a fault; moreover, he always

carried a brown silk umbrella with an ivory handle. He was a clerk in

Somerset-house, or, as he said himself, he held ‘a responsible

situation under Government.’ He had a good and increasing salary, in

addition to some 10,000_l._ of his own (invested in the funds), and he

occupied a first floor in Tavistock-street, Covent-garden, where he had

resided for twenty years, having been in the habit of quarrelling with

his landlord the whole time: regularly giving notice of his intention

to quit on the first day of every quarter, and as regularly

countermanding it on the second. There were two classes of created

objects which he held in the deepest and most unmingled horror; these

were dogs, and children. He was not unamiable, but he could, at any

time, have viewed the execution of a dog, or the assassination of an

infant, with the liveliest satisfaction. Their habits were at variance

with his love of order; and his love of order was as powerful as his

love of life. Mr. Augustus Minns had no relations, in or near London,

with the exception of his cousin, Mr. Octavius Budden, to whose son,

whom he had never seen (for he disliked the father), he had consented

to become godfather by proxy. Mr. Budden having realised a moderate

fortune by exercising the trade or calling of a corn-chandler, and

having a great predilection for the country, had purchased a cottage in

the vicinity of Stamford-hill, whither he retired with the wife of his

bosom, and his only son, Master Alexander Augustus Budden. One evening,

as Mr. and Mrs. B. were admiring their son, discussing his various

merits, talking over his education, and disputing whether the classics

should be made an essential part thereof, the lady pressed so strongly

upon her husband the propriety of cultivating the friendship of Mr.

Minns in behalf of their son, that Mr. Budden at last made up his mind,

that it should not be his fault if he and his cousin were not in future

more intimate.

‘I’ll break the ice, my love,’ said Mr. Budden, stirring up the sugar

at the bottom of his glass of brandy-and-water, and casting a sidelong

look at his spouse to see the effect of the announcement of his

determination, ‘by asking Minns down to dine with us, on Sunday.’

‘Then pray, Budden, write to your cousin at once,’ replied Mrs. Budden.

‘Who knows, if we could only get him down here, but he might take a

fancy to our Alexander, and leave him his property?—Alick, my dear,

take your legs off the rail of the chair!’

‘Very true,’ said Mr. Budden, musing, ‘very true indeed, my love!’ On

the following morning, as Mr. Minns was sitting at his breakfast-table,

alternately biting his dry toast and casting a look upon the columns of

his morning paper, which he always read from the title to the printer’s

name, he heard a loud knock at the street-door; which was shortly

afterwards followed by the entrance of his servant, who put into his

hands a particularly small card, on which was engraven in immense

letters, ‘Mr. Octavius Budden, Amelia Cottage (Mrs. B.’s name was

Amelia), Poplar-walk, Stamford-hill.’

‘Budden!’ ejaculated Minns, ‘what can bring that vulgar man here!—say

I’m asleep—say I’m out, and shall never be home again—anything to keep

him down-stairs.’

‘But please, sir, the gentleman’s coming up,’ replied the servant, and

the fact was made evident, by an appalling creaking of boots on the

staircase accompanied by a pattering noise; the cause of which, Minns

could not, for the life of him, divine.

‘Hem—show the gentleman in,’ said the unfortunate bachelor. Exit

servant, and enter Octavius preceded by a large white dog, dressed in a

suit of fleecy hosiery, with pink eyes, large ears, and no perceptible

tail.

The cause of the pattering on the stairs was but too plain. Mr.

Augustus Minns staggered beneath the shock of the dog’s appearance.

‘My dear fellow, how are you?’ said Budden, as he entered.

He always spoke at the top of his voice, and always said the same thing

half-a-dozen times.

‘How are you, my hearty?’

‘How do you do, Mr. Budden?—pray take a chair!’ politely stammered the

discomfited Minns.

‘Thank you—thank you—well—how are you, eh?’

‘Uncommonly well, thank you,’ said Minns, casting a diabolical look at

the dog, who, with his hind legs on the floor, and his fore paws

resting on the table, was dragging a bit of bread and butter out of a

plate, preparatory to devouring it, with the buttered side next the

carpet.

‘Ah, you rogue!’ said Budden to his dog; ‘you see, Minns, he’s like me,

always at home, eh, my boy!—Egad, I’m precious hot and hungry! I’ve

walked all the way from Stamford-hill this morning.’

‘Have you breakfasted?’ inquired Minns.

‘Oh, no!—came to breakfast with you; so ring the bell, my dear fellow,

will you? and let’s have another cup and saucer, and the cold ham.—Make

myself at home, you see!’ continued Budden, dusting his boots with a

table-napkin. ‘Ha!—ha!—ha!—’pon my life, I’m hungry.’

Minns rang the bell, and tried to smile.

‘I decidedly never was so hot in my life,’ continued Octavius, wiping

his forehead; ‘well, but how are you, Minns? ‘Pon my soul, you wear

capitally!’

‘D’ye think so?’ said Minns; and he tried another smile.

‘’Pon my life, I do!’

‘Mrs. B. and—what’s his name—quite well?’

‘Alick—my son, you mean; never better—never better. But at such a place

as we’ve got at Poplar-walk, you know, he couldn’t be ill if he tried.

When I first saw it, by Jove! it looked so knowing, with the front

garden, and the green railings and the brass knocker, and all that—I

really thought it was a cut above me.’

‘Don’t you think you’d like the ham better,’ interrupted Minns, ‘if you

cut it the other way?’ He saw, with feelings which it is impossible to

describe, that his visitor was cutting or rather maiming the ham, in

utter violation of all established rules.

‘No, thank ye,’ returned Budden, with the most barbarous indifference

to crime, ‘I prefer it this way, it eats short. But I say, Minns, when

will you come down and see us? You will be delighted with the place; I

know you will. Amelia and I were talking about you the other night, and

Amelia said—another lump of sugar, please; thank ye—she said, don’t you

think you could contrive, my dear, to say to Mr. Minns, in a friendly

way—come down, sir—damn the dog! he’s spoiling your curtains,

Minns—ha!—ha!—ha!’ Minns leaped from his seat as though he had received

the discharge from a galvanic battery.

‘Come out, sir!—go out, hoo!’ cried poor Augustus, keeping,

nevertheless, at a very respectful distance from the dog; having read

of a case of hydrophobia in the paper of that morning. By dint of great

exertion, much shouting, and a marvellous deal of poking under the

tables with a stick and umbrella, the dog was at last dislodged, and

placed on the landing outside the door, where he immediately commenced

a most appalling howling; at the same time vehemently scratching the

paint off the two nicely-varnished bottom panels, until they resembled

the interior of a backgammon-board.

‘A good dog for the country that!’ coolly observed Budden to the

distracted Minns, ‘but he’s not much used to confinement. But now,

Minns, when will you come down? I’ll take no denial, positively. Let’s

see, to-day’s Thursday.—Will you come on Sunday? We dine at five, don’t

say no—do.’

After a great deal of pressing, Mr. Augustus Minns, driven to despair,

accepted the invitation, and promised to be at Poplar-walk on the

ensuing Sunday, at a quarter before five to the minute.

‘Now mind the direction,’ said Budden: ‘the coach goes from the

Flower-pot, in Bishopsgate-street, every half hour. When the coach

stops at the Swan, you’ll see, immediately opposite you, a white

house.’

‘Which is your house—I understand,’ said Minns, wishing to cut short

the visit, and the story, at the same time.

‘No, no, that’s not mine; that’s Grogus’s, the great ironmonger’s. I

was going to say—you turn down by the side of the white house till you

can’t go another step further—mind that!—and then you turn to your

right, by some stables—well; close to you, you’ll see a wall with

“Beware of the Dog” written on it in large letters—(Minns shuddered)—go

along by the side of that wall for about a quarter of a mile—and

anybody will show you which is my place.’

‘Very well—thank ye—good-bye.’

‘Be punctual.’

‘Certainly: good morning.’

‘I say, Minns, you’ve got a card.’

‘Yes, I have; thank ye.’ And Mr. Octavius Budden departed, leaving his

cousin looking forward to his visit on the following Sunday, with the

feelings of a penniless poet to the weekly visit of his Scotch

landlady.

Sunday arrived; the sky was bright and clear; crowds of people were

hurrying along the streets, intent on their different schemes of

pleasure for the day; everything and everybody looked cheerful and

happy except Mr. Augustus Minns.

The day was fine, but the heat was considerable; when Mr. Minns had

fagged up the shady side of Fleet-street, Cheapside, and

Threadneedle-street, he had become pretty warm, tolerably dusty, and it

was getting late into the bargain. By the most extraordinary good

fortune, however, a coach was waiting at the Flower-pot, into which Mr.

Augustus Minns got, on the solemn assurance of the cad that the vehicle

would start in three minutes—that being the very utmost extremity of

time it was allowed to wait by Act of Parliament. A quarter of an hour

elapsed, and there were no signs of moving. Minns looked at his watch

for the sixth time.

‘Coachman, are you going or not?’ bawled Mr. Minns, with his head and

half his body out of the coach window.

‘Di-rectly, sir,’ said the coachman, with his hands in his pockets,

looking as much unlike a man in a hurry as possible.

‘Bill, take them cloths off.’ Five minutes more elapsed: at the end of

which time the coachman mounted the box, from whence he looked down the

street, and up the street, and hailed all the pedestrians for another

five minutes.

‘Coachman! if you don’t go this moment, I shall get out,’ said Mr.

Minns, rendered desperate by the lateness of the hour, and the

impossibility of being in Poplar-walk at the appointed time.

‘Going this minute, sir,’ was the reply;—and, accordingly, the machine

trundled on for a couple of hundred yards, and then stopped again.

Minns doubled himself up in a corner of the coach, and abandoned

himself to his fate, as a child, a mother, a bandbox and a parasol,

became his fellow-passengers.

The child was an affectionate and an amiable infant; the little dear

mistook Minns for his other parent, and screamed to embrace him.

‘Be quiet, dear,’ said the mamma, restraining the impetuosity of the

darling, whose little fat legs were kicking, and stamping, and twining

themselves into the most complicated forms, in an ecstasy of

impatience. ‘Be quiet, dear, that’s not your papa.’

‘Thank Heaven I am not!’ thought Minns, as the first gleam of pleasure

he had experienced that morning shone like a meteor through his

wretchedness.

Playfulness was agreeably mingled with affection in the disposition of

the boy. When satisfied that Mr. Minns was not his parent, he

endeavoured to attract his notice by scraping his drab trousers with

his dirty shoes, poking his chest with his mamma’s parasol, and other

nameless endearments peculiar to infancy, with which he beguiled the

tediousness of the ride, apparently very much to his own satisfaction.

When the unfortunate gentleman arrived at the Swan, he found to his

great dismay, that it was a quarter past five. The white house, the

stables, the ‘Beware of the Dog,’—every landmark was passed, with a

rapidity not unusual to a gentleman of a certain age when too late for

dinner. After the lapse of a few minutes, Mr. Minns found himself

opposite a yellow brick house with a green door, brass knocker, and

door-plate, green window-frames and ditto railings, with ‘a garden’ in

front, that is to say, a small loose bit of gravelled ground, with one

round and two scalene triangular beds, containing a fir-tree, twenty or

thirty bulbs, and an unlimited number of marigolds. The taste of Mr.

and Mrs. Budden was further displayed by the appearance of a Cupid on

each side of the door, perched upon a heap of large chalk flints,

variegated with pink conch-shells. His knock at the door was answered

by a stumpy boy, in drab livery, cotton stockings and high-lows, who,

after hanging his hat on one of the dozen brass pegs which ornamented

the passage, denominated by courtesy ‘The Hall,’ ushered him into a

front drawing-room commanding a very extensive view of the backs of the

neighbouring houses. The usual ceremony of introduction, and so forth,

over, Mr. Minns took his seat: not a little agitated at finding that he

was the last comer, and, somehow or other, the Lion of about a dozen

people, sitting together in a small drawing-room, getting rid of that

most tedious of all time, the time preceding dinner.

‘Well, Brogson,’ said Budden, addressing an elderly gentleman in a

black coat, drab knee-breeches, and long gaiters, who, under pretence

of inspecting the prints in an Annual, had been engaged in satisfying

himself on the subject of Mr. Minns’s general appearance, by looking at

him over the tops of the leaves—‘Well, Brogson, what do ministers mean

to do? Will they go out, or what?’

‘Oh—why—really, you know, I’m the last person in the world to ask for

news. Your cousin, from his situation, is the most likely person to

answer the question.’

Mr. Minns assured the last speaker, that although he was in

Somerset-house, he possessed no official communication relative to the

projects of his Majesty’s Ministers. But his remark was evidently

received incredulously; and no further conjectures being hazarded on

the subject, a long pause ensued, during which the company occupied

themselves in coughing and blowing their noses, until the entrance of

Mrs. Budden caused a general rise.

The ceremony of introduction being over, dinner was announced, and

down-stairs the party proceeded accordingly—Mr. Minns escorting Mrs.

Budden as far as the drawing-room door, but being prevented, by the

narrowness of the staircase, from extending his gallantry any farther.

The dinner passed off as such dinners usually do. Ever and anon, amidst

the clatter of knives and forks, and the hum of conversation, Mr. B.’s

voice might be heard, asking a friend to take wine, and assuring him he

was glad to see him; and a great deal of by-play took place between

Mrs. B. and the servants, respecting the removal of the dishes, during

which her countenance assumed all the variations of a weather-glass,

from ‘stormy’ to ‘set fair.’

Upon the dessert and wine being placed on the table, the servant, in

compliance with a significant look from Mrs. B., brought down ‘Master

Alexander,’ habited in a sky-blue suit with silver buttons; and

possessing hair of nearly the same colour as the metal. After sundry

praises from his mother, and various admonitions as to his behaviour

from his father, he was introduced to his godfather.

‘Well, my little fellow—you are a fine boy, ain’t you?’ said Mr. Minns,

as happy as a tomtit on birdlime.

‘Yes.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Eight, next We’nsday. How old are _you_?’

‘Alexander,’ interrupted his mother, ‘how dare you ask Mr. Minns how

old he is!’

‘He asked me how old _I_ was,’ said the precocious child, to whom Minns

had from that moment internally resolved that he never would bequeath

one shilling. As soon as the titter occasioned by the observation had

subsided, a little smirking man with red whiskers, sitting at the

bottom of the table, who during the whole of dinner had been

endeavouring to obtain a listener to some stories about Sheridan,

called, out, with a very patronising air, ‘Alick, what part of speech

is _be_.’

‘A verb.’

‘That’s a good boy,’ said Mrs. Budden, with all a mother’s pride.

‘Now, you know what a verb is?’

‘A verb is a word which signifies to be, to do, or to suffer; as, I

am—I rule—I am ruled. Give me an apple, Ma.’

‘I’ll give you an apple,’ replied the man with the red whiskers, who

was an established friend of the family, or in other words was always

invited by Mrs. Budden, whether Mr. Budden liked it or not, ‘if you’ll

tell me what is the meaning of _be_.’

‘Be?’ said the prodigy, after a little hesitation—‘an insect that

gathers honey.’

‘No, dear,’ frowned Mrs. Budden; ‘B double E is the substantive.’

‘I don’t think he knows much yet about _common_ substantives,’ said the

smirking gentleman, who thought this an admirable opportunity for

letting off a joke. ‘It’s clear he’s not very well acquainted with

_proper names_. He! he! he!’

‘Gentlemen,’ called out Mr. Budden, from the end of the table, in a

stentorian voice, and with a very important air, ‘will you have the

goodness to charge your glasses? I have a toast to propose.’

‘Hear! hear!’ cried the gentlemen, passing the decanters. After they

had made the round of the table, Mr. Budden proceeded—‘Gentlemen; there

is an individual present—’

‘Hear! hear!’ said the little man with red whiskers.

‘_Pray_ be quiet, Jones,’ remonstrated Budden.

‘I say, gentlemen, there is an individual present,’ resumed the host,

‘in whose society, I am sure we must take great delight—and—and—the

conversation of that individual must have afforded to every one

present, the utmost pleasure.’ [‘Thank Heaven, he does not mean me!’

thought Minns, conscious that his diffidence and exclusiveness had

prevented his saying above a dozen words since he entered the house.]

‘Gentlemen, I am but a humble individual myself, and I perhaps ought to

apologise for allowing any individual feeling of friendship and

affection for the person I allude to, to induce me to venture to rise,

to propose the health of that person—a person that, I am sure—that is

to say, a person whose virtues must endear him to those who know

him—and those who have not the pleasure of knowing him, cannot dislike

him.’

‘Hear! hear!’ said the company, in a tone of encouragement and

approval.

‘Gentlemen,’ continued Budden, ‘my cousin is a man who—who is a

relation of my own.’ (Hear! hear!) Minns groaned audibly. ‘Who I am

most happy to see here, and who, if he were not here, would certainly

have deprived us of the great pleasure we all feel in seeing him. (Loud

cries of hear!) Gentlemen, I feel that I have already trespassed on

your attention for too long a time. With every feeling—of—with every

sentiment of—of—’

‘Gratification’—suggested the friend of the family.

‘—Of gratification, I beg to propose the health of Mr. Minns.’

‘Standing, gentlemen!’ shouted the indefatigable little man with the

whiskers—‘and with the honours. Take your time from me, if you please.

Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip hip!—Za-a-a!’

All eyes were now fixed on the subject of the toast, who by gulping

down port wine at the imminent hazard of suffocation, endeavoured to

conceal his confusion. After as long a pause as decency would admit, he

rose, but, as the newspapers sometimes say in their reports, ‘we regret

that we are quite unable to give even the substance of the honourable

gentleman’s observations.’ The words ‘present company—honour—present

occasion,’ and ‘great happiness’—heard occasionally, and repeated at

intervals, with a countenance expressive of the utmost confusion and

misery, convinced the company that he was making an excellent speech;

and, accordingly, on his resuming his seat, they cried ‘Bravo!’ and

manifested tumultuous applause. Jones, who had been long watching his

opportunity, then darted up.

‘Budden,’ said he, ‘will you allow _me_ to propose a toast?’

‘Certainly,’ replied Budden, adding in an under-tone to Minns right

across the table, ‘Devilish sharp fellow that: you’ll be very much

pleased with his speech. He talks equally well on any subject.’ Minns

bowed, and Mr. Jones proceeded:

‘It has on several occasions, in various instances, under many

circumstances, and in different companies, fallen to my lot to propose

a toast to those by whom, at the time, I have had the honour to be

surrounded, I have sometimes, I will cheerfully own—for why should I

deny it?—felt the overwhelming nature of the task I have undertaken,

and my own utter incapability to do justice to the subject. If such

have been my feelings, however, on former occasions, what must they be

now—now—under the extraordinary circumstances in which I am placed.

(Hear! hear!) To describe my feelings accurately, would be impossible;

but I cannot give you a better idea of them, gentlemen, than by

referring to a circumstance which happens, oddly enough, to occur to my

mind at the moment. On one occasion, when that truly great and

illustrious man, Sheridan, was—’

Now, there is no knowing what new villainy in the form of a joke would

have been heaped on the grave of that very ill-used man, Mr. Sheridan,

if the boy in drab had not at that moment entered the room in a

breathless state, to report that, as it was a very wet night, the nine

o’clock stage had come round, to know whether there was anybody going

to town, as, in that case, he (the nine o’clock) had room for one

inside.

Mr. Minns started up; and, despite countless exclamations of surprise,

and entreaties to stay, persisted in his determination to accept the

vacant place. But, the brown silk umbrella was nowhere to be found; and

as the coachman couldn’t wait, he drove back to the Swan, leaving word

for Mr. Minns to ‘run round’ and catch him. However, as it did not

occur to Mr. Minns for some ten minutes or so, that he had left the

brown silk umbrella with the ivory handle in the other coach, coming

down; and, moreover, as he was by no means remarkable for speed, it is

no matter of surprise that when he accomplished the feat of ‘running

round’ to the Swan, the coach—the last coach—had gone without him.

It was somewhere about three o’clock in the morning, when Mr. Augustus

Minns knocked feebly at the street-door of his lodgings in

Tavistock-street, cold, wet, cross, and miserable. He made his will

next morning, and his professional man informs us, in that strict

confidence in which we inform the public, that neither the name of Mr.

Octavius Budden, nor of Mrs. Amelia Budden, nor of Master Alexander

Augustus Budden, appears therein.

CHAPTER III—SENTIMENT

The Miss Crumptons, or to quote the authority of the inscription on the

garden-gate of Minerva House, Hammersmith, ‘The Misses Crumpton,’ were

two unusually tall, particularly thin, and exceedingly skinny

personages: very upright, and very yellow. Miss Amelia Crumpton owned

to thirty-eight, and Miss Maria Crumpton admitted she was forty; an

admission which was rendered perfectly unnecessary by the self-evident

fact of her being at least fifty. They dressed in the most interesting

manner—like twins! and looked as happy and comfortable as a couple of

marigolds run to seed. They were very precise, had the strictest

possible ideas of propriety, wore false hair, and always smelt very

strongly of lavender.

Minerva House, conducted under the auspices of the two sisters, was a

‘finishing establishment for young ladies,’ where some twenty girls of

the ages of from thirteen to nineteen inclusive, acquired a smattering

of everything, and a knowledge of nothing; instruction in French and

Italian, dancing lessons twice a-week; and other necessaries of life.

The house was a white one, a little removed from the roadside, with

close palings in front. The bedroom windows were always left partly

open, to afford a bird’s-eye view of numerous little bedsteads with

very white dimity furniture, and thereby impress the passer-by with a

due sense of the luxuries of the establishment; and there was a front

parlour hung round with highly varnished maps which nobody ever looked

at, and filled with books which no one ever read, appropriated

exclusively to the reception of parents, who, whenever they called,

could not fail to be struck with the very deep appearance of the place.

‘Amelia, my dear,’ said Miss Maria Crumpton, entering the school-room

one morning, with her false hair in papers: as she occasionally did, in

order to impress the young ladies with a conviction of its reality.

‘Amelia, my dear, here is a most gratifying note I have just received.

You needn’t mind reading it aloud.’

Miss Amelia, thus advised, proceeded to read the following note with an

air of great triumph:

‘Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., presents his compliments to Miss

Crumpton, and will feel much obliged by Miss Crumpton’s calling on him,

if she conveniently can, to-morrow morning at one o’clock, as Cornelius

Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., is anxious to see Miss Crumpton on the

subject of placing Miss Brook Dingwall under her charge.

‘Adelphi.

‘Monday morning.’

‘A Member of Parliament’s daughter!’ ejaculated Amelia, in an ecstatic

tone.

‘A Member of Parliament’s daughter!’ repeated Miss Maria, with a smile

of delight, which, of course, elicited a concurrent titter of pleasure

from all the young ladies.

‘It’s exceedingly delightful!’ said Miss Amelia; whereupon all the

young ladies murmured their admiration again. Courtiers are but

school-boys, and court-ladies school-girl’s.

So important an announcement at once superseded the business of the

day. A holiday was declared, in commemoration of the great event; the

Miss Crumptons retired to their private apartment to talk it over; the

smaller girls discussed the probable manners and customs of the

daughter of a Member of Parliament; and the young ladies verging on

eighteen wondered whether she was engaged, whether she was pretty,

whether she wore much bustle, and many other _whethers_ of equal

importance.

The two Miss Crumptons proceeded to the Adelphi at the appointed time

next day, dressed, of course, in their best style, and looking as

amiable as they possibly could—which, by-the-bye, is not saying much

for them. Having sent in their cards, through the medium of a red-hot

looking footman in bright livery, they were ushered into the august

presence of the profound Dingwall.

Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was very haughty, solemn, and

portentous. He had, naturally, a somewhat spasmodic expression of

countenance, which was not rendered the less remarkable by his wearing

an extremely stiff cravat. He was wonderfully proud of the M.P.

attached to his name, and never lost an opportunity of reminding people

of his dignity. He had a great idea of his own abilities, which must

have been a great comfort to him, as no one else had; and in diplomacy,

on a small scale, in his own family arrangements, he considered himself

unrivalled. He was a county magistrate, and discharged the duties of

his station with all due justice and impartiality; frequently

committing poachers, and occasionally committing himself. Miss Brook

Dingwall was one of that numerous class of young ladies, who, like

adverbs, may be known by their answering to a commonplace question, and

doing nothing else.

On the present occasion, this talented individual was seated in a small

library at a table covered with papers, doing nothing, but trying to

look busy, playing at shop. Acts of Parliament, and letters directed to

‘Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P.,’ were ostentatiously scattered

over the table; at a little distance from which, Mrs. Brook Dingwall

was seated at work. One of those public nuisances, a spoiled child, was

playing about the room, dressed after the most approved fashion—in a

blue tunic with a black belt—a quarter of a yard wide, fastened with an

immense buckle—looking like a robber in a melodrama, seen through a

diminishing glass.

After a little pleasantry from the sweet child, who amused himself by

running away with Miss Maria Crumpton’s chair as fast as it was placed

for her, the visitors were seated, and Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq.,

opened the conversation.

He had sent for Miss Crumpton, he said, in consequence of the high

character he had received of her establishment from his friend, Sir

Alfred Muggs.

Miss Crumpton murmured her acknowledgments to him (Muggs), and

Cornelius proceeded.

‘One of my principal reasons, Miss Crumpton, for parting with my

daughter, is, that she has lately acquired some sentimental ideas,

which it is most desirable to eradicate from her young mind.’ (Here the

little innocent before noticed, fell out of an arm-chair with an awful

crash.)

‘Naughty boy!’ said his mamma, who appeared more surprised at his

taking the liberty of falling down, than at anything else; ‘I’ll ring

the bell for James to take him away.’

‘Pray don’t check him, my love,’ said the diplomatist, as soon as he

could make himself heard amidst the unearthly howling consequent upon

the threat and the tumble. ‘It all arises from his great flow of

spirits.’ This last explanation was addressed to Miss Crumpton.

‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the antique Maria: not exactly seeing,

however, the connexion between a flow of animal spirits, and a fall

from an arm-chair.

Silence was restored, and the M.P. resumed: ‘Now, I know nothing so

likely to effect this object, Miss Crumpton, as her mixing constantly

in the society of girls of her own age; and, as I know that in your

establishment she will meet such as are not likely to contaminate her

young mind, I propose to send her to you.’

The youngest Miss Crumpton expressed the acknowledgments of the

establishment generally. Maria was rendered speechless by bodily pain.

The dear little fellow, having recovered his animal spirits, was

standing upon her most tender foot, by way of getting his face (which

looked like a capital O in a red-lettered play-bill) on a level with

the writing-table.

‘Of course, Lavinia will be a parlour boarder,’ continued the enviable

father; ‘and on one point I wish my directions to be strictly observed.

The fact is, that some ridiculous love affair, with a person much her

inferior in life, has been the cause of her present state of mind.

Knowing that of course, under your care, she can have no opportunity of

meeting this person, I do not object to—indeed, I should rather

prefer—her mixing with such society as you see yourself.’

This important statement was again interrupted by the high-spirited

little creature, in the excess of his joyousness breaking a pane of

glass, and nearly precipitating himself into an adjacent area. James

was rung for; considerable confusion and screaming succeeded; two

little blue legs were seen to kick violently in the air as the man left

the room, and the child was gone.

‘Mr. Brook Dingwall would like Miss Brook Dingwall to learn

everything,’ said Mrs. Brook Dingwall, who hardly ever said anything at

all.

‘Certainly,’ said both the Miss Crumptons together.

‘And as I trust the plan I have devised will be effectual in weaning my

daughter from this absurd idea, Miss Crumpton,’ continued the

legislator, ‘I hope you will have the goodness to comply, in all

respects, with any request I may forward to you.’

The promise was of course made; and after a lengthened discussion,

conducted on behalf of the Dingwalls with the most becoming diplomatic

gravity, and on that of the Crumptons with profound respect, it was

finally arranged that Miss Lavinia should be forwarded to Hammersmith

on the next day but one, on which occasion the half-yearly ball given

at the establishment was to take place. It might divert the dear girl’s

mind. This, by the way, was another bit of diplomacy.

Miss Lavinia was introduced to her future governess, and both the Miss

Crumptons pronounced her ‘a most charming girl;’ an opinion which, by a

singular coincidence, they always entertained of any new pupil.

Courtesies were exchanged, acknowledgments expressed, condescension

exhibited, and the interview terminated.

Preparations, to make use of theatrical phraseology, ‘on a scale of

magnitude never before attempted,’ were incessantly made at Minerva

House to give every effect to the forthcoming ball. The largest room in

the house was pleasingly ornamented with blue calico roses, plaid

tulips, and other equally natural-looking artificial flowers, the work

of the young ladies themselves. The carpet was taken up, the

folding-doors were taken down, the furniture was taken out, and

rout-seats were taken in. The linen-drapers of Hammersmith were

astounded at the sudden demand for blue sarsenet ribbon, and long white

gloves. Dozens of geraniums were purchased for bouquets, and a harp and

two violins were bespoke from town, in addition to the grand piano

already on the premises. The young ladies who were selected to show off

on the occasion, and do credit to the establishment, practised

incessantly, much to their own satisfaction, and greatly to the

annoyance of the lame old gentleman over the way; and a constant

correspondence was kept up, between the Misses Crumpton and the

Hammersmith pastrycook.

The evening came; and then there was such a lacing of stays, and tying

of sandals, and dressing of hair, as never can take place with a proper

degree of bustle out of a boarding-school. The smaller girls managed to

be in everybody’s way, and were pushed about accordingly; and the elder

ones dressed, and tied, and flattered, and envied, one another, as

earnestly and sincerely as if they had actually _come out_.

‘How do I look, dear?’ inquired Miss Emily Smithers, the belle of the

house, of Miss Caroline Wilson, who was her bosom friend, because she

was the ugliest girl in Hammersmith, or out of it.

‘Oh! charming, dear. How do I?’

‘Delightful! you never looked so handsome,’ returned the belle,

adjusting her own dress, and not bestowing a glance on her poor

companion.

‘I hope young Hilton will come early,’ said another young lady to Miss

somebody else, in a fever of expectation.

‘I’m sure he’d be highly flattered if he knew it,’ returned the other,

who was practising _l’été_.

‘Oh! he’s so handsome,’ said the first.

‘Such a charming person!’ added a second.

‘Such a _distingué_ air!’ said a third.

‘Oh, what _do_ you think?’ said another girl, running into the room;

‘Miss Crumpton says her cousin’s coming.’

‘What! Theodosius Butler?’ said everybody in raptures.

‘Is _he_ handsome?’ inquired a novice.

‘No, not particularly handsome,’ was the general reply; ‘but, oh, so

clever!’

Mr. Theodosius Butler was one of those immortal geniuses who are to be

met with in almost every circle. They have, usually, very deep,

monotonous voices. They always persuade themselves that they are

wonderful persons, and that they ought to be very miserable, though

they don’t precisely know why. They are very conceited, and usually

possess half an idea; but, with enthusiastic young ladies, and silly

young gentlemen, they are very wonderful persons. The individual in

question, Mr. Theodosius, had written a pamphlet containing some very

weighty considerations on the expediency of doing something or other;

and as every sentence contained a good many words of four syllables,

his admirers took it for granted that he meant a good deal.

‘Perhaps that’s he,’ exclaimed several young ladies, as the first pull

of the evening threatened destruction to the bell of the gate.

An awful pause ensued. Some boxes arrived and a young lady—Miss Brook

Dingwall, in full ball costume, with an immense gold chain round her

neck, and her dress looped up with a single rose; an ivory fan in her

hand, and a most interesting expression of despair in her face.

The Miss Crumptons inquired after the family, with the most

excruciating anxiety, and Miss Brook Dingwall was formally introduced

to her future companions. The Miss Crumptons conversed with the young

ladies in the most mellifluous tones, in order that Miss Brook Dingwall

might be properly impressed with their amiable treatment.

Another pull at the bell. Mr. Dadson the writing-master, and his wife.

The wife in green silk, with shoes and cap-trimmings to correspond: the

writing-master in a white waistcoat, black knee-shorts, and ditto silk

stockings, displaying a leg large enough for two writing-masters. The

young ladies whispered one another, and the writing-master and his wife

flattered the Miss Crumptons, who were dressed in amber, with long

sashes, like dolls.

Repeated pulls at the bell, and arrivals too numerous to particularise:

papas and mammas, and aunts and uncles, the owners and guardians of the

different pupils; the singing-master, Signor Lobskini, in a black wig;

the piano-forte player and the violins; the harp, in a state of

intoxication; and some twenty young men, who stood near the door, and

talked to one another, occasionally bursting into a giggle. A general

hum of conversation. Coffee handed round, and plentifully partaken of

by fat mammas, who looked like the stout people who come on in

pantomimes for the sole purpose of being knocked down.

The popular Mr. Hilton was the next arrival; and he having, at the

request of the Miss Crumptons, undertaken the office of Master of the

Ceremonies, the quadrilles commenced with considerable spirit. The

young men by the door gradually advanced into the middle of the room,

and in time became sufficiently at ease to consent to be introduced to

partners. The writing-master danced every set, springing about with the

most fearful agility, and his wife played a rubber in the

back-parlour—a little room with five book-shelves, dignified by the

name of the study. Setting her down to whist was a half-yearly piece of

generalship on the part of the Miss Crumptons; it was necessary to hide

her somewhere, on account of her being a fright.

The interesting Lavinia Brook Dingwall was the only girl present, who

appeared to take no interest in the proceedings of the evening. In vain

was she solicited to dance; in vain was the universal homage paid to

her as the daughter of a member of parliament. She was equally unmoved

by the splendid tenor of the inimitable Lobskini, and the brilliant

execution of Miss Laetitia Parsons, whose performance of ‘The

Recollections of Ireland’ was universally declared to be almost equal

to that of Moscheles himself. Not even the announcement of the arrival

of Mr. Theodosius Butler could induce her to leave the corner of the

back drawing-room in which she was seated.

‘Now, Theodosius,’ said Miss Maria Crumpton, after that enlightened

pamphleteer had nearly run the gauntlet of the whole company, ‘I must

introduce you to our new pupil.’

Theodosius looked as if he cared for nothing earthly.

‘She’s the daughter of a member of parliament,’ said Maria.—Theodosius

started.

‘And her name is—?’ he inquired.

‘Miss Brook Dingwall.’

‘Great Heaven!’ poetically exclaimed Theodosius, in a low tone.

Miss Crumpton commenced the introduction in due form. Miss Brook

Dingwall languidly raised her head.

‘Edward!’ she exclaimed, with a half-shriek, on seeing the well-known

nankeen legs.

Fortunately, as Miss Maria Crumpton possessed no remarkable share of

penetration, and as it was one of the diplomatic arrangements that no

attention was to be paid to Miss Lavinia’s incoherent exclamations, she

was perfectly unconscious of the mutual agitation of the parties; and

therefore, seeing that the offer of his hand for the next quadrille was

accepted, she left him by the side of Miss Brook Dingwall.

‘Oh, Edward!’ exclaimed that most romantic of all romantic young

ladies, as the light of science seated himself beside her, ‘Oh, Edward,

is it you?’

Mr. Theodosius assured the dear creature, in the most impassioned

manner, that he was not conscious of being anybody but himself.

‘Then why—why—this disguise? Oh! Edward M’Neville Walter, what have I

not suffered on your account?’

‘Lavinia, hear me,’ replied the hero, in his most poetic strain. ‘Do

not condemn me unheard. If anything that emanates from the soul of such

a wretch as I, can occupy a place in your recollection—if any being, so

vile, deserve your notice—you may remember that I once published a

pamphlet (and paid for its publication) entitled “Considerations on the

Policy of Removing the Duty on Bees’-wax.”’

‘I do—I do!’ sobbed Lavinia.

‘That,’ continued the lover, ‘was a subject to which your father was

devoted heart and soul.’

‘He was—he was!’ reiterated the sentimentalist.

‘I knew it,’ continued Theodosius, tragically; ‘I knew it—I forwarded

him a copy. He wished to know me. Could I disclose my real name? Never!

No, I assumed that name which you have so often pronounced in tones of

endearment. As M’Neville Walter, I devoted myself to the stirring

cause; as M’Neville Walter I gained your heart; in the same character I

was ejected from your house by your father’s domestics; and in no

character at all have I since been enabled to see you. We now meet

again, and I proudly own that I am—Theodosius Butler.’

The young lady appeared perfectly satisfied with this argumentative

address, and bestowed a look of the most ardent affection on the

immortal advocate of bees’-wax.

‘May I hope,’ said he, ‘that the promise your father’s violent

behaviour interrupted, may be renewed?’

‘Let us join this set,’ replied Lavinia, coquettishly—for girls of

nineteen _can_ coquette.

‘No,’ ejaculated he of the nankeens. ‘I stir not from this spot,

writhing under this torture of suspense. May I—may I—hope?’

‘You may.’

‘The promise is renewed?’

‘It is.’

‘I have your permission?’

‘You have.’

‘To the fullest extent?’

‘You know it,’ returned the blushing Lavinia. The contortions of the

interesting Butler’s visage expressed his raptures.

We could dilate upon the occurrences that ensued. How Mr. Theodosius

and Miss Lavinia danced, and talked, and sighed for the remainder of

the evening—how the Miss Crumptons were delighted thereat. How the

writing-master continued to frisk about with one-horse power, and how

his wife, from some unaccountable freak, left the whist-table in the

little back-parlour, and persisted in displaying her green head-dress

in the most conspicuous part of the drawing-room. How the supper

consisted of small triangular sandwiches in trays, and a tart here and

there by way of variety; and how the visitors consumed warm water

disguised with lemon, and dotted with nutmeg, under the denomination of

negus. These, and other matters of as much interest, however, we pass

over, for the purpose of describing a scene of even more importance.

A fortnight after the date of the ball, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq.,

M.P., was seated at the same library-table, and in the same room, as we

have before described. He was alone, and his face bore an expression of

deep thought and solemn gravity—he was drawing up ‘A Bill for the

better observance of Easter Monday.’

The footman tapped at the door—the legislator started from his reverie,

and ‘Miss Crumpton’ was announced. Permission was given for Miss

Crumpton to enter the _sanctum_; Maria came sliding in, and having

taken her seat with a due portion of affectation, the footman retired,

and the governess was left alone with the M.P. Oh! how she longed for

the presence of a third party! Even the facetious young gentleman would

have been a relief.

Miss Crumpton began the duet. She hoped Mrs. Brook Dingwall and the

handsome little boy were in good health.

They were. Mrs. Brook Dingwall and little Frederick were at Brighton.

‘Much obliged to you, Miss Crumpton,’ said Cornelius, in his most

dignified manner, ‘for your attention in calling this morning. I should

have driven down to Hammersmith, to see Lavinia, but your account was

so very satisfactory, and my duties in the House occupy me so much,

that I determined to postpone it for a week. How has she gone on?’

‘Very well indeed, sir,’ returned Maria, dreading to inform the father

that she had gone off.

‘Ah, I thought the plan on which I proceeded would be a match for her.’

Here was a favourable opportunity to say that somebody else had been a

match for her. But the unfortunate governess was unequal to the task.

‘You have persevered strictly in the line of conduct I prescribed, Miss

Crumpton?’

‘Strictly, sir.’

‘You tell me in your note that her spirits gradually improved.’

‘Very much indeed, sir.’

‘To be sure. I was convinced they would.’

‘But I fear, sir,’ said Miss Crumpton, with visible emotion, ‘I fear

the plan has not succeeded, quite so well as we could have wished.’

No!’ exclaimed the prophet. ‘Bless me! Miss Crumpton, you look alarmed.

What has happened?’

‘Miss Brook Dingwall, sir—’

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘Has gone, sir’—said Maria, exhibiting a strong inclination to faint.

‘Gone!’

‘Eloped, sir.’

‘Eloped!—Who with—when—where—how?’ almost shrieked the agitated

diplomatist.

The natural yellow of the unfortunate Maria’s face changed to all the

hues of the rainbow, as she laid a small packet on the member’s table.

He hurriedly opened it. A letter from his daughter, and another from

Theodosius. He glanced over their contents—‘Ere this reaches you, far

distant—appeal to feelings—love to distraction—bees’-wax—slavery,’ &c.,

&c. He dashed his hand to his forehead, and paced the room with

fearfully long strides, to the great alarm of the precise Maria.

‘Now mind; from this time forward,’ said Mr. Brook Dingwall, suddenly

stopping at the table, and beating time upon it with his hand; ‘from

this time forward, I never will, under any circumstances whatever,

permit a man who writes pamphlets to enter any other room of this house

but the kitchen.—I’ll allow my daughter and her husband one hundred and

fifty pounds a-year, and never see their faces again: and, damme!

ma’am, I’ll bring in a bill for the abolition of finishing-schools.’

Some time has elapsed since this passionate declaration. Mr. and Mrs.

Butler are at present rusticating in a small cottage at Ball’s-pond,

pleasantly situated in the immediate vicinity of a brick-field. They

have no family. Mr. Theodosius looks very important, and writes

incessantly; but, in consequence of a gross combination on the part of

publishers, none of his productions appear in print. His young wife

begins to think that ideal misery is preferable to real unhappiness;

and that a marriage, contracted in haste, and repented at leisure, is

the cause of more substantial wretchedness than she ever anticipated.

On cool reflection, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was

reluctantly compelled to admit that the untoward result of his

admirable arrangements was attributable, not to the Miss Crumptons, but

his own diplomacy. He, however, consoles himself, like some other small

diplomatists, by satisfactorily proving that if his plans did not

succeed, they ought to have done so. Minerva House is _in status quo_,

and ‘The Misses Crumpton’ remain in the peaceable and undisturbed

enjoyment of all the advantages resulting from their Finishing-School.

CHAPTER IV—THE TUGGSES AT RAMSGATE

Once upon a time there dwelt, in a narrow street on the Surrey side of

the water, within three minutes’ walk of old London Bridge, Mr. Joseph

Tuggs—a little dark-faced man, with shiny hair, twinkling eyes, short

legs, and a body of very considerable thickness, measuring from the

centre button of his waistcoat in front, to the ornamental buttons of

his coat behind. The figure of the amiable Mrs. Tuggs, if not perfectly

symmetrical, was decidedly comfortable; and the form of her only

daughter, the accomplished Miss Charlotte Tuggs, was fast ripening into

that state of luxuriant plumpness which had enchanted the eyes, and

captivated the heart, of Mr. Joseph Tuggs in his earlier days. Mr.

Simon Tuggs, his only son, and Miss Charlotte Tuggs’s only brother, was

as differently formed in body, as he was differently constituted in

mind, from the remainder of his family. There was that elongation in

his thoughtful face, and that tendency to weakness in his interesting

legs, which tell so forcibly of a great mind and romantic disposition.

The slightest traits of character in such a being, possess no mean

interest to speculative minds. He usually appeared in public, in

capacious shoes with black cotton stockings; and was observed to be

particularly attached to a black glazed stock, without tie or ornament

of any description.

There is perhaps no profession, however useful; no pursuit, however

meritorious; which can escape the petty attacks of vulgar minds. Mr.

Joseph Tuggs was a grocer. It might be supposed that a grocer was

beyond the breath of calumny; but no—the neighbours stigmatised him as

a chandler; and the poisonous voice of envy distinctly asserted that he

dispensed tea and coffee by the quartern, retailed sugar by the ounce,

cheese by the slice, tobacco by the screw, and butter by the pat. These

taunts, however, were lost upon the Tuggses. Mr. Tuggs attended to the

grocery department; Mrs. Tuggs to the cheesemongery; and Miss Tuggs to

her education. Mr. Simon Tuggs kept his father’s books, and his own

counsel.

One fine spring afternoon, the latter gentleman was seated on a tub of

weekly Dorset, behind the little red desk with a wooden rail, which

ornamented a corner of the counter; when a stranger dismounted from a

cab, and hastily entered the shop. He was habited in black cloth, and

bore with him, a green umbrella, and a blue bag.

‘Mr. Tuggs?’ said the stranger, inquiringly.

‘_My_ name is Tuggs,’ replied Mr. Simon.

‘It’s the other Mr. Tuggs,’ said the stranger, looking towards the

glass door which led into the parlour behind the shop, and on the

inside of which, the round face of Mr. Tuggs, senior, was distinctly

visible, peeping over the curtain.

Mr. Simon gracefully waved his pen, as if in intimation of his wish

that his father would advance. Mr. Joseph Tuggs, with considerable

celerity, removed his face from the curtain and placed it before the

stranger.

‘I come from the Temple,’ said the man with the bag.

‘From the Temple!’ said Mrs. Tuggs, flinging open the door of the

little parlour and disclosing Miss Tuggs in perspective.

‘From the Temple!’ said Miss Tuggs and Mr. Simon Tuggs at the same

moment.

‘From the Temple!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, turning as pale as a Dutch

cheese.

‘From the Temple,’ repeated the man with the bag; ‘from Mr. Cower’s,

the solicitor’s. Mr. Tuggs, I congratulate you, sir. Ladies, I wish you

joy of your prosperity! We have been successful.’ And the man with the

bag leisurely divested himself of his umbrella and glove, as a

preliminary to shaking hands with Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Now the words ‘we have been successful,’ had no sooner issued from the

mouth of the man with the bag, than Mr. Simon Tuggs rose from the tub

of weekly Dorset, opened his eyes very wide, gasped for breath, made

figures of eight in the air with his pen, and finally fell into the

arms of his anxious mother, and fainted away without the slightest

ostensible cause or pretence.

‘Water!’ screamed Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Look up, my son,’ exclaimed Mr. Tuggs.

‘Simon! dear Simon!’ shrieked Miss Tuggs.

‘I’m better now,’ said Mr. Simon Tuggs. ‘What! successful!’ And then,

as corroborative evidence of his being better, he fainted away again,

and was borne into the little parlour by the united efforts of the

remainder of the family, and the man with the bag.

To a casual spectator, or to any one unacquainted with the position of

the family, this fainting would have been unaccountable. To those who

understood the mission of the man with the bag, and were moreover

acquainted with the excitability of the nerves of Mr. Simon Tuggs, it

was quite comprehensible. A long-pending lawsuit respecting the

validity of a will, had been unexpectedly decided; and Mr. Joseph Tuggs

was the possessor of twenty thousand pounds.

A prolonged consultation took place, that night, in the little

parlour—a consultation that was to settle the future destinies of the

Tuggses. The shop was shut up, at an unusually early hour; and many

were the unavailing kicks bestowed upon the closed door by applicants

for quarterns of sugar, or half-quarterns of bread, or penn’orths of

pepper, which were to have been ‘left till Saturday,’ but which fortune

had decreed were to be left alone altogether.

‘We must certainly give up business,’ said Miss Tuggs.

‘Oh, decidedly,’ said Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Simon shall go to the bar,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

‘And I shall always sign myself “Cymon” in future,’ said his son.

‘And I shall call myself Charlotta,’ said Miss Tuggs.

‘And you must always call _me_ “Ma,” and father “Pa,”’ said Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Yes, and Pa must leave off all his vulgar habits,’ interposed Miss

Tuggs.

‘I’ll take care of all that,’ responded Mr. Joseph Tuggs, complacently.

He was, at that very moment, eating pickled salmon with a pocket-knife.

‘We must leave town immediately,’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

Everybody concurred that this was an indispensable preliminary to being

genteel. The question then arose, Where should they go?

‘Gravesend?’ mildly suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs. The idea was

unanimously scouted. Gravesend was _low_.

‘Margate?’ insinuated Mrs. Tuggs. Worse and worse—nobody there, but

tradespeople.

‘Brighton?’ Mr. Cymon Tuggs opposed an insurmountable objection. All

the coaches had been upset, in turn, within the last three weeks; each

coach had averaged two passengers killed, and six wounded; and, in

every case, the newspapers had distinctly understood that ‘no blame

whatever was attributable to the coachman.’

‘Ramsgate?’ ejaculated Mr. Cymon, thoughtfully. To be sure; how stupid

they must have been, not to have thought of that before! Ramsgate was

just the place of all others.

Two months after this conversation, the City of London Ramsgate steamer

was running gaily down the river. Her flag was flying, her band was

playing, her passengers were conversing; everything about her seemed

gay and lively.—No wonder—the Tuggses were on board.

‘Charming, ain’t it?’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, in a bottle-green

great-coat, with a velvet collar of the same, and a blue travelling-cap

with a gold band.

‘Soul-inspiring,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs—he was entered at the bar.

‘Soul-inspiring!’

‘Delightful morning, sir!’ said a stoutish, military-looking gentleman

in a blue surtout buttoned up to his chin, and white trousers chained

down to the soles of his boots.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs took upon himself the responsibility of answering the

observation. ‘Heavenly!’ he replied.

‘You are an enthusiastic admirer of the beauties of Nature, sir?’ said

the military gentleman.

‘I am, sir,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

‘Travelled much, sir?’ inquired the military gentleman.

‘Not much,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

‘You’ve been on the continent, of course?’ inquired the military

gentleman.

‘Not exactly,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs—in a qualified tone, as if he

wished it to be implied that he had gone half-way and come back again.

‘You of course intend your son to make the grand tour, sir?’ said the

military gentleman, addressing Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

As Mr. Joseph Tuggs did not precisely understand what the grand tour

was, or how such an article was manufactured, he replied, ‘Of course.’

Just as he said the word, there came tripping up, from her seat at the

stern of the vessel, a young lady in a puce-coloured silk cloak, and

boots of the same; with long black ringlets, large black eyes, brief

petticoats, and unexceptionable ankles.

‘Walter, my dear,’ said the young lady to the military gentleman.

‘Yes, Belinda, my love,’ responded the military gentleman to the

black-eyed young lady.

‘What have you left me alone so long for?’ said the young lady. ‘I have

been stared out of countenance by those rude young men.’

‘What! stared at?’ exclaimed the military gentleman, with an emphasis

which made Mr. Cymon Tuggs withdraw his eyes from the young lady’s face

with inconceivable rapidity. ‘Which young men—where?’ and the military

gentleman clenched his fist, and glared fearfully on the cigar-smokers

around.

‘Be calm, Walter, I entreat,’ said the young lady.

‘I won’t,’ said the military gentleman.

‘Do, sir,’ interposed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. ‘They ain’t worth your notice.’

‘No—no—they are not, indeed,’ urged the young lady.

‘I _will_ be calm,’ said the military gentleman. ‘You speak truly, sir.

I thank you for a timely remonstrance, which may have spared me the

guilt of manslaughter.’ Calming his wrath, the military gentleman wrung

Mr. Cymon Tuggs by the hand.

‘My sister, sir!’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs; seeing that the military

gentleman was casting an admiring look towards Miss Charlotta.

‘My wife, ma’am—Mrs. Captain Waters,’ said the military gentleman,

presenting the black-eyed young lady.

‘My mother, ma’am—Mrs. Tuggs,’ said Mr. Cymon. The military gentleman

and his wife murmured enchanting courtesies; and the Tuggses looked as

unembarrassed as they could.

‘Walter, my dear,’ said the black-eyed young lady, after they had sat

chatting with the Tuggses some half-hour.

‘Yes, my love,’ said the military gentleman.

‘Don’t you think this gentleman (with an inclination of the head

towards Mr. Cymon Tuggs) is very much like the Marquis Carriwini?’

‘Lord bless me, very!’ said the military gentleman.

‘It struck me, the moment I saw him,’ said the young lady, gazing

intently, and with a melancholy air, on the scarlet countenance of Mr.

Cymon Tuggs. Mr. Cymon Tuggs looked at everybody; and finding that

everybody was looking at him, appeared to feel some temporary

difficulty in disposing of his eyesight.

‘So exactly the air of the marquis,’ said the military gentleman.

‘Quite extraordinary!’ sighed the military gentleman’s lady.

‘You don’t know the marquis, sir?’ inquired the military gentleman.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs stammered a negative.

‘If you did,’ continued Captain Walter Waters, ‘you would feel how much

reason you have to be proud of the resemblance—a most elegant man, with

a most prepossessing appearance.’

‘He is—he is indeed!’ exclaimed Belinda Waters energetically. As her

eye caught that of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, she withdrew it from his features

in bashful confusion.

All this was highly gratifying to the feelings of the Tuggses; and

when, in the course of farther conversation, it was discovered that

Miss Charlotta Tuggs was the _fac simile_ of a titled relative of Mrs.

Belinda Waters, and that Mrs. Tuggs herself was the very picture of the

Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton, their delight in the acquisition of so

genteel and friendly an acquaintance, knew no bounds. Even the dignity

of Captain Walter Waters relaxed, to that degree, that he suffered

himself to be prevailed upon by Mr. Joseph Tuggs, to partake of cold

pigeon-pie and sherry, on deck; and a most delightful conversation,

aided by these agreeable stimulants, was prolonged, until they ran

alongside Ramsgate Pier.

‘Good-bye, dear!’ said Mrs. Captain Waters to Miss Charlotta Tuggs,

just before the bustle of landing commenced; ‘we shall see you on the

sands in the morning; and, as we are sure to have found lodgings before

then, I hope we shall be inseparables for many weeks to come.’

‘Oh! I hope so,’ said Miss Charlotta Tuggs, emphatically.

‘Tickets, ladies and gen’lm’n,’ said the man on the paddle-box.

‘Want a porter, sir?’ inquired a dozen men in smock-frocks.

‘Now, my dear!’ said Captain Waters.

‘Good-bye!’ said Mrs. Captain Waters—‘good-bye, Mr. Cymon!’ and with a

pressure of the hand which threw the amiable young man’s nerves into a

state of considerable derangement, Mrs. Captain Waters disappeared

among the crowd. A pair of puce-coloured boots were seen ascending the

steps, a white handkerchief fluttered, a black eye gleamed. The

Waterses were gone, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs was alone in a heartless world.

Silently and abstractedly, did that too sensitive youth follow his

revered parents, and a train of smock-frocks and wheelbarrows, along

the pier, until the bustle of the scene around, recalled him to

himself. The sun was shining brightly; the sea, dancing to its own

music, rolled merrily in; crowds of people promenaded to and fro; young

ladies tittered; old ladies talked; nursemaids displayed their charms

to the greatest possible advantage; and their little charges ran up and

down, and to and fro, and in and out, under the feet, and between the

legs, of the assembled concourse, in the most playful and exhilarating

manner. There were old gentlemen, trying to make out objects through

long telescopes; and young ones, making objects of themselves in open

shirt-collars; ladies, carrying about portable chairs, and portable

chairs carrying about invalids; parties, waiting on the pier for

parties who had come by the steam-boat; and nothing was to be heard but

talking, laughing, welcoming, and merriment.

‘Fly, sir?’ exclaimed a chorus of fourteen men and six boys, the moment

Mr. Joseph Tuggs, at the head of his little party, set foot in the

street.

‘Here’s the gen’lm’n at last!’ said one, touching his hat with mock

politeness. ‘Werry glad to see you, sir,—been a-waitin’ for you these

six weeks. Jump in, if you please, sir!’

‘Nice light fly and a fast trotter, sir,’ said another: ‘fourteen mile

a hour, and surroundin’ objects rendered inwisible by ex-treme

welocity!’

‘Large fly for your luggage, sir,’ cried a third. ‘Werry large fly

here, sir—reg’lar bluebottle!’

‘Here’s _your_ fly, sir!’ shouted another aspiring charioteer, mounting

the box, and inducing an old grey horse to indulge in some imperfect

reminiscences of a canter. ‘Look at him, sir!—temper of a lamb and

haction of a steam-ingein!’

Resisting even the temptation of securing the services of so valuable a

quadruped as the last named, Mr. Joseph Tuggs beckoned to the

proprietor of a dingy conveyance of a greenish hue, lined with faded

striped calico; and, the luggage and the family having been deposited

therein, the animal in the shafts, after describing circles in the road

for a quarter of an hour, at last consented to depart in quest of

lodgings.

‘How many beds have you got?’ screamed Mrs. Tuggs out of the fly, to

the woman who opened the door of the first house which displayed a bill

intimating that apartments were to be let within.

‘How many did you want, ma’am?’ was, of course, the reply.

‘Three.’

‘Will you step in, ma’am?’ Down got Mrs. Tuggs. The family were

delighted. Splendid view of the sea from the front windows—charming! A

short pause. Back came Mrs. Tuggs again.—One parlour and a mattress.

‘Why the devil didn’t they say so at first?’ inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs,

rather pettishly.

‘Don’t know,’ said Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Wretches!’ exclaimed the nervous Cymon. Another bill—another stoppage.

Same question—same answer—similar result.

‘What do they mean by this?’ inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs, thoroughly out

of temper.

‘Don’t know,’ said the placid Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Orvis the vay here, sir,’ said the driver, by way of accounting for

the circumstance in a satisfactory manner; and off they went again, to

make fresh inquiries, and encounter fresh disappointments.

It had grown dusk when the ‘fly’—the rate of whose progress greatly

belied its name—after climbing up four or five perpendicular hills,

stopped before the door of a dusty house, with a bay window, from which

you could obtain a beautiful glimpse of the sea—if you thrust half of

your body out of it, at the imminent peril of falling into the area.

Mrs. Tuggs alighted. One ground-floor sitting-room, and three cells

with beds in them up-stairs. A double-house. Family on the opposite

side. Five children milk-and-watering in the parlour, and one little

boy, expelled for bad behaviour, screaming on his back in the passage.

‘What’s the terms?’ said Mrs. Tuggs. The mistress of the house was

considering the expediency of putting on an extra guinea; so, she

coughed slightly, and affected not to hear the question.

‘What’s the terms?’ said Mrs. Tuggs, in a louder key.

‘Five guineas a week, ma’am, _with_ attendance,’ replied the

lodging-house keeper. (Attendance means the privilege of ringing the

bell as often as you like, for your own amusement.)

‘Rather dear,’ said Mrs. Tuggs. ‘Oh dear, no, ma’am!’ replied the

mistress of the house, with a benign smile of pity at the ignorance of

manners and customs, which the observation betrayed. ‘Very cheap!’

Such an authority was indisputable. Mrs. Tuggs paid a week’s rent in

advance, and took the lodgings for a month. In an hour’s time, the

family were seated at tea in their new abode.

‘Capital srimps!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Mr. Cymon eyed his father with a rebellious scowl, as he emphatically

said ‘_Shrimps_.’

‘Well, then, shrimps,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. ‘Srimps or shrimps, don’t

much matter.’

There was pity, blended with malignity, in Mr. Cymon’s eye, as he

replied, ‘Don’t matter, father! What would Captain Waters say, if he

heard such vulgarity?’

‘Or what would dear Mrs. Captain Waters say,’ added Charlotta, ‘if she

saw mother—ma, I mean—eating them whole, heads and all!’

‘It won’t bear thinking of!’ ejaculated Mr. Cymon, with a shudder. ‘How

different,’ he thought, ‘from the Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton!’

‘Very pretty woman, Mrs. Captain Waters, is she not, Cymon?’ inquired

Miss Charlotta.

A glow of nervous excitement passed over the countenance of Mr. Cymon

Tuggs, as he replied, ‘An angel of beauty!’

‘Hallo!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. ‘Hallo, Cymon, my boy, take care.

Married lady, you know;’ and he winked one of his twinkling eyes

knowingly.

‘Why,’ exclaimed Cymon, starting up with an ebullition of fury, as

unexpected as alarming, ‘why am I to be reminded of that blight of my

happiness, and ruin of my hopes? Why am I to be taunted with the

miseries which are heaped upon my head? Is it not enough to—to—to—’ and

the orator paused; but whether for want of words, or lack of breath,

was never distinctly ascertained.

There was an impressive solemnity in the tone of this address, and in

the air with which the romantic Cymon, at its conclusion, rang the

bell, and demanded a flat candlestick, which effectually forbade a

reply. He stalked dramatically to bed, and the Tuggses went to bed too,

half an hour afterwards, in a state of considerable mystification and

perplexity.

If the pier had presented a scene of life and bustle to the Tuggses on

their first landing at Ramsgate, it was far surpassed by the appearance

of the sands on the morning after their arrival. It was a fine, bright,

clear day, with a light breeze from the sea. There were the same ladies

and gentlemen, the same children, the same nursemaids, the same

telescopes, the same portable chairs. The ladies were employed in

needlework, or watch-guard making, or knitting, or reading novels; the

gentlemen were reading newspapers and magazines; the children were

digging holes in the sand with wooden spades, and collecting water

therein; the nursemaids, with their youngest charges in their arms,

were running in after the waves, and then running back with the waves

after them; and, now and then, a little sailing-boat either departed

with a gay and talkative cargo of passengers, or returned with a very

silent and particularly uncomfortable-looking one.

‘Well, I never!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, as she and Mr. Joseph Tuggs, and

Miss Charlotta Tuggs, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, with their eight feet in a

corresponding number of yellow shoes, seated themselves on four

rush-bottomed chairs, which, being placed in a soft part of the sand,

forthwith sunk down some two feet and a half—‘Well, I never!’

Mr. Cymon, by an exertion of great personal strength, uprooted the

chairs, and removed them further back.

‘Why, I’m blessed if there ain’t some ladies a-going in!’ exclaimed Mr.

Joseph Tuggs, with intense astonishment.

‘Lor, pa!’ exclaimed Miss Charlotta.

‘There _is_, my dear,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. And, sure enough, four

young ladies, each furnished with a towel, tripped up the steps of a

bathing-machine. In went the horse, floundering about in the water;

round turned the machine; down sat the driver; and presently out burst

the young ladies aforesaid, with four distinct splashes.

‘Well, that’s sing’ler, too!’ ejaculated Mr. Joseph Tuggs, after an

awkward pause. Mr. Cymon coughed slightly.

‘Why, here’s some gentlemen a-going in on this side!’ exclaimed Mrs.

Tuggs, in a tone of horror.

Three machines—three horses—three flounderings—three turnings

round—three splashes—three gentlemen, disporting themselves in the

water like so many dolphins.

‘Well, _that’s_ sing’ler!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs again. Miss Charlotta

coughed this time, and another pause ensued. It was agreeably broken.

‘How d’ye do, dear? We have been looking for you, all the morning,’

said a voice to Miss Charlotta Tuggs. Mrs. Captain Waters was the owner

of it.

‘How d’ye do?’ said Captain Walter Waters, all suavity; and a most

cordial interchange of greetings ensued.

‘Belinda, my love,’ said Captain Walter Waters, applying his glass to

his eye, and looking in the direction of the sea.

‘Yes, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Captain Waters.

‘There’s Harry Thompson!’

‘Where?’ said Belinda, applying her glass to her eye.

‘Bathing.’

‘Lor, so it is! He don’t see us, does he?’

‘No, I don’t think he does’ replied the captain. ‘Bless my soul, how

very singular!’

‘What?’ inquired Belinda.

‘There’s Mary Golding, too.’

‘Lor!—where?’ (Up went the glass again.)

‘There!’ said the captain, pointing to one of the young ladies before

noticed, who, in her bathing costume, looked as if she was enveloped in

a patent Mackintosh, of scanty dimensions.

‘So it is, I declare!’ exclaimed Mrs. Captain Waters. ‘How very curious

we should see them both!’

‘Very,’ said the captain, with perfect coolness.

‘It’s the reg’lar thing here, you see,’ whispered Mr. Cymon Tuggs to

his father.

‘I see it is,’ whispered Mr. Joseph Tuggs in reply. ‘Queer,

though—ain’t it?’ Mr. Cymon Tuggs nodded assent.

‘What do you think of doing with yourself this morning?’ inquired the

captain. ‘Shall we lunch at Pegwell?’

‘I should like that very much indeed,’ interposed Mrs. Tuggs. She had

never heard of Pegwell; but the word ‘lunch’ had reached her ears, and

it sounded very agreeably.

‘How shall we go?’ inquired the captain; ‘it’s too warm to walk.’

‘A shay?’ suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

‘Chaise,’ whispered Mr. Cymon.

‘I should think one would be enough,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs aloud,

quite unconscious of the meaning of the correction. ‘However, two shays

if you like.’

‘I should like a donkey _so_ much,’ said Belinda.

‘Oh, so should I!’ echoed Charlotta Tuggs.

‘Well, we can have a fly,’ suggested the captain, ‘and you can have a

couple of donkeys.’

A fresh difficulty arose. Mrs. Captain Waters declared it would be

decidedly improper for two ladies to ride alone. The remedy was

obvious. Perhaps young Mr. Tuggs would be gallant enough to accompany

them.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs blushed, smiled, looked vacant, and faintly protested

that he was no horseman. The objection was at once overruled. A fly was

speedily found; and three donkeys—which the proprietor declared on his

solemn asseveration to be ‘three parts blood, and the other corn’—were

engaged in the service.

‘Kim up!’ shouted one of the two boys who followed behind, to propel

the donkeys, when Belinda Waters and Charlotta Tuggs had been hoisted,

and pushed, and pulled, into their respective saddles.

‘Hi—hi—hi!’ groaned the other boy behind Mr. Cymon Tuggs. Away went the

donkey, with the stirrups jingling against the heels of Cymon’s boots,

and Cymon’s boots nearly scraping the ground.

‘Way—way! Wo—o—o—!’ cried Mr. Cymon Tuggs as well as he could, in the

midst of the jolting.

‘Don’t make it gallop!’ screamed Mrs. Captain Waters, behind.

‘My donkey _will_ go into the public-house!’ shrieked Miss Tuggs in the

rear.

‘Hi—hi—hi!’ groaned both the boys together; and on went the donkeys as

if nothing would ever stop them.

Everything has an end, however; even the galloping of donkeys will

cease in time. The animal which Mr. Cymon Tuggs bestrode, feeling

sundry uncomfortable tugs at the bit, the intent of which he could by

no means divine, abruptly sidled against a brick wall, and expressed

his uneasiness by grinding Mr. Cymon Tuggs’s leg on the rough surface.

Mrs. Captain Waters’s donkey, apparently under the influence of some

playfulness of spirit, rushed suddenly, head first, into a hedge, and

declined to come out again: and the quadruped on which Miss Tuggs was

mounted, expressed his delight at this humorous proceeding by firmly

planting his fore-feet against the ground, and kicking up his hind-legs

in a very agile, but somewhat alarming manner.

This abrupt termination to the rapidity of the ride, naturally

occasioned some confusion. Both the ladies indulged in vehement

screaming for several minutes; and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, besides sustaining

intense bodily pain, had the additional mental anguish of witnessing

their distressing situation, without having the power to rescue them,

by reason of his leg being firmly screwed in between the animal and the

wall. The efforts of the boys, however, assisted by the ingenious

expedient of twisting the tail of the most rebellious donkey, restored

order in a much shorter time than could have reasonably been expected,

and the little party jogged slowly on together.

‘Now let ’em walk,’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs. ‘It’s cruel to overdrive

’em.’

‘Werry well, sir,’ replied the boy, with a grin at his companion, as if

he understood Mr. Cymon to mean that the cruelty applied less to the

animals than to their riders.

‘What a lovely day, dear!’ said Charlotta.

‘Charming; enchanting, dear!’ responded Mrs. Captain Waters.

‘What a beautiful prospect, Mr. Tuggs!’

Cymon looked full in Belinda’s face, as he responded—‘Beautiful,

indeed!’ The lady cast down her eyes, and suffered the animal she was

riding to fall a little back. Cymon Tuggs instinctively did the same.

There was a brief silence, broken only by a sigh from Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

‘Mr. Cymon,’ said the lady suddenly, in a low tone, ‘Mr. Cymon—I am

another’s.’

Mr. Cymon expressed his perfect concurrence in a statement which it was

impossible to controvert.

‘If I had not been—’ resumed Belinda; and there she stopped.

‘What—what?’ said Mr. Cymon earnestly. ‘Do not torture me. What would

you say?’

‘If I had not been’—continued Mrs. Captain Waters—‘if, in earlier life,

it had been my fate to have known, and been beloved by, a noble youth—a

kindred soul—a congenial spirit—one capable of feeling and appreciating

the sentiments which—’

‘Heavens! what do I hear?’ exclaimed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. ‘Is it possible!

can I believe my—Come up!’ (This last unsentimental parenthesis was

addressed to the donkey, who, with his head between his fore-legs,

appeared to be examining the state of his shoes with great anxiety.)

‘Hi—hi—hi,’ said the boys behind. ‘Come up,’ expostulated Cymon Tuggs

again. ‘Hi—hi—hi,’ repeated the boys. And whether it was that the

animal felt indignant at the tone of Mr. Tuggs’s command, or felt

alarmed by the noise of the deputy proprietor’s boots running behind

him; or whether he burned with a noble emulation to outstrip the other

donkeys; certain it is that he no sooner heard the second series of

‘hi—hi’s,’ than he started away, with a celerity of pace which jerked

Mr. Cymon’s hat off, instantaneously, and carried him to the Pegwell

Bay hotel in no time, where he deposited his rider without giving him

the trouble of dismounting, by sagaciously pitching him over his head,

into the very doorway of the tavern.

Great was the confusion of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, when he was put right end

uppermost, by two waiters; considerable was the alarm of Mrs. Tuggs in

behalf of her son; agonizing were the apprehensions of Mrs. Captain

Waters on his account. It was speedily discovered, however, that he had

not sustained much more injury than the donkey—he was grazed, and the

animal was grazing—and then it _was_ a delightful party to be sure! Mr.

and Mrs. Tuggs, and the captain, had ordered lunch in the little garden

behind:—small saucers of large shrimps, dabs of butter, crusty loaves,

and bottled ale. The sky was without a cloud; there were flower-pots

and turf before them; the sea, from the foot of the cliff, stretching

away as far as the eye could discern anything at all; vessels in the

distance with sails as white, and as small, as nicely-got-up cambric

handkerchiefs. The shrimps were delightful, the ale better, and the

captain even more pleasant than either. Mrs. Captain Waters was in

_such_ spirits after lunch!—chasing, first the captain across the turf,

and among the flower-pots; and then Mr. Cymon Tuggs; and then Miss

Tuggs; and laughing, too, quite boisterously. But as the captain said,

it didn’t matter; who knew what they were, there? For all the people of

the house knew, they might be common people. To which Mr. Joseph Tuggs

responded, ‘To be sure.’ And then they went down the steep wooden steps

a little further on, which led to the bottom of the cliff; and looked

at the crabs, and the seaweed, and the eels, till it was more than

fully time to go back to Ramsgate again. Finally, Mr. Cymon Tuggs

ascended the steps last, and Mrs. Captain Waters last but one; and Mr.

Cymon Tuggs discovered that the foot and ankle of Mrs. Captain Waters,

were even more unexceptionable than he had at first supposed.

Taking a donkey towards his ordinary place of residence, is a very

different thing, and a feat much more easily to be accomplished, than

taking him from it. It requires a great deal of foresight and presence

of mind in the one case, to anticipate the numerous flights of his

discursive imagination; whereas, in the other, all you have to do, is,

to hold on, and place a blind confidence in the animal. Mr. Cymon Tuggs

adopted the latter expedient on his return; and his nerves were so

little discomposed by the journey, that he distinctly understood they

were all to meet again at the library in the evening.

The library was crowded. There were the same ladies, and the same

gentlemen, who had been on the sands in the morning, and on the pier

the day before. There were young ladies, in maroon-coloured gowns and

black velvet bracelets, dispensing fancy articles in the shop, and

presiding over games of chance in the concert-room. There were

marriageable daughters, and marriage-making mammas, gaming and

promenading, and turning over music, and flirting. There were some male

beaux doing the sentimental in whispers, and others doing the ferocious

in moustache. There were Mrs. Tuggs in amber, Miss Tuggs in sky-blue,

Mrs. Captain Waters in pink. There was Captain Waters in a braided

surtout; there was Mr. Cymon Tuggs in pumps and a gilt waistcoat; there

was Mr. Joseph Tuggs in a blue coat and a shirt-frill.

‘Numbers three, eight, and eleven!’ cried one of the young ladies in

the maroon-coloured gowns.

‘Numbers three, eight, and eleven!’ echoed another young lady in the

same uniform.

‘Number three’s gone,’ said the first young lady. ‘Numbers eight and

eleven!’

‘Numbers eight and eleven!’ echoed the second young lady.

‘Number eight’s gone, Mary Ann,’ said the first young lady.

‘Number eleven!’ screamed the second.

‘The numbers are all taken now, ladies, if you please,’ said the first.

The representatives of numbers three, eight, and eleven, and the rest

of the numbers, crowded round the table.

‘Will you throw, ma’am?’ said the presiding goddess, handing the

dice-box to the eldest daughter of a stout lady, with four girls.

There was a profound silence among the lookers-on.

‘Throw, Jane, my dear,’ said the stout lady. An interesting display of

bashfulness—a little blushing in a cambric handkerchief—a whispering to

a younger sister.

‘Amelia, my dear, throw for your sister,’ said the stout lady; and then

she turned to a walking advertisement of Rowlands’ Macassar Oil, who

stood next her, and said, ‘Jane is so _very_ modest and retiring; but I

can’t be angry with her for it. An artless and unsophisticated girl is

_so_ truly amiable, that I often wish Amelia was more like her sister!’

The gentleman with the whiskers whispered his admiring approval.

‘Now, my dear!’ said the stout lady. Miss Amelia threw—eight for her

sister, ten for herself.

‘Nice figure, Amelia,’ whispered the stout lady to a thin youth beside

her.

‘Beautiful!’

‘And _such_ a spirit! I am like you in that respect. I can _not_ help

admiring that life and vivacity. Ah! (a sigh) I wish I could make poor

Jane a little more like my dear Amelia!’

The young gentleman cordially acquiesced in the sentiment; both he, and

the individual first addressed, were perfectly contented.

‘Who’s this?’ inquired Mr. Cymon Tuggs of Mrs. Captain Waters, as a

short female, in a blue velvet hat and feathers, was led into the

orchestra, by a fat man in black tights and cloudy Berlins.

‘Mrs. Tippin, of the London theatres,’ replied Belinda, referring to

the programme of the concert.

The talented Tippin having condescendingly acknowledged the clapping of

hands, and shouts of ‘bravo!’ which greeted her appearance, proceeded

to sing the popular cavatina of ‘Bid me discourse,’ accompanied on the

piano by Mr. Tippin; after which, Mr. Tippin sang a comic song,

accompanied on the piano by Mrs. Tippin: the applause consequent upon

which, was only to be exceeded by the enthusiastic approbation bestowed

upon an air with variations on the guitar, by Miss Tippin, accompanied

on the chin by Master Tippin.

Thus passed the evening; thus passed the days and evenings of the

Tuggses, and the Waterses, for six weeks. Sands in the morning—donkeys

at noon—pier in the afternoon—library at night—and the same people

everywhere.

On that very night six weeks, the moon was shining brightly over the

calm sea, which dashed against the feet of the tall gaunt cliffs, with

just enough noise to lull the old fish to sleep, without disturbing the

young ones, when two figures were discernible—or would have been, if

anybody had looked for them—seated on one of the wooden benches which

are stationed near the verge of the western cliff. The moon had climbed

higher into the heavens, by two hours’ journeying, since those figures

first sat down—and yet they had moved not. The crowd of loungers had

thinned and dispersed; the noise of itinerant musicians had died away;

light after light had appeared in the windows of the different houses

in the distance; blockade-man after blockade-man had passed the spot,

wending his way towards his solitary post; and yet those figures had

remained stationary. Some portions of the two forms were in deep

shadow, but the light of the moon fell strongly on a puce-coloured boot

and a glazed stock. Mr. Cymon Tuggs and Mrs. Captain Waters were seated

on that bench. They spoke not, but were silently gazing on the sea.

‘Walter will return to-morrow,’ said Mrs. Captain Waters, mournfully

breaking silence.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sighed like a gust of wind through a forest of

gooseberry bushes, as he replied, ‘Alas! he will.’

‘Oh, Cymon!’ resumed Belinda, ‘the chaste delight, the calm happiness,

of this one week of Platonic love, is too much for me!’ Cymon was about

to suggest that it was too little for him, but he stopped himself, and

murmured unintelligibly.

‘And to think that even this gleam of happiness, innocent as it is,’

exclaimed Belinda, ‘is now to be lost for ever!’

‘Oh, do not say for ever, Belinda,’ exclaimed the excitable Cymon, as

two strongly-defined tears chased each other down his pale face—it was

so long that there was plenty of room for a chase. ‘Do not say for

ever!’

‘I must,’ replied Belinda.

‘Why?’ urged Cymon, ‘oh why? Such Platonic acquaintance as ours is so

harmless, that even your husband can never object to it.’

‘My husband!’ exclaimed Belinda. ‘You little know him. Jealous and

revengeful; ferocious in his revenge—a maniac in his jealousy! Would

you be assassinated before my eyes?’ Mr. Cymon Tuggs, in a voice broken

by emotion, expressed his disinclination to undergo the process of

assassination before the eyes of anybody.

‘Then leave me,’ said Mrs. Captain Waters. ‘Leave me, this night, for

ever. It is late: let us return.’

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sadly offered the lady his arm, and escorted her to her

lodgings. He paused at the door—he felt a Platonic pressure of his

hand. ‘Good night,’ he said, hesitating.

‘Good night,’ sobbed the lady. Mr. Cymon Tuggs paused again.

‘Won’t you walk in, sir?’ said the servant. Mr. Tuggs hesitated. Oh,

that hesitation! He _did_ walk in.

‘Good night!’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs again, when he reached the

drawing-room.

‘Good night!’ replied Belinda; ‘and, if at any period of my life,

I—Hush!’ The lady paused and stared with a steady gaze of horror, on

the ashy countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs. There was a double knock at

the street-door.

‘It is my husband!’ said Belinda, as the captain’s voice was heard

below.

‘And my family!’ added Cymon Tuggs, as the voices of his relatives

floated up the staircase.

‘The curtain! The curtain!’ gasped Mrs. Captain Waters, pointing to the

window, before which some chintz hangings were closely drawn.

‘But I have done nothing wrong,’ said the hesitating Cymon.

‘The curtain!’ reiterated the frantic lady: ‘you will be murdered.’

This last appeal to his feelings was irresistible. The dismayed Cymon

concealed himself behind the curtain with pantomimic suddenness.

Enter the captain, Joseph Tuggs, Mrs. Tuggs, and Charlotta.

‘My dear,’ said the captain, ‘Lieutenant, Slaughter.’ Two iron-shod

boots and one gruff voice were heard by Mr. Cymon to advance, and

acknowledge the honour of the introduction. The sabre of the lieutenant

rattled heavily upon the floor, as he seated himself at the table. Mr.

Cymon’s fears almost overcame his reason.

‘The brandy, my dear!’ said the captain. Here was a situation! They

were going to make a night of it! And Mr. Cymon Tuggs was pent up

behind the curtain and afraid to breathe!

‘Slaughter,’ said the captain, ‘a cigar?’

Now, Mr. Cymon Tuggs never could smoke without feeling it indispensably

necessary to retire, immediately, and never could smell smoke without a

strong disposition to cough. The cigars were introduced; the captain

was a professed smoker; so was the lieutenant; so was Joseph Tuggs. The

apartment was small, the door was closed, the smoke powerful: it hung

in heavy wreaths over the room, and at length found its way behind the

curtain. Cymon Tuggs held his nose, his mouth, his breath. It was all

of no use—out came the cough.

‘Bless my soul!’ said the captain, ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Tuggs. You

dislike smoking?’

‘Oh, no; I don’t indeed,’ said Charlotta.

‘It makes you cough.’

‘Oh dear no.’

‘You coughed just now.’

‘Me, Captain Waters! Lor! how can you say so?’

‘Somebody coughed,’ said the captain.

‘I certainly thought so,’ said Slaughter. No; everybody denied it.

‘Fancy,’ said the captain.

‘Must be,’ echoed Slaughter.

Cigars resumed—more smoke—another cough—smothered, but violent.

‘Damned odd!’ said the captain, staring about him.

‘Sing’ler!’ ejaculated the unconscious Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Lieutenant Slaughter looked first at one person mysteriously, then at

another: then, laid down his cigar, then approached the window on

tiptoe, and pointed with his right thumb over his shoulder, in the

direction of the curtain.

‘Slaughter!’ ejaculated the captain, rising from table, ‘what do you

mean?’

The lieutenant, in reply, drew back the curtain and discovered Mr.

Cymon Tuggs behind it: pallid with apprehension, and blue with wanting

to cough.

‘Aha!’ exclaimed the captain, furiously. ‘What do I see? Slaughter,

your sabre!’

‘Cymon!’ screamed the Tuggses.

‘Mercy!’ said Belinda.

‘Platonic!’ gasped Cymon.

‘Your sabre!’ roared the captain: ‘Slaughter—unhand me—the villain’s

life!’

‘Murder!’ screamed the Tuggses.

‘Hold him fast, sir!’ faintly articulated Cymon.

‘Water!’ exclaimed Joseph Tuggs—and Mr. Cymon Tuggs and all the ladies

forthwith fainted away, and formed a tableau.

Most willingly would we conceal the disastrous termination of the six

weeks’ acquaintance. A troublesome form, and an arbitrary custom,

however, prescribe that a story should have a conclusion, in addition

to a commencement; we have therefore no alternative. Lieutenant

Slaughter brought a message—the captain brought an action. Mr. Joseph

Tuggs interposed—the lieutenant negotiated. When Mr. Cymon Tuggs

recovered from the nervous disorder into which misplaced affection, and

exciting circumstances, had plunged him, he found that his family had

lost their pleasant acquaintance; that his father was minus fifteen

hundred pounds; and the captain plus the precise sum. The money was

paid to hush the matter up, but it got abroad notwithstanding; and

there are not wanting some who affirm that three designing impostors

never found more easy dupes, than did Captain Waters, Mrs. Waters, and

Lieutenant Slaughter, in the Tuggses at Ramsgate.

CHAPTER V—HORATIO SPARKINS

‘Indeed, my love, he paid Teresa very great attention on the last

assembly night,’ said Mrs. Malderton, addressing her spouse, who, after

the fatigues of the day in the City, was sitting with a silk

handkerchief over his head, and his feet on the fender, drinking his

port;—‘very great attention; and I say again, every possible

encouragement ought to be given him. He positively must be asked down

here to dine.’

‘Who must?’ inquired Mr. Malderton.

‘Why, you know whom I mean, my dear—the young man with the black

whiskers and the white cravat, who has just come out at our assembly,

and whom all the girls are talking about. Young—dear me! what’s his

name?—Marianne, what _is_ his name?’ continued Mrs. Malderton,

addressing her youngest daughter, who was engaged in netting a purse,

and looking sentimental.

‘Mr. Horatio Sparkins, ma,’ replied Miss Marianne, with a sigh.

‘Oh! yes, to be sure—Horatio Sparkins,’ said Mrs. Malderton. ‘Decidedly

the most gentleman-like young man I ever saw. I am sure in the

beautifully-made coat he wore the other night, he looked like—like—’

‘Like Prince Leopold, ma—so noble, so full of sentiment!’ suggested

Marianne, in a tone of enthusiastic admiration.

‘You should recollect, my dear,’ resumed Mrs. Malderton, ‘that Teresa

is now eight-and-twenty; and that it really is very important that

something should be done.’

Miss Teresa Malderton was a very little girl, rather fat, with

vermilion cheeks, but good-humoured, and still disengaged, although, to

do her justice, the misfortune arose from no lack of perseverance on

her part. In vain had she flirted for ten years; in vain had Mr. and

Mrs. Malderton assiduously kept up an extensive acquaintance among the

young eligible bachelors of Camberwell, and even of Wandsworth and

Brixton; to say nothing of those who ‘dropped in’ from town. Miss

Malderton was as well known as the lion on the top of Northumberland

House, and had an equal chance of ‘going off.’

‘I am quite sure you’d like him,’ continued Mrs. Malderton, ‘he is so

gentlemanly!’

‘So clever!’ said Miss Marianne.

‘And has such a flow of language!’ added Miss Teresa.

‘He has a great respect for you, my dear,’ said Mrs. Malderton to her

husband. Mr. Malderton coughed, and looked at the fire.

‘Yes I’m sure he’s very much attached to pa’s society,’ said Miss

Marianne.

‘No doubt of it,’ echoed Miss Teresa.

‘Indeed, he said as much to me in confidence,’ observed Mrs. Malderton.

‘Well, well,’ returned Mr. Malderton, somewhat flattered; ‘if I see him

at the assembly to-morrow, perhaps I’ll ask him down. I hope he knows

we live at Oak Lodge, Camberwell, my dear?’

‘Of course—and that you keep a one-horse carriage.’

‘I’ll see about it,’ said Mr. Malderton, composing himself for a nap;

‘I’ll see about it.’