Mr. Malderton was a man whose whole scope of ideas was limited to

Lloyd’s, the Exchange, the India House, and the Bank. A few successful

speculations had raised him from a situation of obscurity and

comparative poverty, to a state of affluence. As frequently happens in

such cases, the ideas of himself and his family became elevated to an

extraordinary pitch as their means increased; they affected fashion,

taste, and many other fooleries, in imitation of their betters, and had

a very decided and becoming horror of anything which could, by

possibility, be considered low. He was hospitable from ostentation,

illiberal from ignorance, and prejudiced from conceit. Egotism and the

love of display induced him to keep an excellent table: convenience,

and a love of good things of this life, ensured him plenty of guests.

He liked to have clever men, or what he considered such, at his table,

because it was a great thing to talk about; but he never could endure

what he called ‘sharp fellows.’ Probably, he cherished this feeling out

of compliment to his two sons, who gave their respected parent no

uneasiness in that particular. The family were ambitious of forming

acquaintances and connexions in some sphere of society superior to that

in which they themselves moved; and one of the necessary consequences

of this desire, added to their utter ignorance of the world beyond

their own small circle, was, that any one who could lay claim to an

acquaintance with people of rank and title, had a sure passport to the

table at Oak Lodge, Camberwell.

The appearance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins at the assembly, had excited no

small degree of surprise and curiosity among its regular frequenters.

Who could he be? He was evidently reserved, and apparently melancholy.

Was he a clergyman?—He danced too well. A barrister?—He said he was not

called. He used very fine words, and talked a great deal. Could he be a

distinguished foreigner, come to England for the purpose of describing

the country, its manners and customs; and frequenting public balls and

public dinners, with the view of becoming acquainted with high life,

polished etiquette, and English refinement?—No, he had not a foreign

accent. Was he a surgeon, a contributor to the magazines, a writer of

fashionable novels, or an artist?—No; to each and all of these

surmises, there existed some valid objection.—‘Then,’ said everybody,

‘he must be _somebody_.’—‘I should think he must be,’ reasoned Mr.

Malderton, within himself, ‘because he perceives our superiority, and

pays us so much attention.’

The night succeeding the conversation we have just recorded, was

‘assembly night.’ The double-fly was ordered to be at the door of Oak

Lodge at nine o’clock precisely. The Miss Maldertons were dressed in

sky-blue satin trimmed with artificial flowers; and Mrs. M. (who was a

little fat woman), in ditto ditto, looked like her eldest daughter

multiplied by two. Mr. Frederick Malderton, the eldest son, in

full-dress costume, was the very _beau idéal_ of a smart waiter; and

Mr. Thomas Malderton, the youngest, with his white dress-stock, blue

coat, bright buttons, and red watch-ribbon, strongly resembled the

portrait of that interesting, but rash young gentleman, George

Barnwell. Every member of the party had made up his or her mind to

cultivate the acquaintance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins. Miss Teresa, of

course, was to be as amiable and interesting as ladies of

eight-and-twenty on the look-out for a husband, usually are. Mrs.

Malderton would be all smiles and graces. Miss Marianne would request

the favour of some verses for her album. Mr. Malderton would patronise

the great unknown by asking him to dinner. Tom intended to ascertain

the extent of his information on the interesting topics of snuff and

cigars. Even Mr. Frederick Malderton himself, the family authority on

all points of taste, dress, and fashionable arrangement; who had

lodgings of his own in town; who had a free admission to Covent-garden

theatre; who always dressed according to the fashions of the months;

who went up the water twice a-week in the season; and who actually had

an intimate friend who once knew a gentleman who formerly lived in the

Albany,—even he had determined that Mr. Horatio Sparkins must be a

devilish good fellow, and that he would do him the honour of

challenging him to a game at billiards.

The first object that met the anxious eyes of the expectant family on

their entrance into the ball-room, was the interesting Horatio, with

his hair brushed off his forehead, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling,

reclining in a contemplative attitude on one of the seats.

‘There he is, my dear,’ whispered Mrs. Malderton to Mr. Malderton.

‘How like Lord Byron!’ murmured Miss Teresa.

‘Or Montgomery!’ whispered Miss Marianne.

‘Or the portraits of Captain Cook!’ suggested Tom.

‘Tom—don’t be an ass!’ said his father, who checked him on all

occasions, probably with a view to prevent his becoming ‘sharp’—which

was very unnecessary.

The elegant Sparkins attitudinised with admirable effect, until the

family had crossed the room. He then started up, with the most natural

appearance of surprise and delight; accosted Mrs. Malderton with the

utmost cordiality; saluted the young ladies in the most enchanting

manner; bowed to, and shook hands with Mr. Malderton, with a degree of

respect amounting almost to veneration; and returned the greetings of

the two young men in a half-gratified, half-patronising manner, which

fully convinced them that he must be an important, and, at the same

time, condescending personage.

‘Miss Malderton,’ said Horatio, after the ordinary salutations, and

bowing very low, ‘may I be permitted to presume to hope that you will

allow me to have the pleasure—’

‘I don’t _think_ I am engaged,’ said Miss Teresa, with a dreadful

affectation of indifference—‘but, really—so many—’

Horatio looked handsomely miserable.

‘I shall be most happy,’ simpered the interesting Teresa, at last.

Horatio’s countenance brightened up, like an old hat in a shower of

rain.

‘A very genteel young man, certainly!’ said the gratified Mr.

Malderton, as the obsequious Sparkins and his partner joined the

quadrille which was just forming.

‘He has a remarkably good address,’ said Mr. Frederick.

‘Yes, he is a prime fellow,’ interposed Tom, who always managed to put

his foot in it—‘he talks just like an auctioneer.’

‘Tom!’ said his father solemnly, ‘I think I desired you, before, not to

be a fool.’ Tom looked as happy as a cock on a drizzly morning.

‘How delightful!’ said the interesting Horatio to his partner, as they

promenaded the room at the conclusion of the set—‘how delightful, how

refreshing it is, to retire from the cloudy storms, the vicissitudes,

and the troubles, of life, even if it be but for a few short fleeting

moments: and to spend those moments, fading and evanescent though they

be, in the delightful, the blessed society of one individual—whose

frowns would be death, whose coldness would be madness, whose falsehood

would be ruin, whose constancy would be bliss; the possession of whose

affection would be the brightest and best reward that Heaven could

bestow on man?’

‘What feeling! what sentiment!’ thought Miss Teresa, as she leaned more

heavily on her companion’s arm.

‘But enough—enough!’ resumed the elegant Sparkins, with a theatrical

air. ‘What have I said? what have I—I—to do with sentiments like these!

Miss Malderton’—here he stopped short—‘may I hope to be permitted to

offer the humble tribute of—’

‘Really, Mr. Sparkins,’ returned the enraptured Teresa, blushing in the

sweetest confusion, ‘I must refer you to papa. I never can, without his

consent, venture to—’

‘Surely he cannot object—’

‘Oh, yes. Indeed, indeed, you know him not!’ interrupted Miss Teresa,

well knowing there was nothing to fear, but wishing to make the

interview resemble a scene in some romantic novel.

‘He cannot object to my offering you a glass of negus,’ returned the

adorable Sparkins, with some surprise.

‘Is that all?’ thought the disappointed Teresa. ‘What a fuss about

nothing!’

‘It will give me the greatest pleasure, sir, to see you to dinner at

Oak Lodge, Camberwell, on Sunday next at five o’clock, if you have no

better engagement,’ said Mr. Malderton, at the conclusion of the

evening, as he and his sons were standing in conversation with Mr.

Horatio Sparkins.

Horatio bowed his acknowledgments, and accepted the flattering

invitation.

‘I must confess,’ continued the father, offering his snuff-box to his

new acquaintance, ‘that I don’t enjoy these assemblies half so much as

the comfort—I had almost said the luxury—of Oak Lodge. They have no

great charms for an elderly man.’

‘And after all, sir, what is man?’ said the metaphysical Sparkins. ‘I

say, what is man?’

‘Ah! very true,’ said Mr. Malderton; ‘very true.’

‘We know that we live and breathe,’ continued Horatio; ‘that we have

wants and wishes, desires and appetites—’

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Frederick Malderton, looking profound.

‘I say, we know that we exist,’ repeated Horatio, raising his voice,

‘but there we stop; there, is an end to our knowledge; there, is the

summit of our attainments; there, is the termination of our ends. What

more do we know?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Mr. Frederick—than whom no one was more capable of

answering for himself in that particular. Tom was about to hazard

something, but, fortunately for his reputation, he caught his father’s

angry eye, and slunk off like a puppy convicted of petty larceny.

‘Upon my word,’ said Mr. Malderton the elder, as they were returning

home in the fly, ‘that Mr. Sparkins is a wonderful young man. Such

surprising knowledge! such extraordinary information! and such a

splendid mode of expressing himself!’

‘I think he must be somebody in disguise,’ said Miss Marianne. ‘How

charmingly romantic!’

‘He talks very loud and nicely,’ timidly observed Tom, ‘but I don’t

exactly understand what he means.’

‘I almost begin to despair of your understanding anything, Tom,’ said

his father, who, of course, had been much enlightened by Mr. Horatio

Sparkins’s conversation.

‘It strikes me, Tom,’ said Miss Teresa, ‘that you have made yourself

very ridiculous this evening.’

‘No doubt of it,’ cried everybody—and the unfortunate Tom reduced

himself into the least possible space. That night, Mr. and Mrs.

Malderton had a long conversation respecting their daughter’s prospects

and future arrangements. Miss Teresa went to bed, considering whether,

in the event of her marrying a title, she could conscientiously

encourage the visits of her present associates; and dreamed, all night,

of disguised noblemen, large routs, ostrich plumes, bridal favours, and

Horatio Sparkins.

Various surmises were hazarded on the Sunday morning, as to the mode of

conveyance which the anxiously-expected Horatio would adopt. Did he

keep a gig?—was it possible he could come on horseback?—or would he

patronize the stage? These, and other various conjectures of equal

importance, engrossed the attention of Mrs. Malderton and her daughters

during the whole morning after church.

‘Upon my word, my dear, it’s a most annoying thing that that vulgar

brother of yours should have invited himself to dine here to-day,’ said

Mr. Malderton to his wife. ‘On account of Mr. Sparkins’s coming down, I

purposely abstained from asking any one but Flamwell. And then to think

of your brother—a tradesman—it’s insufferable! I declare I wouldn’t

have him mention his shop, before our new guest—no, not for a thousand

pounds! I wouldn’t care if he had the good sense to conceal the

disgrace he is to the family; but he’s so fond of his horrible

business, that he _will_ let people know what he is.’

Mr. Jacob Barton, the individual alluded to, was a large grocer; so

vulgar, and so lost to all sense of feeling, that he actually never

scrupled to avow that he wasn’t above his business: ‘he’d made his

money by it, and he didn’t care who know’d it.’

‘Ah! Flamwell, my dear fellow, how d’ye do?’ said Mr. Malderton, as a

little spoffish man, with green spectacles, entered the room. ‘You got

my note?’

‘Yes, I did; and here I am in consequence.’

‘You don’t happen to know this Mr. Sparkins by name? You know

everybody?’

Mr. Flamwell was one of those gentlemen of remarkably extensive

information whom one occasionally meets in society, who pretend to know

everybody, but in reality know nobody. At Malderton’s, where any

stories about great people were received with a greedy ear, he was an

especial favourite; and, knowing the kind of people he had to deal

with, he carried his passion of claiming acquaintance with everybody,

to the most immoderate length. He had rather a singular way of telling

his greatest lies in a parenthesis, and with an air of self-denial, as

if he feared being thought egotistical.

‘Why, no, I don’t know him by that name,’ returned Flamwell, in a low

tone, and with an air of immense importance. ‘I have no doubt I know

him, though. Is he tall?’

‘Middle-sized,’ said Miss Teresa.

‘With black hair?’ inquired Flamwell, hazarding a bold guess.

‘Yes,’ returned Miss Teresa, eagerly.

‘Rather a snub nose?’

‘No,’ said the disappointed Teresa, ‘he has a Roman nose.’

‘I said a Roman nose, didn’t I?’ inquired Flamwell. ‘He’s an elegant

young man?’

‘Oh, certainly.’

‘With remarkably prepossessing manners?’

‘Oh, yes!’ said all the family together. ‘You must know him.’

‘Yes, I thought you knew him, if he was anybody,’ triumphantly

exclaimed Mr. Malderton. ‘Who d’ye think he is?’

‘Why, from your description,’ said Flamwell, ruminating, and sinking

his voice, almost to a whisper, ‘he bears a strong resemblance to the

Honourable Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne. He’s a very

talented young man, and rather eccentric. It’s extremely probable he

may have changed his name for some temporary purpose.’

Teresa’s heart beat high. Could he be the Honourable Augustus

Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne! What a name to be elegantly

engraved upon two glazed cards, tied together with a piece of white

satin ribbon! ‘The Honourable Mrs. Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John

Fitz-Osborne!’ The thought was transport.

‘It’s five minutes to five,’ said Mr. Malderton, looking at his watch:

‘I hope he’s not going to disappoint us.’

‘There he is!’ exclaimed Miss Teresa, as a loud double-knock was heard

at the door. Everybody endeavoured to look—as people when they

particularly expect a visitor always do—as if they were perfectly

unsuspicious of the approach of anybody.

The room-door opened—‘Mr. Barton!’ said the servant.

‘Confound the man!’ murmured Malderton. ‘Ah! my dear sir, how d’ye do!

Any news?’

‘Why no,’ returned the grocer, in his usual bluff manner. ‘No, none

partickler. None that I am much aware of. How d’ye do, gals and boys?

Mr. Flamwell, sir—glad to see you.’

‘Here’s Mr. Sparkins!’ said Tom, who had been looking out at the

window, ‘on _such_ a black horse!’ There was Horatio, sure enough, on a

large black horse, curvetting and prancing along, like an Astley’s

supernumerary. After a great deal of reining in, and pulling up, with

the accompaniments of snorting, rearing, and kicking, the animal

consented to stop at about a hundred yards from the gate, where Mr.

Sparkins dismounted, and confided him to the care of Mr. Malderton’s

groom. The ceremony of introduction was gone through, in all due form.

Mr. Flamwell looked from behind his green spectacles at Horatio with an

air of mysterious importance; and the gallant Horatio looked

unutterable things at Teresa.

‘Is he the Honourable Mr. Augustus What’s-his-name?’ whispered Mrs.

Malderton to Flamwell, as he was escorting her to the dining-room.

‘Why, no—at least not exactly,’ returned that great authority—‘not

exactly.’

‘Who _is_ he then?’

‘Hush!’ said Flamwell, nodding his head with a grave air, importing

that he knew very well; but was prevented, by some grave reasons of

state, from disclosing the important secret. It might be one of the

ministers making himself acquainted with the views of the people.

‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said the delighted Mrs. Malderton, ‘pray divide the

ladies. John, put a chair for the gentleman between Miss Teresa and

Miss Marianne.’ This was addressed to a man who, on ordinary occasions,

acted as half-groom, half-gardener; but who, as it was important to

make an impression on Mr. Sparkins, had been forced into a white

neckerchief and shoes, and touched up, and brushed, to look like a

second footman.

The dinner was excellent; Horatio was most attentive to Miss Teresa,

and every one felt in high spirits, except Mr. Malderton, who, knowing

the propensity of his brother-in-law, Mr. Barton, endured that sort of

agony which the newspapers inform us is experienced by the surrounding

neighbourhood when a pot-boy hangs himself in a hay-loft, and which is

‘much easier to be imagined than described.’

‘Have you seen your friend, Sir Thomas Noland, lately, Flamwell?’

inquired Mr. Malderton, casting a sidelong look at Horatio, to see what

effect the mention of so great a man had upon him.

‘Why, no—not very lately. I saw Lord Gubbleton the day before

yesterday.’

‘All! I hope his lordship is very well?’ said Malderton, in a tone of

the greatest interest. It is scarcely necessary to say that, until that

moment, he had been quite innocent of the existence of such a person.

‘Why, yes; he was very well—very well indeed. He’s a devilish good

fellow. I met him in the City, and had a long chat with him. Indeed,

I’m rather intimate with him. I couldn’t stop to talk to him as long as

I could wish, though, because I was on my way to a banker’s, a very

rich man, and a member of Parliament, with whom I am also rather,

indeed I may say very, intimate.’

‘I know whom you mean,’ returned the host, consequentially—in reality

knowing as much about the matter as Flamwell himself.—‘He has a capital

business.’

This was touching on a dangerous topic.

‘Talking of business,’ interposed Mr. Barton, from the centre of the

table. ‘A gentleman whom you knew very well, Malderton, before you made

that first lucky spec of yours, called at our shop the other day, and—’

‘Barton, may I trouble you for a potato?’ interrupted the wretched

master of the house, hoping to nip the story in the bud.

‘Certainly,’ returned the grocer, quite insensible of his

brother-in-law’s object—‘and he said in a very plain manner—’

‘_Floury_, if you please,’ interrupted Malderton again; dreading the

termination of the anecdote, and fearing a repetition of the word

‘shop.’

‘He said, says he,’ continued the culprit, after despatching the

potato; ‘says he, how goes on your business? So I said, jokingly—you

know my way—says I, I’m never above my business, and I hope my business

will never be above me. Ha, ha!’

‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said the host, vainly endeavouring to conceal his

dismay, ‘a glass of wine?’

‘With the utmost pleasure, sir.’

‘Happy to see you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘We were talking the other evening,’ resumed the host, addressing

Horatio, partly with the view of displaying the conversational powers

of his new acquaintance, and partly in the hope of drowning the

grocer’s stories—‘we were talking the other night about the nature of

man. Your argument struck me very forcibly.’

‘And me,’ said Mr. Frederick. Horatio made a graceful inclination of

the head.

‘Pray, what is your opinion of woman, Mr. Sparkins?’ inquired Mrs.

Malderton. The young ladies simpered.

‘Man,’ replied Horatio, ‘man, whether he ranged the bright, gay,

flowery plains of a second Eden, or the more sterile, barren, and I may

say, commonplace regions, to which we are compelled to accustom

ourselves, in times such as these; man, under any circumstances, or in

any place—whether he were bending beneath the withering blasts of the

frigid zone, or scorching under the rays of a vertical sun—man, without

woman, would be—alone.’

‘I am very happy to find you entertain such honourable opinions, Mr.

Sparkins,’ said Mrs. Malderton.

‘And I,’ added Miss Teresa. Horatio looked his delight, and the young

lady blushed.

‘Now, it’s my opinion—’ said Mr. Barton.

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ interposed Malderton, determined not

to give his relation another opportunity, ‘and I don’t agree with you.’

‘What!’ inquired the astonished grocer.

‘I am sorry to differ from you, Barton,’ said the host, in as positive

a manner as if he really were contradicting a position which the other

had laid down, ‘but I cannot give my assent to what I consider a very

monstrous proposition.’

‘But I meant to say—’

‘You never can convince me,’ said Malderton, with an air of obstinate

determination. ‘Never.’

‘And I,’ said Mr. Frederick, following up his father’s attack, ‘cannot

entirely agree in Mr. Sparkins’s argument.’

‘What!’ said Horatio, who became more metaphysical, and more

argumentative, as he saw the female part of the family listening in

wondering delight—‘what! Is effect the consequence of cause? Is cause

the precursor of effect?’

‘That’s the point,’ said Flamwell.

‘To be sure,’ said Mr. Malderton.

‘Because, if effect is the consequence of cause, and if cause does

precede effect, I apprehend you are wrong,’ added Horatio.

‘Decidedly,’ said the toad-eating Flamwell.

‘At least, I apprehend that to be the just and logical deduction?’ said

Sparkins, in a tone of interrogation.

‘No doubt of it,’ chimed in Flamwell again. ‘It settles the point.’

‘Well, perhaps it does,’ said Mr. Frederick; ‘I didn’t see it before.’

‘I don’t exactly see it now,’ thought the grocer; ‘but I suppose it’s

all right.’

‘How wonderfully clever he is!’ whispered Mrs. Malderton to her

daughters, as they retired to the drawing-room.

‘Oh, he’s quite a love!’ said both the young ladies together; ‘he talks

like an oracle. He must have seen a great deal of life.’

The gentlemen being left to themselves, a pause ensued, during which

everybody looked very grave, as if they were quite overcome by the

profound nature of the previous discussion. Flamwell, who had made up

his mind to find out who and what Mr. Horatio Sparkins really was,

first broke silence.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said that distinguished personage, ‘I presume you

have studied for the bar? I thought of entering once, myself—indeed,

I’m rather intimate with some of the highest ornaments of that

distinguished profession.’

‘N-no!’ said Horatio, with a little hesitation; ‘not exactly.’

‘But you have been much among the silk gowns, or I mistake?’ inquired

Flamwell, deferentially.

‘Nearly all my life,’ returned Sparkins.

The question was thus pretty well settled in the mind of Mr. Flamwell.

He was a young gentleman ‘about to be called.’

‘I shouldn’t like to be a barrister,’ said Tom, speaking for the first

time, and looking round the table to find somebody who would notice the

remark.

No one made any reply.

‘I shouldn’t like to wear a wig,’ said Tom, hazarding another

observation.

‘Tom, I beg you will not make yourself ridiculous,’ said his father.

‘Pray listen, and improve yourself by the conversation you hear, and

don’t be constantly making these absurd remarks.’

‘Very well, father,’ replied the unfortunate Tom, who had not spoken a

word since he had asked for another slice of beef at a quarter-past

five o’clock, p.m., and it was then eight.

‘Well, Tom,’ observed his good-natured uncle, ‘never mind! _I_ think

with you. I shouldn’t like to wear a wig. I’d rather wear an apron.’

Mr. Malderton coughed violently. Mr. Barton resumed—‘For if a man’s

above his business—’

The cough returned with tenfold violence, and did not cease until the

unfortunate cause of it, in his alarm, had quite forgotten what he

intended to say.

‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said Flamwell, returning to the charge, ‘do you happen

to know Mr. Delafontaine, of Bedford-square?’

‘I have exchanged cards with him; since which, indeed, I have had an

opportunity of serving him considerably,’ replied Horatio, slightly

colouring; no doubt, at having been betrayed into making the

acknowledgment.

‘You are very lucky, if you have had an opportunity of obliging that

great man,’ observed Flamwell, with an air of profound respect.

‘I don’t know who he is,’ he whispered to Mr. Malderton,

confidentially, as they followed Horatio up to the drawing-room. ‘It’s

quite clear, however, that he belongs to the law, and that he is

somebody of great importance, and very highly connected.’

‘No doubt, no doubt,’ returned his companion.

The remainder of the evening passed away most delightfully. Mr.

Malderton, relieved from his apprehensions by the circumstance of Mr.

Barton’s falling into a profound sleep, was as affable and gracious as

possible. Miss Teresa played the ‘Fall of Paris,’ as Mr. Sparkins

declared, in a most masterly manner, and both of them, assisted by Mr.

Frederick, tried over glees and trios without number; they having made

the pleasing discovery that their voices harmonised beautifully. To be

sure, they all sang the first part; and Horatio, in addition to the

slight drawback of having no ear, was perfectly innocent of knowing a

note of music; still, they passed the time very agreeably, and it was

past twelve o’clock before Mr. Sparkins ordered the

mourning-coach-looking steed to be brought out—an order which was only

complied with, on the distinct understanding that he was to repeat his

visit on the following Sunday.

‘But, perhaps, Mr. Sparkins will form one of our party to-morrow

evening?’ suggested Mrs. M. ‘Mr. Malderton intends taking the girls to

see the pantomime.’ Mr. Sparkins bowed, and promised to join the party

in box 48, in the course of the evening.

‘We will not tax you for the morning,’ said Miss Teresa, bewitchingly;

‘for ma is going to take us to all sorts of places, shopping. I know

that gentlemen have a great horror of that employment.’ Mr. Sparkins

bowed again, and declared that he should be delighted, but business of

importance occupied him in the morning. Flamwell looked at Malderton

significantly.—‘It’s term time!’ he whispered.

At twelve o’clock on the following morning, the ‘fly’ was at the door

of Oak Lodge, to convey Mrs. Malderton and her daughters on their

expedition for the day. They were to dine and dress for the play at a

friend’s house. First, driving thither with their band-boxes, they

departed on their first errand to make some purchases at Messrs. Jones,

Spruggins, and Smith’s, of Tottenham-court-road; after which, they were

to go to Redmayne’s in Bond-street; thence, to innumerable places that

no one ever heard of. The young ladies beguiled the tediousness of the

ride by eulogising Mr. Horatio Sparkins, scolding their mamma for

taking them so far to save a shilling, and wondering whether they

should ever reach their destination. At length, the vehicle stopped

before a dirty-looking ticketed linen-draper’s shop, with goods of all

kinds, and labels of all sorts and sizes, in the window. There were

dropsical figures of seven with a little three-farthings in the corner;

‘perfectly invisible to the naked eye;’ three hundred and fifty

thousand ladies’ boas, _from_ one shilling and a penny halfpenny; real

French kid shoes, at two and ninepence per pair; green parasols, at an

equally cheap rate; and ‘every description of goods,’ as the

proprietors said—and they must know best—‘fifty per cent. under cost

price.’

‘Lor! ma, what a place you have brought us to!’ said Miss Teresa; ‘what

_would_ Mr. Sparkins say if he could see us!’

‘Ah! what, indeed!’ said Miss Marianne, horrified at the idea.

‘Pray be seated, ladies. What is the first article?’ inquired the

obsequious master of the ceremonies of the establishment, who, in his

large white neckcloth and formal tie, looked like a bad ‘portrait of a

gentleman’ in the Somerset-house exhibition.

‘I want to see some silks,’ answered Mrs. Malderton.

‘Directly, ma’am.—Mr. Smith! Where _is_ Mr. Smith?’

‘Here, sir,’ cried a voice at the back of the shop.

‘Pray make haste, Mr. Smith,’ said the M.C. ‘You never are to be found

when you’re wanted, sir.’

Mr. Smith, thus enjoined to use all possible despatch, leaped over the

counter with great agility, and placed himself before the newly-arrived

customers. Mrs. Malderton uttered a faint scream; Miss Teresa, who had

been stooping down to talk to her sister, raised her head, and

beheld—Horatio Sparkins!

‘We will draw a veil,’ as novel-writers say, over the scene that

ensued. The mysterious, philosophical, romantic, metaphysical

Sparkins—he who, to the interesting Teresa, seemed like the embodied

idea of the young dukes and poetical exquisites in blue silk

dressing-gowns, and ditto ditto slippers, of whom she had read and

dreamed, but had never expected to behold, was suddenly converted into

Mr. Samuel Smith, the assistant at a ‘cheap shop;’ the junior partner

in a slippery firm of some three weeks’ existence. The dignified

evanishment of the hero of Oak Lodge, on this unexpected recognition,

could only be equalled by that of a furtive dog with a considerable

kettle at his tail. All the hopes of the Maldertons were destined at

once to melt away, like the lemon ices at a Company’s dinner; Almack’s

was still to them as distant as the North Pole; and Miss Teresa had as

much chance of a husband as Captain Ross had of the north-west passage.

Years have elapsed since the occurrence of this dreadful morning. The

daisies have thrice bloomed on Camberwell-green; the sparrows have

thrice repeated their vernal chirps in Camberwell-grove; but the Miss

Maldertons are still unmated. Miss Teresa’s case is more desperate than

ever; but Flamwell is yet in the zenith of his reputation; and the

family have the same predilection for aristocratic personages, with an

increased aversion to anything _low_.

CHAPTER VI—THE BLACK VEIL

One winter’s evening, towards the close of the year 1800, or within a

year or two of that time, a young medical practitioner, recently

established in business, was seated by a cheerful fire in his little

parlour, listening to the wind which was beating the rain in pattering

drops against the window, or rumbling dismally in the chimney. The

night was wet and cold; he had been walking through mud and water the

whole day, and was now comfortably reposing in his dressing-gown and

slippers, more than half asleep and less than half awake, revolving a

thousand matters in his wandering imagination. First, he thought how

hard the wind was blowing, and how the cold, sharp rain would be at

that moment beating in his face, if he were not comfortably housed at

home. Then, his mind reverted to his annual Christmas visit to his

native place and dearest friends; he thought how glad they would all be

to see him, and how happy it would make Rose if he could only tell her

that he had found a patient at last, and hoped to have more, and to

come down again, in a few months’ time, and marry her, and take her

home to gladden his lonely fireside, and stimulate him to fresh

exertions. Then, he began to wonder when his first patient would

appear, or whether he was destined, by a special dispensation of

Providence, never to have any patients at all; and then, he thought

about Rose again, and dropped to sleep and dreamed about her, till the

tones of her sweet merry voice sounded in his ears, and her soft tiny

hand rested on his shoulder.

There _was_ a hand upon his shoulder, but it was neither soft nor tiny;

its owner being a corpulent round-headed boy, who, in consideration of

the sum of one shilling per week and his food, was let out by the

parish to carry medicine and messages. As there was no demand for the

medicine, however, and no necessity for the messages, he usually

occupied his unemployed hours—averaging fourteen a day—in abstracting

peppermint drops, taking animal nourishment, and going to sleep.

‘A lady, sir—a lady!’ whispered the boy, rousing his master with a

shake.

‘What lady?’ cried our friend, starting up, not quite certain that his

dream was an illusion, and half expecting that it might be Rose

herself.—‘What lady? Where?’

‘_There_, sir!’ replied the boy, pointing to the glass door leading

into the surgery, with an expression of alarm which the very unusual

apparition of a customer might have tended to excite.

The surgeon looked towards the door, and started himself, for an

instant, on beholding the appearance of his unlooked-for visitor.

It was a singularly tall woman, dressed in deep mourning, and standing

so close to the door that her face almost touched the glass. The upper

part of her figure was carefully muffled in a black shawl, as if for

the purpose of concealment; and her face was shrouded by a thick black

veil. She stood perfectly erect, her figure was drawn up to its full

height, and though the surgeon felt that the eyes beneath the veil were

fixed on him, she stood perfectly motionless, and evinced, by no

gesture whatever, the slightest consciousness of his having turned

towards her.

‘Do you wish to consult me?’ he inquired, with some hesitation, holding

open the door. It opened inwards, and therefore the action did not

alter the position of the figure, which still remained motionless on

the same spot.

She slightly inclined her head, in token of acquiescence.

‘Pray walk in,’ said the surgeon.

The figure moved a step forward; and then, turning its head in the

direction of the boy—to his infinite horror—appeared to hesitate.

‘Leave the room, Tom,’ said the young man, addressing the boy, whose

large round eyes had been extended to their utmost width during this

brief interview. ‘Draw the curtain, and shut the door.’

The boy drew a green curtain across the glass part of the door, retired

into the surgery, closed the door after him, and immediately applied

one of his large eyes to the keyhole on the other side.

The surgeon drew a chair to the fire, and motioned the visitor to a

seat. The mysterious figure slowly moved towards it. As the blaze shone

upon the black dress, the surgeon observed that the bottom of it was

saturated with mud and rain.

‘You are very wet,’ be said.

‘I am,’ said the stranger, in a low deep voice.

‘And you are ill?’ added the surgeon, compassionately, for the tone was

that of a person in pain.

‘I am,’ was the reply—‘very ill; not bodily, but mentally. It is not

for myself, or on my own behalf,’ continued the stranger, ‘that I come

to you. If I laboured under bodily disease, I should not be out, alone,

at such an hour, or on such a night as this; and if I were afflicted

with it, twenty-four hours hence, God knows how gladly I would lie down

and pray to die. It is for another that I beseech your aid, sir. I may

be mad to ask it for him—I think I am; but, night after night, through

the long dreary hours of watching and weeping, the thought has been

ever present to my mind; and though even _I_ see the hopelessness of

human assistance availing him, the bare thought of laying him in his

grave without it makes my blood run cold!’ And a shudder, such as the

surgeon well knew art could not produce, trembled through the speaker’s

frame.

There was a desperate earnestness in this woman’s manner, that went to

the young man’s heart. He was young in his profession, and had not yet

witnessed enough of the miseries which are daily presented before the

eyes of its members, to have grown comparatively callous to human

suffering.

‘If,’ he said, rising hastily, ‘the person of whom you speak, be in so

hopeless a condition as you describe, not a moment is to be lost. I

will go with you instantly. Why did you not obtain medical advice

before?’

‘Because it would have been useless before—because it is useless even

now,’ replied the woman, clasping her hands passionately.

The surgeon gazed, for a moment, on the black veil, as if to ascertain

the expression of the features beneath it: its thickness, however,

rendered such a result impossible.

‘You _are_ ill,’ he said, gently, ‘although you do not know it. The

fever which has enabled you to bear, without feeling it, the fatigue

you have evidently undergone, is burning within you now. Put that to

your lips,’ he continued, pouring out a glass of water—‘compose

yourself for a few moments, and then tell me, as calmly as you can,

what the disease of the patient is, and how long he has been ill. When

I know what it is necessary I should know, to render my visit

serviceable to him, I am ready to accompany you.’

The stranger lifted the glass of water to her mouth, without raising

the veil; put it down again untasted; and burst into tears.

‘I know,’ she said, sobbing aloud, ‘that what I say to you now, seems

like the ravings of fever. I have been told so before, less kindly than

by you. I am not a young woman; and they do say, that as life steals on

towards its final close, the last short remnant, worthless as it may

seem to all beside, is dearer to its possessor than all the years that

have gone before, connected though they be with the recollection of old

friends long since dead, and young ones—children perhaps—who have

fallen off from, and forgotten one as completely as if they had died

too. My natural term of life cannot be many years longer, and should be

dear on that account; but I would lay it down without a sigh—with

cheerfulness—with joy—if what I tell you now, were only false, or

imaginary. To-morrow morning he of whom I speak will be, I _know_,

though I would fain think otherwise, beyond the reach of human aid; and

yet, to-night, though he is in deadly peril, you must not see, and

could not serve, him.’

‘I am unwilling to increase your distress,’ said the surgeon, after a

short pause, ‘by making any comment on what you have just said, or

appearing desirous to investigate a subject you are so anxious to

conceal; but there is an inconsistency in your statement which I cannot

reconcile with probability. This person is dying to-night, and I cannot

see him when my assistance might possibly avail; you apprehend it will

be useless to-morrow, and yet you would have me see him then! If he be,

indeed, as dear to you, as your words and manner would imply, why not

try to save his life before delay and the progress of his disease

render it impracticable?’

‘God help me!’ exclaimed the woman, weeping bitterly, ‘how can I hope

strangers will believe what appears incredible, even to myself? You

will _not_ see him then, sir?’ she added, rising suddenly.

‘I did not say that I declined to see him,’ replied the surgeon; ‘but I

warn you, that if you persist in this extraordinary procrastination,

and the individual dies, a fearful responsibility rests with you.’

‘The responsibility will rest heavily somewhere,’ replied the stranger

bitterly. ‘Whatever responsibility rests with me, I am content to bear,

and ready to answer.’

‘As I incur none,’ continued the surgeon, ‘by acceding to your request,

I will see him in the morning, if you leave me the address. At what

hour can he be seen?’

‘_Nine_,’ replied the stranger.

‘You must excuse my pressing these inquiries,’ said the surgeon. ‘But

is he in your charge now?’

‘He is not,’ was the rejoinder.

‘Then, if I gave you instructions for his treatment through the night,

you could not assist him?’

The woman wept bitterly, as she replied, ‘I could not.’

Finding that there was but little prospect of obtaining more

information by prolonging the interview; and anxious to spare the

woman’s feelings, which, subdued at first by a violent effort, were now

irrepressible and most painful to witness; the surgeon repeated his

promise of calling in the morning at the appointed hour. His visitor,

after giving him a direction to an obscure part of Walworth, left the

house in the same mysterious manner in which she had entered it.

It will be readily believed that so extraordinary a visit produced a

considerable impression on the mind of the young surgeon; and that he

speculated a great deal and to very little purpose on the possible

circumstances of the case. In common with the generality of people, he

had often heard and read of singular instances, in which a presentiment

of death, at a particular day, or even minute, had been entertained and

realised. At one moment he was inclined to think that the present might

be such a case; but, then, it occurred to him that all the anecdotes of

the kind he had ever heard, were of persons who had been troubled with

a foreboding of their own death. This woman, however, spoke of another

person—a man; and it was impossible to suppose that a mere dream or

delusion of fancy would induce her to speak of his approaching

dissolution with such terrible certainty as she had spoken. It could

not be that the man was to be murdered in the morning, and that the

woman, originally a consenting party, and bound to secrecy by an oath,

had relented, and, though unable to prevent the commission of some

outrage on the victim, had determined to prevent his death if possible,

by the timely interposition of medical aid? The idea of such things

happening within two miles of the metropolis appeared too wild and

preposterous to be entertained beyond the instant. Then, his original

impression that the woman’s intellects were disordered, recurred; and,

as it was the only mode of solving the difficulty with any degree of

satisfaction, he obstinately made up his mind to believe that she was

mad. Certain misgivings upon this point, however, stole upon his

thoughts at the time, and presented themselves again and again through

the long dull course of a sleepless night; during which, in spite of

all his efforts to the contrary, he was unable to banish the black veil

from his disturbed imagination.

The back part of Walworth, at its greatest distance from town, is a

straggling miserable place enough, even in these days; but,

five-and-thirty years ago, the greater portion of it was little better

than a dreary waste, inhabited by a few scattered people of

questionable character, whose poverty prevented their living in any

better neighbourhood, or whose pursuits and mode of life rendered its

solitude desirable. Very many of the houses which have since sprung up

on all sides, were not built until some years afterwards; and the great

majority even of those which were sprinkled about, at irregular

intervals, were of the rudest and most miserable description.

The appearance of the place through which he walked in the morning, was

not calculated to raise the spirits of the young surgeon, or to dispel

any feeling of anxiety or depression which the singular kind of visit

he was about to make, had awakened. Striking off from the high road,

his way lay across a marshy common, through irregular lanes, with here

and there a ruinous and dismantled cottage fast falling to pieces with

decay and neglect. A stunted tree, or pool of stagnant water, roused

into a sluggish action by the heavy rain of the preceding night,

skirted the path occasionally; and, now and then, a miserable patch of

garden-ground, with a few old boards knocked together for a

summer-house, and old palings imperfectly mended with stakes pilfered

from the neighbouring hedges, bore testimony, at once to the poverty of

the inhabitants, and the little scruple they entertained in

appropriating the property of other people to their own use.

Occasionally, a filthy-looking woman would make her appearance from the

door of a dirty house, to empty the contents of some cooking utensil

into the gutter in front, or to scream after a little slip-shod girl,

who had contrived to stagger a few yards from the door under the weight

of a sallow infant almost as big as herself; but, scarcely anything was

stirring around: and so much of the prospect as could be faintly traced

through the cold damp mist which hung heavily over it, presented a

lonely and dreary appearance perfectly in keeping with the objects we

have described.

After plodding wearily through the mud and mire; making many inquiries

for the place to which he had been directed; and receiving as many

contradictory and unsatisfactory replies in return; the young man at

length arrived before the house which had been pointed out to him as

the object of his destination. It was a small low building, one story

above the ground, with even a more desolate and unpromising exterior

than any he had yet passed. An old yellow curtain was closely drawn

across the window up-stairs, and the parlour shutters were closed, but

not fastened. The house was detached from any other, and, as it stood

at an angle of a narrow lane, there was no other habitation in sight.

When we say that the surgeon hesitated, and walked a few paces beyond

the house, before he could prevail upon himself to lift the knocker, we

say nothing that need raise a smile upon the face of the boldest

reader. The police of London were a very different body in that day;

the isolated position of the suburbs, when the rage for building and

the progress of improvement had not yet begun to connect them with the

main body of the city and its environs, rendered many of them (and this

in particular) a place of resort for the worst and most depraved

characters. Even the streets in the gayest parts of London were

imperfectly lighted, at that time; and such places as these, were left

entirely to the mercy of the moon and stars. The chances of detecting

desperate characters, or of tracing them to their haunts, were thus

rendered very few, and their offences naturally increased in boldness,

as the consciousness of comparative security became the more impressed

upon them by daily experience. Added to these considerations, it must

be remembered that the young man had spent some time in the public

hospitals of the metropolis; and, although neither Burke nor Bishop had

then gained a horrible notoriety, his own observation might have

suggested to him how easily the atrocities to which the former has

since given his name, might be committed. Be this as it may, whatever

reflection made him hesitate, he _did_ hesitate: but, being a young man

of strong mind and great personal courage, it was only for an

instant;—he stepped briskly back and knocked gently at the door.

A low whispering was audible, immediately afterwards, as if some person

at the end of the passage were conversing stealthily with another on

the landing above. It was succeeded by the noise of a pair of heavy

boots upon the bare floor. The door-chain was softly unfastened; the

door opened; and a tall, ill-favoured man, with black hair, and a face,

as the surgeon often declared afterwards, as pale and haggard, as the

countenance of any dead man he ever saw, presented himself.

‘Walk in, sir,’ he said in a low tone.

The surgeon did so, and the man having secured the door again, by the

chain, led the way to a small back parlour at the extremity of the

passage.

‘Am I in time?’

‘Too soon!’ replied the man. The surgeon turned hastily round, with a

gesture of astonishment not unmixed with alarm, which he found it

impossible to repress.

‘If you’ll step in here, sir,’ said the man, who had evidently noticed

the action—‘if you’ll step in here, sir, you won’t be detained five

minutes, I assure you.’

The surgeon at once walked into the room. The man closed the door, and

left him alone.

It was a little cold room, with no other furniture than two deal

chairs, and a table of the same material. A handful of fire, unguarded

by any fender, was burning in the grate, which brought out the damp if

it served no more comfortable purpose, for the unwholesome moisture was

stealing down the walls, in long slug-like tracks. The window, which

was broken and patched in many places, looked into a small enclosed

piece of ground, almost covered with water. Not a sound was to be

heard, either within the house, or without. The young surgeon sat down

by the fireplace, to await the result of his first professional visit.

He had not remained in this position many minutes, when the noise of

some approaching vehicle struck his ear. It stopped; the street-door

was opened; a low talking succeeded, accompanied with a shuffling noise

of footsteps, along the passage and on the stairs, as if two or three

men were engaged in carrying some heavy body to the room above. The

creaking of the stairs, a few seconds afterwards, announced that the

new-comers having completed their task, whatever it was, were leaving

the house. The door was again closed, and the former silence was

restored.

Another five minutes had elapsed, and the surgeon had resolved to

explore the house, in search of some one to whom he might make his

errand known, when the room-door opened, and his last night’s visitor,

dressed in exactly the same manner, with the veil lowered as before,

motioned him to advance. The singular height of her form, coupled with

the circumstance of her not speaking, caused the idea to pass across

his brain for an instant, that it might be a man disguised in woman’s

attire. The hysteric sobs which issued from beneath the veil, and the

convulsive attitude of grief of the whole figure, however, at once

exposed the absurdity of the suspicion; and he hastily followed.

The woman led the way up-stairs to the front room, and paused at the

door, to let him enter first. It was scantily furnished with an old

deal box, a few chairs, and a tent bedstead, without hangings or

cross-rails, which was covered with a patchwork counterpane. The dim

light admitted through the curtain which he had noticed from the

outside, rendered the objects in the room so indistinct, and

communicated to all of them so uniform a hue, that he did not, at

first, perceive the object on which his eye at once rested when the

woman rushed frantically past him, and flung herself on her knees by

the bedside.

Stretched upon the bed, closely enveloped in a linen wrapper, and

covered with blankets, lay a human form, stiff and motionless. The head

and face, which were those of a man, were uncovered, save by a bandage

which passed over the head and under the chin. The eyes were closed.

The left arm lay heavily across the bed, and the woman held the passive

hand.

The surgeon gently pushed the woman aside, and took the hand in his.

‘My God!’ he exclaimed, letting it fall involuntarily—‘the man is

dead!’

The woman started to her feet and beat her hands together.

‘Oh! don’t say so, sir,’ she exclaimed, with a burst of passion,

amounting almost to frenzy. ‘Oh! don’t say so, sir! I can’t bear it!

Men have been brought to life, before, when unskilful people have given

them up for lost; and men have died, who might have been restored, if

proper means had been resorted to. Don’t let him lie here, sir, without

one effort to save him! This very moment life may be passing away. Do

try, sir,—do, for Heaven’s sake!’—And while speaking, she hurriedly

chafed, first the forehead, and then the breast, of the senseless form

before her; and then, wildly beat the cold hands, which, when she

ceased to hold them, fell listlessly and heavily back on the coverlet.

‘It is of no use, my good woman,’ said the surgeon, soothingly, as he

withdrew his hand from the man’s breast. ‘Stay—undraw that curtain!’

‘Why?’ said the woman, starting up.

‘Undraw that curtain!’ repeated the surgeon in an agitated tone.

‘I darkened the room on purpose,’ said the woman, throwing herself

before him as he rose to undraw it.—‘Oh! sir, have pity on me! If it

can be of no use, and he is really dead, do not expose that form to

other eyes than mine!’

‘This man died no natural or easy death,’ said the surgeon. ‘I _must_

see the body!’ With a motion so sudden, that the woman hardly knew that

he had slipped from beside her, he tore open the curtain, admitted the

full light of day, and returned to the bedside.

‘There has been violence here,’ he said, pointing towards the body, and

gazing intently on the face, from which the black veil was now, for the

first time, removed. In the excitement of a minute before, the female

had thrown off the bonnet and veil, and now stood with her eyes fixed

upon him. Her features were those of a woman about fifty, who had once

been handsome. Sorrow and weeping had left traces upon them which not

time itself would ever have produced without their aid; her face was

deadly pale; and there was a nervous contortion of the lip, and an

unnatural fire in her eye, which showed too plainly that her bodily and

mental powers had nearly sunk, beneath an accumulation of misery.

‘There has been violence here,’ said the surgeon, preserving his

searching glance.

‘There has!’ replied the woman.

‘This man has been murdered.’

‘That I call God to witness he has,’ said the woman, passionately;

‘pitilessly, inhumanly murdered!’

‘By whom?’ said the surgeon, seizing the woman by the arm.

‘Look at the butchers’ marks, and then ask me!’ she replied.

The surgeon turned his face towards the bed, and bent over the body

which now lay full in the light of the window. The throat was swollen,

and a livid mark encircled it. The truth flashed suddenly upon him.

‘This is one of the men who were hanged this morning!’ he exclaimed,

turning away with a shudder.

‘It is,’ replied the woman, with a cold, unmeaning stare.

‘Who was he?’ inquired the surgeon.

‘_My son_,’ rejoined the woman; and fell senseless at his feet.

It was true. A companion, equally guilty with himself, had been

acquitted for want of evidence; and this man had been left for death,

and executed. To recount the circumstances of the case, at this distant

period, must be unnecessary, and might give pain to some persons still

alive. The history was an every-day one. The mother was a widow without

friends or money, and had denied herself necessaries to bestow them on

her orphan boy. That boy, unmindful of her prayers, and forgetful of

the sufferings she had endured for him—incessant anxiety of mind, and

voluntary starvation of body—had plunged into a career of dissipation

and crime. And this was the result; his own death by the hangman’s

hands, and his mother’s shame, and incurable insanity.

For many years after this occurrence, and when profitable and arduous

avocations would have led many men to forget that such a miserable

being existed, the young surgeon was a daily visitor at the side of the

harmless mad woman; not only soothing her by his presence and kindness,

but alleviating the rigour of her condition by pecuniary donations for

her comfort and support, bestowed with no sparing hand. In the

transient gleam of recollection and consciousness which preceded her

death, a prayer for his welfare and protection, as fervent as mortal

ever breathed, rose from the lips of this poor friendless creature.

That prayer flew to Heaven, and was heard. The blessings he was

instrumental in conferring, have been repaid to him a thousand-fold;

but, amid all the honours of rank and station which have since been

heaped upon him, and which he has so well earned, he can have no

reminiscence more gratifying to his heart than that connected with The

Black Veil.

CHAPTER VII—THE STEAM EXCURSION

Mr. Percy Noakes was a law student, inhabiting a set of chambers on the

fourth floor, in one of those houses in Gray’s-inn-square which command

an extensive view of the gardens, and their usual adjuncts—flaunting

nursery-maids, and town-made children, with parenthetical legs. Mr.

Percy Noakes was what is generally termed—‘a devilish good fellow.’ He

had a large circle of acquaintance, and seldom dined at his own

expense. He used to talk politics to papas, flatter the vanity of

mammas, do the amiable to their daughters, make pleasure engagements

with their sons, and romp with the younger branches. Like those

paragons of perfection, advertising footmen out of place, he was always

‘willing to make himself generally useful.’ If any old lady, whose son

was in India, gave a ball, Mr. Percy Noakes was master of the

ceremonies; if any young lady made a stolen match, Mr. Percy Noakes

gave her away; if a juvenile wife presented her husband with a blooming

cherub, Mr. Percy Noakes was either godfather, or deputy-godfather; and

if any member of a friend’s family died, Mr. Percy Noakes was

invariably to be seen in the second mourning coach, with a white

handkerchief to his eyes, sobbing—to use his own appropriate and

expressive description—‘like winkin’!’

It may readily be imagined that these numerous avocations were rather

calculated to interfere with Mr. Percy Noakes’s professional studies.

Mr. Percy Noakes was perfectly aware of the fact, and had, therefore,

after mature reflection, made up his mind not to study at all—a

laudable determination, to which he adhered in the most praiseworthy

manner. His sitting-room presented a strange chaos of dress-gloves,

boxing-gloves, caricatures, albums, invitation-cards, foils,

cricket-bats, cardboard drawings, paste, gum, and fifty other

miscellaneous articles, heaped together in the strangest confusion. He

was always making something for somebody, or planning some party of

pleasure, which was his great _forte_. He invariably spoke with

astonishing rapidity; was smart, spoffish, and eight-and-twenty.

‘Splendid idea, ’pon my life!’ soliloquised Mr. Percy Noakes, over his

morning coffee, as his mind reverted to a suggestion which had been

thrown out on the previous night, by a lady at whose house he had spent

the evening. ‘Glorious idea!—Mrs. Stubbs.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied a dirty old woman with an inflamed countenance,

emerging from the bedroom, with a barrel of dirt and cinders.—This was

the laundress. ‘Did you call, sir?’

‘Oh! Mrs. Stubbs, I’m going out. If that tailor should call again,

you’d better say—you’d better say I’m out of town, and shan’t be back

for a fortnight; and if that bootmaker should come, tell him I’ve lost

his address, or I’d have sent him that little amount. Mind he writes it

down; and if Mr. Hardy should call—you know Mr. Hardy?’

‘The funny gentleman, sir?’

‘Ah! the funny gentleman. If Mr. Hardy should call, say I’ve gone to

Mrs. Taunton’s about that water-party.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And if any fellow calls, and says he’s come about a steamer, tell him

to be here at five o’clock this afternoon, Mrs. Stubbs.’

‘Very well, sir.’

Mr. Percy Noakes brushed his hat, whisked the crumbs off his

inexpressibles with a silk handkerchief, gave the ends of his hair a

persuasive roll round his forefinger, and sallied forth for Mrs.

Taunton’s domicile in Great Marlborough-street, where she and her

daughters occupied the upper part of a house. She was a good-looking

widow of fifty, with the form of a giantess and the mind of a child.

The pursuit of pleasure, and some means of killing time, were the sole

end of her existence. She doted on her daughters, who were as frivolous

as herself.

A general exclamation of satisfaction hailed the arrival of Mr. Percy

Noakes, who went through the ordinary salutations, and threw himself

into an easy chair near the ladies’ work-table, with the ease of a

regularly established friend of the family. Mrs. Taunton was busily

engaged in planting immense bright bows on every part of a smart cap on

which it was possible to stick one; Miss Emily Taunton was making a

watch-guard; Miss Sophia was at the piano, practising a new song—poetry

by the young officer, or the police-officer, or the custom-house

officer, or some other interesting amateur.

‘You good creature!’ said Mrs. Taunton, addressing the gallant Percy.

‘You really are a good soul! You’ve come about the water-party, I

know.’

‘I should rather suspect I had,’ replied Mr. Noakes, triumphantly.

‘Now, come here, girls, and I’ll tell you all about it.’ Miss Emily and

Miss Sophia advanced to the table.

‘Now,’ continued Mr. Percy Noakes, ‘it seems to me that the best way

will be, to have a committee of ten, to make all the arrangements, and

manage the whole set-out. Then, I propose that the expenses shall be

paid by these ten fellows jointly.’

‘Excellent, indeed!’ said Mrs. Taunton, who highly approved of this

part of the arrangements.

‘Then, my plan is, that each of these ten fellows shall have the power

of asking five people. There must be a meeting of the committee, at my

chambers, to make all the arrangements, and these people shall be then

named; every member of the committee shall have the power of

black-balling any one who is proposed; and one black ball shall exclude

that person. This will ensure our having a pleasant party, you know.’

‘What a manager you are!’ interrupted Mrs. Taunton again.

‘Charming!’ said the lovely Emily.

‘I never did!’ ejaculated Sophia.

‘Yes, I think it’ll do,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who was now quite in

his element. ‘I think it’ll do. Then you know we shall go down to the

Nore, and back, and have a regular capital cold dinner laid out in the

cabin before we start, so that everything may be ready without any

confusion; and we shall have the lunch laid out, on deck, in those

little tea-garden-looking concerns by the paddle-boxes—I don’t know

what you call ’em. Then, we shall hire a steamer expressly for our

party, and a band, and have the deck chalked, and we shall be able to

dance quadrilles all day; and then, whoever we know that’s musical, you

know, why they’ll make themselves useful and agreeable; and—and—upon

the whole, I really hope we shall have a glorious day, you know!’

The announcement of these arrangements was received with the utmost

enthusiasm. Mrs. Taunton, Emily, and Sophia, were loud in their

praises.

‘Well, but tell me, Percy,’ said Mrs. Taunton, ‘who are the ten

gentlemen to be?’

‘Oh! I know plenty of fellows who’ll be delighted with the scheme,’

replied Mr. Percy Noakes; ‘of course we shall have—’

‘Mr. Hardy!’ interrupted the servant, announcing a visitor. Miss Sophia

and Miss Emily hastily assumed the most interesting attitudes that

could be adopted on so short a notice.

‘How are you?’ said a stout gentleman of about forty, pausing at the

door in the attitude of an awkward harlequin. This was Mr. Hardy, whom

we have before described, on the authority of Mrs. Stubbs, as ‘the

funny gentleman.’ He was an Astley-Cooperish Joe Miller—a practical

joker, immensely popular with married ladies, and a general favourite

with young men. He was always engaged in some pleasure excursion or

other, and delighted in getting somebody into a scrape on such

occasions. He could sing comic songs, imitate hackney-coachmen and

fowls, play airs on his chin, and execute concertos on the Jews’-harp.

He always eat and drank most immoderately, and was the bosom friend of

Mr. Percy Noakes. He had a red face, a somewhat husky voice, and a

tremendous laugh.

‘How _are_ you?’ said this worthy, laughing, as if it were the finest

joke in the world to make a morning call, and shaking hands with the

ladies with as much vehemence as if their arms had been so many

pump-handles.

‘You’re just the very man I wanted,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, who

proceeded to explain the cause of his being in requisition.

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ shouted Hardy, after hearing the statement, and receiving

a detailed account of the proposed excursion. ‘Oh, capital! glorious!

What a day it will be! what fun!—But, I say, when are you going to

begin making the arrangements?’

‘No time like the present—at once, if you please.’

‘Oh, charming!’ cried the ladies. ‘Pray, do!’

Writing materials were laid before Mr. Percy Noakes, and the names of

the different members of the committee were agreed on, after as much

discussion between him and Mr. Hardy as if the fate of nations had

depended on their appointment. It was then agreed that a meeting should

take place at Mr. Percy Noakes’s chambers on the ensuing Wednesday

evening at eight o’clock, and the visitors departed.

Wednesday evening arrived; eight o’clock came, and eight members of the

committee were punctual in their attendance. Mr. Loggins, the

solicitor, of Boswell-court, sent an excuse, and Mr. Samuel Briggs, the

ditto of Furnival’s Inn, sent his brother: much to his (the brother’s)

satisfaction, and greatly to the discomfiture of Mr. Percy Noakes.

Between the Briggses and the Tauntons there existed a degree of

implacable hatred, quite unprecedented. The animosity between the

Montagues and Capulets, was nothing to that which prevailed between

these two illustrious houses. Mrs. Briggs was a widow, with three

daughters and two sons; Mr. Samuel, the eldest, was an attorney, and

Mr. Alexander, the youngest, was under articles to his brother. They

resided in Portland-street, Oxford-street, and moved in the same orbit

as the Tauntons—hence their mutual dislike. If the Miss Briggses

appeared in smart bonnets, the Miss Tauntons eclipsed them with

smarter. If Mrs. Taunton appeared in a cap of all the hues of the

rainbow, Mrs. Briggs forthwith mounted a toque, with all the patterns

of the kaleidoscope. If Miss Sophia Taunton learnt a new song, two of

the Miss Briggses came out with a new duet. The Tauntons had once

gained a temporary triumph with the assistance of a harp, but the

Briggses brought three guitars into the field, and effectually routed

the enemy. There was no end to the rivalry between them.

Now, as Mr. Samuel Briggs was a mere machine, a sort of self-acting

legal walking-stick; and as the party was known to have originated,

however remotely, with Mrs. Taunton, the female branches of the Briggs

family had arranged that Mr. Alexander should attend, instead of his

brother; and as the said Mr. Alexander was deservedly celebrated for

possessing all the pertinacity of a bankruptcy-court attorney, combined

with the obstinacy of that useful animal which browses on the thistle,

he required but little tuition. He was especially enjoined to make

himself as disagreeable as possible; and, above all, to black-ball the

Tauntons at every hazard.

The proceedings of the evening were opened by Mr. Percy Noakes. After

successfully urging on the gentlemen present the propriety of their

mixing some brandy-and-water, he briefly stated the object of the

meeting, and concluded by observing that the first step must be the

selection of a chairman, necessarily possessing some arbitrary—he

trusted not unconstitutional—powers, to whom the personal direction of

the whole of the arrangements (subject to the approval of the

committee) should be confided. A pale young gentleman, in a green stock

and spectacles of the same, a member of the honourable society of the

Inner Temple, immediately rose for the purpose of proposing Mr. Percy

Noakes. He had known him long, and this he would say, that a more

honourable, a more excellent, or a better-hearted fellow, never

existed.—(Hear, hear!) The young gentleman, who was a member of a

debating society, took this opportunity of entering into an examination

of the state of the English law, from the days of William the Conqueror

down to the present period; he briefly adverted to the code established

by the ancient Druids; slightly glanced at the principles laid down by

the Athenian law-givers; and concluded with a most glowing eulogium on

pic-nics and constitutional rights.

Mr. Alexander Briggs opposed the motion. He had the highest esteem for

Mr. Percy Noakes as an individual, but he did consider that he ought

not to be intrusted with these immense powers—(oh, oh!)—He believed

that in the proposed capacity Mr. Percy Noakes would not act fairly,

impartially, or honourably; but he begged it to be distinctly

understood, that he said this, without the slightest personal

disrespect. Mr. Hardy defended his honourable friend, in a voice

rendered partially unintelligible by emotion and brandy-and-water. The

proposition was put to the vote, and there appearing to be only one

dissentient voice, Mr. Percy Noakes was declared duly elected, and took

the chair accordingly.

The business of the meeting now proceeded with rapidity. The chairman

delivered in his estimate of the probable expense of the excursion, and

every one present subscribed his portion thereof. The question was put

that ‘The Endeavour’ be hired for the occasion; Mr. Alexander Briggs

moved as an amendment, that the word ‘Fly’ be substituted for the word

‘Endeavour’; but after some debate consented to withdraw his

opposition. The important ceremony of balloting then commenced. A

tea-caddy was placed on a table in a dark corner of the apartment, and

every one was provided with two backgammon men, one black and one

white.

The chairman with great solemnity then read the following list of the

guests whom he proposed to introduce:—Mrs. Taunton and two daughters,

Mr. Wizzle, Mr. Simson. The names were respectively balloted for, and

Mrs. Taunton and her daughters were declared to be black-balled. Mr.

Percy Noakes and Mr. Hardy exchanged glances.

‘Is your list prepared, Mr. Briggs?’ inquired the chairman.

‘It is,’ replied Alexander, delivering in the following:—‘Mrs. Briggs

and three daughters, Mr. Samuel Briggs.’ The previous ceremony was

repeated, and Mrs. Briggs and three daughters were declared to be

black-balled. Mr. Alexander Briggs looked rather foolish, and the

remainder of the company appeared somewhat overawed by the mysterious

nature of the proceedings.

The balloting proceeded; but, one little circumstance which Mr. Percy

Noakes had not originally foreseen, prevented the system from working

quite as well as he had anticipated. Everybody was black-balled. Mr.

Alexander Briggs, by way of retaliation, exercised his power of

exclusion in every instance, and the result was, that after three hours

had been consumed in hard balloting, the names of only three gentlemen

were found to have been agreed to. In this dilemma what was to be done?

either the whole plan must fall to the ground, or a compromise must be

effected. The latter alternative was preferable; and Mr. Percy Noakes

therefore proposed that the form of balloting should be dispensed with,

and that every gentleman should merely be required to state whom he

intended to bring. The proposal was acceded to; the Tauntons and the

Briggses were reinstated; and the party was formed.

The next Wednesday was fixed for the eventful day, and it was

unanimously resolved that every member of the committee should wear a

piece of blue sarsenet ribbon round his left arm. It appeared from the

statement of Mr. Percy Noakes, that the boat belonged to the General

Steam Navigation Company, and was then lying off the Custom-house; and,

as he proposed that the dinner and wines should be provided by an

eminent city purveyor, it was arranged that Mr. Percy Noakes should be

on board by seven o’clock to superintend the arrangements, and that the

remaining members of the committee, together with the company

generally, should be expected to join her by nine o’clock. More

brandy-and-water was despatched; several speeches were made by the

different law students present; thanks were voted to the chairman; and

the meeting separated.

The weather had been beautiful up to this period, and beautiful it

continued to be. Sunday passed over, and Mr. Percy Noakes became

unusually fidgety—rushing, constantly, to and from the Steam Packet

Wharf, to the astonishment of the clerks, and the great emolument of

the Holborn cabmen. Tuesday arrived, and the anxiety of Mr. Percy

Noakes knew no bounds. He was every instant running to the window, to

look out for clouds; and Mr. Hardy astonished the whole square by

practising a new comic song for the occasion, in the chairman’s

chambers.

Uneasy were the slumbers of Mr. Percy Noakes that night; he tossed and

tumbled about, and had confused dreams of steamers starting off, and

gigantic clocks with the hands pointing to a quarter-past nine, and the

ugly face of Mr. Alexander Briggs looking over the boat’s side, and

grinning, as if in derision of his fruitless attempts to move. He made

a violent effort to get on board, and awoke. The bright sun was shining

cheerfully into the bedroom, and Mr. Percy Noakes started up for his

watch, in the dreadful expectation of finding his worst dreams

realised.

It was just five o’clock. He calculated the time—he should be a good

half-hour dressing himself; and as it was a lovely morning, and the

tide would be then running down, he would walk leisurely to

Strand-lane, and have a boat to the Custom-house.

He dressed himself, took a hasty apology for a breakfast, and sallied

forth. The streets looked as lonely and deserted as if they had been

crowded, overnight, for the last time. Here and there, an early

apprentice, with quenched-looking sleepy eyes, was taking down the

shutters of a shop; and a policeman or milkwoman might occasionally be

seen pacing slowly along; but the servants had not yet begun to clean

the doors, or light the kitchen fires, and London looked the picture of

desolation. At the corner of a by-street, near Temple-bar, was

stationed a ‘street-breakfast.’ The coffee was boiling over a charcoal

fire, and large slices of bread and butter were piled one upon the

other, like deals in a timber-yard. The company were seated on a form,

which, with a view both to security and comfort, was placed against a

neighbouring wall. Two young men, whose uproarious mirth and disordered

dress bespoke the conviviality of the preceding evening, were treating

three ‘ladies’ and an Irish labourer. A little sweep was standing at a

short distance, casting a longing eye at the tempting delicacies; and a

policeman was watching the group from the opposite side of the street.

The wan looks and gaudy finery of the thinly-clad women contrasted as

strangely with the gay sunlight, as did their forced merriment with the

boisterous hilarity of the two young men, who, now and then, varied

their amusements by ‘bonneting’ the proprietor of this itinerant

coffee-house.

Mr. Percy Noakes walked briskly by, and when he turned down

Strand-lane, and caught a glimpse of the glistening water, he thought

he had never felt so important or so happy in his life.

‘Boat, sir?’ cried one of the three watermen who were mopping out their

boats, and all whistling. ‘Boat, sir?’

‘No,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, rather sharply; for the inquiry was not

made in a manner at all suitable to his dignity.

‘Would you prefer a wessel, sir?’ inquired another, to the infinite

delight of the ‘Jack-in-the-water.’

Mr. Percy Noakes replied with a look of supreme contempt.

‘Did you want to be put on board a steamer, sir?’ inquired an old

fireman-waterman, very confidentially. He was dressed in a faded red

suit, just the colour of the cover of a very old Court-guide.

‘Yes, make haste—the Endeavour—off the Custom-house.’

‘Endeavour!’ cried the man who had convulsed the ‘Jack’ before. ‘Vy, I

see the Endeavour go up half an hour ago.’

‘So did I,’ said another; ‘and I should think she’d gone down by this

time, for she’s a precious sight too full of ladies and gen’lemen.’

Mr. Percy Noakes affected to disregard these representations, and

stepped into the boat, which the old man, by dint of scrambling, and

shoving, and grating, had brought up to the causeway. ‘Shove her off!’

cried Mr. Percy Noakes, and away the boat glided down the river; Mr.

Percy Noakes seated on the recently mopped seat, and the watermen at

the stairs offering to bet him any reasonable sum that he’d never reach

the ‘Custum-us.’

‘Here she is, by Jove!’ said the delighted Percy, as they ran alongside

the Endeavour.

‘Hold hard!’ cried the steward over the side, and Mr. Percy Noakes

jumped on board.

‘Hope you will find everything as you wished, sir. She looks uncommon

well this morning.’

‘She does, indeed,’ replied the manager, in a state of ecstasy which it

is impossible to describe. The deck was scrubbed, and the seats were

scrubbed, and there was a bench for the band, and a place for dancing,

and a pile of camp-stools, and an awning; and then Mr. Percy Noakes

bustled down below, and there were the pastrycook’s men, and the

steward’s wife, laying out the dinner on two tables the whole length of

the cabin; and then Mr. Percy Noakes took off his coat and rushed

backwards and forwards, doing nothing, but quite convinced he was

assisting everybody; and the steward’s wife laughed till she cried, and

Mr. Percy Noakes panted with the violence of his exertions. And then

the bell at London-bridge wharf rang; and a Margate boat was just

starting; and a Gravesend boat was just starting, and people shouted,

and porters ran down the steps with luggage that would crush any men

but porters; and sloping boards, with bits of wood nailed on them, were

placed between the outside boat and the inside boat; and the passengers

ran along them, and looked like so many fowls coming out of an area;

and then, the bell ceased, and the boards were taken away, and the

boats started, and the whole scene was one of the most delightful

bustle and confusion.

The time wore on; half-past eight o’clock arrived; the pastry-cook’s

men went ashore; the dinner was completely laid out; and Mr. Percy

Noakes locked the principal cabin, and put the key in his pocket, in

order that it might be suddenly disclosed, in all its magnificence, to

the eyes of the astonished company. The band came on board, and so did

the wine.

Ten minutes to nine, and the committee embarked in a body. There was

Mr. Hardy, in a blue jacket and waistcoat, white trousers, silk

stockings, and pumps—in full aquatic costume, with a straw hat on his

head, and an immense telescope under his arm; and there was the young

gentleman with the green spectacles, in nankeen inexplicables, with a

ditto waistcoat and bright buttons, like the pictures of Paul—not the

saint, but he of Virginia notoriety. The remainder of the committee,

dressed in white hats, light jackets, waistcoats, and trousers, looked

something between waiters and West India planters.

Nine o’clock struck, and the company arrived in shoals. Mr. Samuel

Briggs, Mrs. Briggs, and the Misses Briggs, made their appearance in a

smart private wherry. The three guitars, in their respective dark green

cases, were carefully stowed away in the bottom of the boat,

accompanied by two immense portfolios of music, which it would take at

least a week’s incessant playing to get through. The Tauntons arrived

at the same moment with more music, and a lion—a gentleman with a bass

voice and an incipient red moustache. The colours of the Taunton party

were pink; those of the Briggses a light blue. The Tauntons had

artificial flowers in their bonnets; here the Briggses gained a decided

advantage—they wore feathers.

‘How d’ye do, dear?’ said the Misses Briggs to the Misses Taunton. (The

word ‘dear’ among girls is frequently synonymous with ‘wretch.’)

‘Quite well, thank you, dear,’ replied the Misses Taunton to the Misses

Briggs; and then, there was such a kissing, and congratulating, and

shaking of hands, as might have induced one to suppose that the two

families were the best friends in the world, instead of each wishing

the other overboard, as they most sincerely did.

Mr. Percy Noakes received the visitors, and bowed to the strange

gentleman, as if he should like to know who he was. This was just what

Mrs. Taunton wanted. Here was an opportunity to astonish the Briggses.

‘Oh! I beg your pardon,’ said the general of the Taunton party, with a

careless air.—‘Captain Helves—Mr. Percy Noakes—Mrs. Briggs—Captain

Helves.’

Mr. Percy Noakes bowed very low; the gallant captain did the same with

all due ferocity, and the Briggses were clearly overcome.

‘Our friend, Mr. Wizzle, being unfortunately prevented from coming,’

resumed Mrs. Taunton, ‘I did myself the pleasure of bringing the

captain, whose musical talents I knew would be a great acquisition.’

‘In the name of the committee I have to thank you for doing so, and to

offer you welcome, sir,’ replied Percy. (Here the scraping was

renewed.) ‘But pray be seated—won’t you walk aft? Captain, will you

conduct Miss Taunton?—Miss Briggs, will you allow me?’

‘Where could they have picked up that military man?’ inquired Mrs.

Briggs of Miss Kate Briggs, as they followed the little party.

‘I can’t imagine,’ replied Miss Kate, bursting with vexation; for the

very fierce air with which the gallant captain regarded the company,

had impressed her with a high sense of his importance.

Boat after boat came alongside, and guest after guest arrived. The

invites had been excellently arranged: Mr. Percy Noakes having

considered it as important that the number of young men should exactly

tally with that of the young ladies, as that the quantity of knives on

board should be in precise proportion to the forks.

‘Now, is every one on board?’ inquired Mr. Percy Noakes. The committee

(who, with their bits of blue ribbon, looked as if they were all going

to be bled) bustled about to ascertain the fact, and reported that they

might safely start.

‘Go on!’ cried the master of the boat from the top of one of the

paddle-boxes.

‘Go on!’ echoed the boy, who was stationed over the hatchway to pass

the directions down to the engineer; and away went the vessel with that

agreeable noise which is peculiar to steamers, and which is composed of

a mixture of creaking, gushing, clanging, and snorting.

‘Hoi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-o-i-i-i!’ shouted half-a-dozen voices from a boat,

a quarter of a mile astern.

‘Ease her!’ cried the captain: ‘do these people belong to us, sir?’

‘Noakes,’ exclaimed Hardy, who had been looking at every object far and

near, through the large telescope, ‘it’s the Fleetwoods and the

Wakefields—and two children with them, by Jove!’

‘What a shame to bring children!’ said everybody; ‘how very

inconsiderate!’

‘I say, it would be a good joke to pretend not to see ’em, wouldn’t

it?’ suggested Hardy, to the immense delight of the company generally.

A council of war was hastily held, and it was resolved that the

newcomers should be taken on board, on Mr. Hardy solemnly pledging

himself to tease the children during the whole of the day.

‘Stop her!’ cried the captain.

‘Stop her!’ repeated the boy; whizz went the steam, and all the young

ladies, as in duty bound, screamed in concert. They were only appeased

by the assurance of the martial Helves, that the escape of steam

consequent on stopping a vessel was seldom attended with any great loss

of human life.

Two men ran to the side; and after some shouting, and swearing, and

angling for the wherry with a boat-hook, Mr. Fleetwood, and Mrs.

Fleetwood, and Master Fleetwood, and Mr. Wakefield, and Mrs. Wakefield,

and Miss Wakefield, were safely deposited on the deck. The girl was

about six years old, the boy about four; the former was dressed in a

white frock with a pink sash and dog’s-eared-looking little spencer: a

straw bonnet and green veil, six inches by three and a half; the

latter, was attired for the occasion in a nankeen frock, between the

bottom of which, and the top of his plaid socks, a considerable portion

of two small mottled legs was discernible. He had a light blue cap with

a gold band and tassel on his head, and a damp piece of gingerbread in

his hand, with which he had slightly embossed his countenance.

The boat once more started off; the band played ‘Off she goes:’ the

major part of the company conversed cheerfully in groups; and the old

gentlemen walked up and down the deck in pairs, as perseveringly and

gravely as if they were doing a match against time for an immense

stake. They ran briskly down the Pool; the gentlemen pointed out the

Docks, the Thames Police-office, and other elegant public edifices; and

the young ladies exhibited a proper display of horror at the appearance

of the coal-whippers and ballast-heavers. Mr. Hardy told stories to the

married ladies, at which they laughed very much in their

pocket-handkerchiefs, and hit him on the knuckles with their fans,

declaring him to be ‘a naughty man—a shocking creature’—and so forth;

and Captain Helves gave slight descriptions of battles and duels, with

a most bloodthirsty air, which made him the admiration of the women,

and the envy of the men. Quadrilling commenced; Captain Helves danced

one set with Miss Emily Taunton, and another set with Miss Sophia

Taunton. Mrs. Taunton was in ecstasies. The victory appeared to be

complete; but alas! the inconstancy of man! Having performed this

necessary duty, he attached himself solely to Miss Julia Briggs, with

whom he danced no less than three sets consecutively, and from whose

side he evinced no intention of stirring for the remainder of the day.

Mr. Hardy, having played one or two very brilliant fantasias on the

Jews’-harp, and having frequently repeated the exquisitely amusing joke

of slily chalking a large cross on the back of some member of the

committee, Mr. Percy Noakes expressed his hope that some of their

musical friends would oblige the company by a display of their

abilities.

‘Perhaps,’ he said in a very insinuating manner, ‘Captain Helves will

oblige us?’ Mrs. Taunton’s countenance lighted up, for the captain only

sang duets, and couldn’t sing them with anybody but one of her

daughters.

‘Really,’ said that warlike individual, ‘I should be very happy, ‘but—’

‘Oh! pray do,’ cried all the young ladies.

‘Miss Emily, have you any objection to join in a duet?’

‘Oh! not the slightest,’ returned the young lady, in a tone which

clearly showed she had the greatest possible objection.

‘Shall I accompany you, dear?’ inquired one of the Miss Briggses, with

the bland intention of spoiling the effect.

‘Very much obliged to you, Miss Briggs,’ sharply retorted Mrs. Taunton,

who saw through the manoeuvre; ‘my daughters always sing without

accompaniments.’

‘And without voices,’ tittered Mrs. Briggs, in a low tone.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs. Taunton, reddening, for she guessed the tenor of

the observation, though she had not heard it clearly—‘Perhaps it would

be as well for some people, if their voices were not quite so audible

as they are to other people.’

‘And, perhaps, if gentlemen who are kidnapped to pay attention to some

persons’ daughters, had not sufficient discernment to pay attention to

other persons’ daughters,’ returned Mrs. Briggs, ‘some persons would

not be so ready to display that ill-temper which, thank God,

distinguishes them from other persons.’

‘Persons!’ ejaculated Mrs. Taunton.

‘Persons,’ replied Mrs. Briggs.

‘Insolence!’

‘Creature!’

‘Hush! hush!’ interrupted Mr. Percy Noakes, who was one of the very few

by whom this dialogue had been overheard. ‘Hush!—pray, silence for the

duet.’

After a great deal of preparatory crowing and humming, the captain

began the following duet from the opera of ‘Paul and Virginia,’ in that

grunting tone in which a man gets down, Heaven knows where, without the

remotest chance of ever getting up again. This, in private circles, is

frequently designated ‘a bass voice.’

‘See (sung the captain) from o—ce—an ri—sing

Bright flames the or—b of d—ay.

From yon gro—ove, the varied so—ongs—’

Here, the singer was interrupted by varied cries of the most dreadful

description, proceeding from some grove in the immediate vicinity of

the starboard paddle-box.

‘My child!’ screamed Mrs. Fleetwood. ‘My child! it is his voice—I know

it.’

Mr. Fleetwood, accompanied by several gentlemen, here rushed to the

quarter from whence the noise proceeded, and an exclamation of horror

burst from the company; the general impression being, that the little

innocent had either got his head in the water, or his legs in the

machinery.

‘What is the matter?’ shouted the agonised father, as he returned with

the child in his arms.

‘Oh! oh! oh!’ screamed the small sufferer again.

‘What is the matter, dear?’ inquired the father once more—hastily

stripping off the nankeen frock, for the purpose of ascertaining

whether the child had one bone which was not smashed to pieces.

‘Oh! oh!—I’m so frightened!’

‘What at, dear?—what at?’ said the mother, soothing the sweet infant.

‘Oh! he’s been making such dreadful faces at me,’ cried the boy,

relapsing into convulsions at the bare recollection.

‘He!—who?’ cried everybody, crowding round him.

‘Oh!—him!’ replied the child, pointing at Hardy, who affected to be the

most concerned of the whole group.

The real state of the case at once flashed upon the minds of all

present, with the exception of the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields. The

facetious Hardy, in fulfilment of his promise, had watched the child to

a remote part of the vessel, and, suddenly appearing before him with

the most awful contortions of visage, had produced his paroxysm of

terror. Of course, he now observed that it was hardly necessary for him

to deny the accusation; and the unfortunate little victim was

accordingly led below, after receiving sundry thumps on the head from

both his parents, for having the wickedness to tell a story.

This little interruption having been adjusted, the captain resumed, and

Miss Emily chimed in, in due course. The duet was loudly applauded,

and, certainly, the perfect independence of the parties deserved great

commendation. Miss Emily sung her part, without the slightest reference

to the captain; and the captain sang so loud, that he had not the

slightest idea what was being done by his partner. After having gone

through the last few eighteen or nineteen bars by himself, therefore,

he acknowledged the plaudits of the circle with that air of self-denial

which men usually assume when they think they have done something to

astonish the company.

‘Now,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, who had just ascended from the

fore-cabin, where he had been busily engaged in decanting the wine, ‘if

the Misses Briggs will oblige us with something before dinner, I am

sure we shall be very much delighted.’

One of those hums of admiration followed the suggestion, which one

frequently hears in society, when nobody has the most distant notion

what he is expressing his approval of. The three Misses Briggs looked

modestly at their mamma, and the mamma looked approvingly at her

daughters, and Mrs. Taunton looked scornfully at all of them. The

Misses Briggs asked for their guitars, and several gentlemen seriously

damaged the cases in their anxiety to present them. Then, there was a

very interesting production of three little keys for the aforesaid

cases, and a melodramatic expression of horror at finding a string

broken; and a vast deal of screwing and tightening, and winding, and

tuning, during which Mrs. Briggs expatiated to those near her on the

immense difficulty of playing a guitar, and hinted at the wondrous

proficiency of her daughters in that mystic art. Mrs. Taunton whispered

to a neighbour that it was ‘quite sickening!’ and the Misses Taunton

looked as if they knew how to play, but disdained to do it.

At length, the Misses Briggs began in real earnest. It was a new

Spanish composition, for three voices and three guitars. The effect was

electrical. All eyes were turned upon the captain, who was reported to

have once passed through Spain with his regiment, and who must be well

acquainted with the national music. He was in raptures. This was

sufficient; the trio was encored; the applause was universal; and never

had the Tauntons suffered such a complete defeat.

‘Bravo! bravo!’ ejaculated the captain;—‘bravo!’

‘Pretty! isn’t it, sir?’ inquired Mr. Samuel Briggs, with the air of a

self-satisfied showman. By-the-bye, these were the first words he had

been heard to utter since he left Boswell-court the evening before.

‘De-lightful!’ returned the captain, with a flourish, and a military

cough;—‘de-lightful!’

‘Sweet instrument!’ said an old gentleman with a bald head, who had

been trying all the morning to look through a telescope, inside the

glass of which Mr. Hardy had fixed a large black wafer.

‘Did you ever hear a Portuguese tambourine?’ inquired that jocular

individual.

‘Did _you_ ever hear a tom-tom, sir?’ sternly inquired the captain, who

lost no opportunity of showing off his travels, real or pretended.

‘A what?’ asked Hardy, rather taken aback.

‘A tom-tom.’

‘Never!’

‘Nor a gum-gum?’

‘Never!’

‘What _is_ a gum-gum?’ eagerly inquired several young ladies.

‘When I was in the East Indies,’ replied the captain—(here was a

discovery—he had been in the East Indies!)—‘when I was in the East

Indies, I was once stopping a few thousand miles up the country, on a

visit at the house of a very particular friend of mine, Ram Chowdar

Doss Azuph Al Bowlar—a devilish pleasant fellow. As we were enjoying

our hookahs, one evening, in the cool verandah in front of his villa,

we were rather surprised by the sudden appearance of thirty-four of his

Kit-ma-gars (for he had rather a large establishment there),

accompanied by an equal number of Con-su-mars, approaching the house

with a threatening aspect, and beating a tom-tom. The Ram started up—’

‘Who?’ inquired the bald gentleman, intensely interested.

‘The Ram—Ram Chowdar—’

‘Oh!’ said the old gentleman, ‘beg your pardon; pray go on.’

‘—Started up and drew a pistol. “Helves,” said he, “my boy,”—he always

called me, my boy—“Helves,” said he, “do you hear that tom-tom?” “I

do,” said I. His countenance, which before was pale, assumed a most

frightful appearance; his whole visage was distorted, and his frame

shaken by violent emotions. “Do you see that gum-gum?” said he. “No,”

said I, staring about me. “You don’t?” said he. “No, I’ll be damned if

I do,” said I; “and what’s more, I don’t know what a gum-gum is,” said

I. I really thought the Ram would have dropped. He drew me aside, and

with an expression of agony I shall never forget, said in a low

whisper—’

‘Dinner’s on the table, ladies,’ interrupted the steward’s wife.

‘Will you allow me?’ said the captain, immediately suiting the action

to the word, and escorting Miss Julia Briggs to the cabin, with as much

ease as if he had finished the story.

‘What an extraordinary circumstance!’ ejaculated the same old

gentleman, preserving his listening attitude.

‘What a traveller!’ said the young ladies.

‘What a singular name!’ exclaimed the gentlemen, rather confused by the

coolness of the whole affair.

‘I wish he had finished the story,’ said an old lady. ‘I wonder what a

gum-gum really is?’

‘By Jove!’ exclaimed Hardy, who until now had been lost in utter

amazement, ‘I don’t know what it may be in India, but in England I

think a gum-gum has very much the same meaning as a hum-bug.’

‘How illiberal! how envious!’ cried everybody, as they made for the

cabin, fully impressed with a belief in the captain’s amazing

adventures. Helves was the sole lion for the remainder of the

day—impudence and the marvellous are pretty sure passports to any

society.

The party had by this time reached their destination, and put about on

their return home. The wind, which had been with them the whole day,

was now directly in their teeth; the weather had become gradually more

and more overcast; and the sky, water, and shore, were all of that

dull, heavy, uniform lead-colour, which house-painters daub in the

first instance over a street-door which is gradually approaching a

state of convalescence. It had been ‘spitting’ with rain for the last

half-hour, and now began to pour in good earnest. The wind was

freshening very fast, and the waterman at the wheel had unequivocally

expressed his opinion that there would shortly be a squall. A slight

emotion on the part of the vessel, now and then, seemed to suggest the

possibility of its pitching to a very uncomfortable extent in the event

of its blowing harder; and every timber began to creak, as if the boat

were an overladen clothes-basket. Sea-sickness, however, is like a

belief in ghosts—every one entertains some misgivings on the subject,

but few will acknowledge any. The majority of the company, therefore,

endeavoured to look peculiarly happy, feeling all the while especially

miserable.

‘Don’t it rain?’ inquired the old gentleman before noticed, when, by

dint of squeezing and jamming, they were all seated at table.

‘I think it does—a little,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who could hardly

hear himself speak, in consequence of the pattering on the deck.

‘Don’t it blow?’ inquired some one else.

‘No, I don’t think it does,’ responded Hardy, sincerely wishing that he

could persuade himself that it did not; for he sat near the door, and

was almost blown off his seat.

‘It’ll soon clear up,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, in a cheerful tone.

‘Oh, certainly!’ ejaculated the committee generally.

‘No doubt of it!’ said the remainder of the company, whose attention

was now pretty well engrossed by the serious business of eating,

carving, taking wine, and so forth.

The throbbing motion of the engine was but too perceptible. There was a

large, substantial, cold boiled leg of mutton, at the bottom of the

table, shaking like blancmange; a previously hearty sirloin of beef

looked as if it had been suddenly seized with the palsy; and some

tongues, which were placed on dishes rather too large for them, went

through the most surprising evolutions; darting from side to side, and

from end to end, like a fly in an inverted wine-glass. Then, the sweets

shook and trembled, till it was quite impossible to help them, and

people gave up the attempt in despair; and the pigeon-pies looked as if

the birds, whose legs were stuck outside, were trying to get them in.

The table vibrated and started like a feverish pulse, and the very legs

were convulsed—everything was shaking and jarring. The beams in the

roof of the cabin seemed as if they were put there for the sole purpose

of giving people head-aches, and several elderly gentlemen became

ill-tempered in consequence. As fast as the steward put the fire-irons

up, they _would_ fall down again; and the more the ladies and gentlemen

tried to sit comfortably on their seats, the more the seats seemed to

slide away from the ladies and gentlemen. Several ominous demands were

made for small glasses of brandy; the countenances of the company

gradually underwent most extraordinary changes; one gentleman was

observed suddenly to rush from table without the slightest ostensible

reason, and dart up the steps with incredible swiftness: thereby

greatly damaging both himself and the steward, who happened to be

coming down at the same moment.

The cloth was removed; the dessert was laid on the table; and the

glasses were filled. The motion of the boat increased; several members

of the party began to feel rather vague and misty, and looked as if

they had only just got up. The young gentleman with the spectacles, who

had been in a fluctuating state for some time—at one moment bright, and

at another dismal, like a revolving light on the sea-coast—rashly

announced his wish to propose a toast. After several ineffectual

attempts to preserve his perpendicular, the young gentleman, having

managed to hook himself to the centre leg of the table with his left

hand, proceeded as follows:

‘Ladies and gentlemen. A gentleman is among us—I may say a

stranger—(here some painful thought seemed to strike the orator; he

paused, and looked extremely odd)—whose talents, whose travels, whose

cheerfulness—’

‘I beg your pardon, Edkins,’ hastily interrupted Mr. Percy

Noakes,—‘Hardy, what’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ replied the ‘funny gentleman,’ who had just life enough left

to utter two consecutive syllables.

‘Will you have some brandy?’

‘No!’ replied Hardy in a tone of great indignation, and looking as

comfortable as Temple-bar in a Scotch mist; ‘what should I want brandy

for?’

‘Will you go on deck?’

‘No, I will _not_.’ This was said with a most determined air, and in a

voice which might have been taken for an imitation of anything; it was

quite as much like a guinea-pig as a bassoon.

‘I beg your pardon, Edkins,’ said the courteous Percy; ‘I thought our

friend was ill. Pray go on.’

A pause.

‘Pray go on.’

‘Mr. Edkins _is_ gone,’ cried somebody.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the steward, running up to Mr. Percy

Noakes, ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but the gentleman as just went on

deck—him with the green spectacles—is uncommon bad, to be sure; and the

young man as played the wiolin says, that unless he has some brandy he

can’t answer for the consequences. He says he has a wife and two

children, whose werry subsistence depends on his breaking a wessel, and

he expects to do so every moment. The flageolet’s been werry ill, but

he’s better, only he’s in a dreadful prusperation.’

All disguise was now useless; the company staggered on deck; the

gentlemen tried to see nothing but the clouds; and the ladies, muffled

up in such shawls and cloaks as they had brought with them, lay about

on the seats, and under the seats, in the most wretched condition.

Never was such a blowing, and raining, and pitching, and tossing,

endured by any pleasure party before. Several remonstrances were sent

down below, on the subject of Master Fleetwood, but they were totally

unheeded in consequence of the indisposition of his natural protectors.

That interesting child screamed at the top of his voice, until he had

no voice left to scream with; and then, Miss Wakefield began, and

screamed for the remainder of the passage.

Mr. Hardy was observed, some hours afterwards, in an attitude which

induced his friends to suppose that he was busily engaged in

contemplating the beauties of the deep; they only regretted that his

taste for the picturesque should lead him to remain so long in a

position, very injurious at all times, but especially so, to an

individual labouring under a tendency of blood to the head.

The party arrived off the Custom-house at about two o’clock on the

Thursday morning dispirited and worn out. The Tauntons were too ill to

quarrel with the Briggses, and the Briggses were too wretched to annoy

the Tauntons. One of the guitar-cases was lost on its passage to a

hackney-coach, and Mrs. Briggs has not scrupled to state that the

Tauntons bribed a porter to throw it down an area. Mr. Alexander Briggs

opposes vote by ballot—he says from personal experience of its

inefficacy; and Mr. Samuel Briggs, whenever he is asked to express his

sentiments on the point, says he has no opinion on that or any other

subject.

Mr. Edkins—the young gentleman in the green spectacles—makes a speech

on every occasion on which a speech can possibly be made: the eloquence

of which can only be equalled by its length. In the event of his not

being previously appointed to a judgeship, it is probable that he will

practise as a barrister in the New Central Criminal Court.

Captain Helves continued his attention to Miss Julia Briggs, whom he

might possibly have espoused, if it had not unfortunately happened that

Mr. Samuel arrested him, in the way of business, pursuant to

instructions received from Messrs. Scroggins and Payne, whose

town-debts the gallant captain had condescended to collect, but whose

accounts, with the indiscretion sometimes peculiar to military minds,

he had omitted to keep with that dull accuracy which custom has

rendered necessary. Mrs. Taunton complains that she has been much

deceived in him. He introduced himself to the family on board a

Gravesend steam-packet, and certainly, therefore, ought to have proved

respectable.

Mr. Percy Noakes is as light-hearted and careless as ever.

CHAPTER VIII—THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL

The little town of Great Winglebury is exactly forty-two miles and

three-quarters from Hyde Park corner. It has a long, straggling, quiet

High-street, with a great black and white clock at a small red

Town-hall, half-way up—a market-place—a cage—an assembly-room—a

church—a bridge—a chapel—a theatre—a library—an inn—a pump—and a

Post-office. Tradition tells of a ‘Little Winglebury,’ down some

cross-road about two miles off; and, as a square mass of dirty paper,

supposed to have been originally intended for a letter, with certain

tremulous characters inscribed thereon, in which a lively imagination

might trace a remote resemblance to the word ‘Little,’ was once stuck

up to be owned in the sunny window of the Great Winglebury Post-office,

from which it only disappeared when it fell to pieces with dust and

extreme old age, there would appear to be some foundation for the

legend. Common belief is inclined to bestow the name upon a little hole

at the end of a muddy lane about a couple of miles long, colonised by

one wheelwright, four paupers, and a beer-shop; but, even this

authority, slight as it is, must be regarded with extreme suspicion,

inasmuch as the inhabitants of the hole aforesaid, concur in opining

that it never had any name at all, from the earliest ages down to the

present day.

The Winglebury Arms, in the centre of the High-street, opposite the

small building with the big clock, is the principal inn of Great

Winglebury—the commercial-inn, posting-house, and excise-office; the

‘Blue’ house at every election, and the judges’ house at every assizes.

It is the head-quarters of the Gentlemen’s Whist Club of Winglebury

Blues (so called in opposition to the Gentlemen’s Whist Club of

Winglebury Buffs, held at the other house, a little further down): and

whenever a juggler, or wax-work man, or concert-giver, takes Great

Winglebury in his circuit, it is immediately placarded all over the

town that Mr. So-and-so, ‘trusting to that liberal support which the

inhabitants of Great Winglebury have long been so liberal in bestowing,

has at a great expense engaged the elegant and commodious

assembly-rooms, attached to the Winglebury Arms.’ The house is a large

one, with a red brick and stone front; a pretty spacious hall,

ornamented with evergreen plants, terminates in a perspective view of

the bar, and a glass case, in which are displayed a choice variety of

delicacies ready for dressing, to catch the eye of a new-comer the

moment he enters, and excite his appetite to the highest possible

pitch. Opposite doors lead to the ‘coffee’ and ‘commercial’ rooms; and

a great wide, rambling staircase,—three stairs and a landing—four

stairs and another landing—one step and another landing—half-a-dozen

stairs and another landing—and so on—conducts to galleries of bedrooms,

and labyrinths of sitting-rooms, denominated ‘private,’ where you may

enjoy yourself, as privately as you can in any place where some

bewildered being walks into your room every five minutes, by mistake,

and then walks out again, to open all the doors along the gallery until

he finds his own.

Such is the Winglebury Arms, at this day, and such was the Winglebury

Arms some time since—no matter when—two or three minutes before the

arrival of the London stage. Four horses with cloths on—change for a

coach—were standing quietly at the corner of the yard surrounded by a

listless group of post-boys in shiny hats and smock-frocks, engaged in

discussing the merits of the cattle; half a dozen ragged boys were

standing a little apart, listening with evident interest to the

conversation of these worthies; and a few loungers were collected round

the horse-trough, awaiting the arrival of the coach.

The day was hot and sunny, the town in the zenith of its dulness, and

with the exception of these few idlers, not a living creature was to be

seen. Suddenly, the loud notes of a key-bugle broke the monotonous

stillness of the street; in came the coach, rattling over the uneven

paving with a noise startling enough to stop even the large-faced clock

itself. Down got the outsides, up went the windows in all directions,

out came the waiters, up started the ostlers, and the loungers, and the

post-boys, and the ragged boys, as if they were

electrified—unstrapping, and unchaining, and unbuckling, and dragging

willing horses out, and forcing reluctant horses in, and making a most

exhilarating bustle. ‘Lady inside, here!’ said the guard. ‘Please to

alight, ma’am,’ said the waiter. ‘Private sitting-room?’ interrogated

the lady. ‘Certainly, ma’am,’ responded the chamber-maid. ‘Nothing but

these ’ere trunks, ma’am?’ inquired the guard. ‘Nothing more,’ replied

the lady. Up got the outsides again, and the guard, and the coachman;

off came the cloths, with a jerk; ‘All right,’ was the cry; and away

they went. The loungers lingered a minute or two in the road, watching

the coach until it turned the corner, and then loitered away one by

one. The street was clear again, and the town, by contrast, quieter

than ever.

‘Lady in number twenty-five,’ screamed the landlady.—‘Thomas!’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Letter just been left for the gentleman in number nineteen. Boots at

the Lion left it. No answer.’

‘Letter for you, sir,’ said Thomas, depositing the letter on number

nineteen’s table.

‘For me?’ said number nineteen, turning from the window, out of which

he had been surveying the scene just described.

‘Yes, sir,’—(waiters always speak in hints, and never utter complete

sentences,)—‘yes, sir,—Boots at the Lion, sir,—Bar, sir,—Missis said

number nineteen, sir—Alexander Trott, Esq., sir?—Your card at the bar,

sir, I think, sir?’

‘My name _is_ Trott,’ replied number nineteen, breaking the seal. ‘You

may go, waiter.’ The waiter pulled down the window-blind, and then

pulled it up again—for a regular waiter must do something before he

leaves the room—adjusted the glasses on the side-board, brushed a place

that was _not_ dusty, rubbed his hands very hard, walked stealthily to

the door, and evaporated.

There was, evidently, something in the contents of the letter, of a

nature, if not wholly unexpected, certainly extremely disagreeable. Mr.

Alexander Trott laid it down, and took it up again, and walked about

the room on particular squares of the carpet, and even attempted,

though unsuccessfully, to whistle an air. It wouldn’t do. He threw

himself into a chair, and read the following epistle aloud:—