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Title: Paul Clifford — Complete

Author: Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton

Release date: November 26, 2004 [eBook #7735]
Most recently updated: February 26, 2021

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Bryan Sherman and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PAUL
CLIFFORD — COMPLETE ***

PAUL CLIFFORD

By Edward Bulwer-Lytton

CONTENTS

PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1840.
PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1848.

PAUL CLIFFORD.

CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.

TOMLINSONIANA

PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1840.
This novel so far differs from the other fictions by the same author that it
seeks to draw its interest rather from practical than ideal sources. Out of
some twelve Novels or Romances, embracing, however inadequately, a
great variety of scene and character,—from “Pelham” to the “Pilgrims of
the Rhine,” from “Rienzi” to the “Last Days of Pompeii,”—“Paul Clifford”
is the only one in which a robber has been made the hero, or the peculiar
phases of life which he illustrates have been brought into any prominent
description.
Without pausing to inquire what realm of manners or what order of crime
and sorrow is open to art, and capable of administering to the proper ends of
fiction, I may be permitted to observe that the present subject was selected,
and the Novel written, with a twofold object: First, to draw attention to two
errors in our penal institutions; namely, a vicious prison-discipline, and a
sanguinary criminal code,—the habit of corrupting the boy by the very
punishment that ought to redeem him, and then hanging the man at the first
occasion, as the easiest way of getting rid of our own blunders. Between the
example of crime which the tyro learns from the felons in the prison-yard,
and the horrible levity with which the mob gather round the drop at
Newgate, there is a connection which a writer may be pardoned for quitting
loftier regions of imagination to trace and to detect. So far this book is less
a picture of the king's highway than the law's royal road to the gallows,—a
satire on the short cut established between the House of Correction and the
Condemned Cell. A second and a lighter object in the novel of “Paul
Clifford” (and hence the introduction of a semi-burlesque or travesty in the
earlier chapters) was to show that there is nothing essentially different
between vulgar vice and fashionable vice, and that the slang of the one
circle is but an easy paraphrase of the cant of the other.
The Supplementary Essays, entitled “Tomlinsoniana,” which contain the
corollaries to various problems suggested in the Novel, have been restored
to the present edition.
CLIFTON, July 25, 1840.

PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1848.
Most men who with some earnestness of mind examine into the
mysteries of our social state will perhaps pass through that stage of self-
education in which this Novel was composed. The contrast between
conventional frauds, received as component parts of the great system of
civilization, and the less deceptive invasions of the laws which discriminate
the meum from the tuum, is tempting to a satire that is not without its
justice. The tragic truths which lie hid in what I may call the Philosophy of
Circumstance strike through our philanthropy upon our imagination. We see
masses of our fellow-creatures the victims of circumstances over which
they had no control,—contaminated in infancy by the example of parents,
their intelligence either extinguished or turned against them, according as
the conscience is stifled in ignorance or perverted to apologies for vice. A
child who is cradled in ignominy, whose schoolmaster is the felon, whose
academy is the House of Correction,—who breathes an atmosphere in
which virtue is poisoned, to which religion does not pierce,—becomes less
a responsible and reasoning human being than a wild beast which we suffer
to range in the wilderness, till it prowls near our homes, and we kill it in
self-defence.
In this respect the Novel of “Paul Clifford” is a loud cry to society to
amend the circumstance,—to redeem the victim. It is an appeal from
Humanity to Law. And in this, if it could not pretend to influence or guide
the temper of the times, it was at least a foresign of a coming change.
Between the literature of imagination, and the practical interests of a
people, there is a harmony as complete as it is mysterious. The heart of an
author is the mirror of his age. The shadow of the sun is cast on the still
surface of literature long before the light penetrates to law; but it is ever
from the sun that the shadow falls, and the moment we see the shadow we
may be certain of the light.
Since this work was written, society has been busy with the evils in
which it was then silently acquiescent. The true movement of the last fifteen
years has been the progress of one idea,—Social Reform. There it advances
with steady and noiseless march behind every louder question of

constitutional change. Let us do justice to our time. There have been periods
of more brilliant action on the destinies of States, but there is no time
visible in History in which there was so earnest and general a desire to
improve the condition of the great body of the people. In every circle of the
community that healthful desire is astir. It unites in one object men of
parties the most opposed; it affords the most attractive nucleus for public
meetings; it has cleansed the statute-book from blood; it is ridding the
world of the hangman. It animates the clergy of all sects in the remotest
districts; it sets the squire on improving cottages and parcelling out
allotments. Schools rise in every village; in books the lightest, the Grand
Idea colours the page, and bequeaths the moral. The Government alone
(despite the professions on which the present Ministry was founded)
remains unpenetrated by the common genius of the age; but on that
question, with all the subtleties it involves, and the experiments it demands,
—not indeed according to the dreams of an insane philosophy, but
according to the immutable laws which proportion the rewards of labour to
the respect for property,—a Government must be formed at last.
There is in this work a subtler question suggested, but not solved,—that
question which perplexes us in the generous ardour of our early youth,—
which, unsatisfactory as all metaphysics, we rather escape from than decide
as we advance in years; namely, make what laws we please, the man who
lives within the pale can be as bad as the man without. Compare the Paul
Clifford of the fiction with the William Brandon,—the hunted son with the
honoured father, the outcast of the law with the dispenser of the law, the
felon with the judge; and as at the last they front each other,—one on the
seat of justice, the other at the convict's bar,—who can lay his hand on his
heart and say that the Paul Clifford is a worse man than the William
Brandon.
There is no immorality in a truth that enforces this question; for it is
precisely those offences which society cannot interfere with that society
requires fiction to expose. Society is right, though youth is reluctant to
acknowledge it. Society can form only certain regulations necessary for its
self-defence,—the fewer the better,—punish those who invade, leave
unquestioned those who respect them. But fiction follows truth into all the
strongholds of convention; strikes through the disguise, lifts the mask, bares
the heart, and leaves a moral wherever it brands a falsehood.

Out of this range of ideas the mind of the Author has, perhaps, emerged
into an atmosphere which he believes to be more congenial to Art. But he
can no more regret that he has passed through it than he can regret that
while he dwelt there his heart, like his years, was young. Sympathy with the
suffering that seems most actual, indignation at the frauds which seem most
received as virtues, are the natural emotions of youth, if earnest. More
sensible afterwards of the prerogatives, as of the elements, of Art, the
Author, at least, seeks to escape where the man may not, and look on the
practical world through the serener one of the ideal.
With the completion of this work closed an era in the writer's self-
education. From “Pelham” to “Paul Clifford” (four fictions, all written at a
very early age), the Author rather observes than imagines; rather deals with
the ordinary surface of human life than attempts, however humbly, to soar
above it or to dive beneath. From depicting in “Paul Clifford” the errors of
society, it was almost the natural progress of reflection to pass to those
which swell to crime in the solitary human heart,—from the bold and open
evils that spring from ignorance and example, to track those that lie coiled
in the entanglements of refining knowledge and speculative pride. Looking
back at this distance of years, I can see as clearly as if mapped before me,
the paths which led across the boundary of invention from “Paul Clifford”
to “Eugene Aram.” And, that last work done, no less clearly can I see where
the first gleams from a fairer fancy broke upon my way, and rested on those
more ideal images which I sought with a feeble hand to transfer to the
“Pilgrims of the Rhine” and the “Last Days of Pompeii.” We authors, like
the Children in the Fable, track our journey through the maze by the
pebbles which we strew along the path. From others who wander after us,
they may attract no notice, or, if noticed, seem to them but scattered by the
caprice of chance; but we, when our memory would retrace our steps,
review in the humble stones the witnesses of our progress, the landmarks of
our way.
Kenelworth, 1848.

PAUL CLIFFORD.

CHAPTER I.

Say, ye oppressed by some fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose,
Who press the downy couch while slaves advance
With timid eye to read the distant glance,
Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease
To name the nameless, ever-new disease,
Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,
Which real pain and that alone can cure,
How would you bear in real pain to lie
Despised, neglected, left alone to die?
How would you bear to draw your latest breath
Where all that’s wretched paves the way to death?—Crabbe.

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at
occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which
swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along
the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that
struggled against the darkness. Through one of the obscurest quarters of
London, and among haunts little loved by the gentlemen of the police, a
man, evidently of the lowest orders, was wending his solitary way. He
stopped twice or thrice at different shops and houses of a description
correspondent with the appearance of the quartier in which they were
situated, and tended inquiry for some article or another which did not seem
easily to be met with. All the answers he received were couched in the
negative; and as he turned from each door he muttered to himself, in no
very elegant phraseology, his disappointment and discontent. At length, at
one house, the landlord, a sturdy butcher, after rendering the same reply the
inquirer had hitherto received, added, “But if this vill do as vell, Dummie, it
is quite at your sarvice!” Pausing reflectively for a moment, Dummie
responded that he thought the thing proffered might do as well; and
thrusting it into his ample pocket, he strode away with as rapid a motion as
the wind and the rain would allow. He soon came to a nest of low and dingy
buildings, at the entrance to which, in half-effaced characters, was written
“Thames Court.” Halting at the most conspicuous of these buildings, an inn
or alehouse, through the half-closed windows of which blazed out in ruddy
comfort the beams of the hospitable hearth, he knocked hastily at the door.

He was admitted by a lady of a certain age, and endowed with a comely
rotundity of face and person.
“Hast got it, Dummie?” said she, quickly, as she closed the door on the
guest.
“Noa, noa! not exactly; but I thinks as 'ow—”
“Pish, you fool!” cried the woman, interrupting him peevishly. “Vy, it is
no use desaving me. You knows you has only stepped from my boosing-ken
to another, and you has not been arter the book at all. So there's the poor
cretur a raving and a dying, and you—”
“Let I speak!” interrupted Dummie in his turn. “I tells you I vent first to
Mother Bussblone's, who, I knows, chops the whiners morning and evening
to the young ladies, and I axes there for a Bible; and she says, says she, 'I' as
only a “Companion to the Halter,” but you'll get a Bible, I think, at Master
Talkins', the cobbler as preaches.' So I goes to Master Talkins, and he says,
says he, 'I 'as no call for the Bible,—'cause vy? I 'as a call vithout; but
mayhap you'll be a getting it at the butcher's hover the vay,—'cause vy? The
butcher 'll be damned!' So I goes hover the vay, and the butcher says, says
he, 'I 'as not a Bible, but I 'as a book of plays bound for all the vorld just
like 'un, and mayhap the poor cretur may n't see the difference.' So I takes
the plays, Mrs. Margery, and here they be surely! And how's poor Judy?”
“Fearsome! she'll not be over the night, I'm a thinking.”
“Vell, I'll track up the dancers!”
So saying, Dummie ascended a doorless staircase, across the entrance of
which a blanket, stretched angularly from the wall to the chimney, afforded
a kind of screen; and presently he stood within a chamber which the dark
and painful genius of Crabbe might have delighted to portray. The walls
were whitewashed, and at sundry places strange figures and grotesque
characters had been traced by some mirthful inmate, in such sable outline as
the end of a smoked stick or the edge of a piece of charcoal is wont to
produce. The wan and flickering light afforded by a farthing candle gave a
sort of grimness and menace to these achievements of pictorial art,
especially as they more than once received embellishments from portraits of
Satan such as he is accustomed to be drawn. A low fire burned gloomily in
the sooty grate, and on the hob hissed “the still small voice” of an iron
kettle. On a round deal table were two vials, a cracked cup, a broken spoon
of some dull metal, and upon two or three mutilated chairs were scattered

various articles of female attire. On another table, placed below a high,
narrow, shutterless casement (athwart which, instead of a curtain, a checked
apron had been loosely hung, and now waved fitfully to and fro in the gusts
of wind that made easy ingress through many a chink and cranny), were a
looking-glass, sundry appliances of the toilet, a box of coarse rouge, a few
ornaments of more show than value, and a watch, the regular and calm click
of which produced that indescribably painful feeling which, we fear, many
of our readers who have heard the sound in a sick-chamber can easily
recall. A large tester-bed stood opposite to this table, and the looking-glass
partially reflected curtains of a faded stripe, and ever and anon (as the
position of the sufferer followed the restless emotion of a disordered mind)
glimpses of the face of one on whom Death was rapidly hastening. Beside
this bed now stood Dummie, a small, thin man dressed in a tattered plush
jerkin, from which the rain-drops slowly dripped, and with a thin, yellow,
cunning physiognomy grotesquely hideous in feature, but not positively
villanous in expression. On the other side of the bed stood a little boy of
about three years old, dressed as if belonging to the better classes, although
the garb was somewhat tattered and discoloured. The poor child trembled
violently, and evidently looked with a feeling of relief on the entrance of
Dummie. And now there slowly, and with many a phthisical sigh, heaved
towards the foot of the bed the heavy frame of the woman who had
accosted Dummie below, and had followed him, haud passibus aequis, to
the room of the sufferer; she stood with a bottle of medicine in her hand,
shaking its contents up and down, and with a kindly yet timid compassion
spread over a countenance crimsoned with habitual libations. This made the
scene,—save that on a chair by the bedside lay a profusion of long, glossy,
golden ringlets, which had been cut from the head of the sufferer when the
fever had begun to mount upwards, but which, with a jealousy that
portrayed the darling littleness of a vain heart, she had seized and insisted
on retaining near her; and save that, by the fire, perfectly inattentive to the
event about to take place within the chamber, and to which we of the biped
race attach so awful an importance, lay a large gray cat, curled in a ball, and
dozing with half-shut eyes, and ears that now and then denoted, by a gentle
inflection, the jar of a louder or nearer sound than usual upon her lethargic
senses. The dying woman did not at first attend to the entrance either of
Dummie or the female at the foot of the bed, but she turned herself round
towards the child, and grasping his arm fiercely, she drew him towards her,

and gazed on his terrified features with a look in which exhaustion and an
exceeding wanness of complexion were even horribly contrasted by the
glare and energy of delirium.
“If you are like him,” she muttered, “I will strangle you,—I will! Ay,
tremble, you ought to tremble when your mother touches you, or when he is
mentioned. You have his eyes, you have! Out with them, out,—the devil sits
laughing in them! Oh, you weep, do you, little one? Well, now, be still, my
love; be hushed! I would not harm thee! Harm—O God, he is my child after
all!” And at these words she clasped the boy passionately to her breast, and
burst into tears.
“Coom, now, coom,” said Dummie, soothingly; “take the stuff, Judith,
and then ve'll talk over the hurchin!”
The mother relaxed her grasp of the boy, and turning towards the speaker,
gazed at him for some moments with a bewildered stare; at length she
appeared slowly to remember him, and said, as she raised herself on one
hand, and pointed the other towards him with an inquiring gesture,—“Thou
hast brought the book?”
Dummie answered by lifting up the book he had brought from the honest
butcher's.
“Clear the room, then,” said the sufferer, with that air of mock command
so common to the insane. “We would be alone!”
Dummie winked at the good woman at the foot of the bed; and she
(though generally no easy person to order or to persuade) left, without
reluctance, the sick chamber.
“If she be a going to pray,” murmured our landlady (for that office did
the good matron hold), “I may indeed as well take myself off, for it's not
werry comfortable like to those who be old to hear all that 'ere!”
With this pious reflection, the hostess of the Mug,—so was the hostelry
called,—heavily descended the creaking stairs. “Now, man,” said the
sufferer, sternly, “swear that you will never reveal,—swear, I say! And by
the great God whose angels are about this night, if ever you break the oath,
I will come back and haunt you to your dying day!”
Dummie's face grew pale, for he was superstitiously affected by the
vehemence and the language of the dying woman, and he answered, as he
kissed the pretended Bible, that he swore to keep the secret, as much as he

knew of it, which, she must be sensible, he said, was very little. As he
spoke, the wind swept with a loud and sudden gust down the chimney, and
shook the roof above them so violently as to loosen many of the crumbling
tiles, which fell one after the other, with a crashing noise, on the pavement
below. Dummie started in affright; and perhaps his conscience smote him
for the trick he had played with regard to the false Bible. But the woman,
whose excited and unstrung nerves led her astray from one subject to
another with preternatural celerity, said, with an hysterical laugh, “See,
Dummie, they come in state for me; give me the cap—yonder—and bring
the looking-glass!”
Dummie obeyed; and the woman, as she in a low tone uttered something
about the unbecoming colour of the ribbons, adjusted the cap on her head,
and then, saying in a regretful and petulant voice, “Why should they have
cut off my hair? Such a disfigurement!” bade Dummie desire Mrs. Margery
once more to ascend to her.
Left alone with her child, the face of the wretched mother softened as she
regarded him, and all the levities and all the vehemences—if we may use
the word—which, in the turbulent commotion of her delirium, had been
stirred upward to the surface of her mind, gradually now sank as death
increased upon her, and a mother's anxiety rose to the natural level from
which it had been disturbed and abased. She took the child to her bosom,
and clasping him in her arms, which grew weaker with every instant, she
soothed him with the sort of chant which nurses sing over their untoward
infants; but her voice was cracked and hollow, and as she felt it was so, the
mother's eyes filled with tears. Mrs. Margery now reentered; and turning
towards the hostess with an impressive calmness of manner which
astonished and awed the person she addressed, the dying woman pointed to
the child and said,—
“You have been kind to me, very kind, and may God bless you for it! I
have found that those whom the world calls the worst are often the most
human. But I am not going to thank you as I ought to do, but to ask of you a
last and exceeding favour. Protect my child till he grows up. You have often
said you loved him,—you are childless yourself,—and a morsel of bread
and a shelter for the night, which is all I ask of you to give him, will not
impoverish more legitimate claimants.”

Poor Mrs. Margery, fairly sobbing, vowed she would be a mother to the
child, and that she would endeavour to rear him honestly; though a public-
house was not, she confessed, the best place for good examples.
“Take him,” cried the mother, hoarsely, as her voice, failing her strength,
rattled indistinctly, and almost died within her. “Take him, rear him as you
will, as you can; any example, any roof, better than—” Here the words were
inaudible. “And oh, may it be a curse and a—Give me the medicine; I am
dying.”
The hostess, alarmed, hastened to comply; but before she returned to the
bedside, the sufferer was insensible,—nor did she again recover speech or
motion. A low and rare moan only testified continued life, and within two
hours that ceased, and the spirit was gone. At that time our good hostess
was herself beyond the things of this outer world, having supported her
spirits during the vigils of the night with so many little liquid stimulants that
they finally sank into that torpor which generally succeeds excitement.
Taking, perhaps, advantage of the opportunity which the insensibility of the
hostess afforded him, Dummie, by the expiring ray of the candle that
burned in the death-chamber, hastily opened a huge box (which was
generally concealed under the bed, and contained the wardrobe of the
deceased), and turned with irreverent hand over the linens and the silks,
until quite at the bottom of the trunk he discovered some packets of letters;
these he seized, and buried in the conveniences of his dress. He then, rising
and replacing the box, cast a longing eye towards the watch on the toilet-
table, which was of gold; but he withdrew his gaze, and with a querulous
sigh observed to himself: “The old blowen kens of that, 'od rat her! but,
howsomever, I'll take this: who knows but it may be of sarvice. Tannies to-
day may be smash to-morrow!” [Meaning, what is of no value now may be
precious hereafter.] and he laid his coarse hand on the golden and silky
tresses we have described. “'T is a rum business, and puzzles I; but mum's
the word for my own little colquarren [neck].”
With this brief soliloquy Dummie descended the stairs and let himself out
of the house.

CHAPTER II.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlor splendours of that festive place.
Deserted Village.

There is little to interest in a narrative of early childhood, unless, indeed,
one were writing on education. We shall not, therefore, linger over the
infancy of the motherless boy left to the protection of Mrs. Margery
Lobkins, or, as she was sometimes familiarly called, Peggy, or Piggy, Lob.
The good dame, drawing a more than sufficient income from the profits of a
house which, if situated in an obscure locality, enjoyed very general and
lucrative repute, and being a lone widow without kith or kin, had no
temptation to break her word to the deceased, and she suffered the orphan to
wax in strength and understanding until the age of twelve,—a period at
which we are now about to reintroduce him to our readers.
The boy evinced great hardihood of temper, and no inconsiderable
quickness of intellect. In whatever he attempted, his success was rapid, and
a remarkable strength of limb and muscle seconded well the dictates of an
ambition turned, it must be confessed, rather to physical than mental
exertion. It is not to be supposed, however, that his boyish life passed in
unbroken tranquillity. Although Mrs. Lobkins was a good woman on the
whole, and greatly attached to her protegee, she was violent and rude in
temper, or, as she herself more flatteringly expressed it, “her feelings were
unkimmonly strong;” and alternate quarrel and reconciliation constituted
the chief occupations of the protegee's domestic life. As, previous to his
becoming the ward of Mrs. Lobkins, he had never received any other
appellation than “the child,” so the duty of christening him devolved upon
our hostess of the Mug; and after some deliberation, she blessed him with
the name of Paul. It was a name of happy omen, for it had belonged to Mrs.
Lobkins's grandfather, who had been three times transported and twice
hanged (at the first occurrence of the latter description, he had been restored
by the surgeons, much to the chagrin of a young anatomist who was to have
had the honour of cutting him up). The boy did not seem likely to merit the
distinguished appellation he bore, for he testified no remarkable

predisposition to the property of other people. Nay, although he sometimes
emptied the pockets of any stray visitor to the coffee-room of Mrs. Lobkins,
it appeared an act originating rather in a love of the frolic than a desire of
the profit; for after the plundered person had been sufficiently tormented by
the loss, haply, of such utilities as a tobacco-box or a handkerchief; after he
had, to the secret delight of Paul, searched every corner of the apartment,
stamped, and fretted, and exposed himself by his petulance to the bitter
objurgation of Mrs. Lobkins, our young friend would quietly and suddenly
contrive that the article missed should return of its own accord to the pocket
from which it had disappeared. And thus, as our readers have doubtless
experienced when they have disturbed the peace of a whole household for
the loss of some portable treasure which they themselves are afterwards
discovered to have mislaid, the unfortunate victim of Paul's honest
ingenuity, exposed to the collected indignation of the spectators, and
sinking from the accuser into the convicted, secretly cursed the unhappy lot
which not only vexed him with the loss of his property, but made it still
more annoying to recover it.
Whether it was that, on discovering these pranks, Mrs. Lobkins trembled
for the future bias of the address they displayed, or whether she thought that
the folly of thieving without gain required speedy and permanent
correction, we cannot decide; but the good lady became at last extremely
anxious to secure for Paul the blessings of a liberal education. The key of
knowledge (the art of reading) she had, indeed, two years prior to the
present date, obtained for him; but this far from satisfied her conscience,—
nay, she felt that if she could not also obtain for him the discretion to use it,
it would have been wise even to have withheld a key which the boy seemed
perversely to apply to all locks but the right one. In a word, she was
desirous that he should receive an education far superior to those whom he
saw around him; and attributing, like most ignorant persons, too great
advantages to learning, she conceived that in order to live as decorously as
the parson of the parish, it was only necessary to know as much Latin.
One evening in particular, as the dame sat by her cheerful fire, this source
of anxiety was unusually active in her mind, and ever and anon she directed
unquiet and restless glances towards Paul, who sat on a form at the opposite
corner of the hearth, diligently employed in reading the life and adventures
of the celebrated Richard Turpin. The form on which the boy sat was worn
to a glassy smoothness, save only in certain places, where some ingenious

idler or another had amused himself by carving sundry names, epithets, and
epigrammatic niceties of language. It is said that the organ of carving upon
wood is prominently developed on all English skulls; and the sagacious Mr.
Combe has placed this organ at the back of the head, in juxtaposition to that
of destructiveness, which is equally large among our countrymen, as is
notably evinced upon all railings, seats, temples, and other things-belonging
to other people.
Opposite to the fireplace was a large deal table, at which Dummie,
surnamed Dunnaker, seated near the dame, was quietly ruminating over a
glass of hollands and water. Farther on, at another table in the corner of the
room, a gentleman with a red wig, very rusty garments, and linen which
seemed as if it had been boiled in saffron, smoked his pipe, apart, silent, and
apparently plunged in meditation. This gentleman was no other than Mr.
Peter MacGrawler, the editor of a magnificent periodical entitled “The
Asiaeum,” which was written to prove that whatever is popular is
necessarily bad,—a valuable and recondite truth, which “The Asinaeum”
had satisfactorily demonstrated by ruining three printers and demolishing a
publisher. We need not add that Mr. MacGrawler was Scotch by birth, since
we believe it is pretty well known that all periodicals of this country have,
from time immemorial, been monopolized by the gentlemen of the Land of
Cakes. We know not how it may be the fashion to eat the said cakes in
Scotland, but here the good emigrators seem to like them carefully buttered
on both sides. By the side of the editor stood a large pewter tankard; above
him hung an engraving of the “wonderfully fat boar formerly in the
possession of Mr. Fattem, grazier.” To his left rose the dingy form of a thin,
upright clock in an oaken case; beyond the clock, a spit and a musket were
fastened in parallels to the wall. Below those twin emblems of war and
cookery were four shelves, containing plates of pewter and delf, and
terminating, centaur-like, in a sort of dresser. At the other side of these
domestic conveniences was a picture of Mrs. Lobkins, in a scarlet body and
a hat and plume. At the back of the fair hostess stretched the blanket we
have before mentioned. As a relief to the monotonous surface of this simple
screen, various ballads and learned legends were pinned to the blanket.
There might you read in verses, pathetic and unadorned, how—

“Sally loved a sailor lad
As fought with famous Shovel!”

There might you learn, if of two facts so instructive you were before
unconscious, that—
“Ben the toper loved his bottle,—Charley only loved the lasses!”
When of these and various other poetical effusions you were somewhat
wearied, the literary fragments in bumbler prose afforded you equal
edification and delight. There might you fully enlighten yourself as to the
“Strange and Wonderful News from Kensington, being a most full and true
Relation how a Maid there is supposed to have been carried away by an
Evil Spirit on Wednesday, 15th of April last, about Midnight.” There, too,
no less interesting and no less veracious, was that uncommon anecdote
touching the chief of many-throned powers entitled “The Divell of Mascon;
or, the true Relation of the Chief Things which an Unclean Spirit did and
said at Mascon, in Burgundy, in the house of one Mr. Francis Pereaud: now
made English by one that hath a Particular Knowledge of the Truth of the
Story.”
Nor were these materials for Satanic history the only prosaic and faithful
chronicles which the bibliothecal blanket afforded. Equally wonderful, and
equally indisputable, was the account of “a young lady, the daughter of a
duke, with three legs and the face of a porcupine.” Nor less so “The Awful
Judgment of God upon Swearers, as exemplified in the case of John Stiles,
who Dropped down dead after swearing a Great Oath; and on stripping the
unhappy man they found 'Swear not at all' written on the tail of his shirt!”
Twice had Mrs. Lobkins heaved a long sigh, as her eyes turned from Paul
to the tranquil countenance of Dummie Dunnaker, and now, re-settling
herself in her chair, as a motherly anxiety gathered over her visage,—
“Paul, my ben cull,” said she, “what gibberish hast got there?”
“Turpin, the great highwayman!” answered the young student, without
lifting his eyes from the page, through which he was spelling his instructive
way.
“Oh! he be's a chip of the right block, dame!” said Mr. Dunnaker, as he
applied his pipe to an illumined piece of paper. “He'll ride a 'oss foaled by a
hacorn yet, I varrants!”
To this prophecy the dame replied only with a look of indignation; and
rocking herself to and fro in her huge chair, she remained for some
moments in silent thought. At last she again wistfully eyed the hopeful boy,

and calling him to her side, communicated some order, in a dejected
whisper. Paul, on receiving it, disappeared behind the blanket, and presently
returned with a bottle and a wineglass. With an abstracted gesture, and an
air that betokened continued meditation, the good dame took the inspiring
cordial from the hand of her youthful cupbearer,—
“And ere a man had power to say 'Behold!' The jaws of Lobkins had
devoured it up: So quick bright things come to confusion!”
The nectarean beverage seemed to operate cheerily on the matron's
system; and placing her hand on the boy's curly head, she said (like
Andromache, dakruon gelasasa, or, as Scott hath it, “With a smile on her
cheek, but a tear in her eye”),—
“Paul, thy heart be good, thy heart be good; thou didst not spill a drop of
the tape! Tell me, my honey, why didst thou lick Tom Tobyson?”
“Because,” answered Paul, “he said as how you ought to have been
hanged long ago.”
“Tom Tobyson is a good-for-nought,” returned the dame, “and deserves
to shove the tumbler [Be whipped at the cart's tail]; I but oh, my child, be
not too venturesome in taking up the sticks for a blowen,—it has been the
ruin of many a man afore you; and when two men goes to quarrel for a
'oman, they doesn't know the natur' of the thing they quarrels about. Mind
thy latter end, Paul, and reverence the old, without axing what they has
been before they passed into the wale of years. Thou mayst get me my pipe,
Paul,—it is upstairs, under the pillow.”
While Paul was accomplishing this errand, the lady of the Mug, fixing
her eyes upon Mr. Dunnaker, said, “Dummie, Dummie, if little Paul should
come to be scragged!”
“Whish!” muttered Dummie, glancing over his shoulder at MacGrawler;
“mayhap that gemman—” Here his voice became scarcely audible even to
Mrs. Lobkins; but his whisper seemed to imply an insinuation that the
illustrious editor of “The Asinaeum” might be either an informer, or one of
those heroes on whom an informer subsists.
Mrs. Lobkins's answer, couched in the same key, appeared to satisfy
Dunnaker, for with a look of great contempt he chucked up his head and
said, “Oho! that be all, be it!”

Paul here reappeared with the pipe; and the dame, having filled the tube,
leaned forward, and lighted the Virginian weed from the blower of Mr.
Dunnaker. As in this interesting occupation the heads of the hostess and the
guest approached each other, the glowing light playing cheerily on the
countenance of each, there was an honest simplicity in the picture that
would have merited the racy and vigorous genius of a Cruikshank. As soon
as the Promethean spark had been fully communicated to the lady's tube,
Mrs. Lobkins, still possessed by the gloomy idea she had conjured up,
repeated,—
“Ah, Dummie, if little Paul should be scragged!”
Dummie, withdrawing the pipe from his mouth, heaved a sympathizing
puff, but remained silent; and Mrs. Lobkins, turning to Paul, who stood with
mouth open and ears erect at this boding ejaculation, said,—
“Dost think, Paul, they'd have the heart to hang thee?”
“I think they'd have the rope, dame!” returned the youth.
“But you need not go for to run your neck into the noose!” said the
matron; and then, inspired by the spirit of moralizing, she turned round to
the youth, and gazing upon his attentive countenance, accosted him with the
following admonitions:—
“Mind thy kittychism, child, and reverence old age. Never steal,
'specially when any one be in the way. Never go snacks with them as be
older than you,—'cause why? The older a cove be, the more he cares for
hisself, and the less for his partner. At twenty, we diddles the public; at
forty, we diddles our cronies! Be modest, Paul, and stick to your sitivation
in life. Go not with fine tobymen, who burn out like a candle wot has a thief
in it,—all flare, and gone in a whiffy! Leave liquor to the aged, who can't
do without it. Tape often proves a halter, and there be's no ruin like blue
ruin! Read your Bible, and talk like a pious 'un. People goes more by your
words than your actions. If you wants what is not your own, try and do
without it; and if you cannot do without it, take it away by insinivation, not
bluster. They as swindles does more and risks less than they as robs; and if
you cheats toppingly, you may laugh at the topping cheat [Gallows]. And
now go play.”
Paul seized his hat, but lingered; and the dame, guessing at the
signification of the pause, drew forth and placed in the boy's hand the sum
of five halfpence and one farthing.

“There, boy,” quoth she, and she stroked his head fondly when she spoke,
“you does right not to play for nothing,—it's loss of time; but play with
those as be less than yoursel', and then you can go for to beat 'em if they
says you go for to cheat!”
Paul vanished; and the dame, laying her hand on Dummie's shoulder,
said,—
“There be nothing like a friend in need, Dummie; and somehow or other,
I thinks as how you knows more of the horigin of that 'ere lad than any of
us!”
“Me, dame!” exclaimed Dummie, with a broad gaze of astonishment.
“Ah, you! you knows as how the mother saw more of you just afore she
died than she did of 'ere one of us. Noar, now, noar, now! Tell us all about
'un. Did she steal 'un, think ye?”
“Lauk, Mother Margery, dost think I knows? Vot put such a crotchet in
your 'ead?”
“Well!” said the dame, with a disappointed sigh, “I always thought as
how you were more knowing about it than you owns. Dear, dear, I shall
never forgit the night when Judith brought the poor cretur here,—you
knows she had been some months in my house afore ever I see'd the urchin;
and when she brought it, she looked so pale and ghostly that I had not the
heart to say a word, so I stared at the brat, and it stretched out its wee little
hands to me. And the mother frowned at it, and throwed it into my lap.”
“Ah! she was a hawful voman, that 'ere!” said Dummie, shaking his head.
“But howsomever, the hurchin fell into good 'ands; for I be's sure you 'as
been a better mother to 'un than the raal 'un!”
“I was always a fool about childer,” rejoined Mrs. Lobkins; “and I thinks
as how little Paul was sent to be a comfort to my latter end! Fill the glass,
Dummie.”
“I 'as heard as 'ow Judith was once blowen to a great lord!” said
Dummie.
“Like enough!” returned Mrs. Lobkins,—“like enough! She was always a
favourite of mine, for she had a spuret [spirit] as big as my own; and she
paid her rint like a decent body, for all she was out of her sinses, or 'nation
like it.”

“Ay, I knows as how you liked her,—'cause vy? 'T is not your vay to let a
room to a voman! You says as how 't is not respectable, and you only likes
men to wisit the Mug!”
“And I doesn't like all of them as comes here!” answered the dame,
—“'specially for Paul's sake; but what can a lone 'oman do? Many's the
gentleman highwayman wot comes here, whose money is as good as the
clerk's of the parish. And when a bob [shilling] is in my hand, what does it
sinnify whose hand it was in afore?”
“That's what I call being sinsible and practical,” said Dummie,
approvingly. “And after all, though you 'as a mixture like, I does not know a
halehouse where a cove is better entertained, nor meets of a Sunday more
illegant company, than the Mug!”
Here the conversation, which the reader must know had been sustained in
a key inaudible to a third person, received a check from Mr. Peter
MacGrawler, who, having finished his revery and his tankard, now rose to
depart. First, however, approaching Mrs. Lobkins, he observed that he had
gone on credit for some days, and demanded the amount of his bill.
Glancing towards certain chalk hieroglyphics inscribed on the wall at the
other side of the fireplace, the dame answered that Mr. MacGrawler was
indebted to her for the sum of one shilling and ninepence three farthings.
After a short preparatory search in his waistcoat pockets, the critic hunted
into one corner a solitary half-crown, and having caught it between his
finger and thumb, he gave it to Mrs. Lobkins and requested change.
As soon as the matron felt her hand anointed with what has been called
by some ingenious Johnson of St. Giles's “the oil of palms,” her
countenance softened into a complacent smile; and when she gave the
required change to Mr. MacGrawler, she graciously hoped as how he would
recommend the Mug to the public.
“That you may be sure of,” said the editor of “The Asinaeum.” “There is
not a place where I am so much at home.”
With that the learned Scotsman buttoned his coat and went his way.
“How spiteful the world be!” said Mrs. Lobkins, after a pause, “'specially
if a 'oman keeps a fashionable sort of a public! When Judith died, Joe, the
dog's-meat man, said I war all the better for it, and that she left I a treasure
to bring up the urchin. One would think a thumper makes a man richer,

—'cause why? Every man thumps! I got nothing more than a watch and ten
guineas when Judy died, and sure that scarce paid for the burrel [burial].”
“You forgits the two quids [Guineas] I giv' you for the hold box of rags,
—much of a treasure I found there!” said Dummie, with sycophantic
archness.
“Ay,” cried the dame, laughing, “I fancies you war not pleased with the
bargain. I thought you war too old a ragmerchant to be so free with the
blunt; howsomever, I supposes it war the tinsel petticoat as took you in!”
“As it has mony a viser man than the like of I,” rejoined Dummie, who to
his various secret professions added the ostensible one of a rag-merchant
and dealer in broken glass.
The recollection of her good bargain in the box of rags opened our
landlady's heart.
“Drink, Dummie,” said she, good-humouredly,—“drink; I scorns to score
lush to a friend.”
Dummie expressed his gratitude, refilled his glass, and the hospitable
matron, knocking out from her pipe the dying ashes, thus proceeded:
“You sees, Dummie, though I often beats the boy, I loves him as much as
if I war his raal mother,—I wants to make him an honour to his country, and
an ixciption to my family!”
“Who all flashed their ivories at Surgeons' Hall!” added the metaphorical
Dummie.
“True!” said the lady; “they died game, and I be n't ashamed of 'em. But I
owes a duty to Paul's mother, and I wants Paul to have a long life. I would
send him to school, but you knows as how the boys only corrupt one
another. And so, I should like to meet with some decent man, as a tutor, to
teach the lad Latin and vartue!”
“My eyes!” cried Dummie; aghast at the grandeur of this desire.
“The boy is 'cute enough, and he loves reading,” continued the dame;
“but I does not think the books he gets hold of will teach him the way to
grow old.”
“And 'ow came he to read, anyhows?”
“Ranting Rob, the strolling player, taught him his letters, and said he'd a
deal of janius.”

“And why should not Ranting Rob tache the boy Latin and vartue?”
“'Cause Ranting Rob, poor fellow, was lagged [Transported for burglary]
for doing a panny!” answered the dame, despondently.
There was a long silence; it was broken by Mr. Dummie. Slapping his
thigh with the gesticulatory vehemence of a Ugo Foscolo, that gentleman
exclaimed,—
“I 'as it,—I 'as thought of a tutor for leetle Paul!”
“Who's that? You quite frightens me; you 'as no marcy on my narves,”
said the dame, fretfully.
“Vy, it be the gemman vot writes,” said Dummie, putting his finger to his
nose,—“the gemman vot paid you so flashly!”
“What! the Scotch gemman?”
“The werry same!” returned Dummie.
The dame turned in her chair and refilled her pipe. It was evident from
her manner that Mr. Dunnaker's suggestion had made an impression on her.
But she recognized two doubts as to its feasibility: one, whether the
gentleman proposed would be adequate to the task; the other, whether he
would be willing to undertake it.
In the midst of her meditations on this matter, the dame was interrupted
by the entrance of certain claimants on her hospitality; and Dummie soon
after taking his leave, the suspense of Mrs. Lobkins's mind touching the
education of little Paul remained the whole of that day and night utterly
unrelieved.

CHAPTER III.
I own that I am envious of the pleasure you will have in finding yourself
more learned than other boys,—even those who are older than yourself.
What honour this will do you! What distinctions, what applauses will
follow wherever you go!
—LORD CHESTERFIELD: Letters to his Son.

Example, my boy,—example is worth a thousand precepts.
—MAXIMILIAN SOLEMN.

Tarpeia was crushed beneath the weight of ornaments. The language of
the vulgar is a sort of Tarpeia. We have therefore relieved it of as many
gems as we were able, and in the foregoing scene presented it to the gaze of
our readers simplex munditiis. Nevertheless, we could timidly imagine
some gentler beings of the softer sex rather displeased with the tone of the
dialogue we have given, did we not recollect how delighted they are with
the provincial barbarities of the sister kingdom, whenever they meet them
poured over the pages of some Scottish story-teller. As, unhappily for
mankind, broad Scotch is not yet the universal language of Europe, we
suppose our countrywomen will not be much more unacquainted with the
dialect of their own lower orders than with that which breathes nasal
melodies over the paradise of the North.
It was the next day, at the hour of twilight, when Mrs. Margery Lobkins,
after a satisfactory tete-a-tete with Mr. MacGrawler, had the happiness of
thinking that she had provided a tutor for little Paul. The critic having
recited to her a considerable portion of Propria qum Maribus, the good lady
had no longer a doubt of his capacities for teaching; and on the other hand,
when Mrs. Lobkins entered on the subject of remuneration, the Scotsman
professed himself perfectly willing to teach any and every thing that the
most exacting guardian could require. It was finally settled that Paul should
attend Mr. MacGrawler two hours a day; that Mr. MacGrawler should be
entitled to such animal comforts of meat and drink as the Mug afforded,
and, moreover, to the weekly stipend of two shillings and sixpence,—the
shillings for instruction in the classics, and the sixpence for all other
humanities; or, as Mrs. Lobkins expressed it, “two bobs for the Latin, and a
site for the vartue.”

Let not thy mind, gentle reader, censure us for a deviation from
probability in making so excellent and learned a gentleman as Mr. Peter
MacGrawler the familiar guest of the lady of the Mug. First, thou must
know that our story is cast in a period antecedent to the present, and one in
which the old jokes against the circumstances of author and of critic had
their foundation in truth; secondly, thou must know that by some curious
concatenation of circumstances neither bailiff nor bailiff's man was ever
seen within the four walls continent of Mrs. Margery Lobkins; thirdly, the
Mug was nearer than any other house of public resort to the abode of the
critic; fourthly, it afforded excellent porter; and fifthly, O reader, thou dost
Mrs. Margery Lobkins a grievous wrong if thou supposest that her door was
only open to those mercurial gentry who are afflicted with the morbid
curiosity to pry into the mysteries of their neighbours' pockets,—other
visitors, of fair repute, were not unoften partakers of the good matron's
hospitality; although it must be owned that they generally occupied the
private room in preference to the public one. And sixthly, sweet reader (we
grieve to be so prolix), we would just hint to thee that Mr. MacGrawler was
one of those vast-minded sages who, occupied in contemplating morals in
the great scale, do not fritter down their intellects by a base attention to
minute details. So that if a descendant of Langfanger did sometimes cross
the venerable Scot in his visit to the Mug, the apparition did not revolt that
benevolent moralist so much as, were it not for the above hint, thy
ignorance might lead thee to imagine.
It is said that Athenodorus the Stoic contributed greatly by his
conversation to amend the faults of Augustus, and to effect the change
visible in that fortunate man after his accession to the Roman empire. If this
be true, it may throw a new light on the character of Augustus, and instead
of being the hypocrite, he was possibly the convert. Certain it is that there
are few vices which cannot be conquered by wisdom; and yet, melancholy
to relate, the instructions of Peter MacGrawler produced but slender
amelioration in the habits of the youthful Paul. That ingenious stripling had,
we have already seen, under the tuition of Ranting Bob, mastered the art of
reading,—nay, he could even construct and link together certain curious
pot-hooks, which himself and Mrs. Lobkins were wont graciously to term
“writing.” So far, then, the way of MacGrawler was smoothed and prepared.
But, unhappily, all experienced teachers allow that the main difficulty is
not to learn, but to unlearn; and the mind of Paul was already occupied by a

vast number of heterogeneous miscellanies which stoutly resisted the
ingress either of Latin or of virtue. Nothing could wean him from an
ominous affection for the history of Richard Turpin; it was to him what, it
has been said, the Greek authors should be to the Academician,—a study by
day, and a dream by night. He was docile enough during lessons, and
sometimes even too quick in conception for the stately march of Mr.
MacGrawler's intellect. But it not unfrequently happened that when that
gentleman attempted to rise, he found himself, like the Lady in “Comus,”
adhering to—

“A venomed seat Smeared with gums of glutinous heat;”

or his legs had been secretly united under the table, and the tie was not to
be broken without overthrow to the superior powers. These, and various
other little sportive machinations wherewith Paul was wont to relieve the
monotony of literature, went far to disgust the learned critic with his
undertaking. But “the tape” and the treasury of Mrs. Lobkins re-smoothed,
as it were, the irritated bristles of his mind, and he continued his labours
with this philosophical reflection: “Why fret myself? If a pupil turns out
well, it is clearly to the credit of his master; if not, to the disadvantage of
himself.” Of course, a similar suggestion never forced itself into the mind
of Dr. Keate [A celebrated principal of Eton]. At Eton the very soul of the
honest headmaster is consumed by his zeal for the welfare of the little
gentlemen in stiff cravats.
But to Paul, who was predestined to enjoy a certain quantum of
knowledge, circumstances happened, in the commencement of the second
year of his pupilage, which prodigiously accelerated the progress of his
scholastic career.
At the apartment of MacGrawler, Paul one morning encountered Mr.
Augustus Tomlinson, a young man of great promise, who pursued the
peaceful occupation of chronicling in a leading newspaper “Horrid
Murders,” “Enormous Melons,” and “Remarkable Circumstances.” This
gentleman, having the advantage of some years' seniority over Paul, was
slow in unbending his dignity; but observing at last the eager and respectful
attention with which the stripling listened to a most veracious detail of five
men being inhumanly murdered in Canterbury Cathedral by the Reverend
Zedekiah Fooks Barnacle, he was touched by the impression he had created,

and shaking Paul graciously by the hand, he told him there was a deal of
natural shrewdness in his countenance, and that Mr. Augustus Tomlinson
did not doubt but that he (Paul) might have the honour to be murdered
himself one of these days. “You understand me,” continued Mr. Augustus,
—“I mean murdered in effigy,—assassinated in type,—while you yourself,
unconscious of the circumstance, are quietly enjoying what you imagine to
be your existence. We never kill common persons,—to say truth, our chief
spite is against the Church; we destroy bishops by wholesale. Sometimes,
indeed, we knock off a leading barrister or so, and express the anguish of
the junior counsel at a loss so destructive to their interests. But that is only a
stray hit, and the slain barrister often lives to become Attorney-General,
renounce Whig principles, and prosecute the very Press that destroyed him.
Bishops are our proper food; we send them to heaven on a sort of flying
griffin, of which the back is an apoplexy, and the wings are puffs. The
Bishop of—-, whom we despatched in this manner the other day, being
rather a facetious personage, wrote to remonstrate with us thereon,
observing that though heaven was a very good translation for a bishop, yet
that in such cases he preferred 'the original to the translation.' As we murder
bishop, so is there another class of persons whom we only afflict with
lethiferous diseases. This latter tribe consists of his Majesty and his
Majesty's ministers. Whenever we cannot abuse their measures, we always
fall foul on their health. Does the king pass any popular law, we
immediately insinuate that his constitution is on its last legs. Does the
minister act like a man of sense, we instantly observe, with great regret, that
his complexion is remarkably pale. There is one manifest advantage in
diseasing people, instead of absolutely destroying them: the public may
flatly contradict us in one case, but it never can in the other; it is easy to
prove that a man is alive, but utterly impossible to prove that he is in health.
What if some opposing newspaper take up the cudgels in his behalf, and
assert that the victim of all Pandora's complaints, whom we send tottering to
the grave, passes one half the day in knocking up a 'distinguished company'
at a shooting-party, and the other half in outdoing the same 'distinguished
company' after dinner? What if the afflicted individual himself write us
word that he never was better in his life? We have only mysteriously to
shake our heads and observe that to contradict is not to prove, that it is little
likely that our authority should have been mistaken, and (we are very fond
of an historical comparison), beg our readers to remember that when

Cardinal Richelieu was dying, nothing enraged him so much as hinting that
he was ill. In short, if Horace is right, we are the very princes of poets; for I
dare say, Mr. MacGrawler, that you—and you, too, my little gentleman,
perfectly remember the words of the wise old Roman,—

“'Ille per extentum funem mihi posse videtur
Ire poeta, meum qui pectus inaniter angit,
Irritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet.'”

[“He appears to me to be, to the fullest extent, a poet who
airily torments my breast, irritates, soothes, fills it with
unreal terrors.”]

Having uttered this quotation with considerable self-complacency, and
thereby entirely completed his conquest over Paul, Mr. Augustus
Tomlinson, turning to MacGrawler, concluded his business with that
gentleman,—which was of a literary nature, namely, a joint composition
against a man who, being under five-and-twenty, and too poor to give
dinners, had had the impudence to write a sacred poem. The critics were
exceedingly bitter at this; and having very little to say against the poem, the
Court journals called the author a “coxcomb,” and the liberal ones “the son
of a pantaloon!”
There was an ease, a spirit, a life about Mr. Augustus Tomlinson, which
captivated the senses of our young hero; then, too, he was exceedingly
smartly attired,—wore red heels and a bag,—had what seemed to Paul quite
the air of a “man of fashion;” and, above all, he spouted the Latin with a
remarkable grace!
Some days afterwards, MacGrawler sent our hero to Mr. Tomlinson's
lodgings, with his share of the joint abuse upon the poet.
Doubly was Paul's reverence for Mr. Augustus Tomlinson increased by a
sight of his abode. He found him settled in a polite part of the town, in a
very spruce parlour, the contents of which manifested the universal genius
of the inhabitant. It hath been objected unto us, by a most discerning critic,
that we are addicted to the drawing of “universal geniuses.” We plead Not
Guilty in former instances; we allow the soft impeachment in the instance
of Mr. Augustus Tomlinson. Over his fireplace were arranged boxing-
gloves and fencing foils; on his table lay a cremona and a flageolet. On one
side of the wall were shelves containing the Covent Garden Magazine,
Burn's Justice, a pocket Horace, a Prayer-Book, Excerpta ex Tacito, a
volume of plays, Philosophy made Easy, and a Key to all Knowledge.

Furthermore, there were on another table a riding-whip and a driving-whip
and a pair of spurs, and three guineas, with a little mountain of loose silver.
Mr. Augustus was a tall, fair young man, with a freckled complexion, green
eyes and red eyelids, a smiling mouth, rather under-jawed, a sharp nose, and
a prodigiously large pair of ears. He was robed in a green damask dressing-
gown; and he received the tender Paul most graciously.
There was something very engaging about our hero. He was not only
good-looking, and frank in aspect, but he had that appearance of briskness
and intellect which belongs to an embryo rogue. Mr. Augustus Tomlinson
professed the greatest regard for him,—asked him if he could box, made
him put on a pair of gloves, and very condescendingly knocked him down
three times successively. Next he played him, both upon his flageolet and
his cremona, some of the most modish airs. Moreover, he sang him a little
song of his own composing. He then, taking up the driving-whip, flanked a
fly from the opposite wall, and throwing himself (naturally fatigued with
his numerous exertions) on his sofa, observed, in a careless tone, that he
and his friend Lord Dunshunner were universally esteemed the best whips
in the metropolis. “I,” quoth Mr. Augustus, “am the best on the road; but my
lord is a devil at turning a corner.”
Paul, who had hitherto lived too unsophisticated a life to be aware of the
importance of which a lord would naturally be in the eyes of Mr. Augustus
Tomlinson, was not so much struck with the grandeur of the connection as
the murderer of the journals had expected. He merely observed, by way of
compliment, that Mr. Augustus and his companion seemed to be “rolling
kiddies.”
A little displeased with this metaphorical remark,—for it may be
observed that “rolling kiddy” is, among the learned in such lore, the
customary expression for “a smart thief,”—the universal Augustus took that
liberty to which by his age and station, so much superior to those of Paul,
he imagined himself entitled, and gently reproved our hero for his
indiscriminate use of flash phrases.
“A lad of your parts,” said he,—“for I see you are clever, by your eye,—
ought to be ashamed of using such vulgar expressions. Have a nobler spirit,
a loftier emulation, Paul, than that which distinguishes the little ragamuffins
of the street. Know that in this country genius and learning carry everything

before them; and if you behave yourself properly, you may, one day or
another, be as high in the world as myself.”
At this speech Paul looked wistfully round the spruce parlour, and
thought what a fine thing it would be to be lord of such a domain, together
with the appliances of flageolet and cremona, boxing-gloves, books, fly-
flanking flagellum, three guineas, with the little mountain of silver, and the
reputation—shared only with Lord Dunshunner—of being the best whip in
London.
“Yes,” continued Tomlinson, with conscious pride, “I owe my rise to
myself. Learning is better than house and land. 'Doctrina sed vim,' etc. You
know what old Horace says? Why, sir, you would not believe it; but I was
the man who killed his Majesty the King of Sardinia in our yesterday's
paper. Nothing is too arduous for genius. Fag hard, my boy, and you may
rival (for the thing, though difficult, may not be impossible) Augustus
Tomlinson!”
At the conclusion of this harangue, a knock at the door being heard, Paul
took his departure, and met in the hall a fine-looking person dressed in the
height of the fashion, and wearing a pair of prodigiously large buckles in his
shoes. Paul looked, and his heart swelled. “I may rival,” thought he,
—“those were his very words,—I may rival (for the thing, though difficult,
is not impossible) Augustus Tomlinson!” Absorbed in meditation, he went
silently home. The next day the memoirs of the great Turpin were
committed to the flames, and it was noticeable that henceforth Paul
observed a choicer propriety of words, that he assumed a more refined air
of dignity, and that he paid considerably more attention than heretofore to
the lessons of Mr. Peter MacGrawler. Although it must be allowed that our
young hero's progress in the learned languages was not astonishing, yet an
early passion for reading, growing stronger and stronger by application,
repaid him at last with a tolerable knowledge of the mother-tongue. We
must, however, add that his more favourite and cherished studies were
scarcely of that nature which a prudent preceptor would have greatly
commended. They lay chiefly among novels, plays, and poetry,—which last
he affected to that degree that he became somewhat of a poet himself.
Nevertheless these literary avocations, profitless as they seemed, gave a
certain refinement to his tastes which they were not likely otherwise to have
acquired at the Mug; and while they aroused his ambition to see something

of the gay life they depicted, they imparted to his temper a tone of
enterprise and of thoughtless generosity which perhaps contributed greatly
to counteract those evil influences towards petty vice to which the examples
around him must have exposed his tender youth. But, alas! a great
disappointment to Paul's hope of assistance and companionship in his
literary labours befell him. Mr. Augustus Tomlinson, one bright morning,
disappeared, leaving word with his numerous friends that he was going to
accept a lucrative situation in the North of England. Notwithstanding the
shock this occasioned to the affectionate heart and aspiring temper of our
friend Paul, it abated not his ardour in that field of science which it seemed
that the distinguished absentee had so successfully cultivated. By little and
little, he possessed himself (in addition to the literary stores we have
alluded to) of all it was in the power of the wise and profound Peter
MacGrawler to impart unto him; and at the age of sixteen he began (oh the
presumption of youth!) to fancy himself more learned than his master.

CHAPTER IV.
He had now become a young man of extreme fashion, and as much
repandu in society as the utmost and most exigent coveter of London
celebrity could desire. He was, of course, a member of the clubs, etc. He
was, in short, of that oft-described set before whom all minor beaux sink
into insignificance, or among whom they eventually obtain a subaltern
grade, by a sacrifice of a due portion of their fortune.—Almack's Revisited.
By the soul of the great Malebranche, who made “A Search after Truth,”
and discovered everything beautiful except that which he searched for,—by
the soul of the great Malebranche, whom Bishop Berkeley found suffering
under an inflammation in the lungs, and very obligingly talked to death (an
instance of conversational powers worthy the envious emulation of all great
metaphysicians and arguers),—by the soul of that illustrious man, it is
amazing to us what a number of truths there are broken up into little
fragments, and scattered here and there through the world. What a
magnificent museum a man might make of the precious minerals, if he
would but go out with his basket under his arm, and his eyes about him! We
ourselves picked up this very day a certain small piece of truth, with which
we propose to explain to thee, fair reader, a sinister turn in the fortunes of
Paul.
“Wherever,” says a living sage, “you see dignity, you may be sure there
is expense requisite to support it.” So was it with Paul. A young gentleman
who was heir-presumptive to the Mug, and who enjoyed a handsome person
with a cultivated mind, was necessarily of a certain station of society, and
an object of respect in the eyes of the manoeuvring mammas of the vicinity
of Thames Court. Many were the parties of pleasure to Deptford and
Greenwich which Paul found himself compelled to attend; and we need not
refer our readers to novels upon fashionable life to inform them that in good
society the gentlemen always pay for the ladies! Nor was this all the
expense to which his expectations exposed him. A gentleman could scarcely
attend these elegant festivities without devoting some little attention to his
dress; and a fashionable tailor plays the deuce with one's yearly allowance.

We who reside, be it known to you, reader, in Little Brittany are not very
well acquainted with the manners of the better classes in St. James's. But
there was one great vice among the fine people about Thames Court which
we make no doubt does not exist anywhere else,—namely, these fine people
were always in an agony to seem finer than they were; and the more airs a
gentleman or a lady gave him or her self, the more important they became.
Joe, the dog's-meat man, had indeed got into society entirely from a knack
of saying impertinent things to everybody; and the smartest exclusives of
the place, who seldom visited any one where there was not a silver teapot,
used to think Joe had a great deal in him because he trundled his cart with
his head in the air, and one day gave the very beadle of the parish “the cut
direct.”
Now this desire to be so exceedingly fine not only made the society about
Thames Court unpleasant, but expensive. Every one vied with his
neighbour; and as the spirit of rivalry is particularly strong in youthful
bosoms, we can scarcely wonder that it led Paul into many extravagances.
The evil of all circles that profess to be select is high play; and the reason is
obvious: persons who have the power to bestow on another an advantage he
covets would rather sell it than give it; and Paul, gradually increasing in
popularity and ton, found himself, in spite of his classical education, no
match for the finished, or, rather, finishing gentlemen with whom he began
to associate. His first admittance into the select coterie of these men of the
world was formed at the house of Bachelor Bill, a person of great notoriety
among that portion of the elite which emphatically entitles itself “Flash.”
However, as it is our rigid intention in this work to portray at length no
episodical characters whatsoever, we can afford our readers but a slight and
rapid sketch of Bachelor Bill.
This personage was of Devonshire extraction. His mother had kept the
pleasantest public-house in town, and at her death Bill succeeded to her
property and popularity. All the young ladies in the neighbourhood of
Fiddler's Row, where he resided, set their caps at him: all the most
fashionable prigs, or tobymen, sought to get him into their set; and the most
crack blowen in London would have given her ears at any time for a loving
word from Bachelor Bill. But Bill was a longheaded, prudent fellow, and of
a remarkably cautious temperament. He avoided marriage and friendship;
namely, he was neither plundered nor cornuted. He was a tall, aristocratic
cove, of a devilish neat address, and very gallant, in an honest way, to the

blowens. Like most single men, being very much the gentleman so far as
money was concerned, he gave them plenty of “feeds,” and from time to
time a very agreeable hop. His bingo [Brandy] was unexceptionable; and as
for his stark-naked [Gin], it was voted the most brilliant thing in nature. In a
very short time, by his blows-out and his bachelorship,—for single men
always arrive at the apex of haut ton more easily than married,—he became
the very glass of fashion; and many were the tight apprentices, even at the
west end of the town, who used to turn back in admiration of Bachelor Bill,
when of a Sunday afternoon he drove down his varment gig to his snug
little box on the borders of Turnham Green. Bill's happiness was not,
however, wholly without alloy. The ladies of pleasure are always so
excessively angry when a man does not make love to them, that there is
nothing they will not say against him; and the fair matrons in the vicinity of
Fiddler's Row spread all manner of unfounded reports against poor
Bachelor Bill. By degrees, however,—for, as Tacitus has said, doubtless
with a prophetic eye to Bachelor Bill, “the truth gains by delay,”—these
reports began to die insensibly away; and Bill now waxing near to the
confines of middle age, his friends comfortably settled for him that he
would be Bachelor Bill all his life. For the rest, he was an excellent fellow,
—gave his broken victuals to the poor, professed a liberal turn of thinking,
and in all the quarrels among the blowens (your crack blowens are a
quarrelsome set!) always took part with the weakest. Although Bill affected
to be very select in his company, he was never forgetful of his old friends;
and Mrs. Margery Lobkins having been very good to him when he was a
little boy in a skeleton jacket, he invariably sent her a card to his soirees.
The good lady, however, had not of late years deserted her chimney-corner.
Indeed, the racket of fashionable life was too much for her nerves; and the
invitation had become a customary form not expected to be acted upon, but
not a whit the less regularly used for that reason. As Paul had now attained
his sixteenth year, and was a fine, handsome lad, the dame thought he
would make an excellent representative of the Mug's mistress; and that, for
her protege, a ball at Bill's house would be no bad commencement of “Life
in London.” Accordingly, she intimated to the Bachelor a wish to that
effect; and Paul received the following invitation from Bill:—
“Mr. William Duke gives a hop and feed in a quiet way on Monday next,
and hops Mr. Paul Lobkins will be of the party. N. B. Gentlemen is
expected to come in pumps.”

When Paul entered, he found Bachelor Bill leading off the ball to the tune
of “Drops of Brandy,” with a young lady to whom, because she had been a
strolling player, the Ladies Patronesses of Fiddler's Row had thought proper
to behave with a very cavalier civility. The good Bachelor had no notion, as
he expressed it, of such tantrums, and he caused it to be circulated among
the finest of the blowens, that he expected all who kicked their heels at his
house would behave decent and polite to young Mrs. Dot. This intimation,
conveyed to the ladies with all that insinuating polish for which Bachelor
Bill was so remarkable, produced a notable effect; and Mrs. Dot, being now
led off by the flash Bachelor, was overpowered with civilities the rest of the
evening.
When the dance was ended, Bill very politely shook hands with Paul, and
took an early opportunity of introducing him to some of the most “noted
characters” of the town. Among these were the smart Mr. Allfair, the
insinuating Henry Finish, the merry Jack Hookey, the knowing Charles
Trywit, and various others equally noted for their skill in living handsomely
upon their own brains, and the personals of other people. To say truth, Paul,
who at that time was an honest lad, was less charmed than he had
anticipated by the conversation of these chevaliers of industry. He was more
pleased with the clever though self-sufficient remarks of a gentleman with a
remarkably fine head of hair, and whom we would more impressively than
the rest introduce to our reader under the appellation of Mr. Edward Pepper,
generally termed Long Ned. As this worthy was destined afterwards to be
an intimate associate of Paul, our main reason for attending the hop at
Bachelor Bill's is to note, as the importance of the event deserves, the epoch
of the commencement of their acquaintance.
Long Ned and Paul happened to sit next to each other at supper, and they
conversed together so amicably that Paul, in the hospitality of his heart,
expressed a hope that he should see Mr. Pepper at the Mug!
“Mug,—Mug!” repeated Pepper, half shutting his eyes, with the air of a
dandy about to be impertinent; “ah, the name of a chapel, is it not? There's a
sect called Muggletonians, I think?”
“As to that,” said Paul, colouring at this insinuation against the Mug,
“Mrs. Lobkins has no more religion than her betters; but the Mug is a very
excellent house, and frequented by the best possible company.”

“Don't doubt it!” said Ned. “Remember now that I was once there, and
saw one Dummie Dunnaker,—is not that the name? I recollect some years
ago, when I first came out, that Dummie and I had an adventure together; to
tell you the truth, it was not the sort of thing I would do now. But—would
you believe it, Mr. Paul?—this pitiful fellow was quite rude to me the only
time I ever met him since; that is to say, the only time I ever entered the
Mug. I have no notion of such airs in a merchant,—a merchant of rags!
Those commercial fellows are getting quite insufferable.”
“You surprise me,” said Paul. “Poor Dummie is the last man to be rude;
he is as civil a creature as ever lived.”
“Or sold a rag,” said Ned. “Possibly! Don't doubt his amiable qualities in
the least. Pass the bingo, my good fellow. Stupid stuff, this dancing!”
“Devilish stupid!” echoed Harry Finish, across the table. “Suppose we
adjourn to Fish Lane, and rattle the ivories! What say you, Mr. Lobkins?”
Afraid of the “ton's stern laugh, which scarce the proud philosopher can
scorn,” and not being very partial to dancing, Paul assented to the
proposition; and a little party, consisting of Harry Finish, Allfair, Long Ned,
and Mr. Hookey, adjourned to Fish Lane, where there was a club, celebrated
among men who live by their wits, at which “lush” and “baccy” were
gratuitously sported in the most magnificent manner. Here the evening
passed away very delightfully, and Paul went home without a “brad” in his
pocket.
From that time Paul's visits to Fish Lane became unfortunately regular;
and in a very short period, we grieve to say, Paul became that distinguished
character, a gentleman of three outs,—“out of pocket, out of elbows, and
out of credit.” The only two persons whom he found willing to
accommodate him with a slight loan, as the advertisements signed X. Y.
have it, were Mr. Dummie Dunnaker and Mr. Pepper, surnamed the Long.
The latter, however, while he obliged the heir to the Mug, never
condescended to enter that noted place of resort; and the former, whenever
he good-naturedly opened his purse-strings, did it with a hearty caution to
shun the acquaintance of Long Ned,—“a parson,” said Dummie, “of wery
dangerous morals, and not by no manner of means a fit 'sociate for a young
gemman of cracter like leetle Paul!” So earnest was this caution, and so
especially pointed at Long Ned,—although the company of Mr. Allfair or
Mr. Finish might be said to be no less prejudicial,—that it is probable that

stately fastidiousness of manner which Lord Normanby rightly observes, in
one of his excellent novels, makes so many enemies in the world, and
which sometimes characterized the behaviour of Long Ned, especially
towards the men of commerce, was a main reason why Dummie was so
acutely and peculiarly alive to the immoralities of that lengthy gentleman.
At the same time we must observe that when Paul, remembering what
Pepper had said respecting his early adventure with Mr. Dunnaker, repeated
it to the merchant, Dummie could not conceal a certain confusion, though
he merely remarked, with a sort of laugh, that it was not worth speaking
about; and it appeared evident to Paul that something unpleasant to the man
of rags, which was not shared by the unconscious Pepper, lurked in the
reminiscence of their past acquaintance. How beit, the circumstance glided
from Paul's attention the moment afterwards; and he paid, we are concerned
to say, equally little heed to the cautions against Ned with which Dummie
regaled him.
Perhaps (for we must now direct a glance towards his domestic concerns)
one great cause which drove Paul to Fish Lane was the uncomfortable life
he led at home. For though Mrs. Lobkins was extremely fond of her
protege, yet she was possessed, as her customers emphatically remarked,
“of the devil's own temper;” and her native coarseness never having been
softened by those pictures of gay society which had, in many a novel and
comic farce, refined the temperament of the romantic Paul, her manner of
venting her maternal reproaches was certainly not a little revolting to a lad
of some delicacy of feeling. Indeed, it often occurred to him to leave her
house altogether, and seek his fortunes alone, after the manner of the
ingenious Gil Blas or the enterprising Roderick Random; and this idea,
though conquered and reconquered, gradually swelled and increased at his
heart, even as swelleth that hairy ball found in the stomach of some
suffering heifer after its decease. Among these projects of enterprise the
reader will hereafter notice that an early vision of the Green Forest Cave, in
which Turpin was accustomed, with a friend, a ham, and a wife, to conceal
himself, flitted across his mind. At this time he did not, perhaps, incline to
the mode of life practised by the hero of the roads; but he certainly clung
not the less fondly to the notion of the cave.
The melancholy flow of our hero's life was now, however, about to be
diverted by an unexpected turn, and the crude thoughts of boyhood to burst,
“like Ghilan's giant palm,” into the fruit of a manly resolution.

Among the prominent features of Mrs. Lobkins's mind was a sovereign
contempt for the unsuccessful. The imprudence and ill-luck of Paul
occasioned her as much scorn as compassion; and when for the third time
within a week he stood, with a rueful visage and with vacant pockets, by the
dame's great chair, requesting an additional supply, the tides of her wrath
swelled into overflow.
“Look you, my kinchin cove,” said she,—and in order to give peculiar
dignity to her aspect, she put on while she spoke a huge pair of tin
spectacles,—“if so be as how you goes for to think as how I shall go for to
supply your wicious necessities, you will find yourself planted in Queer
Street. Blow me tight, if I gives you another mag.”
“But I owe Long Ned a guinea,” said Paul; “and Dummie Dunnaker lent
me three crowns. It ill becomes your heir apparent, my dear dame, to fight
shy of his debts of honour.”
“Taradididdle, don't think for to wheedle me with your debts and your
honour,” said the dame, in a passion. “Long Ned is as long in the forks
[fingers] as he is in the back; may Old Harry fly off with him! And as for
Durnmie Dunnaker, I wonders how you, brought up such a swell, and blest
with the wery best of hedications, can think of putting up with such wulgar
'sociates. I tells you what, Paul, you'll please to break with them, smack and
at once, or devil a brad you'll ever get from Peg Lobkins.” So saying, the
old lady turned round in her chair, and helped herself to a pipe of tobacco.
Paul walked twice up and down the apartment, and at last stopped
opposite the dame's chair. He was a youth of high spirit; and though he was
warm-hearted, and had a love for Mrs. Lobkins, which her care and
affection for hire well deserved, yet he was rough in temper, and not
constantly smooth in speech. It is true that his heart smote him afterwards,
whenever he had said anything to annoy Mrs. Lobkins, and he was always
the first to seek a reconciliation; but warm words produce cold respect, and
sorrow for the past is not always efficacious in amending the future. Paul
then, puffed up with the vanity of his genteel education, and the friendship
of Long Ned (who went to Ranelagh, and wore silver clocked stockings),
stopped opposite to Mrs. Lobkins's chair, and said with great solemnity,—
“Mr. Pepper, madam, says very properly that I must have money to
support myself like a gentleman; and as you won't give it me, I am

determined, with many thanks for your past favours, to throw myself on the
world, and seek my fortune.”
If Paul was of no oily and bland temper, Dame Margaret Lobkins, it has
been seen, had no advantage on that score. (We dare say the reader has
observed that nothing so enrages persons on whom one depends as any
expressed determination of seeking independence.) Gazing therefore for
one moment at the open but resolute countenance of Paul, while all the
blood of her veins seemed gathering in fire and scarlet to her enlarging
cheeks, Dame Lobkins said,—
“Ifeaks, Master Pride-in-duds! seek your fortune yourself, will you? This
comes of my bringing you up, and letting you eat the bread of idleness and
charity, you toad of a thousand! Take that and be d—d to you!” and, suiting
the action to the word, the tube which she had withdrawn from her mouth in
order to utter her gentle rebuke whizzed through the air, grazed Paul's
cheek, and finished its earthly career by coming in violent contact with the
right eye of Duinmie Dunnaker, who at that exact moment entered the
room.
Paul had winced for a moment to avoid the missive; in the next he stood
perfectly upright. His cheeks glowed, his chest swelled; and the entrance of
Dummie Dunuaker, who was thus made the spectator of the affront he had
received, stirred his blood into a deeper anger and a more bitter self-
humiliation. All his former resolutions of departure, all the hard words, the
coarse allusions, the practical insults he had at any time received, rushed
upon him at once. He merely cast one look at the old woman, whose rage
was now half subsided, and turned slowly and in silence to the door.
There is often something alarming in an occurrence merely because it is
that which we least expect. The astute Mrs. Lobkins, remembering the
hardy temper and fiery passions of Paul, had expected some burst of rage,
some vehement reply; and when she caught with one wandering eye his
parting look, and saw him turn so passively and mutely to the door, her
heart misgave her, she raised herself from her chair, and made towards him.
Unhappily for her chance of reconciliation, she had that day quaffed more
copiously of the bowl than usual; and the signs of intoxication visible in her
uncertain gait, her meaningless eye, her vacant leer, her ruby cheek, all
inspired Paul with feelings which at the moment converted resentment into

something very much like aversion. He sprang from her grasp to the
threshold.
“Where be you going, you imp of the world?” cried the dame. “Get in
with you, and say no more on the matter; be a bob-cull,—drop the bullies,
and you shall have the blunt!”
But Paul heeded not this invitation.
“I will eat the bread of idleness and charity no longer,” said he, sullenly.
“Good-by; and if ever I can pay you what I have cost you, I will.”
He turned away as he spoke; and the dame, kindling with resentment at
his unseemly return to her proffered kindness, hallooed after him, and bade
that dark-coloured gentleman who keeps the fire-office below go along with
him.
Swelling with anger, pride, shame, and a half-joyous feeling of
emancipated independence, Paul walked on, he knew not whither, with his
head in the air, and his legs marshalling themselves into a military gait of
defiance. He had not proceeded far before he heard his name uttered behind
him; he turned, and saw the rueful face of Dummie Dunnaker.
Very inoffensively had that respectable person been employed during the
last part of the scene we have described in caressing his afflicted eye, and
muttering philosophical observations on the danger incurred by all those
who are acquainted with ladies of a choleric temperament; when Mrs.
Lobkins, turning round after Paul's departure, and seeing the pitiful person
of that Dummie Dunnaker, whose name she remembered Paul had
mentioned in his opening speech, and whom, therefore, with an illogical
confusion of ideas, she considered a party in the late dispute, exhausted
upon him all that rage which it was necessary for her comfort that she
should unburden somewhere.
She seized the little man by the collar,—the tenderest of all places in
gentlemen similarly circumstanced with regard to the ways of life,—and
giving him a blow, which took effect on his other and hitherto undamaged
eye, cried out,—
“I'll teach you, you blood-sucker [that is, parasite], to sponge upon those
as has expectations! I'll teach you to cozen the heir of the Mug, you
snivelling, whey-faced ghost of a farthing rushlight! What! you'll lend my
Paul three crowns, will you, when you knows as how you told me you

could not pay me a pitiful tizzy? Oh, you're a queer one, I warrants; but you
won't queer Margery Lobkins. Out of my ken, you cur of the mange!—out
of my ken; and if ever I claps my sees on you again, or if ever I knows as
how you makes a flat of my Paul, blow me tight but I'll weave you a
hempen collar,—I'll hang you, you dog, I will. What! you will answer me,
will you? Oh, you viper, budge and begone!”
It was in vain that Dummie protested his innocence. A violent coup-de-
pied broke off all further parlance. He made a clear house of the Mug; and
the landlady thereof, tottering back to her elbow-chair, sought out another
pipe, and, like all imaginative persons when the world goes wrong with
them, consoled herself for the absence of realities by the creations of
smoke.
Meanwhile Dummie Dunnaker, muttering and murmuring bitter fancies,
overtook Paul, and accused that youth of having been the occasion of the
injuries he had just undergone. Paul was not at that moment in the humour
best adapted for the patient bearing of accusations. He answered Mr.
Dunnaker very shortly; and that respectable individual, still smarting under
his bruises, replied with equal tartness. Words grew high, and at length
Paul, desirous of concluding the conference, clenched his fist, and told the
redoubted Dummie that he would “knock him down.” There is something
peculiarly harsh and stunning in those three hard, wiry, sturdy, stubborn
monosyllables. Their very sound makes you double your fist if you are a
hero, or your pace if you are a peaceable man. They produced an instant
effect upon Dummie Dunnaker, aided as they were by the effect of an
athletic and youthful figure, already fast approaching to the height of six
feet, a flushed cheek, and an eye that bespoke both passion and resolution.
The rag-merchant's voice sank at once, and with the countenance of a
wronged Cassius he whimpered forth,—
“Knock me down? O leetle Paul, vot wicked vhids are those! Vot!
Dummie Dunnaker, as has dandled you on his knee mony's a time and oft!
Vy, the cove's 'art is as 'ard as junk, and as proud as a gardener's dog vith a
nosegay tied to his tail.” This pathetic remonstrance softened Paul's anger.
“Well, Dummie,” said he, laughing, “I did not mean to hurt you, and
there's an end of it; and I am very sorry for the dame's ill-conduct; and so I
wish you a good-morning.”

“Vy, vere be you trotting to, leetle Paul?” said Dummie, grasping him by
the tail of the coat.
“The deuce a bit I know,” answered our hero; “but I think I shall drop a
call on Long Ned.”
“Avast there!” said Dummie, speaking under his breath; “if so be as you
von't blab, I'll tell you a bit of a secret. I heered as 'ow Long Ned started for
Hampshire this werry morning on a toby [Highway expedition] consarn!”
“Ha!” said Paul, “then hang me if I know what to do!”
As he uttered these words, a more thorough sense of his destitution (if he
persevered in leaving the Mug) than he had hitherto felt rushed upon him;
for Paul had designed for a while to throw himself on the hospitality of his
Patagonian friend, and now that he found that friend was absent from
London and on so dangerous an expedition, he was a little puzzled what to
do with that treasure of intellect and wisdom which he carried about upon
his legs. Already he had acquired sufficient penetration (for Charles Trywit
and Harry Finish were excellent masters for initiating a man into the
knowledge of the world) to perceive that a person, however admirable may
be his qualities, does not readily find a welcome without a penny in his
pocket. In the neighbourhood of Thames Court he had, indeed, many
acquaintances; but the fineness of his language, acquired from his
education, and the elegance of his air, in which he attempted to blend in
happy association the gallant effrontery of Mr. Long Ned with the graceful
negligence of Mr. Augustus Tomlinson, had made him many enemies
among those acquaintances; and he was not willing—so great was our
hero's pride—to throw himself on the chance of their welcome, or to
publish, as it were, his exiled and crestfallen state. As for those boon
companions who had assisted him in making a wilderness of his pockets, he
had already found that that was the only species of assistance which they
were willing to render him. In a word, he could not for the life of him
conjecture in what quarter he should find the benefits of bed and board.
While he stood with his finger to his lip, undecided and musing, but fully
resolved at least on one thing,—not to return to the Mug,—little Dummie,
who was a good-natured fellow at the bottom, peered up in his face, and
said,—
“Vy, Paul, my kid, you looks down in the chops; cheer up,—care killed a
cat!”

Observing that this appropriate and encouraging fact of natural history
did not lessen the cloud upon Paul's brow, the acute Dummie Dunnaker
proceeded at once to the grand panacea for all evils, in his own profound
estimation.
“Paul, my ben cull,” said he, with a knowing wink, and nudging the
young gentleman in the left side, “vot do you say to a drop o' blue ruin? or,
as you likes to be conish [genteel], I does n't care if I sports you a glass of
port!” While Dunnaker was uttering this invitation, a sudden reminiscence
flashed across Paul: he bethought him at once of MacGrawler; and he
resolved forthwith to repair to the abode of that illustrious sage, and petition
at least for accommodation for the approaching night. So soon as he had
come to this determination, he shook off the grasp of the amiable Dummie,
and refusing with many thanks his hospitable invitation, requested him to
abstract from the dame's house, and lodge within his own until called for,
such articles of linen and clothing as belonged to Paul and could easily be
laid hold of, during one of the matron's evening siestas, by the shrewd
Dunnaker. The merchant promised that the commission should be speedily
executed; and Paul, shaking hands with him, proceeded to the mansion of
MacGrawler.
We must now go back somewhat in the natural course of our narrative,
and observe that among the minor causes which had conspired with the
great one of gambling to bring our excellent Paul to his present situation,
was his intimacy with MacGrawler; for when Paul's increasing years and
roving habits had put an end to the sage's instructions, there was thereby
lopped off from the preceptor's finances the weekly sum of two shillings
and sixpence, as well as the freedom of the dame's cellar and larder; and as,
in the reaction of feeling, and the perverse course of human affairs, people
generally repent the most of those actions once the most ardently incurred,
so poor Mrs. Lobkins, imagining that Paul's irregularities were entirely
owing to the knowledge he had acquired from MacGrawler's instructions,
grievously upbraided herself for her former folly in seeking for a superior
education for her protege; nay, she even vented upon the sacred head of
MacGrawler himself her dissatisfaction at the results of his instructions. In
like manner, when a man who can spell comes to be hanged, the anti-
educationists accuse the spelling-book of his murder. High words between
the admirer of ignorant innocence and the propagator of intellectual science
ensued, which ended in MacGrawler's final expulsion from the Mug.

There are some young gentlemen of the present day addicted to the
adoption of Lord Byron's poetry, with the alteration of new rhymes, who are
pleased graciously to inform us that they are born to be the ruin of all those
who love them,—an interesting fact, doubtless, but which they might as
well keep to themselves. It would seem by the contents of this chapter as if
the same misfortune were destined to Paul. The exile of MacGrawler, the
insults offered to Dummie Dunnaker,—alike occasioned by him,—appear
to sanction that opinion. Unfortunately, though Paul was a poet, he was not
much of a sentimentalist; and he has never given us the edifying ravings of
his remorse on those subjects. But MacGrawler, like Dunnaker, was
resolved that our hero should perceive the curse of his fatality; and as he
still retained some influence over the mind of his quondam pupil, his
accusations against Paul, as the origin of his banishment, were attended
with a greater success than were the complaints of Dummie Dunnaker on a
similar calamity. Paul, who, like most people who are good for nothing, had
an excellent heart, was exceedingly grieved at MacGrawler's banishment on
his account; and he endeavoured to atone for it by such pecuniary
consolations as he was enabled to offer. These MacGrawler (purely, we may
suppose, from a benevolent desire to lessen the boy's remorse) scrupled not
to accept; and thus, so similar often are the effects of virtue and of vice, the
exemplary MacGrawler conspired with the unprincipled Long Ned and the
heartless Henry Finish in producing that unenviable state of vacuity which
now saddened over the pockets of Paul.
As our hero was slowly walking towards the sage's abode, depending on
his gratitude and friendship for a temporary shelter, one of those lightning
flashes of thought which often illumine the profoundest abyss of affliction
darted across his mind. Recalling the image of the critic, he remembered
that he had seen that ornament of “The Asinaeum” receive sundry sums for
his critical lucubrations.
“Why,” said Paul, seizing on that fact, and stopping short in the street,
—“why should I not turn critic myself?”
The only person to whom one ever puts a question with a tolerable
certainty of receiving a satisfactory answer is one's self. The moment Paul
started this luminous suggestion, it appeared to him that he had discovered
the mines of Potosi. Burning with impatience to discuss with the great
MacGrawler the feasibility of his project, he quickened his pace almost into

a run, and in a very few minutes, having only overthrown one chimney-
sweeper and two apple-women by the way, he arrived at the sage's door.

CHAPTER V.
Ye realms yet unrevealed to human sight,
Ye canes athwart the hapless hands that write,
Ye critic chiefs,-permit me to relate
The mystic wonders of your silent state!

VIRGIL, AEneid, book vi.

Fortune had smiled upon Mr. MacGrawler since he first undertook the
tuition of Mrs. Lobkins's protege. He now inhabited a second-floor, and
defied the sheriff and his evil spirits. It was at the dusk of evening that Paul
found him at home and alone.
Before the mighty man stood a pot of London porter; a candle, with an
unregarded wick, shed its solitary light upon his labours; and an infant cat
played sportively at his learned feet, beguiling the weary moments with the
remnants of the spiral cap wherewith, instead of laurel, the critic had
hitherto nightly adorned his brows.
So soon as MacGrawler, piercing through the gloomy mist which hung
about the chamber, perceived the person of the intruder, a frown settled
upon his brow.
“Have I not told you, youngster,” he growled, “never to enter a
gentleman's room without knocking? I tell you, sir, that manners are no less
essential to human happiness than virtue; wherefore, never disturb a
gentleman in his avocations, and sit yourself down without molesting the
cat!”
Paul, who knew that his respected tutor disliked any one to trace the
source of the wonderful spirit which he infused into his critical
compositions, affected not to perceive the pewter Hippocrene, and with
many apologies for his want of preparatory politeness, seated himself as
directed. It was then that the following edifying conversation ensued.
“The ancients,” quoth Paul, “were very great men, Mr. MacGrawler.”
“They were so, sir,” returned the critic; “we make it a rule in our
profession to assert that fact.”
“But, sir,” said Paul, “they were wrong now and then.”

“Never, Ignoramus; never!”
“They praised poverty, Mr. MacGrawler!” said Paul, with a sigh.
“Hem!” quoth the critic, a little staggered; but presently recovering his
characteristic, acumen, he observed, “It is true, Paul; but that was the
poverty of other people.”
There was a slight pause. “Criticism,” renewed Paul, “must be a most
difficult art.”
“A-hem! And what art is there, sir, that is not difficult,—at least, to
become master of?”
“True,” sighed Paul; “or else—”
“Or else what, boy?” repeated Mr. MacGrawler, seeing that Paul
hesitated, either from fear of his superior knowledge, as the critic's vanity
suggested, or from (what was equally likely) want of a word to express his
meaning.
“Why, I was thinking, sir,” said Paul, with that desperate courage which
gives a distinct and loud intonation to the voice of all who set, or think they
set, their fate upon a cast,—“I was thinking that I should like to become a
critic myself!”
“W-h-e-w!” whistled MacGrawler, elevating his eyebrows; “w-h-e-w!
great ends have come of less beginnings!”
Encouraging as this assertion was, coming as it did from the lips of so
great a man and so great a critic, at the very moment too when nothing short
of an anathema against arrogance and presumption was expected to issue
from those portals of wisdom, yet such is the fallacy of all human hopes,
that Paul's of a surety would have been a little less elated, had he, at the
same time his ears drank in the balm of these gracious words, been able to
have dived into the source whence they emanated.
“Know thyself!” was a precept the sage MacGrawler had endeavoured to
obey; consequently the result of his obedience was that even by himself he
was better known than trusted. Whatever he might appear to others, he had
in reality no vain faith in the infallibility of his own talents and resources;
as well might a butcher deem himself a perfect anatomist from the frequent
amputation of legs of mutton, as the critic of “The Asinaeum” have laid
“the flattering unction to his soul” that he was really skilled in the art of
criticism, or even acquainted with one of its commonest rules, because he

could with all speed cut up and disjoint any work, from the smallest to the
greatest, from the most superficial to the most superior; and thus it was that
he never had the want of candour to deceive himself as to his own talents.
Paul's wish therefore was no sooner expressed than a vague but golden
scheme of future profit illumined the brain of MacGrawler,—in a word, he
resolved that Paul should henceforward share the labour of his critiques;
and that he, MacGrawler, should receive the whole profits in return for the
honour thereby conferred on his coadjutor.
Looking therefore at our hero with a benignant air, Mr. MacGrawler thus
continued:—
“Yes, I repeat,—great ends have come from less beginnings! Rome was
not built in a day; and I, Paul, I myself was not always the editor of 'The
Asinaeum.' You say wisely, criticism is a great science, a very great science;
and it maybe divided into three branches,—namely, 'to tickle, to slash, and
to plaster.' In each of these three I believe without vanity I am a profound
adept! I will initiate you into all. Your labours shall begin this very evening.
I have three works on my table; they must be despatched by tomorrow
night. I will take the most arduous; I abandon to you the others. The three
consist of a Romance, an Epic in twelve books, and an Inquiry into the
Human Mind, in three volumes. I, Paul, will tickle the Romance; you this
very evening shall plaster the Epic, and slash the Inquiry!”
“Heavens, Mr. MacGrawler!” cried Paul, in consternation, “what do you
mean? I should never be able to read an epic in twelve books, and I should
fall asleep in the first page of the Inquiry. No, no, leave me the Romance,
and take the other two under your own protection!”
Although great genius is always benevolent, Mr. MacGrawler could not
restrain a smile of ineffable contempt at the simplicity of his pupil.
“Know, young gentleman,” said he, solemnly, “that the Romance in
question must be tickled; it is not given to raw beginners to conquer that
great mystery of our science.”
“Before we proceed further, explain the words of the art,” said Paul,
impatiently.
“Listen, then,” rejoined MacGrawler; and as he spoke, the candle cast an
awful glimmering on his countenance. “To slash is, speaking grammatically,
to employ the accusative, or accusing case; you must cut up your book right
and left, top and bottom, root and branch. To plaster a book is to employ the

dative, or giving case; and you must bestow on the work all the superlatives
in the language,—you must lay on your praise thick and thin, and not leave
a crevice untrowelled. But to tickle, sir, is a comprehensive word, and it
comprises all the infinite varieties that fill the interval between slashing and
plastering. This is the nicety of the art, and you can only acquire it by
practice; a few examples will suffice to give you an idea of its delicacy.
“We will begin with the encouraging tickle: 'Although this work is full of
faults,—though the characters are unnatural, the plot utterly improbable, the
thoughts hackneyed, and the style ungrammatical,—yet we would by no
means discourage the author from proceeding; and in the mean while we
confidently recommend his work to the attention of the reading public.”
“Take, now, the advising tickle: 'There is a good deal of merit in these
little volumes, although we must regret the evident haste in which they were
written. The author might do better,—we recommend him a study of the
best writers;' then conclude by a Latin quotation, which you may take from
one of the mottoes in the 'Spectator.'
“Now, young gentleman, for a specimen of the metaphorical tickle: 'We
beg this poetical aspirant to remember the fate of Pyrenaeus, who,
attempting to pursue the Muses, forgot that he had not the wings of the
goddesses, flung himself from the loftiest ascent he could reach, and
perished.'
“This you see, Paul, is a loftier and more erudite sort of tickle, and may
be reserved for one of the Quarterly Reviews. Never throw away a simile
unnecessarily.
“Now for a sample of the facetious tickle: 'Mr.—-has obtained a
considerable reputation! Some fine ladies think him a great philosopher, and
he has been praised in our hearing by some Cambridge Fellows for his
knowledge of fashionable society.'
“For this sort of tickle we generally use the dullest of our tribe; and I
have selected the foregoing example from the criticisms of a distinguished
writer in 'The Asinaeum,' whom we call, par excellence, the Ass.
“There is a variety of other tickles,—the familiar, the vulgar, the polite,
the good-natured, the bitter; but in general all tickles may be supposed to
signify, however disguised, one or other of these meanings: 'This book
would be exceedingly good if it were not exceedingly bad;' or, 'this book
would be exceedingly bad if it were not exceedingly good.'

“You have now, Paul, a general idea of the superior art required by the
tickle?”
Our hero signified his assent by a sort of hysterical sound between a
laugh and a groan. MacGrawler continued:—
“There is another grand difficulty attendant on this class of criticism.—it
is generally requisite to read a few pages of the work; because we seldom
tickle without extracting, and it requires some judgment to make the context
agree with the extract. But it is not often necessary to extract when you
slash or when you plaster; when you slash, it is better in general to conclude
with: 'After what we have said, it is unnecessary to add that we cannot
offend the taste of our readers by any quotation from this execrable trash.'
And when you plaster, you may wind up with: 'We regret that our limits will
not allow us to give any extracts from this wonderful and unrivalled work.
We must refer our readers to the book itself.'
“And now, sir, I think I have given you a sufficient outline of the noble
science of Scaliger and MacGrawler. Doubtless you are reconciled to the
task I have allotted you; and while I tickle the Romance, you will slash the
Inquiry and plaster the Epic!”
“I will do my best, sir!” said Paul, with that modest yet noble simplicity
which becomes the virtuously ambitious; and MacGrawler forthwith gave
him pen and paper, and set him down to his undertaking.
He had the good fortune to please MacGrawler, who, after having made a
few corrections in style, declared he evinced a peculiar genius in that
branch of composition. And then it was that Paul, made conceited by praise,
said, looking contemptuously in the face of his preceptor, and swinging his
legs to and fro,—
“And what, sir, shall I receive for the plastered Epic and the slashed
Inquiry?”
As the face of the school-boy who, when guessing, as he thinks rightly, at
the meaning of some mysterious word in Cornelius Nepos, receiveth not the
sugared epithet of praise, but a sudden stroke across the os humerosve [Face
or shoulders] even so, blank, puzzled, and thunder-stricken, waxed the face
of Mr. MacGrawler at the abrupt and astounding audacity of Paul.
“Receive!” he repeated,—“receive! Why, you impudent, ungrateful
puppy, would you steal the bread from your old master? If I can obtain for

your crude articles an admission into the illustrious pages of 'The
Asinaeum,' will you not be sufficiently paid, sir, by the honour? Answer me
that. Another man, young gentleman, would have charged you a premium
for his instructions; and here have I, in one lesson, imparted to you all the
mysteries of the science, and for nothing! And you talk to me of 'receive!—
receive!' Young gentleman, in the words of the immortal bard, 'I would as
lief you had talked to me of ratsbane!'”
“In fine, then, Mr. MacGrawler, I shall get nothing for my trouble?” said
Paul.
“To be sure not, sir; the very best writer in 'The Asinaeum' only gets three
shillings an article!” Almost more than he deserves, the critic might have
added; for he who writes for nobody should receive nothing!
“Then, sir,” quoth the mercenary Paul, profanely, and rising, he kicked
with one kick the cat, the Epic, and the Inquiry to the other end of the room,
—“then, sir, you may all go to the devil!”
We do not, O gentle reader! seek to excuse this hasty anathema. The
habits of childhood will sometimes break forth despite of the after blessings
of education; and we set not up Paul for thine imitation as that model of
virtue and of wisdom which we design thee to discover in MacGrawler.
When that great critic perceived Paul had risen and was retreating in high
dudgeon towards the door, he rose also, and repeating Paul's last words,
said,—
“'Go to the devil!' Not so quick, young gentleman,—festinca lente,—all
in good time. What though I did, astonished at your premature request, say
that you should receive nothing; yet my great love for you may induce me
to bestir myself on your behalf. The 'Asinaeum,' it is true, only gives three
shillings an article in general; but I am its editor, and will intercede with the
proprietors on your behalf. Yes, yes; I will see what is to be done. Stop a bit,
my boy.”
Paul, though very irascible, was easily pacified; he reseated himself, and
taking MacGrawler's hand, said,—
“Forgive me for my petulance, my dear sir; but, to tell you the honest
truth, I am very low in the world just at present, and must get money in
some way or another,—in short, I must either pick pockets or write (not
gratuitously) for 'The Asinaeum. '”

And without further preliminary Paul related his present circumstances to
the critic, declared his determination not to return to the Mug, and
requested, at least, from the friendship of his old preceptor the
accommodation of shelter for that night.
MacGrawler was exceedingly disconcerted at hearing so bad an account
of his pupil's finances as well as prospects, for he had secretly intended to
regale himself that evening with a bowl of punch, for which he purposed
that Paul should pay; but as he knew the quickness of parts possessed by the
young gentleman, as also the great affection entertained for him by Mrs.
Lobkins, who in all probability would solicit his return the next day, he
thought it not unlikely that Paul would enjoy the same good fortune as that
presiding over his feline companion, which, though it had just been kicked
to the other end of the apartment, was now resuming its former occupation,
unhurt, and no less merrily than before. He therefore thought it would be
imprudent to discard his quondam pupil, despite of his present poverty; and,
moreover, although the first happy project of pocketing all the profits
derivable from Paul's industry was now abandoned, he still perceived great
facility in pocketing a part of the same receipts. He therefore answered Paul
very warmly, that he fully sympathized with him in his present melancholy
situation; that, so far as he was concerned, he would share his last shilling
with his beloved pupil, but that he regretted at that moment he had only
eleven-pence halfpenny in his pocket; that he would, however, exert himself
to the utmost in procuring an opening for Paul's literary genius; and that, if
Paul liked to take the slashing and plastering part of the business on
himself, he would willingly surrender it to him, and give him all the profits
whatever they might be. En attendant, he regretted that a violent
rheumatism prevented his giving up his own bed to his pupil, but that he
might, with all the pleasure imaginable, sleep upon the rug before the fire.
Paul was so affected by this kindness in the worthy man, that, though not
much addicted to the melting mood, he shed tears of gratitude. He insisted,
however, on not receiving the whole reward of his labours; and at length it
was settled, though with a noble reluctance on the part of MacGrawler, that
it should be equally shared between the critic and the critic's protege,—the
half profits being reasonably awarded to MacGrawler for his instructions
and his recommendation.

CHAPTER VI.
Bad events peep out o' the tail of good purposes.—
Bartholomew Fair.

IT was not long before there was a visible improvement in the pages of
“The Asinaeum.” The slashing part of that incomparable journal was
suddenly conceived and carried on with a vigour and spirit which
astonished the hallowed few who contributed to its circulation. It was not
difficult to see that a new soldier had been enlisted in the service; there was
something so fresh and hearty about the abuse that it could never have
proceeded from the worn-out acerbity of an old slasher. To be sure, a little
ignorance of ordinary facts, and an innovating method of applying words to
meanings which they never were meant to denote, were now and then
distinguishable in the criticisms of the new Achilles; nevertheless, it was
easy to attribute these peculiarities to an original turn of thinking; and the
rise of the paper on the appearance of a series of articles upon contemporary
authors, written by this “eminent hand,” was so remarkable that fifty copies
—a number perfectly unprecedented in the annals of “The Asinaeum”—
were absolutely sold in one week; indeed, remembering the principle on
which it was founded, one sturdy old writer declared that the journal would
soon do for itself and become popular. There was a remarkable peculiarity
about the literary debutant who signed himself “Nobilitas:” he not only put
old words to a new sense, but he used words which had never, among the
general run of writers, been used before. This was especially remarkable in
the application of hard names to authors. Once, in censuring a popular
writer for pleasing the public and thereby growing rich, the “eminent hand”
ended with “He who surreptitiously accumulates bustle [money] is, in fact,
nothing better than a buzz gloak!” [Pickpocket].
These enigmatical words and recondite phrases imparted a great air of
learning to the style of the new critic; and from the unintelligible sublimity
of his diction, it seemed doubtful whether he was a poet from Highgate or a
philosopher from Konigsberg. At all events, the reviewer preserved his

incognito, and while his praises were rung at no less than three tea-tables,
even glory appeared to him less delicious than disguise.
In this incognito, reader, thou hast already discovered Paul; and now we
have to delight thee with a piece of unexampled morality in the excellent
MacGrawler. That worthy Mentor, perceiving that there was an inherent
turn for dissipation and extravagance in our hero, resolved magnanimously
rather to bring upon himself the sins of treachery and malappropriation than
suffer his friend and former pupil to incur those of wastefulness and
profusion. Contrary therefore to the agreement made with Paul, instead of
giving that youth the half of those profits consequent on his brilliant
lucubrations, he imparted to him only one fourth, and, with the utmost
tenderness for Paul's salvation, applied the other three portions of the same
to his own necessities. The best actions are, alas! often misconstrued in this
world; and we are now about to record a remarkable instance of that
melancholy truth.
One evening MacGrawler, having “moistened his virtue” in the same
manner that the great Cato is said to have done, in the confusion which such
a process sometimes occasions in the best regulated heads, gave Paul what
appeared to him the outline of a certain article which he wished to be
slashingly filled up, but what in reality was the following note from the
editor of a monthly periodical:—
SIR,—Understanding that my friend, Mr.—-, proprietor of “The
Asinaeum,” allows the very distinguished writer whom you have introduced
to the literary world, and who signs himself “Nobilitas,” only five shillings
an article, I beg, through you, to tender him double that sum. The article
required will be of an ordinary length.
I am, sir, etc.,
Now, that very morning, MacGrawler had informed Paul of this offer,
altering only, from the amiable motives we have already explained, the sum
of ten shillings to that of four; and no sooner did Paul read the
communication we have placed before the reader than, instead of gratitude
to MacGrawler for his consideration of Paul's moral infirmities, he
conceived against that gentleman the most bitter resentment. He did not,
however, vent his feelings at once upon the Scotsman,—indeed, at that
moment, as the sage was in a deep sleep under the table, it would have been
to no purpose had he unbridled his indignation,—but he resolved without

loss of time to quit the abode of the critic. “And, indeed,” said he,
soliloquizing, “I am heartily tired of this life, and shall be very glad to seek
some other employment. Fortunately, I have hoarded up five guineas and
four shillings; and with that independence in my possession, since I have
forsworn gambling, I cannot easily starve.”
To this soliloquy succeeded a misanthropical revery upon the
faithlessness of friends; and the meditation ended in Paul's making up a
little bundle of such clothes, etc., as Dummie had succeeded in removing
from the Mug, and which Paul had taken from the rag-merchant's abode one
morning when Dummie was abroad.
When this easy task was concluded, Paul wrote a short and upbraiding
note to his illustrious preceptor, and left it unsealed on the table. He then,
upsetting the ink-bottle on MacGrawler's sleeping countenance, departed
from the house, and strolled away he cared not whither.
The evening was gradually closing as Paul, chewing the cud of his bitter
fancies, found himself on London Bridge. He paused there, and leaning
over the bridge, gazed wistfully on the gloomy waters that rolled onward,
caring not a minnow for the numerous charming young ladies who have
thought proper to drown themselves in those merciless waves, thereby
depriving many a good mistress of an excellent housemaid or an invaluable
cook, and many a treacherous Phaon of letters beginning with “Parjured
Villen,” and ending with “Your affectionot but melancholy Molly.”
While thus musing, he was suddenly accosted by a gentleman in boots
and spurs, having a riding-whip in one hand, and the other hand stuck in the
pocket of his inexpressibles. The hat of the gallant was gracefully and
carefully put on, so as to derange as little as possible a profusion of dark
curls, which, streaming with unguents, fell low not only on either side of
the face, but on the neck and even the shoulders of the owner. The face was
saturnine and strongly marked, but handsome and striking. There was a
mixture of frippery and sternness in its expression,—something between
Madame Vestries and T. P. Cooke, or between “lovely Sally” and a “Captain
bold of Halifax.” The stature of this personage was remarkably tall, and his
figure was stout, muscular, and well knit. In fine, to complete his portrait,
and give our readers of the present day an exact idea of this hero of the past,
we shall add that he was altogether that sort of gentleman one sees
swaggering in the Burlington Arcade, with his hair and hat on one side, and

a military cloak thrown over his shoulders; or prowling in Regent Street,
towards the evening, whiskered and cigarred.
Laying his hand on the shoulder of our hero, this gentleman said, with an
affected intonation of voice,—
“How dost, my fine fellow? Long since I saw you! Damme, but you look
the worse for wear. What hast thou been doing with thyself?”
“Ha!” cried our hero, returning the salutation of the stranger, “and is it
Long Ned whom I behold? I am indeed glad to meet you; and I say, my
friend, I hope what I heard of you is not true!”
“Hist!” said Long Ned, looking round fearfully, and sinking his voice;
“never talk of what you hear of gentlemen, except you wish to bring them
to their last dying speech and confession. But come with me, my lad; there
is a tavern hard by, and we may as well discuss matters over a pint of wine.
You look cursed seedy, to be sure; but I can tell Bill the waiter—famous
fellow, that Bill!—that you are one of my tenants, come to complain of my
steward, who has just distrained you for rent, you dog! No wonder you look
so worn in the rigging. Come, follow me. I can't walk with thee. It would
look too like Northumberland House and the butcher's abode next door
taking a stroll together.”
“Really, Mr. Pepper,” said our hero, colouring, and by no means pleased
with the ingenious comparison of his friend, “if you are ashamed of my
clothes, which I own might be newer, I will not wound you with my—”
“Pooh! my lad, pooh!” cried Long Ned, interrupting him; “never take
offence. I never do. I never take anything but money, except, indeed,
watches. I don't mean to hurt your feelings; all of us have been poor once.
'Gad, I remember when I had not a dud to my back; and now, you see me,—
you see me, Paul! But come, 't is only through the streets you need separate
from me. Keep a little behind, very little; that will do. Ay, that will do,”
repeated Long Ned, mutteringly to himself; “they'll take him for a bailiff. It
looks handsome nowadays to be so attended; it shows one had credit once!”
Meanwhile Paul, though by no means pleased with the contempt
expressed for his personal appearance by his lengthy associate, and
impressed with a keener sense than ever of the crimes of his coat and the
vices of his other garment,—“Oh, breathe not its name!”—followed
doggedly and sullenly the strutting steps of the coxcombical Mr. Pepper.
That personage arrived at last at a small tavern, and arresting a waiter who

was running across the passage into the coffee-room with a dish of hung-
beef, demanded (no doubt from a pleasing anticipation of a similar
pendulous catastrophe) a plate of the same excellent cheer, to be carried, in
company with a bottle of port, into a private apartment. No sooner did he
find himself alone with Paul than, bursting into a loud laugh, Mr. Ned
surveyed his comrade from head to foot through an eyeglass which he wore
fastened to his button-hole by a piece of blue ribbon.
“Well, 'gad now,” said he, stopping ever and anon, as if to laugh the more
heartily, “stab my vitals, but you are a comical quiz. I wonder what the
women would say, if they saw the dashing Edward Pepper, Esquire,
walking arm in arm with thee at Ranelagh or Vauxhall! Nay, man, never be
downcast; if I laugh at thee, it is only to make thee look a little merrier
thyself. Why, thou lookest like a book of my grandfather's called Burton's
'Anatomy of Melancholy;' and faith, a shabbier bound copy of it I never
saw.”
“These jests are a little hard,” said Paul, struggling between anger and an
attempt to smile; and then recollecting his late literary occupations, and the
many extracts he had taken from “Gleanings of the Belles Lettres,” in order
to impart elegance to his criticisms, he threw out his hand theatrically, and
spouted with a solemn face,—

“'Of all the griefs that harass the distrest,
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest!'”

“Well, now, prithee forgive me,” said Long Ned, composing his features,
“and just tell me what you have been doing the last two months.”
“Slashing and plastering!” said Paul, with conscious pride.
“Slashing and what? The boy's mad. What do you mean, Paul?”
“In other words,” said our hero, speaking very slowly, “know, O very
Long Ned! that I have been critic to 'The Asinaeum.'”
If Paul's comrade laughed at first, he now laughed ten times more merrily
than ever. He threw his full length of limb upon a neighbouring sofa, and
literally rolled with cachinnatory convulsions; nor did his risible emotions
subside until the entrance of the hung-beef restored him to recollection.
Seeing, then, that a cloud lowered over Paul's countenance, he went up to
him with something like gravity, begged his pardon for his want of

politeness, and desired him to wash away all unkindness in a bumper of
port. Paul, whose excellent dispositions we have before had occasion to
remark, was not impervious to his friend's apologies. He assured Long Ned
that he quite forgave him for his ridicule of the high situation he (Paul) had
enjoyed in the literary world; that it was the duty of a public censor to bear
no malice, and that he should be very glad to take his share in the interment
of the hung-beef.
The pair now sat down to their repast; and Paul, who had fared but
meagerly in that Temple of Athena over which MacGrawler presided, did
ample justice to the viands before him. By degrees, as he ate and drank, his
heart opened to his companion; and laying aside that Asinaeum dignity
which he had at first thought it incumbent on him to assume, he entertained
Pepper with all the particulars of the life he had lately passed. He narrated
to him his breach with Dame Lobkins, his agreement with MacGrawler, the
glory he had acquired, and the wrongs he had sustained; and he concluded,
as now the second bottle made its appearance, by stating his desire of
exchanging for some more active profession that sedentary career which he
had so promisingly begun.
This last part of Paul's confessions secretly delighted the soul of Long
Ned; for that experienced collector of the highways—Ned was, indeed, of
no less noble a profession—had long fixed an eye upon our hero, as one
whom he thought likely to be an honour to that enterprising calling which
he espoused, and an useful assistant to himself. He had not, in his earlier
acquaintance with Paul, when the youth was under the roof and the
surveillance of the practised and wary Mrs. Lobkins, deemed it prudent to
expose the exact nature of his own pursuits, and had contented himself by
gradually ripening the mind and the finances of Paul into that state when the
proposition of a leap from a hedge would not be likely greatly to revolt the
person to whom it was made. He now thought that time near at hand; and
filling our hero's glass up to the brim, thus artfully addressed him:—
“Courage, my friend! Your narration has given me a sensible pleasure;
for curse me if it has not strengthened my favourite opinion,—that
everything is for the best. If it had not been for the meanness of that pitiful
fellow, MacGrawler, you might still be inspired with the paltry ambition of
earning a few shillings a week and vilifying a parcel of poor devils in the
what-d'ye-call it, with a hard name; whereas now, my good Paul, I trust I

shall be able to open to your genius a new career, in which guineas are had
for the asking,—in which you may wear fine clothes, and ogle the ladies at
Ranelagh; and when you are tired of glory and liberty, Paul, why, you have
only to make your bow to an heiress, or a widow with a spanking jointure,
and quit the hum of men like a Cincinnatus!”
Though Paul's perception into the abstruser branches of morals was not
very acute,—and at that time the port wine had considerably confused the
few notions he possessed upon “the beauty of virtue,”—yet he could not but
perceive that Mr. Pepper's insinuated proposition was far from being one
which the bench of bishops or a synod of moralists would conscientiously
have approved. He consequently remained silent; and Long Ned, after a
pause, continued:—
“You know my genealogy, my good fellow? I was the son of Lawyer
Pepper, a shrewd old dog, but as hot as Calcutta; and the grandson of
Sexton Pepper, a great author, who wrote verses on tombstones, and kept a
stall of religious tracts in Carlisle. My grandfather, the sexton, was the best
temper of the family; for all of us are a little inclined to be hot in the mouth.
Well, my fine fellow, my father left me his blessing, and this devilish good
head of hair. I lived for some years on my own resources. I found it a
particularly inconvenient mode of life, and of late I have taken to live on the
public. My father and grandfather did it before me, though in a different
line. 'T is the pleasantest plan in the world. Follow my example, and your
coat shall be as spruce as my own. Master Paul, your health!”
“But, O longest of mortals!” said Paul, refilling his glass, “though the
public may allow you to eat your mutton off their backs for a short time,
they will kick up at last, and upset you and your banquet; in other words
(pardon my metaphor, dear Ned, in remembrance of the part I have lately
maintained in 'The Asinaeum,' that most magnificent and metaphorical of
journals!),—in other words, the police will nab thee at last; and thou wilt
have the distinguished fate, as thou already hast the distinguishing
characteristic, of Absalom!”
“You mean that I shall be hanged,” said Long Ned, “that may or may not
be; but he who fears death never enjoys life. Consider, Paul, that though
hanging is a bad fate, starving is a worse; wherefore fill your glass, and let
us drink to the health of that great donkey, the people, and may we never
want saddles to ride it!”

“To the great donkey,” cried Paul, tossing off his bumper; “may your
(y)ears be as long! But I own to you, my friend, that I cannot enter into your
plans. And, as a token of my resolution, I shall drink no more, for my eyes
already begin to dance in the air; and if I listen longer to your resistless
eloquence, my feet may share the same fate!”
So saying, Paul rose; nor could any entreaty, on the part of his
entertainer, persuade him to resume his seat.
“Nay, as you will,” said Pepper, affecting a nonchalant tone, and
arranging his cravat before the glass,—“nay, as you will. Ned Pepper
requires no man's companionship against his liking; and if the noble spark
of ambition be not in your bosom, 't is no use spending my breath in
blowing at what only existed in my too flattering opinion of your qualities.
So then, you propose to return to MacGrawler (the scurvy old cheat!), and
pass the inglorious remainder of your life in the mangling of authors and the
murder of grammar? Go, my good fellow, go! scribble again and forever for
MacGrawler, and let him live upon thy brains instead of suffering thy brains
to—”
“Hold!” cried Paul. “Although I may have some scruples which prevent
my adoption of that rising line of life you have proposed to me, yet you are
very much mistaken if you imagine me so spiritless as any longer to subject
myself to the frauds of that rascal MacGrawler. No! My present intention is
to pay my old nurse a visit. It appears to me passing strange that though I
have left her so many weeks, she has never relented enough to track me out,
which one would think would have been no difficult matter; and now, you
see, that I am pretty well off, having five guineas and four shillings all my
own, and she can scarcely think I want her money, my heart melts to her,
and I shall go and ask pardon for my haste!”
“Pshaw! sentimental,” cried Long Ned, a little alarmed at the thought of
Paul's gliding from those clutches which he thought had now so firmly
closed upon him. “Why, you surely don't mean, after having once tasted the
joys of independence, to go back to the boozing-ken, and bear all Mother
Lobkins's drunken tantrums! Better have stayed with MacGrawler, of the
two!”
“You mistake me,” answered Paul; “I mean solely to make it up with her,
and get her permission to see the world. My ultimate intention is—to
travel.”

“Right,” cried Ned, “on the high-road,—and on horseback, I hope.”
“No, my Colossus of Roads! no. I am in doubt whether or not I shall
enlist in a marching regiment, or—Give me your advice on it! I fancy I
have a great turn for the stage, ever since I saw Garrick in 'Richard.' Shall I
turn stroller? It must be a merry life.”
“Oh, the devil!” cried Ned. “I myself once did Cassio in a barn, and
every one swore I enacted the drunken scene to perfection; but you have no
notion what a lamentable life it is to a man of any susceptibility. No, my
friend, no! There is only one line in all the old plays worthy thy attention,—
“'Toby [The highway] or not toby, that is the question.'
“I forget the rest!”
“Well,” said our hero, answering in the same jocular vein, “I confess I
have 'the actor's high ambition.' It is astonishing how my heart beat when
Richard cried out, 'Come bustle, bustle!' Yes, Pepper, avaunt!—
“'A thousand hearts are great within my bosom.'”
“Well, well,” said Long Ned, stretching himself, “since you are so fond
of the play, what say you to an excursion thither to-night? Garrick acts.”
“Done!” cried Paul.
“Done!” echoed lazily Long Ned, rising with that blase air which
distinguishes the matured man of the world from the enthusiastic
tyro,-“done! and we will adjourn afterwards to the White Horse.”
“But stay a moment,” said Paul; “if you remember, I owed you a guinea
when I last saw you,—here it is!”
“Nonsense,” exclaimed Long Ned, refusing the money,—“nonsense! You
want the money at present; pay me when you are richer. Nay, never be coy
about it; debts of honour are not paid now as they used to be. We lads of the
Fish Lane Club have changed all that. Well, well, if I must!”
And Long Ned, seeing that Paul insisted, pocketed the guinea. When this
delicate matter had been arranged,—“Come,” said Pepper, “come, get your
hat; but, bless me! I have forgotten one thing.”
“What?”
“Why, my fine Paul, consider. The play is a bang-up sort of a place; look
at your coat and your waistcoat, that's all!”

Our hero was struck dumb with this argumentum ad hominem. But Long
Ned, after enjoying his perplexity, relieved him of it by telling him that he
knew of an honest tradesman who kept a ready-made shop just by the
theatre, and who could fit him out in a moment.
In fact, Long Ned was as good as his word; he carried Paul to a tailor,
who gave him for the sum of thirty shillings—half ready money, half on
credit-a green coat with a tarnished gold lace, a pair of red inexpressibles,
and a pepper-and-salt waistcoat. It is true, they were somewhat of the
largest, for they had once belonged to no less a person than Long Ned
himself; but Paul did not then regard those niceties of apparel, as he was
subsequently taught to do by Gentleman George (a personage hereafter to
be introduced to our reader), and he went to the theatre as well satisfied
with himself as if he had been Mr. T—— or the Count de ——.
Our adventurers are now quietly seated in the theatre; and we shall not
think it necessary to detail the performances they saw, or the observations
they made. Long Ned was one of those superior beings of the road who
would not for the world have condescended to appear anywhere but in the
boxes; and, accordingly, the friends procured a couple of places in the
dress-tier. In the next box to the one our adventurers adorned they
remarked, more especially than the rest of the audience, a gentleman and a
young lady seated next each other; the latter, who was about thirteen years
old, was so uncommonly beautiful that Paul, despite his dramatic
enthusiasm, could scarcely divert his eyes from her countenance to the
stage. Her hair, of a bright and fair auburn, hung in profuse ringlets about
her neck, shedding a softer shade upon a complexion in which the roses
seemed just budding as it were into blush. Her eyes, large, blue, and rather
languishing than brilliant, were curtained by the darkest lashes; her mouth
seemed literally girt with smiles, so numberless were the dimples that every
time the full, ripe, dewy lips were parted rose into sight; and the
enchantment of the dimples was aided by two rows of teeth more dazzling
than the richest pearls that ever glittered on a bride. But the chief charm of
the face was its exceeding and touching air of innocence and girlish
softness; you might have gazed forever upon that first unspeakable bloom,
that all untouched and stainless down, which seemed as if a very breath
could mar it. Perhaps the face might have wanted animation; but perhaps,
also, it borrowed from that want an attraction. The repose of the features
was so soft and gentle that the eye wandered there with the same delight,

and left it with the same reluctance, which it experiences in dwelling on or
in quitting those hues which are found to harmonize the most with its
vision. But while Paul was feeding his gaze on this young beauty, the keen
glances of Long Ned had found an object no less fascinating in a large gold
watch which the gentleman who accompanied the damsel ever and anon
brought to his eye, as if he were waxing a little weary of the length of the
pieces or the lingering progression of time.
“What a beautiful face!” whispered Paul.
“Is the face gold, then, as well as the back?” whispered Long Ned, in
return.
Our hero started, frowned, and despite the gigantic stature of his
comrade, told him, very angrily, to find some other subject for jesting. Ned
in his turn stared, but made no reply.
Meanwhile Paul, though the lady was rather too young to fall in love
with, began wondering what relationship her companion bore to her.
Though the gentleman altogether was handsome, yet his features and the
whole character of his face were widely different from those on which Paul
gazed with such delight. He was not, seemingly, above five-and-forty, but
his forehead was knit into many a line and furrow; and in his eyes the light,
though searching, was more sober and staid than became his years. A
disagreeable expression played about the mouth; and the shape of the face,
which was long and thin, considerably detracted from the prepossessing
effect of a handsome aquiline nose, fine teeth, and a dark, manly, though
sallow complexion. There was a mingled air of shrewdness and distraction
in the expression of his face. He seemed to pay very little attention to the
play, or to anything about him; but he testified very considerable alacrity,
when the play was over, in putting her cloak around his young companion,
and in threading their way through the thick crowd that the boxes were now
pouring forth.
Paul and his companion silently, and each with very different motives
from the other, followed them. They were now at the door of the theatre.
A servant stepped forward and informed the gentleman that his carriage
was a few paces distant, but that it might be some time before it could drive
up to the theatre.
“Can you walk to the carriage, my dear?” said the gentleman to his
young charge; and she answering in the affirmative, they both left the

house, preceded by the servant.
“Come on!” said Long Ned, hastily, and walking in the same direction
which the strangers had taken. Paul readily agreed. They soon overtook the
strangers. Long Ned walked the nearest to the gentleman, and brushed by
him in passing. Presently a voice cried, “Stop thief!” and Long Ned, saying
to Paul, “Shift for yourself, run!” darted from our hero's side into the crowd,
and vanished in a twinkling. Before Paul could recover his amaze, he found
himself suddenly seized by the collar; he turned abruptly, and saw the dark
face of the young lady's companion.
“Rascal!” cried the gentleman, “my watch!”
“Watch!” repeated Paul, bewildered, and only for the sake of the young
lady refraining from knocking down his arrester,—“watch!”
“Ay, young man!” cried a fellow in a great-coat, who now suddenly
appeared on the other side of Paul; “this gentleman's watch. Please your
honour,” addressing the complainant, “I be a watch too; shall I take up this
chap?”
“By all means,” cried the gentleman; “I would not have lost my watch for
twice its value. I can swear I saw this fellow's companion snatch it from my
fob. The thief's gone; but we have at least the accomplice. I give him in
strict charge to you, watchman; take the consequences if you let him
escape.” The watchman answered, sullenly, that he did not want to be
threatened, and he knew how to discharge his duty.
“Don't answer me, fellow!” said the gentleman, haughtily; “do as I tell
you!” And after a little colloquy, Paul found himself suddenly marched off
between two tall fellows, who looked prodigiously inclined to eat him. By
this time he had recovered his surprise and dismay. He did not want the
penetration to see that his companion had really committed the offence for
which he was charged; and he also foresaw that the circumstance might be
attended with disagreeable consequences to himself. Under all the features
of the case, he thought that an attempt to escape would not be an imprudent
proceeding on his part; accordingly, after moving a few paces very quietly
and very passively, he watched his opportunity, wrenched himself from the
gripe of the gentleman on his left, and brought the hand thus released
against the cheek of the gentleman on his right with so hearty a good will as
to cause him to relinquish his hold, and retreat several paces towards the
areas in a slanting position. But that roundabout sort of blow with the left

fist is very unfavourable towards the preservation of a firm balance; and
before Paul had recovered sufficiently to make an effectual bolt, he was
prostrated to the earth by a blow from the other and undamaged watchman,
which utterly deprived him of his senses; and when he recovered those
useful possessions (which a man may reasonably boast of losing, since it is
only the minority who have them to lose), he found himself stretched on a
bench in the watchhouse.

CHAPTER VII.
Begirt with many a gallant slave,
Apparelled as becomes the brave,
Old Giaffir sat in his divan:
. . . . . . .
Much I misdoubt this wayward boy
Will one day work me more annoy.
Bride of Abydos.

The learned and ingenious John Schweighaeuser (a name facile to spell
and mellifluous to pronounce) hath been pleased, in that Appendix
continens particulam doctrinae de mente humana, which closeth the volume
of his “Opuscula Academica,” to observe (we translate from memory) that,
“in the infinite variety of things which in the theatre of the world occur to a
man's survey, or in some manner or another affect his body or his mind, by
far the greater part are so contrived as to bring to him rather some sense of
pleasure than of pain or discomfort.” Assuming that this holds generally
good in well-constituted frames, we point out a notable example in the case
of the incarcerated Paul; for although that youth was in no agreeable
situation at the time present, and although nothing very encouraging smiled
upon him from the prospects of the future, yet, as soon as he had recovered
his consciousness, and given himself a rousing shake, he found an
immediate source of pleasure in discovering, first, that several ladies and
gentlemen bore him company in his imprisonment; and, secondly, in
perceiving a huge jug of water within his reach, which, as his awaking
sensation was that of burning thirst, he delightedly emptied at a draught. He
then, stretching himself, looked around with a wistful earnestness, and
discovered a back turned towards him, and recumbent on the floor, which at
the very first glance appeared to him familiar. “Surely,” thought he, “I know
that frieze coat, and the peculiar turn of those narrow shoulders.” Thus
soliloquizing, he raised himself, and putting out his leg, he gently kicked
the reclining form. “Muttering strange oaths,” the form turned round, and
raising itself upon that inhospitable part of the body in which the
introduction of foreign feet is considered anything but an honour, it fixed its
dull blue eyes upon the face of the disturber of its slumbers, gradually
opening them wider and wider, until they seemed to have enlarged

themselves into proportions fit for the swallowing of the important truth
that burst upon them, and then from the mouth of the creature issued,—
“Queer my glims, if that be n't little Paul!”
“Ay, Dummie, here I am! Not been long without being laid by the heels,
you see! Life is short; we must make the best use of our time!”
Upon this, Mr. Dunnaker (it was no less respectable a person) scrambled
up from the floor, and seating himself on the bench beside Paul, said in a
pitying tone,—
“Vy, laus-a-me! if you be n't knocked o' the head! Your poll's as bloody as
'Murphy's face ven his throat's cut!”

[“Murphy's face,"unlearned reader, appeareth, in Irish phrase,
to mean “pig's head.”]

“'T is only the fortune of war, Dummie, and a mere trifle; the heads
manufactured at Thames Court are not easily put out of order. But tell me,
how come you here?”
“Vy, I had been lushing heavy vet—”
“'Till you grew light in the head, eh,—and fell into the kennel?”
“Yes.”
“Mine is a worse business than that, I fear;” and therewith Paul, in a
lower voice, related to the trusty Dummie the train of accidents which had
conducted him to his present asylum. Dummie's face elongated as he
listened; however, when the narrative was over, he endeavoured such
consolatory palliatives as occurred to him. He represented, first, the
possibility that the gentleman might not take the trouble to appear;
secondly, the certainty that no watch was found about Paul's person; thirdly,
the fact that, even by the gentleman's confession, Paul had not been the
actual offender; fourthly, if the worst came to the worst, what were a few
weeks' or even months' imprisonment?
“Blow me tight!” said Dummie, “if it be n't as good a vay of passing the
time as a cove as is fond of snuggery need desire!”
This observation had no comfort for Paul, who recoiled, with all the
maiden coyness of one to whom such unions are unfamiliar, from a
matrimonial alliance with the snuggery of the House of Correction. He
rather trusted to another source for consolation. In a word, he encouraged

the flattering belief that Long Ned, finding that Paul had been caught
instead of himself, would have the generosity to come forward and
exculpate him from the charge. On hinting this idea to Dummie, that
accomplished “man about town” could not for some time believe that any
simpleton could be so thoroughly unacquainted with the world as seriously
to entertain so ridiculous a notion; and, indeed, it is somewhat remarkable
that such a hope should ever have told its flattering tale to one brought up in
the house of Mrs. Margaret Lobkins. But Paul, we have seen, had formed
many of his notions from books; and he had the same fine theories of your
“moral rogue” that possess the minds of young patriots when they first
leave college for the House of Commons, and think integrity a prettier thing
than office.
Mr. Dunnaker urged Paul, seriously, to dismiss so vague and childish a
fancy from his breast, and rather to think of what line of defence it would
be best for him to pursue. This subject being at length exhausted, Paul
recurred to Mrs. Lobkins, and inquired whether Dummie had lately
honoured that lady with a visit.
Mr. Dunnaker replied that he had, though with much difficulty, appeased
her anger against him for his supposed abetment of Paul's excesses, and that
of late she had held sundry conversations with Dummie respecting our hero
himself. Upon questioning Dummie further, Paul learned the good matron's
reasons for not evincing that solicitude for his return which our hero had
reasonably anticipated. The fact was, that she, having no confidence
whatsoever in his own resources independent of her, had not been sorry of
an opportunity effectually, as she hoped, to humble that pride which had so
revolted her; and she pleased her vanity by anticipating the time when Paul,
starved into submission, would gladly and penitently re-seek the shelter of
her roof, and, tamed as it were by experience, would never again kick
against the yoke which her matronly prudence thought it fitting to impose
upon him. She contented herself, then, with obtaining from Dummie the
intelligence that our hero was under MacGrawler's roof, and therefore out
of all positive danger to life and limb; and as she could not foresee the
ingenious exertions of intellect by which Paul had converted himself into
the “Nobilitas” of “The Asinaeum,” and thereby saved himself from utter
penury, she was perfectly convinced, from her knowledge of character, that
the illustrious MacGrawler would not long continue that protection to the
rebellious protege which in her opinion was his only preservative from

picking pockets or famishing. To the former decent alternative she knew
Paul's great and jejune aversion; and she consequently had little fear for his
morals or his safety, in thus abandoning him for a while to chance. Any
anxiety, too, that she might otherwise have keenly experienced was
deadened by the habitual intoxication now increasing upon the good lady
with age, and which, though at times she could be excited to all her
characteristic vehemence, kept her senses for the most part plunged into a
Lethean stupor, or, to speak more courteously, into a poetical abstraction
from the things of the external world.
“But,” said Dummie, as by degrees he imparted the solution of the
dame's conduct to the listening ear of his companion,—“but I hopes as how
ven you be out of this 'ere scrape, leetle Paul, you vill take varning, and
drop Meester Pepper's acquaintance (vich, I must say, I vas alvays a sorry to
see you hencourage), and go home to the Mug, and fam grasp the old mort,
for she has not been like the same cretur ever since you vent. She's a
delicate-'arted 'oman, that Piggy Lob!”
So appropriate a panegyric on Mrs. Margaret Lobkins might at another
time have excited Paul's risible muscles; but at that moment he really felt
compunction for the unceremonious manner in which he had left her, and
the softness of regretful affection imbued in its hallowing colours even the
image of Piggy Lob.
In conversation of this intellectual and domestic description, the night
and ensuing morning passed away, till Paul found himself in the awful
presence of Justice Burnflat. Several cases were disposed of before his own;
and among others Mr. Duminie Dunnaker obtained his release, though not
without a severe reprimand for his sin of inebriety, which no doubt sensibly
affected the ingenuous spirit of that noble character. At length Paul's turn
came. He heard, as he took his station, a general buzz. At first he imagined
it was at his own interesting appearance; but raising his eyes, he perceived
that it was at the entrance of the gentleman who was to become his accuser.
“Hush,” said some one near him, “'t is Lawyer Brandon. Ah, he's a 'cute
fellow! it will go hard with the person he complains of.”
There was a happy fund of elasticity of spirit about our hero; and though
he had not the good fortune to have “a blighted heart,”—a circumstance
which, by the poets and philosophers of the present day, is supposed to
inspire a man with wonderful courage, and make him impervious to all

misfortunes,—yet he bore himself up with wonderful courage under his
present trying situation, and was far from overwhelmed, though he was
certainly a little damped, by the observation he had just heard.
Mr. Brandon was, indeed, a barrister of considerable reputation, and in
high esteem in the world, not only for talent, but also for a great austerity of
manners, which, though a little mingled with sternness and acerbity for the
errors of other men, was naturally thought the more praiseworthy on that
account; there being, as persons of experience are doubtless aware, two
divisions in the first class of morality,—imprimis, a great hatred for the
vices of one's neighbour; secondly, the possession of virtues in one's self.
Mr. Brandon was received with great courtesy by Justice Burnflat; and as
he came, watch in hand (a borrowed watch), saying that his time was worth
five guineas a moment, the justice proceeded immediately to business.
Nothing could be clearer, shorter, or more satisfactory than the evidence
of Mr. Brandon. The corroborative testimony of the watchman followed;
and then Paul was called upon for his defence. This was equally brief with
the charge; but, alas! it was not equally satisfactory. It consisted in a firm
declaration of his innocence. His comrade, he confessed, might have stolen
the watch; but he humbly suggested that that was exactly the very reason
why he had not stolen it.
“How long, fellow,” asked Justice Burnflat, “have you known your
companion?”
“About half a year.”
“And what is his name and calling?” Paul hesitated, and declined to
answer.
“A sad piece of business!” said the justice, in a melancholy tone, and
shaking his head portentously.
The lawyer acquiesced in the aphorism, but with great magnanimity
observed that he did not wish to be hard upon the young man. His youth
was in his favour, and his offence was probably the consequence of evil
company. He suggested, therefore, that as he must be perfectly aware of the
address of his friend, he should receive a full pardon if he would
immediately favour the magistrate with that information. He concluded by
remarking, with singular philanthropy, that it was not the punishment of the
youth, but the recovery of his watch, that he desired.

Justice Burnflat, having duly impressed upon our hero's mind the
disinterested and Christian mercy of the complainant, and the everlasting
obligation Paul was under to him for its display, now repeated, with double
solemnity, those queries respecting the habitation and name of Long Ned
which our hero had before declined to answer.
Grieved are we to confess that Paul, ungrateful for and wholly untouched
by the beautiful benignity of Lawyer Brandon, continued firm in his
stubborn denial to betray his comrade; and with equal obduracy he
continued to insist upon his own innocence and unblemished respectability
of character.
“Your name, young man?” quoth the justice. “Your name, you say, is
Paul,—Paul what? You have many an alias, I'll be bound.”
Here the young gentleman again hesitated; at length he replied,—
“Paul Lobkins, your worship.”
“Lobkins!” repeated the judge,—“Lobkins! Come hither, Saunders; have
not we that name down in our black books?”
“So, please your worship,” quoth a little stout man, very useful in many
respects to the Festus of the police, “there is one Peggy Lobkins, who keeps
a public-house, a sort of flash ken, called the Mug, in Thames Court,—not
exactly in our beat, your worship.”
“Ho, ho!” said Justice Burnflat; winking at Mr. Brandon, “we must sift
this a little. Pray, Mr. Paul Lobkins, what relation is the good landlady of
the Mug, in Thames Court, to yourself?”
“None at all, sir,” said Paul, hastily; “she's only a friend!”
Upon this there was a laugh in the court.
“Silence!” cried the justice. “And I dare say, Mr. Paul Lobkins, that this
friend of yours will vouch for the respectability of your character, upon
which you are pleased to value yourself?”
“I have not a doubt of it, sir,” answered Paul; and there was another
laugh.
“And is there any other equally weighty and praiseworthy friend of yours
who will do you the like kindness?”
Paul hesitated; and at that moment, to the surprise of the court, but above
all to the utter and astounding surprise of himself, two gentlemen, dressed

in the height of the fashion, pushed forward, and bowing to the justice,
declared themselves ready to vouch for the thorough respectability and
unimpeachable character of Mr. Paul Lobkins, whom they had known, they
said, for many years, and for whom they had the greatest respect. While
Paul was surveying the persons of these kind friends, whom he never
remembered to have seen before in the course of his life, the lawyer, who
was a very sharp fellow, whispered to the magistrate; and that dignitary
nodding as in assent, and eying the new-comers, inquired the names of Mr.
Lobkins's witnesses.
“Mr. Eustace Fitzherbert” and “Mr. William Howard Russell,” were the
several replies.
Names so aristocratic produced a general sensation. But the impenetrable
justice, calling the same Mr. Saunders he had addressed before, asked him
to examine well the countenances of Mr. Lobkins's friends.
As the alguazil eyed the features of the memorable Don Raphael and the
illustrious Manuel Morales, when the former of those accomplished
personages thought it convenient to assume the travelling dignity of an
Italian prince, son of the sovereign of the valleys which lie between
Switzerland, the Milanese, and Savoy, while the latter was contented with
being servant to Monseigneur le Prince; even so, with far more earnestness
than respect; did Mr. Saunders eye the features of those high-born
gentlemen, Messrs. Eustace Fitzherbert and William Howard Russell; but
after a long survey he withdrew his eyes, made an unsatisfactory and
unrecognizing gesture to the magistrate, and said,—
“Please your worship, they are none of my flock; but Bill Troutling
knows more of this sort of genteel chaps than I does.”
“Bid Bill Troutling appear!” was the laconic order.
At that name a certain modest confusion might have been visible in the
faces of Mr. Eustace Fitzherbert and Mr. William Howard Russell, had not
the attention of the court been immediately directed to another case. A poor
woman had been committed for seven days to the House of Correction on a
charge of disrespectability. Her husband, the person most interested in the
matter, now came forward to disprove the charge; and by help of his
neighbours he succeeded.
“It is all very true,” said Justice Burnflat; “but as your wife, my good
fellow, will be out in five days, it will be scarcely worth while to release her

now.”

[A fact, occurring in the month of January, 1830. Vide
“The Morning Herald.”]

So judicious a decision could not fail of satisfying the husband; and the
audience became from that moment enlightened as to a very remarkable
truth,—namely, that five days out of seven bear a peculiarly small
proportion to the remaining two; and that people in England have so
prodigious a love for punishment that though it is not worth while to release
an innocent woman from prison five days sooner than one would otherwise
have done, it is exceedingly well worth while to commit her to prison for
seven!
When the husband, passing his rough hand across his eyes, and muttering
some vulgar impertinence or another had withdrawn, Mr. Saunders said,—
“Here be Bill Troutling, your worship!”
“Oh, well,” quoth the justice; “and now, Mr. Eustace Fitz—— Hallo,
how's this! Where are Mr. William Howard Russell and his friend Mr.
Eustace Fitzherbert?”

“Echo answered,—where?”

Those noble gentlemen, having a natural dislike to be confronted with so
low a person as Mr. Bill Troutling, had, the instant public interest was
directed from them, silently disappeared from a scene where their rank in
life seemed so little regarded. If, reader, you should be anxious to learn
from what part of the world the transitory visitants appeared, know that they
were spirits sent by that inimitable magician, Long Ned, partly to report
how matters fared in the court; for Mr. Pepper, in pursuance of that old
policy which teaches that the nearer the fox is to the hunters, the more
chance he has of being overlooked, had, immediately on his abrupt
departure from Paul, dived into a house in the very street where his
ingenuity had displayed itself, and in which oysters and ale nightly allured
and regaled an assembly that, to speak impartially, was more numerous than
select. There had he learned how a pickpocket had been seized for unlawful
affection to another man's watch; and there, while he quietly seasoned his
oysters, had he, with his characteristic acuteness, satisfied his mind by the
conviction that that arrested unfortunate was no other than Paul. Partly,

therefore, as a precaution for his own safety, that he might receive early
intelligence should Paul's defence make a change of residence expedient,
and partly (out of the friendliness of fellowship) to back his companion
with such aid as the favourable testimony of two well-dressed persons, little
known “about town,” might confer, he had despatched those celestial beings
who had appeared under the mortal names of Eustace Fitzherbert and
William Howard Russell to the imperial court of Justice Burnflat. Having
thus accounted for the apparition (the disapparition requires no
commentary) of Paul's “friends,” we return to Paul himself.
Despite the perils with which he was girt, our young hero fought out to
the last; but the justice was not by any means willing to displease Mr.
Brandon, and observing that an incredulous and biting sneer remained
stationary on that gentleman's lip during the whole of Paul's defence, he
could not but shape his decision according to the well-known acuteness of
the celebrated lawyer. Paul was sentenced to retire for three months to that
country-house situated at Bridewell, to which the ungrateful functionaries
of justice often banish their most active citizens.
As soon as the sentence was passed, Brandon, whose keen eyes saw no
hope of recovering his lost treasure, declared that the rascal had perfectly
the Old Bailey cut of countenance, and that he did not doubt but, if ever he
lived to be a judge, he should also live to pass a very different description of
sentence on the offender.
So saying, he resolved to lose no more time, and very abruptly left the
office, without any other comfort than the remembrance that, at all events,
he had sent the boy to a place where, let him be ever so innocent at present,
he was certain to come out as much inclined to be guilty as his friends could
desire; joined to such moral reflection as the tragedy of Bombastes Furioso
might have afforded to himself in that sententious and terse line,—

“Thy watch is gone,—watches are made to go.”

Meanwhile Paul was conducted in state to his retreat, in company with
two other offenders,—one a middle-aged man, though a very old “file,”
who was sentenced for getting money under false pretences, and the other a
little boy who had been found guilty of sleeping under a colonnade; it being
the especial beauty of the English law to make no fine-drawn and
nonsensical shades of difference between vice and misfortune, and its

peculiar method of protecting the honest being to make as many rogues as
possible in as short a space of time.

CHAPTER VIII.
Common Sense. What is the end of punishment as regards the individual
punished?
Custom. To make him better!
Common Sense. How do you punish young offenders who are (from their
youth) peculiarly alive to example, and whom it is therefore more easy
either to ruin or reform than the matured?
Custom. We send them to the House of Correction, to associate with the d
—dest rascals in the country!
Dialogue between Common Sense and Custom.—Very scarce.
As it was rather late in the day when Paul made his first entree at
Bridewell, he passed that night in the “receiving-room.” The next morning,
as soon as he had been examined by the surgeon and clothed in the
customary uniform, he was ushered, according to his classification, among
the good company who had been considered guilty of that compendious
offence, “a misdemeanour.” Here a tall gentleman marched up to him, and
addressed him in a certain language, which might be called the freemasonry
of flash, and which Paul, though he did not comprehend verbatim, rightly
understood to be an inquiry whether he was a thorough rogue and an entire
rascal. He answered half in confusion, half in anger; and his reply was so
detrimental to any favourable influence he might otherwise have exercised
over the interrogator, that the latter personage, giving him a pinch in the ear,
shouted out, “Ramp, ramp!” and at that significant and awful word, Paul
found himself surrounded in a trice by a whole host of ingenious
tormentors. One pulled this member, another pinched that; one cuffed him
before, and another thrashed him behind. By way of interlude to this
pleasing occupation, they stripped him of the very few things that in his
change of dress he had retained. One carried off his handkerchief, a second
his neckcloth, and a third, luckier than either, possessed himself of a pair of
carnelian shirt-buttons, given to Paul as a gage d'amour by a young lady
who sold oranges near the Tower. Happily, before this initiatory process—
technically termed “ramping,” and exercised upon all new-comers who

seem to have a spark of decency in them—had reduced the bones of Paul,
who fought tooth and nail in his defence, to the state of magnesia, a man of
a grave aspect, who had hitherto plucked his oakum in quiet, suddenly rose,
thrust himself between the victim and the assailants, and desired the latter,
like one having authority, to leave the lad alone, and go and be d—d.
This proposal to resort to another place for amusement, though uttered in
a very grave and tranquil manner, produced that instantaneous effect which
admonitions from great rogues generally work upon little. Messieurs the
ravmpers ceased from their amusements; and the ringleader of the gang,
thumping Paul heartily on the back, declared he was a capital fellow, and it
was only a bit of a spree like, which he hoped had not given any offence.
Paul, still clenching his fist, was about to answer in no pacific mood,
when a turnkey, who did not care in the least how many men he locked up
for an offence, but who did not at all like the trouble of looking after any
one of his flock to see that the offence was not committed, now suddenly
appeared among the set; and after scolding them for the excessive plague
they were to him, carried off two of the poorest of the mob to solitary
confinement. It happened, of course, that these two had not taken the
smallest share in the disturbance. This scene over, the company returned to
picking oakum; the tread-mill, that admirably just invention by which a
strong man suffers no fatigue and a weak one loses his health for life, not
having been then introduced into our excellent establishments for correcting
crime. Bitterly and with many dark and wrathful feelings, in which the
sense of injustice at punishment alone bore him up against the humiliations
to which he was subjected,—bitterly and with a swelling heart, in which the
thoughts that lead to crime were already forcing their way through a soil
suddenly warmed for their growth, did Paul bend over his employment. He
felt himself touched on the arm; he turned, and saw that the gentleman who
had so kindly delivered him from his tormentors was now sitting next to
him. Paul gazed long and earnestly upon his neighbour, struggling with the
thought that he had beheld that sagacious countenance in happier times,
although now, alas! it was altered not only by time and vicissitudes but by
that air of gravity which the cares of manhood spread gradually over the
face of the most thoughtless,—until all doubt melted away, and he
exclaimed,—
“Is that you, Mr. Tomlinson? How glad I am to see you here!”

“And I,” returned the quondam murderer for the newspapers, with a nasal
twang, “should be very glad to see myself anywhere else.”
Paul made no answer; and Augustus continued,—
“'To a wise man all places are the same,'—so it has been said. I don't
believe it, Paul,—I don't believe it. But a truce to reflection! I remembered
you the moment I saw you, though you are surprisingly grown. How is my
friend MacGrawler?—still hard at work for 'The Asinaeum'?”
“I believe so,” said Paul, sullenly, and hastening to change the
conversation; “but tell me, Mr. Tomlinson, how came you hither? I heard
you had gone down to the North of England to fulfil a lucrative
employment.”
“Possibly! The world always misrepresents the actions of those who are
constantly before it.”
“It is very true,” said Paul; “and I have said the same thing myself a
hundred times in 'The Asinaeum,' for we were never too lavish of our truths
in that magnificent journal. 'T is astonishing what a way we made three
ideas go.”
“You remind me of myself and my newspaper labours,” rejoined
Augustus Tomlinson. “I am not quite sure that I had so many as three ideas
to spare; for, as you say, it is astonishing how far that number may go,
properly managed. It is with writers as with strolling players,—the same
three ideas that did for Turks in one scene do for Highlanders in the next;
but you must tell me your history one of these days, and you shall hear
mine.”
“I should be excessively obliged to you for your confidence,” said Paul,
“and I doubt not but your life must be excessively entertaining. Mine, as
yet, has been but insipid. The lives of literary men are not fraught with
adventure; and I question whether every writer in 'The Asinaeum' has not
led pretty nearly the same existence as that which I have sustained myself.”
In conversation of this sort our newly restored friends passed the
remainder of the day, until the hour of half-past four, when the prisoners are
to suppose night has begun, and be locked up in their bedrooms. Tomlinson
then, who was glad to re-find a person who had known him in his beaux
jours, spoke privately to the turnkey; and the result of the conversation was
the coupling Paul and Augustus in the same chamber, which was a sort of

stone box, that generally accommodated three, and was—for we have
measured it, as we would have measured the cell of the prisoner of Chillon
—just eight feet by six.
We do not intend, reader, to indicate, by broad colours and in long detail,
the moral deterioration of our hero; because we have found, by experience,
that such pains on our part do little more than make thee blame our
stupidity instead of lauding our intention. We shall therefore only work out
our moral by subtle hints and brief comments; and we shall now content
ourselves with reminding thee that hitherto thou hast seen Paul honest in the
teeth of circumstances. Despite the contagion of the Mug, despite his
associates in Fish Lane, despite his intimacy with Long Ned, thou hast seen
him brave temptation, and look forward to some other career than that of
robbery or fraud. Nay, even in his destitution, when driven from the abode
of his childhood, thou hast observed how, instead of resorting to some more
pleasurable or libertine road of life, he betook himself at once to the dull
roof and insipid employments of MacGrawler, and preferred honestly
earning his subsistence by the sweat of his brain to recurring to any of the
numerous ways of living on others with which his experience among the
worst part of society must have teemed, and which, to say the least of them,
are more alluring to the young and the adventurous than the barren paths of
literary labour. Indeed, to let thee into a secret, it had been Paul's daring
ambition to raise himself into a worthy member of the community. His
present circumstances, it may hereafter be seen, made the cause of a great
change in his desires; and the conversation he held that night with the
ingenious and skilful Augustus went more towards fitting him for the hero
of this work than all the habits of his childhood or the scenes of his earlier
youth. Young people are apt, erroneously, to believe that it is a bad thing to
be exceedingly wicked. The House of Correction is so called, because it is a
place where so ridiculous a notion is invariably corrected. The next day
Paul was surprised by a visit from Mrs. Lobkins, who had heard of his
situation and its causes from the friendly Dummie, and who had managed to
obtain from Justice Burnflat an order of admission. They met, Pyramus and
Thisbe like, with a wall, or rather an iron gate, between them; and Mrs.
Lobkins, after an ejaculation of despair at the obstacle, burst weepingly into
the pathetic reproach,—
“O Paul, thou hast brought thy pigs to a fine market!”

“'T is a market proper for pigs, dear dame,” said Paul, who, though with a
tear in his eye, did not refuse a joke as bitter as it was inelegant; “for, of all
others, it is the spot where a man learns to take care of his bacon.”
“Hold your tongue!” cried the dame, angrily. “What business has you to
gabble on so while you are in limbo?”
“Ah, dear dame,” said Paul, “we can't help these rubs and stumbles on
our road to preferment!”
“Road to the scragging-post!” cried the dame. “I tells you, child, you'll
live to be hanged in spite of all my care and 'tention to you, though I
hedicated you as a scholard, and always hoped as how you would grow up
to be an honour to your—”
“King and country,” interrupted Paul. “We always say, honour to king
and country, which means getting rich and paying taxes. 'The more taxes a
man pays, the greater honour he is to both,' as Augustus says. Well, dear
dame, all in good time.”
“What! you is merry, is you? Why does not you weep? Your heart is as
hard as a brickbat. It looks quite unnatural and hyena-like to be so devil-
me-careish!” So saying, the good dame's tears gushed forth with the
bitterness of a despairing Parisina.
“Nay, nay,” said Paul, who, though he suffered far more intensely, bore
the suffering far more easily than his patroness, “we cannot mend the matter
by crying. Suppose you see what can be done for me. I dare say you may
manage to soften the justice's sentence by a little 'oil of palms;' and if you
can get me out before I am quite corrupted,—a day or two longer in this
infernal place will do the business,—I promise you that I will not only live
honestly myself, but with people who live in the same manner.”
“Buss me, Paul,” said the tender Mrs. Lobkins, “buss me—Oh! but I
forgits the gate. I'll see what can be done. And here, my lad, here's summat
for you in the mean while,—a drop o' the cretur, to preach comfort to your
poor stomach. Hush! smuggle it through, or they'll see you.”
Here the dame endeavoured to push a stone bottle through the bars of the
gate; but, alas! though the neck passed through, the body refused, and the
dame was forced to retract the “cretur.” Upon this, the kind-hearted woman
renewed her sobbings; and so absorbed was she in her grief that seemingly
quite forgetting for what purpose she had brought the bottle, she applied it

to her own mouth, and consoled herself with that elixir vitae which she had
originally designed for Paul.
This somewhat restored her; and after a most affecting scene the dame
reeled off with the vacillating steps natural to woe, promising, as she went,
that if love or money could shorten Paul's confinement, neither should be
wanting. We are rather at a loss to conjecture the exact influence which the
former of these arguments, urged by the lovely Margaret, might have had
upon Justice Burnflat.
When the good dame had departed, Paul hastened to repick his oakum
and rejoin his friend. He found the worthy Augustus privately selling little
elegant luxuries, such as tobacco, gin, and rations of daintier viands than the
prison allowed; for Augustus, having more money than the rest of his
companions, managed, through the friendship of the turnkey, to purchase
secretly, and to resell at about four hundred per cent, such comforts as the
prisoners especially coveted.

[A very common practice at the Bridewell. The Governor at the
Coldbath-Fields, apparently a very intelligent and active man, every
way fitted for a most arduous undertaking, informed us, in the only
conversation we have had the honour to hold with him, that he
thought he had nearly or quite destroyed in his jurisdiction this
illegal method of commerce.]

“A proof,” said Augustus, dryly, to Paul, “that by prudence and exertion
even in those places where a man cannot turn himself he may manage to
turn a penny.”

CHAPTER IX.
“Relate at large, my godlike guest,” she said,
“The Grecian stratagems,—the town betrayed!”
DRYDEN: Virgil, AEneid, book ii.

Descending thence, they 'scaped!—Ibid.

A great improvement had taken place in the character of Augustus
Tomlinson since Paul had last encountered that illustrious man. Then
Augustus had affected the man of pleasure, the learned lounger about town,
the all-accomplished Pericles of the papers, gayly quoting Horace, gravely
flanking a fly from the leader of Lord Dunshunner. Now a more serious yet
not a less supercilious air had settled upon his features; the pretence of
fashion had given way to the pretence of wisdom; and from the man of
pleasure Augustus Tomlinson had grown to the philosopher. With this
elevation alone, too, he was not content: he united the philosopher with the
politician; and the ingenious rascal was pleased especially to pique himself
upon being “a moderate Whig”!
“Paul,” he was wont to observe, “believe me, moderate Whiggism is a
most excellent creed. It adapts itself to every possible change, to every
conceivable variety of circumstance. It is the only politics for us who are
the aristocrats of that free body who rebel against tyrannical laws; for, hang
it, I am none of your democrats. Let there be dungeons and turnkeys for the
low rascals who whip clothes from the hedge where they hang to dry, or
steal down an area in quest of a silver spoon; but houses of correction are
not made for men who have received an enlightened education,—who
abhor your petty thefts as much as a justice of peace. can do,—who ought
never to be termed dishonest in their dealings, but, if they are found out,
'unlucky in their speculations'! A pretty thing, indeed, that there should be
distinctions of rank among other members of the community, and none
among us! Where's your boasted British Constitution, I should like to know,
where are your privileges of aristocracy, if I, who am a gentleman born,
know Latin, and have lived in the best society, should be thrust into this
abominable place with a dirty fellow who was born in a cellar, and could
never earn more at a time than would purchase a sausage? No, no! none of

your levelling principles for me! I am liberal, Paul, and love liberty; but,
thank Heaven, I despise your democracies!”
Thus, half in earnest, half veiling a natural turn to sarcasm, would this
moderate Whig run on for the hour together during those long nights,
commencing at half-past four, in which he and Paul bore each other
company.
One evening, when Tomlinson was so bitterly disposed to be prolix that
Paul felt himself somewhat wearied by his eloquence, our hero, desirous of
a change in the conversation, reminded Augustus of his promise to
communicate his history; and the philosophical Whig, nothing loath to
speak of himself, cleared his throat, and began.
“Never mind who was my father, nor what was my native place! My first
ancestor was Tommy Linn (his heir became Tom Linn's son),—you have
heard the ballad made in his praise,

“'Tommy Linn is a Scotchman born,
His head is bald and his beard is shorn;
He had a cap made of a hare skin,
An elder man is Tommy Limn!'

“There was a sort of prophecy respecting my ancestor's descendants
darkly insinuated in the concluding stanza of this ballad:—

“'Tommy Linn, and his wife, and his wife's mother,
They all fell into the fire together;
They that lay undermost got a hot skin,—

“We are not enough!” said Tommy Linn.'”

“You see the prophecy: it is applicable both to gentlemen rogues and to
moderate Whigs; for both are undermost in the world, and both are
perpetually bawling out, 'We are not enough!'
“I shall begin my own history by saying, I went to a North Country
school, where I was noted for my aptness in learning; and my skill at
'prisoner's base,'—upon my word I purposed no pun! I was intended for the
Church. Wishing, betimes, to instruct myself in its ceremonies, I persuaded
my schoolmaster's maidservant to assist me towards promoting a
christening. My father did not like this premature love for the sacred rites.
He took me home; and wishing to give my clerical ardour a different turn,
prepared me for writing sermons by reading me a dozen a day. I grew tired

of this, strange as it may seem to you. 'Father,' said I, one morning, 'it is no
use talking; I will not go into the Church,—that's positive. Give me your
blessing and a hundred pounds, and I'll go up to London and get a living
instead of a curacy.' My father stormed; but I got the better at last. I talked
of becoming a private tutor; swore I had heard nothing was so easy,—the
only things wanted were pupils; and the only way to get them was to go to
London and let my learning be known. My poor father,—well, he's gone,
and I am glad of it now!” The speaker's voice faltered. “I got the better, I
say, and I came to town, where I had a relation a bookseller. Through his
interest, I wrote a book of Travels in Ethiopia for an earl's son, who wanted
to become a lion; and a Treatise on the Greek Particle, dedicated to the
prime minister, for a dean, who wanted to become a bishop,—Greek being,
next to interest, the best road to the mitre. These two achievements were
liberally paid; so I took a lodging in a first floor, and resolved to make a
bold stroke for a wife. What do you think I did?—nay, never guess; it would
be hopeless. First, I went to the best tailor, and had my clothes sewn on my
back; secondly, I got the peerage and its genealogies by heart; thirdly, I
marched one night, with the coolest deliberation possible, into the house of
a duchess, who was giving an immense rout! The newspapers had inspired
me with this idea. I had read of the vast crowds which a lady 'at home'
sought to win to her house. I had read of staircases impassable, and ladies
carried out in a fit; and common-sense told me how impossible it was that
the fair receiver should be acquainted with the legality of every importation.
I therefore resolved to try my chance, and—entered the body of Augustus
Tomlinson, as a piece of stolen goods. Faith! the first night I was shy,—I
stuck to the staircase, and ogled an old maid of quality, whom I had heard
announced as Lady Margaret Sinclair. Doubtless she had never been ogled
before; and she was evidently enraptured with my glances. The next night I
read of a ball at the Countess of ———-'s. My heart beat as if I were going
to be whipped; but I plucked up courage, and repaired to her ladyship's.
There I again beheld the divine Lady Margaret; and observing that she
turned yellow, by way of a blush, when she saw me, I profited by the port I
had drunk as an encouragement to my entree, and lounging up in the most
modish way possible, I reminded her ladyship of an introduction with
which I said I had once been honoured at the Duke of Dashwell's, and
requested her hand for the next cotillion. Oh, Paul, fancy my triumph! The
old damsel said, with a sigh, she remembered me very well, ha, ha, ha!—

and I carried her off to the cotillion like another Theseus bearing away a
second Ariadne. Not to be prolix on this part of my life, I went night after
night to balls and routs, for admission to which half the fine gentlemen in
London would have given their ears. And I improved my time so well with
Lady Margaret, who was her own mistress and had L5,000,—a devilish bad
portion for some, but not to be laughed at by me,—that I began to think
when the happy day should be fixed. Meanwhile, as Lady Margaret
introduced me to some of her friends, and my lodgings were in a good
situation, I had been honoured with some real invitations. The only two
questions I ever was asked were (carelessly), 'Was I the only son?' and on
my veritable answer 'Yes!' 'What' (this was more warmly put),—'what was
my county?' Luckily my county was a wide one,—Yorkshire; and any of its
inhabitants whom the fair interrogators might have questioned about me
could only have answered, I was not in their part of it.
“Well, Paul, I grew so bold by success that the devil one day put it into
my head to go to a great dinner-party at the Duke of Dashwell's. I went,
dined,—nothing happened; I came away, and the next morning I read in the
papers,—
“'Mysterious affair—person lately going about—first houses—most
fashionable parties—nobody knows—Duke of Dashwell's yesterday. Duke
not like to make disturbance—as royalty present.”
“The journal dropped from my hands. At that moment the girl of the
house gave me a note from Lady Margaret,—alluded to the paragraph;
wondered who was 'The Stranger;' hoped to see me that night at Lord A
——-'s, to whose party I said I had been asked; speak then more fully on
those matters I had touched on!—in short, dear Paul, a tender epistle! All
great men are fatalists,—I am one now; fate made me a madman. In the
very face of this ominous paragraph I mustered up courage, and went that
night to Lord A——-'s. The fact is, my affairs were in confusion,—I was
greatly in debt. I knew it was necessary to finish my conquest over Lady
Margaret as soon as possible; and Lord A——-'s seemed the best place for
the purpose. Nay, I thought delay so dangerous, after the cursed paragraph,
that a day might unmask me, and it would be better therefore not to lose an
hour in finishing the play of 'The Stranger' with the farce of 'The Honey
Moon.' Behold me then at Lord A——-'s, leading off Lady Margaret to the
dance. Behold me whispering the sweetest of things in her ear. Imagine her

approving my suit, and gently chiding me for talking of Gretna Green.
Conceive all this, my dear fellow, and just at the height of my triumph,
dilate the eyes of your imagination, and behold the stately form of Lord A
——-, my noble host, marching up to me, while a voice that, though low
and quiet as an evening breeze, made my heart sink into my shoes, said, 'I
believe, sir, you have received no invitation from Lady A——-?'
“Not a word could I utter, Paul,—not a word. Had it been the highroad
instead of a ballroom, I could have talked loudly enough; but I was under a
spell. 'Ehem!' I faltered at last,—'e-h-e-m! Some mis-take, I—I—' There I
stopped.
“'Sir,' said the earl, regarding me with a grave sternness, 'you had better
withdraw.'
“'Bless me! what's all this?' cried Lady Margaret, dropping my palsied
arm, and gazing on me as if she expected me to talk like a hero.
“'Oh,' said I, 'eh-e-m, eh-e-m,—I will exp—lain to-morrow,—ehem, e-h-
e-m.' I made to the door; all the eyes in the room seemed turned into
burning-glasses, and blistered the very skin on my face. I heard a gentle
shriek, as I left the apartment,—Lady Margaret fainting, I suppose! There
ended my courtship and my adventures in 'the best society.'
“I felt melancholy at the ill-success of my scheme. You must allow it was
a magnificent project. What moral courage! I admire myself when I think of
it. Without an introduction, without knowing a soul, to become, all by my
own resolution, free of the finest houses in London, dancing with earls'
daughters, and all but carrying off an earl's daughter myself as my wife. If I
had, the friends must have done something for me; and Lady Margaret
Tomlinson might perhaps have introduced the youthful genius of her
Augustus to parliament or the ministry. Oh, what a fall was there! Yet, faith,
ha, ha, ha! I could not help laughing, despite of my chagrin, when I
remembered that for three months I had imposed on these 'delicate
exclusives,' and been literally invited by many of them, who would not have
asked the younger sons of their own cousins, merely because I lived in a
good street, avowed myself an only child, and talked of my property in
Yorkshire! Ha, ha! how bitter the mercenary dupes must have felt when the
discovery was made! What a pill for the good matrons who had coupled my
image with that of some filial Mary or Jane,—ha, ha, ha! The triumph was
almost worth the mortification. However, as I said before, I fell melancholy

on it, especially as my duns became menacing. So I went to consult with
my cousin the bookseller. He recommended me to compose for the journals,
and obtained me an offer. I went to work very patiently for a short time, and
contracted some agreeable friendships with gentlemen whom I met at an
ordinary in St. James's. Still, my duns, though I paid them by driblets, were
the plague of my life. I confessed as much to one of my new friends. 'Come
to Bath with me,' quoth he, 'for a week, and you shall return as rich as a
Jew.' I accepted the offer, and went to Bath in my friend's chariot. He took
the name of Lord Dunshunner, an Irish peer who had never been out of
Tipperary, and was not therefore likely to be known at Bath. He took also a
house for a year; filled it with wines, books, and a sideboard of plate. As he
talked vaguely of setting up his younger brother to stand for the town at the
next parliament, he bought these goods of the townspeople, in order to
encourage their trade. I managed secretly to transport them to London and
sell them; and as we disposed of them fifty per cent under cost price, our
customers, the pawnbrokers, were not very inquisitive. We lived a jolly life
at Bath for a couple of months, and departed one night, leaving our
housekeeper to answer all interrogatories. We had taken the precaution to
wear disguises, stuffed ourselves out, and changed the hues of our hair. My
noble friend was an adept in these transformations; and though the police
did not sleep on the business, they never stumbled on us. I am especially
glad we were not discovered, for I liked Bath excessively; and I intend to
return there some of these days, and retire from the world—on an heiress!
“Well, Paul, shortly after this adventure I made your acquaintance. I
continued ostensibly my literary profession, but only as a mask for the
labours I did not profess. A circumstance obliged me to leave London rather
precipitately. Lord Dunshunner joined me in Edinburgh. D—-it, instead of
doing anything there, we were done! The veriest urchin that ever crept
through the High Street is more than a match for the most scientific of
Englishmen. With us it is art; with the Scotch it is nature. They pick your
pockets without using their fingers for it; and they prevent reprisal by
having nothing for you to pick.
“We left Edinburgh with very long faces, and at Carlisle we found it
necessary to separate. For my part, I went as a valet to a nobleman who had
just lost his last servant at Carlisle by a fever; my friend gave me the best of
characters! My new master was a very clever man. He astonished people at
dinner by the impromptus he prepared at breakfast; in a word, he was a wit.

He soon saw, for he was learned himself, that I had received a classical
education, and he employed me in the confidential capacity of finding
quotations for him. I classed these alphabetically and under three heads,
—'Parliamentary, Literary, Dining-out.' These were again subdivided into
'Fine,' 'Learned,' and 'Jocular;' so that my master knew at once where to
refer for genius, wisdom, and wit. He was delighted with my management
of his intellects. In compliment to him, I paid more attention to politics than
I had done before; for he was a 'great Whig,' and uncommonly liberal in
everything—but money! Hence, Paul, the origin of my political principles;
and I thank Heaven there is not now a rogue in England who is a better—
that is to say, more of a moderate-Whig than your humble servant! I
continued with him nearly a year. He discharged me for a fault worthy of
my genius: other servants may lose the watch or the coat of their master; I
went at nobler game, and lost him—his private character!”
“How do you mean?”
“Why, I was enamoured of a lady who would not have looked at me as
Mr. Tomlinson; so I took my master's clothes and occasionally his carriage,
and made love to my nymph as Lord. Her vanity made her indiscreet. The
Tory papers got hold of it; and my master, in a change of ministers, was
declared by George the Third to be 'too gay for a Chancellor of the
Exchequer.' An old gentleman who had had fifteen children by a wife like a
Gorgon, was chosen instead of my master; and although the new minister
was a fool in his public capacity, the moral public were perfectly content
with him, because of his private virtues!
“My master was furious, made the strictest inquiry, found me out, and
turned me out too!
“A Whig not in place has an excuse for disliking the Constitution. My
distress almost made me a republican; but, true to my creed, I must confess
that I would only have levelled upwards. I especially disaffected the
inequality of riches; I looked moodily on every carriage that passed; I even
frowned like a second Catiline at the steam of a gentle man's kitchen! My
last situation had not been lucrative; I had neglected my perquisites, in my
ardour for politics. My master, too, refused to give me a character: who
would take me without one?
“I was asking myself this melancholy question one morning, when I
suddenly encountered one of the fine friends I had picked up at my old

haunt, the ordinary, in St. James's. His name was Pepper.”
“Pepper!” cried Paul.
Without heeding the exclamation, Tomlinson continued:—“We went to a
tavern and drank a bottle together. Wine made me communicative; it also
opened my comrade's heart. He asked me to take a ride with him that night
towards Hounslow. I did so, and found a purse.”
“How fortunate! Where?”
“In a gentleman's pocket. I was so pleased with my luck that I went the
same road twice a week, in order to see if I could pick up any more purses.
Fate favoured me, and I lived for a long time the life of the blessed. Oh,
Paul, you know not—you know not what a glorious life is that of a
highwayman; but you shall taste it one of these days,—you shall, on my
honour.
“I now lived with a club of honest fellows. We called ourselves 'The
Exclusives,'—for we were mighty reserved in our associates, and only those
who did business on a grand scale were admitted into our set. For my part,
with all my love for my profession, I liked ingenuity still better than force,
and preferred what the vulgar call swindling, even to the highroad. On an
expedition of this sort, I rode once into a country town, and saw a crowd
assembled in one corner; I joined it, and my feelings!—beheld my poor
friend Viscount Dunshunner just about to be hanged! I rode off as fast as I
could,—I thought I saw Jack Ketch at my heels. My horse threw me at a
hedge, and I broke my collar-bone. In the confinement that ensued gloomy
ideas floated before me. I did not like to be hanged; so I reasoned against
my errors, and repented. I recovered slowly, returned to town, and repaired
to my cousin the bookseller. To say truth, I had played him a little trick:
collected some debts of his by a mistake,—very natural in the confusion
incident on my distresses. However, he was extremely unkind about it; and
the mistake, natural as it was, had cost me his acquaintance.
“I went now to him with the penitential aspect of the prodigal son; and,
faith, he would have not made a bad representation of the fatted calf about
to be killed on my return,—so corpulent looked he, and so dejected!
'Graceless reprobate!' he began, 'your poor father is dead!' I was
exceedingly shocked; but—never fear, Paul, I am not about to be pathetic.
My father had divided his fortune among all his children; my share was
L500. The possession of this soon made my penitence seem much more

sincere in the eyes of my good cousin; and after a very pathetic scene, he
took me once more into favour. I now consulted with him as to the best
method of laying out my capital and recovering my character. We could not
devise any scheme at the first conference; but the second time I saw him,
my cousin said with a cheerful countenance: 'Cheer up, Augustus, I have
got thee a situation. Mr. Asgrave the banker will take thee as a clerk. He is a
most worthy man; and having a vast deal of learning, he will respect thee
for thy acquirements.' The same day I was introduced to Mr. Asgrave, who
was a little man with a fine, bald, benevolent head; and after a long
conversation which he was pleased to hold with me, I became one of his
quill-drivers. I don't know how it was, but by little and little I rose in my
master's good graces. I propitiated him, I fancy, by disposing of my L500
according to his advice; he laid it out for me, on what he said was famous
security, on a landed estate. Mr. Asgrave was of social habits,—he had a
capital house and excellent wines. As he was not very particular in his
company, nor ambitious of visiting the great, he often suffered me to make
one of his table, and was pleased to hold long arguments with me about the
ancients. I soon found out that my master was a great moral philosopher;
and being myself in weak health, sated with the ordinary pursuits of the
world, in which my experience had forestalled my years, and naturally of a
contemplative temperament, I turned my attention to the moral studies
which so fascinated my employer. I read through nine shelves full of
metaphysicians, and knew exactly the points in which those illustrious
thinkers quarrelled with each other, to the great advance of the science. My
master and I used to hold many a long discussion about the nature of good
and evil; as, by help of his benevolent forehead and a clear dogged voice,
he always seemed to our audience to be the wiser and better man of the two,
he was very well pleased with our disputes. This gentleman had an only
daughter,—an awful shrew, with a face like a hatchet but philosophers
overcome personal defects; and thinking only of the good her wealth might
enable me to do to my fellow-creatures, I secretly made love to her. You
will say that was playing my master but a scurvy trick for his kindness. Not
at all; my master himself had convinced me that there was no such virtue as
gratitude. It was an error of vulgar moralists. I yielded to his arguments, and
at length privately espoused his daughter. The day after this took place, he
summoned me to his study. 'So, Augustus,' said he, very mildly, 'you have

married my daughter: nay, never look confused; I saw a long time ago that
you were resolved to do so, and I was very glad of it.'
“I attempted to falter out something like thanks. 'Never interrupt me!'
said he. 'I had two reasons for being glad,—first, because my daughter was
the plague of my life, and I wanted some one to take her off my hands;
secondly, because I required your assistance on a particular point, and I
could not venture to ask it of any one but my son-in-law. In fine, I wish to
take you into partnership!'
“'Partnership!' cried I, falling on my knees. 'Noble, generous man!'
“'Stay a bit,' continued my father-in-law. 'What funds do you think
requisite for carrying on a bank? You look puzzled! Not a shilling! You will
put in just as much as I do. You will put in rather more; for you once put in
L500, which has been spent long ago. I don't put in a shilling of my own. I
live on my clients, and I very willingly offer you half of them!'
“Imagine, dear Paul, my astonishment, my dismay! I saw myself married
to a hideous shrew,—son-in-law to a penniless scoundrel, and cheated out
of my whole fortune! Compare this view of the question with that which
had blazed on me when I contemplated being son-in-law to the rich Mr.
Asgrave. I stormed at first. Mr. Asgrave took up Bacon 'On the
Advancement of Learning,' and made no reply till I was cooled by
explosion. You will perceive that when passion subsided, I necessarily saw
that nothing was left for me but adopting my father-in-law's proposal. Thus,
by the fatality which attended me at the very time I meant to reform, I was
forced into scoundrelism, and I was driven into defrauding a vast number of
persons by the accident of being son-in-law to a great moralist. As Mr.
Asgrave was an indolent man, who passed his mornings in speculations on
virtue, I was made the active partner. I spent the day at the counting-house;
and when I came home for recreation, my wife scratched my eyes out.”
“But were you never recognized as 'the stranger' or 'the adventurer' in
your new capacity?”
“No; for of course I assumed, in all my changes, both aliases and
disguises. And, to tell you the truth, my marriage so altered me that, what
with a snuff-coloured coat and a brown scratch wig, with a pen in my right
ear, I looked the very picture of staid respectability. My face grew an inch
longer every day. Nothing is so respectable as a long face; and a subdued
expression of countenance is the surest sign of commercial prosperity. Well,

we went on splendidly enough for about a year. Meanwhile I was
wonderfully improved in philosophy. You have no idea how a scolding wife
sublimes and rarefies one's intellect. Thunder clears the air, you know! At
length, unhappily for my fame (for I contemplated a magnificent moral
history of man, which, had she lived a year longer, I should have
completed), my wife died in child-bed. My father-in-law and I were talking
over the event, and finding fault with civilization for the enervating habits
by which women die of their children instead of bringing them forth
without being even conscious of the circumstance, when a bit of paper,
sealed awry, was given to my partner. He looked over it, finished the
discussion, and then told me our bank had stopped payment. 'Now,
Augustus,' said he, lighting his pipe with the bit of paper, 'you see the good
of having nothing to lose.'
“We did not pay quite sixpence in the pound; but my partner was thought
so unfortunate that the British public raised a subscription for him, and he
retired on an annuity, greatly respected and very much compassionated. As I
had not been so well known as a moralist, and had not the prepossessing
advantage of a bald, benevolent head, nothing was done for me, and I was
turned once more on the wide world, to moralize on the vicissitudes of
fortune. My cousin the bookseller was no more, and his son cut me. I took a
garret in Warwick Court, and with a few books, my only consolation, I
endeavoured to nerve my mind to the future. It was at this time, Paul, that
my studies really availed me. I meditated much, and I became a true
philosopher, namely, a practical one. My actions were henceforth regulated
by principle; and at some time or other, I will convince you that the road of
true morals never avoids the pockets of your neighbour. So soon as my
mind had made the grand discovery which Mr. Asgrave had made before
me, that one should live according to a system,—for if you do wrong, it is
then your system that errs, not you,—I took to the road, without any of
those stings of conscience which had hitherto annoyed me in such
adventures. I formed one of a capital knot of 'Free Agents,' whom I will
introduce to you some day or other, and I soon rose to distinction among
them. But about six weeks ago, not less than formerly preferring byways to
highways, I attempted to possess myself of a carriage, and sell it at
discount. I was acquitted on the felony, but sent hither by Justice Burnflat
on the misdemeanour. Thus far, my young friend, hath as yet proceeded the
life of Augustus Tomlinson.” The history of this gentleman made a deep

impression on Paul. The impression was strengthened by the conversations
subsequently holden with Augustus. That worthy was a dangerous and
subtle persuader. He had really read a good deal of history, and something
of morals; and he had an ingenious way of defending his rascally practices
by syllogisms from the latter, and examples from the former. These theories
he clenched, as it were, by a reference to the existing politics of the day.
Cheaters of the public, on false pretences, he was pleased to term “moderate
Whigs;” bullying demanders of your purse were “high Tories;” and thieving
in gangs was “the effect of the spirit of party.” There was this difference
between Augustus Tomlinson and Long Ned,—Ned was the acting knave,
Augustus the reasoning one; and we may see therefore, by a little reflection,
that Tomlinson was a far more perilous companion than Pepper,—for
showy theories are always more seductive to the young and clever than
suasive examples, and the vanity of the youthful makes them better pleased
by being convinced of a thing than by being enticed to it.
A day or two after the narrative of Mr. Tomlinson, Paul was again visited
by Mrs. Lobkins,—for the regulations against frequent visitors were not
then so strictly enforced as we understand them to be now; and the good
dame came to deplore the ill-success of her interview with Justice Burnflat.
We spare the tender-hearted reader a detail of the affecting interview that
ensued. Indeed, it was but a repetition of the one we have before narrated.
We shall only say, as a proof of Paul's tenderness of heart, that when he
took leave of the good matron, and bade “God bless her,” his voice faltered,
and the tears stood in his eyes,—just as they were wont to do in the eyes of
George the Third, when that excellent monarch was pleased graciously to
encore “God save the King!”
“I'll be hanged,” soliloquized our hero, as he slowly bent his course
towards the subtle Augustus,—“I'll be hanged (humph! the denunciation is
prophetic), if I don't feel as grateful to the old lady for her care of me as if
she had never ill-used me. As for my parents, I believe I have little to be
grateful for or proud of in that quarter. My poor mother, by all accounts,
seems scarcely to have had even the brute virtue of maternal tenderness;
and in all human likelihood I shall never know whether I had one father or
fifty. But what matters it? I rather like the better to be independent; and,
after all, what do nine tenths of us ever get from our parents but an ugly

name, and advice which, if we follow, we are wretched, and if we neglect,
we are disinherited?”
Comforting himself with these thoughts, which perhaps took their
philosophical complexion from the conversations he had lately held with
Augustus, and which broke off into the muttered air of—
“Why should we quarrel for riches?”
Paul repaired to his customary avocations.
In the third week of our hero's captivity Tomlinson communicated to him
a plan of escape that had occurred to his sagacious brain. In the yard
appropriated to the amusements of the gentlemen “misdemeaning,” there
was a water-pipe that, skirting the wall, passed over the door through which
every morning the pious captives passed in their way to the chapel. By this
Tomlinson proposed to escape; for to the pipe which reached from the door
to the wall, in a slanting and easy direction, there was a sort of skirting-
board; and a dexterous and nimble man might readily, by the help of this
board, convey himself along the pipe, until the progress of that useful
conductor (which was happily very brief) was stopped by the summit of the
wall, where it found a sequel in another pipe, that descended to the ground
on the opposite side of the wall. Now, on this opposite side was the garden
of the prison; in this garden was a watchman, and this watchman was the
hobgoblin of Tomlinson's scheme,—“For suppose us safe in the garden,”
said he, “what shall we do with this confounded fellow?”
“But that is not all,” added Paul; “for even were there no watchman, there
is a terrible wall, which I noted especially last week, when we were set to
work in the garden, and which has no pipe, save a perpendicular one, that a
man must have the legs of a fly to be able to climb!”
“Nonsense!” returned Tomlinson; “I will show you how to climb the
stubbornest wall in Christendom, if one has but the coast clear. It is the
watchman, the watchman, we must—”
“What?” asked Paul, observing his comrade did not conclude the
sentence.
It was some time before the sage Augustus replied; he then said in a
musing tone,—
“I have been thinking, Paul, whether it would be consistent with virtue,
and that strict code of morals by which all my actions are regulated, to—

slay the watchman!”
“Good heavens!” cried Paul, horror-stricken.
“And I have decided,” continued Augustus, solemnly, without regard to
the exclamation, “that the action would be perfectly justifiable!”
“Villain!” exclaimed Paul, recoiling to the other end of the stone box—
for it was night—in which they were cooped.
“But,” pursued Augustus, who seemed soliloquizing, and whose voice,
sounding calm and thoughtful, like Young's in the famous monologue in
“Hamlet,” denoted that he heeded not the uncourteous interruption,—“but
opinion does not always influence conduct; and although it may be virtuous
to murder the watchman, I have not the heart to do it. I trust in my future
history I shall not by discerning moralists be too severely censured for a
weakness for which my physical temperament is alone to blame!”
Despite the turn of the soliloquy, it was a long time before Paul could be
reconciled to further conversation with Augustus; and it was only from the
belief that the moralist had leaned to the jesting vein that he at length
resumed the consultation.
The conspirators did not, however, bring their scheme that night to any
ultimate decision. The next day Augustus, Paul, and some others of the
company were set to work in the garden; and Paul then observed that his
friend, wheeling a barrow close by the spot where the watchman stood,
overturned its contents. The watchman was good-natured enough to assist
him in refilling the barrow; and Tomlinson profited so well by the occasion
that that night he informed Paul that they would have nothing to dread from
the watchman's vigilance. “He has promised,” said Augustus, “for certain
consi-de-ra-tions, to allow me to knock him down; he has also promised to
be so much hurt as not to be able to move until we are over the wall. Our
main difficulty now, then, is the first step,—namely, to climb the pipe
unperceived!”
“As to that,” said Paul, who developed, through the whole of the scheme,
organs of sagacity, boldness, and invention which charmed his friend, and
certainly promised well for his future career,—“as to that, I think we may
manage the first ascent with less danger than you imagine. The mornings of
late have been very foggy; they are almost dark at the hour we go to chapel.
Let you and I close the file: the pipe passes just above the door; our hands,

as we have tried, can reach it; and a spring of no great agility will enable us
to raise ourselves up to a footing on the pipe and the skirting-board.
“The climbing then is easy; and what with the dense fog and our own
quickness, I think we shall have little difficulty in gaining the garden. The
only precautions we need use are, to wait for a very dark morning, and to be
sure that we are the last of the file, so that no one behind may give the
alarm—”
“Or attempt to follow our example, and spoil the pie by a superfluous
plum!” added Augustus. “You counsel admirably; and one of these days, if
you are not hung in the mean while, will, I venture to auger, be a great
logician.”
The next morning was clear and frosty; but the day after was, to use
Tomlinson's simile, “as dark as if all the negroes of Africa had been stewed
down into air.” “You might have cut the fog with a knife,” as the proverb
says. Paul and Augustus could not even see how significantly each looked
at the other.
It was a remarkable trait of the daring temperament of the former, that,
young as he was, it was fixed that he should lead the attempt. At the hour,
then, for chapel the prisoners passed as usual through the door. When it
came to Paul's turn he drew himself by his hands to the pipe, and then
creeping along its sinuous course, gained the wall before he had even
fetched his breath. Rather more clumsily, Augustus followed his friend's
example. Once his foot slipped, and he was all but over. He extended his
hands involuntarily, and caught Paul by the leg. Happily our hero had then
gained the wall, to which he was clinging; and for once in a way, one rogue
raised himself without throwing over another. Behold Tomlinson and Paul
now seated for an instant on the wall to recover breath; the latter then,—the
descent to the ground was not very great,—letting his body down by his
hands, dropped into the garden.
“Hurt?” asked the prudent Augustus, in a hoarse whisper, before he
descended from his “bad eminence,” being even willing—

“To bear those ills he had,
Than fly to others that he knew not of”

“No!” without taking every previous precaution in his power, was the
answer in the same voice, and Augustus dropped.

So soon as this latter worthy had recovered the shock of his fall, he lost
not a moment in running to the other end of the garden. Paul followed. By
the way Tomlinson stopped at a heap of rubbish, and picked up an immense
stone. When they came to the part of the wall they had agreed to scale, they
found the watchman,—about whom they needed not, by the by, to have
concerned themselves; for had it not been arranged that he was to have met
them, the deep fog would have effectually prevented him from seeing them.
This faithful guardian Augustus knocked down, not with a stone, but with
ten guineas; he then drew forth from his dress a thickish cord, which he
procured some days before from the turnkey, and fastening the stone firmly
to one end, threw that end over the wall. Now the wall had (as walls of
great strength mostly have) an overhanging sort of battlement on either
side; and the stone, when flung over and drawn to the tether of the cord to
which it was attached, necessarily hitched against this projection; and thus
the cord was as it were fastened to the wall, and Tomlinson was enabled by
it to draw himself up to the top of the barrier. He performed this feat with
gymnastic address, like one who had often practised it; albeit the discreet
adventurer had not mentioned in his narrative to Paul any previous occasion
for the practice. As soon as he had gained the top of the wall, he threw
down the cord to his companion, and, in consideration of Paul's
inexperience in that manner of climbing, gave the fastening of the rope an
additional security by holding it himself. With slowness and labour Paul
hoisted himself up; and then, by transferring the stone to the other side of
the wall, where it made of course a similar hitch, our two adventurers were
enabled successively to slide down, and consummate their escape from the
House of Correction.
“Follow me now!” said Augustus, as he took to his heels; and Paul
pursued him through a labyrinth of alleys and lanes, through which he shot
and dodged with a variable and shifting celerity that, had not Paul kept
close upon him, would very soon, combined with the fog, have snatched
him from the eyes of his young ally. Happily the immaturity of the morning,
the obscurity of the streets passed through, and above all, the extreme
darkness of the atmosphere, prevented that detection and arrest which their
prisoner's garb would otherwise have insured them. At length they found
themselves in the fields; and skulking along hedges, and diligently avoiding
the highroad, they continued to fly onward, until they had advanced several
miles into “the bowels of the land.” At that time “the bowels” of Augustus

Tomlinson began to remind him of their demands; and he accordingly
suggested the desirability of their seizing the first peasant they encountered,
and causing him to exchange clothes with one of the fugitives, who would
thus be enabled to enter a public-house and provide for their mutual
necessities. Paul agreed to this proposition, and accordingly they watched
their opportunity and caught a ploughman. Augustus stripped him of his
frock, hat, and worsted stockings; and Paul, hardened by necessity and
companionship, helped to tie the poor ploughman to a tree. They then
continued their progress for about an hour, and, as the shades of evening fell
around them, they discovered a public-house. Augustus entered, and
returned in a few minutes laden with bread and cheese, and a bottle of beer.
Prison fare cures a man of daintiness, and the two fugitives dined on these
homely viands with considerable complacency. They then resumed their
journey, and at length, wearied with exertion, they arrived at a lonely
haystack, where they resolved to repose for an hour or two.

CHAPTER X.
Unlike the ribald, whose licentious jest
Pollutes his banquet, and insults his guest,
From wealth and grandeur easy to descend,
Thou joy'st to lose the master in the friend.
We round thy board the cheerful menials see, Gay—
with the smile of bland equality;
No social care the gracious lord disdains;
Love prompts to love, and reverence reverence gains.

Translation of LUCAN to Paso,
Prefixed to the Twelfth Paper of “The Rambler.”

Coyly shone down the bashful stars upon our adventurers, as, after a
short nap behind the haystack, they stretched themselves, and looking at
each other, burst into an involuntary and hilarious laugh at the prosperous
termination of their exploit.
Hitherto they had been too occupied, first by their flight, then by hunger,
then by fatigue, for self-gratulation; now they rubbed their hands, and joked
like runaway schoolboys at their escape.
By degrees their thoughts turned from the past to the future; and “Tell
me, my dear fellow,” said Augustus, “what you intend to do. I trust I have
long ago convinced you that it is no sin 'to serve our friends' and to 'be true
to our party;' and therefore, I suppose, you will decide upon taking to the
road.”
“It is very odd,” answered Paul, “that I should have any scruples left after
your lectures on the subject; but I own to you frankly that, somehow or
other, I have doubts whether thieving be really the honestest profession I
could follow.”
“Listen to me, Paul,” answered Augustus; and his reply is not unworthy
of notice. “All crime and all excellence depend upon a good choice of
words. I see you look puzzled; I will explain. If you take money from the
public, and say you have robbed, you have indubitably committed a great
crime; but if you do the same, and say you have been relieving the
necessities of the poor, you have done an excellent action. If, in afterwards
dividing this money with your companions, you say you have been sharing

booty, you have committed an offence against the laws of your country; but
if you observe that you have been sharing with your friends the gains of
your industry, you have been performing one of the noblest actions of
humanity. To knock a man on the head is neither virtuous nor guilty, but it
depends upon the language applied to the action to make it murder or glory.
Why not say, then, that you have testified the courage of a hero, rather than
the atrocity of a ruffian? This is perfectly clear, is it not?”

[We observe in a paragraph from an American paper, copied without
comment into the “Morning Chronicle,” a singular proof of the truth
of Tomlinson's philosophy! “Mr. Rowland Stephenson,” so runs the
extract, “the celebrated English banker, has just purchased a
considerable tract of land,” etc. Most philosophical of
paragraphists! “Celebrated English banker!”—that sentence is a
better illustration of verbal fallacies than all Ben tham's
treatises put together. “Celebrated!” O Mercury, what a dexterous
epithet!]

“It seems so,” answered Paul.
“It is so self-evident that it is the way all governments are carried on.
Wherefore, my good Paul, we only do what all other legislators do. We are
never rogues so long as we call ourselves honest fellows, and we never
commit a crime so long as we can term it a virtue. What say you now?”
Paul smiled, and was silent a few moments before he replied: “There is
very little doubt but that you are wrong; yet if you are, so are all the rest of
the world. It is of no use to be the only white sheep of the flock. Wherefore,
my dear Tomlinson, I will in future be an excellent citizen, relieve the
necessities of the poor, and share the gains of my industry with my friends.”
“Bravo!” cried Tomlinson. “And now that that is settled, the sooner you
are inaugurated the better. Since the starlight has shone forth, I see that I am
in a place I ought to be very well acquainted with; or, if you like to be
suspicious, you may believe that I have brought you purposely in this
direction. But first let me ask if you feel any great desire to pass the night
by this haystack, or whether you would like a song and the punchbowl
almost as much as the open air, with the chance of being eaten up in a pinch
of hay by some strolling cow.”
“You may conceive my choice,” answered Paul.
“Well, then, there is an excellent fellow near here, who keeps a public-
house, and is a firm ally and generous patron of the lads of the cross. At

certain periods they hold weekly meetings at his house: this is one of the
nights. What say you? Shall I introduce you to the club?”
“I shall be very glad if they will admit me,” returned Paul, whom many
and conflicting thoughts rendered laconic.
“Oh! no fear of that, under my auspices. To tell you the truth, though we
are a tolerant set, we welcome every new proselyte with enthusiasm. But
are you tired?”
“A little; the house is not far, you say?”
“About a mile off,” answered Tomlinson. “Lean on me.”
Our wanderers now, leaving the haystack, struck across part of Finchley
Common; for the abode of the worthy publican was felicitously situated,
and the scene in which his guests celebrated their festivities was close by
that on which they often performed their exploits.
As they proceeded, Paul questioned his friend touching the name and
character of “mine host;” and the all-knowing Augustus Tomlinson
answered him, Quaker-like, by a question,—
“Have you never heard of Gentleman George?”
“What! the noted head of a flash public-house in the country? To be sure
I have, often; my poor nurse, Dame Lobkins, used to say he was the best-
spoken man in the trade!”
“Ay, so he is still. In his youth, George was a very handsome fellow, but a
little too fond of his lass and his bottle to please his father,—a very staid old
gentleman, who walked about on Sundays in a bob-wig and a gold-headed
cane, and was a much better farmer on week-days than he was head of a
public-house. George used to be a remarkably smart-dressed fellow, and so
he is to this day. He has a great deal of wit, is a very good whist-player, has
a capital cellar, and is so fond of seeing his friends drunk, that he bought
some time ago a large pewter measure in which six men can stand upright.
The girls, or rather the old women, to which last he used to be much more
civil of the two, always liked him; they say nothing is so fine as his fine
speeches, and they give him the title of 'Gentleman George.' He is a nice,
kind-hearted man in many things. Pray Heaven we shall have no cause to
miss him when he departs! But, to tell you the truth, he takes more than his
share of our common purse.”
“What! is he avaricious?”

“Quite the reverse; but he's so cursedly fond of building, he invests all his
money (and wants us to invest all ours) in houses; and there's one
confounded dog of a bricklayer who runs him up terrible bills,—a fellow
called 'Cunning Nat,' who is equally adroit in spoiling ground and
improving ground rent.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah! thereby hangs a tale. But we are near the place now; you will see a
curious set.”
As Tomlinson said this, the pair approached a house standing alone, and
seemingly without any other abode in the vicinity. It was of curious and
grotesque shape, painted white, with a Gothic chimney, a Chinese sign-post
(on which was depicted a gentleman fishing, with the words “The Jolly
Angler” written beneath), and a porch that would have been Grecian if it
had not been Dutch. It stood in a little field, with a hedge behind it, and the
common in front. Augustus stopped at the door; and while he paused, bursts
of laughter rang cheerily within.
“Ah, the merry boys!” he muttered; “I long to be with them;” and then
with his clenched fist he knocked four times on the door. There was a
sudden silence which lasted about a minute, and was broken by a voice
within, asking who was there. Tomlinson answered by some cabalistic
word; the door was opened, and a little boy presented himself.
“Well, my lad,” said Augustus, “and how is your master? Stout and
hearty, if I may judge by his voice.”
“Ay, Master Tommy, ay, he's boosing away at a fine rate, in the back-
parlour, with Mr. Pepper and Fighting Attie, and half-a-score more of them.
He'll be woundy glad to see you, I'll be bound.”
“Show this gentleman into the bar,” rejoined Augustus, “while I go and
pay my respects to honest Geordie.”
The boy made a sort of a bow, and leading our hero into the bar,
consigned him to the care of Sal, a buxom barmaid, who reflected credit on
the taste of the landlord, and who received Paul with marked distinction and
a gill of brandy.
Paul had not long to play the amiable, before Tomlinson rejoined him
with the information that Gentleman George would be most happy to see

him in the back-parlour, and that he would there find an old friend in the
person of Mr. Pepper.
“What! is he here?” cried Paul. “The sorry knave, to let me be caged in
his stead!”
“Gently, gently; no misapplication of terms!” said Augustus. “That was
not knavery; that was prudence, the greatest of all virtues, and the rarest.
But come along, and Pepper shall explain to-morrow.”
Threading a gallery or passage, Augustus preceded our hero, opened a
door, and introduced him into a long low apartment, where sat, round a
table spread with pipes and liquor, some ten or a dozen men, while at the
top of the table, in an armchair, presided Gentleman George. That dignitary
was a portly and comely gentleman, with a knowing look, and a Welsh wig,
worn, as the “Morning Chronicle” says of his Majesty's hat, “in a degage
manner, on one side.” Being afflicted with the gout, his left foot reclined on
a stool; and the attitude developed, despite of a lamb's-wool stocking, the
remains of an exceedingly good leg.
As Gentleman George was a person of majestic dignity among the
Knights of the Cross, we trust we shall not be thought irreverent in applying
a few of the words by which the aforesaid “Morning Chronicle” depicted
his Majesty on the day he laid the first stone of his father's monument to the
description of Gentleman George.
“He had on a handsome blue coat and a white waistcoat;” moreover, “he
laughed most good-humouredly,” as, turning to Augustus Tomlinson, he
saluted him with,—
“So this is the youngster you present to us? Welcome to the Jolly Angler!
Give us thy hand, young sir; I shall be happy to blow a cloud with thee.”
“With all due submission,” said Mr. Tomlinson, “I think it may first be as
well to introduce my pupil and friend to his future companions.”
“You speak like a leary cove,” cried Gentleman George, still squeezing
our hero's hand; and turning round in his elbow-chair, he pointed to each
member, as he severally introduced his guests to Paul.
“Here,” said he,—“here's a fine chap at my right hand” (the person thus
designated was a thin military-looking figure, in a shabby riding-frock, and
with a commanding, bold, aquiline countenance, a little the worse for wear),
—“here's a fine chap for you! Fighting Attie we calls him; he's a devil on

the road. 'Halt,—deliver,—must and shall,—can't and sha' n't,—do as I bid
you, or go to the devil!' That's all Fighting Attie's palaver; and, 'Sdeath, it
has a wonderful way of coming to the point! A famous cull is my friend
Attie,—an old soldier,—has seen the world, and knows what is what; has
lots of gumption, and devil a bit of blarney. Howsomever, the highflyers
does n't like him; and when he takes people's money, he need not be quite
so cross about it. Attie, let me introduce a new pal to you.” Paul made his
bow.
“Stand at ease, man!” quoth the veteran, without taking the pipe from his
mouth.
Gentleman George then continued; and after pointing out four or five of
the company (among whom our hero discovered, to his surprise, his old
friends Mr. Eustace Fitzherbert and Mr. William Howard Russell), came, at
length, to one with a very red face and a lusty frame of body. “That
gentleman,” said he, “is Scarlet Jem; a dangerous fellow for a press, though
he says he likes robbing alone now, for a general press is not half such a
good thing as it used to be formerly. You have no idea what a hand at
disguising himself Scarlet Jem is. He has an old wig which he generally
does business in; and you would not go for to know him again when he
conceals himself under the wig. Oh, he's a precious rogue, is Scarlet Jem!
As for the cove on t' other side,” continued the host of the Jolly Angler,
pointing to Long Ned, “all I can say of him, good, bad, or indifferent, is that
he has an unkimmon fine head of hair; and now, youngster, as you knows
him, s'pose you goes and sits by him, and he'll introduce you to the rest; for,
split my wig!” (Gentleman George was a bit of a swearer) “if I be n't tired;
and so here's to your health; and if so be as your name's Paul, may you
always rob Peter [a portmanteau] in order to pay Paul!”
This witticism of mine host's being exceedingly well received, Paul went,
amidst the general laughter, to take possession of the vacant seat beside
Long Ned. That tall gentleman, who had hitherto been cloud-compelling (as
Homer calls Jupiter) in profound silence, now turned to Paul with the
warmest cordiality, declared himself overjoyed to meet his old friend once
more, and congratulated him alike on his escape from Bridewell and his
admission to the councils of Gentleman George. But Paul, mindful of that
exertion of “prudence” on the part of Mr. Pepper by which he had been left
to his fate and the mercy of Justice Burnflat, received his advances very

sullenly. This coolness so incensed Ned, who was naturally choleric, that he
turned his back on our hero, and being of an aristocratic spirit, muttered
something about “upstart, and vulgar clyfakers being admitted to the
company of swell tobymen.” This murmur called all Paul's blood into his
cheek; for though he had been punished as a clyfaker (or pickpocket),
nobody knew better than Long Ned whether or not he was innocent; and a
reproach from him came therefore with double injustice and severity. In his
wrath he seized Mr. Pepper by the ear, and telling him he was a shabby
scoundrel, challenged him to fight.
So pleasing an invitation not being announced sotto voce, but in a tone
suited to the importance of the proposition, every one around heard it; and
before Long Ned could answer, the full voice of Gentleman George
thundered forth,—
“Keep the peace there, you youngster! What! are you just admitted into
our merry-makings, and must you be wrangling already? Harkye, gemmen,
I have been plagued enough with your quarrels before now; and the first
cove as breaks the present quiet of the Jolly Angler shall be turned out neck
and crop,—sha' n't he, Attie?”
“Right about, march!” said the hero.
“Ay, that's the word, Attie,” said Gentleman George. “And now, Mr.
Pepper, if there be any ill blood 'twixt you and the lad there, wash it away in
a bumper of bingo, and let's hear no more whatsomever about it.”
“I'm willing,” cried Long Ned, with the deferential air of a courtier, and
holding out his hand to Paul. Our hero, being somewhat abashed by the
novelty of his situation and the rebuke of Gentleman George, accepted,
though with some reluctance, the proffered courtesy.
Order being thus restored, the conversation of the convivialists began to
assume a most fascinating bias. They talked with infinite gout of the sums
they had levied on the public, and the peculations they had committed for
what one called the good of the community, and another, the established
order,—meaning themselves. It was easy to see in what school the
discerning Augustus Tomlinson had learned the value of words.
There was something edifying in hearing the rascals! So nice was their
language, and so honest their enthusiasm for their own interests, you might
have imagined you were listening to a coterie of cabinet ministers
conferring on taxes or debating on perquisites.

“Long may the Commons flourish!” cried punning Georgie, filling his
glass; “it is by the commons we're fed, and may they never know
cultivation!”
“Three times three!” shouted Long Ned; and the toast was drunk as Mr.
Pepper proposed.
“A little moderate cultivation of the commons, to speak frankly,” said
Augustus Tomlinson, modestly, “might not be amiss; for it would decoy
people into the belief that they might travel safely; and, after all, a hedge or
a barley-field is as good for us as a barren heath, where we have no shelter
if once pursued!”
“You talks nonsense, you spooney!” cried a robber of note, called
Bagshot; who, being aged and having been a lawyer's footboy, was
sometimes denominated “Old Bags.” “You talks nonsense; these innowating
ploughs are the ruin of us. Every blade of corn in a common is an
encroachment on the constitution and rights of the gemmen highwaymen.
I'm old, and may n't live to see these things; but, mark my words, a time
will come when a man may go from Lunnun to Johnny Groat's without
losing a penny by one of us; when Hounslow will be safe, and Finchley
secure. My eyes, what a sad thing for us that'll be!”
The venerable old man became suddenly silent, and the tears started to
his eyes. Gentleman George had a great horror of blue devils, and
particularly disliked all disagreeable subjects.
“Thunder and oons, Old Bags!” quoth mine host of the Jolly Angler, “this
will never do; we're all met here to be merry, and not to listen to your
mullancolly taratarantarums. I says, Ned Pepper, s'pose you tips us a song,
and I'll beat time with my knuckles.”
Long Ned, taking the pipe from his mouth, attempted, like Walter Scott's
Lady Heron, one or two pretty excuses; these being drowned by a universal
shout, the handsome purloiner gave the following song, to the tune of
“Time has not thinned my flowing hair.”

LONG NED'S SONG.

Oh, if my hands adhere to cash,
My gloves at least are clean,
And rarely have the gentry flash
In sprucer clothes been seen.

Sweet Public, since your coffers must

Afford our wants relief,
Oh! soothes it not to yield the dust
To such a charming thief?

“'And John may laugh at mine,'—excellent!” cried Gentleman George,
lighting his pipe, and winking at Attie; “I hears as how you be a famous
fellow with the lasses.”
Ned smiled and answered, “No man should boast; but—” Pepper paused
significantly, and then glancing at Attie, said, “Talking of lasses, it is my
turn to knock down a gentleman for a song, and I knock down Fighting
Attie.”
“I never sing,” said the warrior.
“Treason, treason!” cried Pepper. “It is the law, and you must obey the
law; so begin.”
“It is true, Attie,” said Gentleman George.
There was no appeal from the honest publican's fiat; so, in a quick and
laconic manner, it being Attie's favourite dogma that the least said is the
soonest mended, the warrior sung as follows:—

FIGHTING ATTIE'S SONG.

Air: “He was famed for deeds of arms.”

I never robbed a single coach
But with a lover's air;
And though you might my course reproach,
You never could my hair.

Rise at six, dine at two,
Rob your man without ado,
Such my maxims; if you doubt
Their wisdom, to the right-about!

( Signing to a sallow gentleman on the same side of the table to send up
the brandy bowl.)

Pass round the bingo,—of a gun,
You musty, dusky, husky son!
John Bull, who loves a harmless joke,
Is apt at me to grin;
But why be cross with laughing folk,
Unless they laugh and win?
John Bull has money in his box;
And though his wit's divine,
Yet let me laugh at Johnny's locks,
And John may laugh at mine

[Much of whatever amusement might be occasioned by the not (we

trust) ill-natured travesties of certain eminent characters in this
part of our work when first published, like all political allusions,
loses point and becomes obscure as the applications cease to be
familiar. It is already necessary, perhaps, to say that Fighting
Attie herein typifies or illustrates the Duke of Wellington's abrupt
dismissal of Mr. Huskisson.]

THE SALLOW GENTLEMAN (in a hoarse voice).

Attie, the bingo's now with me;
I can't resign it yet, d' ye see!

ATTIE (seizing the bowl).

Resign, resign it,—cease your dust!
(Wresting it away and fiercely regarding the sallow gentleman.)
You have resigned it, and you must.

CHORUS.

You have resigned it, and you must.

While the chorus, laughing at the discomfited tippler, yelled forth the
emphatic words of the heroic Attie, that personage emptied the brandy at a
draught, resumed his pipe, and in as few words as possible called on
Bagshot for a song. The excellent old highwayman, with great diffidence,
obeyed the request, cleared his throat, and struck off with a ditty somewhat
to the tune of “The Old Woman.”

OLD BAGS'S SONG.

Are the days then gone, when on Hounslow Heath
We flashed our nags,
When the stoutest bosoms quailed beneath
The voice of Bags?
Ne'er was my work half undone, lest I should be nabbed
Slow was old Bags, but he never ceased
Till the whole was grabbed.

CHORUS. Till the whole was grabbed.

When the slow coach paused, and the gemmen stormed,
I bore the brunt;
And the only sound which my grave lips formed
Was “blunt,”—still “blunt”!

Oh, those jovial days are ne'er forgot!
But the tape lags—
When I be's dead, you'll drink one pot
To poor old Bags!

CHORUS. To poor old Bags!

“Ay, that we will, my dear Bagshot,” cried Gentleman George,
affectionately; but observing a tear in the fine old fellow's eye, he added:

“Cheer up! What, ho! cheer up! Times will improve, and Providence may
yet send us one good year, when you shall be as well off as ever. You shakes
your poll. Well, don't be humdurgeoned, but knock down a gemman.”
Dashing away the drop of sensibility, the veteran knocked down
Gentleman George himself.
“Oh, dang it!” said George, with an air of dignity, “I ought to skip, since I
finds the lush; but howsomever here goes.”

GENTLEMAN GEORGE'S SONG.

Air: “Old King Cole.”

I be's the cove, the merry old cove,
Of whose max all the rufflers sing;
And a lushing cove, I thinks, by Jove,
Is as great as a sober king!

CHORUS. Is as great as a sober king!

Whatever the noise as is made by the boys
At the bar as they lush away,
The devil a noise my peace alloys
As long as the rascals pay!

CHORUS. As long as the rascals pay!

What if I sticks my stones and my bricks
With mortar I takes from the snobbish?
All who can feel for the public weal
Likes the public-house to be bobbish.

CHORUS. Likes the public-house to be bobbish.

“There, gemmen!” said the publican, stopping short, “that's the pith of
the matter, and split my wig but I'm short of breath now. So send round the
brandy, Augustus; you sly dog, you keeps it all to yourself.”
By this time the whole conclave were more than half-seas over, or, as
Augustus Tomlinson expressed it, “their more austere qualities were relaxed
by a pleasing and innocent indulgence.” Paul's eyes reeled, and his tongue
ran loose. By degrees the room swam round, the faces of his comrades
altered, the countenance of Old Bags assumed an awful and menacing air.
He thought Long Ned insulted him, and that Old Bags took the part of the
assailant, doubled his fist, and threatened to put the plaintiff's nob into
chancery if he disturbed the peace of the meeting. Various other imaginary
evils beset him. He thought he had robbed a mail-coach in company with
Pepper; that Tomlinson informed against him, and that Gentleman George

ordered him to be hanged; in short, he laboured under a temporary delirium,
occasioned by a sudden reverse of fortune,—from water to brandy; and the
last thing of which he retained any recollection, before he sank under the
table, in company with Long Ned, Scarlet Jem, and Old Bags, was the
bearing his part in the burden of what appeared to him a chorus of last
dying speeches and confessions, but what in reality was a song made in
honour of Gentleman George, and sung by his grateful guests as a finale of
the festivities. It ran thus:—

THE ROBBER'S GRAND TOAST.

A tumbler of blue ruin, fill, fill for me!
Red tape those as likes it may drain;
But whatever the lush, it a bumper must be,
If we ne'er drinks a bumper again!
Now—now in the crib, where a ruffler may lie,
Without fear that the traps should distress him,
With a drop in the mouth, and a drop in the eye,
Here's to Gentleman George,—God bless him!
God bless him, God bless him!
Here's to Gentleman George,—God bless him!

'Mong the pals of the prince I have heard it's the go,
Before they have tippled enough,
To smarten their punch with the best curagoa,
More conish to render the stuff.
I boast not such lush; but whoever his glass
Does not like, I'll be hanged if I press him!
Upstanding, my kiddies,—round, round let it pass!
Here's to Gentleman George,—God bless him!
God bless him, God bless him!
Here's to Gentleman George,-God bless him!

See, see, the fine fellow grows weak on his stumps;
Assist him, ye rascals, to stand!
Why, ye stir not a peg! Are you all in the dumps?
Fighting Attie, go, lend him a hand!

(The robbers crowd around Gentleman George, each, under pretence of
supporting him, pulling him first one way and then another.)

Come, lean upon me,—at your service I am!
Get away from his elbow, you whelp! him
You'll only upset,—them 'ere fellows but sham!
Here's to Gentleman George,—God help him!
God help him, God help him!
Here's to Gentleman George, God help him!

CHAPTER XI.
I boast no song in magic wonders rife;
But yet, O Nature! is there nought to prize,
Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life?
And dwells in daylight truth's salubrious skies
No form with which the soul may sympathize?
Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild
The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise,
An inmate in the home of Albert smiled,
Or blessed his noonday walk,—she was his only child.

Gertrude of Wyoming.

O time, thou hast played strange tricks with us; and we bless the stars that
made us a novelist, and permit us now to retaliate. Leaving Paul to the
instructions of Augustus Tomlinson and the festivities of the Jolly Angler,
and suffering him, by slow but sure degrees, to acquire the graces and the
reputation of the accomplished and perfect appropriator of other men's
possessions, we shall pass over the lapse of years with the same heedless
rapidity with which they have glided over us, and summon our reader to a
very different scene from those which would be likely to greet his eyes,
were he following the adventures of our new Telemachus. Nor wilt thou,
dear reader, whom we make the umpire between ourself and those who
never read,—the critics; thou who hast, in the true spirit of gentle breeding,
gone with us among places where the novelty of the scene has, we fear,
scarcely atoned for the coarseness, not giving thyself the airs of a dainty
abigail,—not prating, lacquey-like, on the low company thou has met,—nor
wilt thou, dear and friendly reader, have cause to dread that we shall weary
thy patience by a “damnable iteration” of the same localities. Pausing for a
moment to glance over the divisions of our story, which lies before us like a
map, we feel that we may promise in future to conduct thee among aspects
of society more familiar to thy habits; where events flow to their allotted
gulf through landscapes of more pleasing variety and among tribes of a
more luxurious civilization.
Upon the banks of one of fair England's fairest rivers, and about fifty
miles distant from London, still stands an old-fashioned abode, which we
shall here term Warlock Manorhouse. It is a building of brick, varied by

stone copings, and covered in great part with ivy and jasmine. Around it lie
the ruins of the elder part of the fabric; and these are sufficiently numerous
in extent and important in appearance to testify that the mansion was once
not without pretensions to the magnificent. These remains of power, some
of which bear date as far back as the reign of Henry the Third, are
sanctioned by the character of the country immediately in the vicinity of the
old manor-house. A vast tract of waste land, interspersed with groves of
antique pollards, and here and there irregular and sinuous ridges of green
mound, betoken to the experienced eye the evidence of a dismantled chase
or park, which must originally have been of no common dimensions. On
one side of the house the lawn slopes towards the river, divided from a
terrace, which forms the most important embellishment of the pleasure-
grounds, by that fence to which has been given the ingenious and
significant name of “ha-ha!” A few scattered trees of giant growth are the
sole obstacles that break the view of the river, which has often seemed to
us, at that particular passage of its course, to glide with unusual calmness
and serenity. On the opposite side of the stream there is a range of steep
hills, celebrated for nothing more romantic than their property of imparting
to the flocks that browse upon that short and seemingly stinted herbage a
flavour peculiarly grateful to the lovers of that pastoral animal which
changes its name into mutton after its decease. Upon these hills the vestige
of human habitation is not visible; and at times, when no boat defaces the
lonely smoothness of the river, and the evening has stilled the sounds of
labour and of life, we know few scenes so utterly tranquil, so steeped in
quiet, as that which is presented by the old, quaint-fashioned house and its
antique grounds,—the smooth lawn, the silent, and (to speak truly, though
disparagingly) the somewhat sluggish river, together with the large hills (to
which we know, from simple though metaphysical causes, how entire an
idea of quiet and immovability peculiarly attaches itself), and the white
flocks,—those most peaceful of God's creatures,—that in fleecy clusters
stud the ascent.
In Warlock House, at the time we refer to, lived a gentleman of the name
of Brandon. He was a widower, and had attained his fiftieth year without
casting much regret on the past or feeling much anxiety for the future. In a
word, Joseph Brandon was one of those careless, quiescent, indifferent men,
by whom a thought upon any subject is never recurred to without a very
urgent necessity. He was good-natured, inoffensive, and weak; and if he

was not an incomparable citizen, he was at least an excellent vegetable. He
was of a family of high antiquity, and formerly of considerable note. For the
last four or five generations, however, the proprietors of Warlock House,
gradually losing something alike from their acres and their consequence,
had left to their descendants no higher rank than that of a small country
squire. One had been a Jacobite, and had drunk out half-a-dozen farms in
honour of Charley over the water; Charley over the water was no very
dangerous person, but Charley over the wine was rather more ruinous. The
next Brandon had been a fox-hunter, and fox-hunters live as largely as
patriotic politicians. Pausanias tells us that the same people; who were the
most notorious for their love of wine were also the most notorious for their
negligence of affairs. Times are not much altered since Pausanias wrote,
and the remark holds as good with the English as it did with the Phigalei.
After this Brandon came one who, though he did not scorn the sportsman,
rather assumed the fine gentleman. He married an heiress, who of course
assisted to ruin him; wishing no assistance in so pleasing an occupation, he
overturned her (perhaps not on purpose), in a new sort of carriage which he
was learning to drive, and the good lady was killed on the spot. She left the
fine gentleman two sons,—Joseph Brandon, the present thane,—and a
brother some years younger. The elder, being of a fitting age, was sent to
school, and somewhat escaped the contagion of the paternal mansion. But
the younger Brandon, having only reached his fifth year at the time of his
mother's decease, was retained at home. Whether he was handsome or
clever or impertinent, or like his father about the eyes (that greatest of all
merits), we know not; but the widower became so fond of him that it was at
a late period and with great reluctance that he finally intrusted him to the
providence of a school.
Among harlots and gamblers and lords and sharpers, and gentlemen of
the guards, together with their frequent accompaniments,—guards of the
gentlemen, namely, bailiffs,—William Brandon passed the first stage of his
boyhood. He was about thirteen when he was sent to school; and being a
boy of remarkable talents, he recovered lost time so well that when at the
age of nineteen he adjourned to the University, he had scarcely resided there
a single term before he had borne off two of the highest prizes awarded to
academical merit. From the University he departed on the “grand tour,” at
that time thought so necessary to complete the gentleman; he went in
company with a young nobleman, whose friendship he had won at the

University, stayed abroad more than two years, and on his return he settled
down to the profession of the law.
Meanwhile his father died, and his fortune, as a younger brother, being
literally next to nothing, and the family estate (for his brother was not
unwilling to assist him) being terribly involved, it was believed that he
struggled for some years with very embarrassed and penurious
circumstances. During this interval of his life, however, he was absent from
London, and by his brother supposed to have returned to the Continent; at
length, it seems, he profited by a renewal of his friendship with the young
nobleman who had accompanied him abroad, reappeared in town, and
obtained through his noble friend one or two legal appointments of
reputable emolument. Soon afterwards he got a brief on some cause where a
major had been raising a corps to his brother officer, with the better consent
of the brother-officer's wife than of the brother officer himself. Brandon's
abilities here, for the first time in his profession, found an adequate vent; his
reputation seemed made at once, he rose rapidly in his profession, and, at
the time we now speak of, he was sailing down the full tide of fame and
wealth, the envy and the oracle of all young Templars and barristers, who,
having been starved themselves for ten years, began now to calculate on the
possibility of starving their clients. At an early period in his career he had,
through the good offices of the nobleman we have mentioned, obtained a
seat in the House of Commons; and though his eloquence was of an order
much better suited to the bar than the senate, he had nevertheless acquired a
very considerable reputation in the latter, and was looked upon by many as
likely to win to the same brilliant fortunes as the courtly Mansfield,—a
great man, whose political principles and urbane address Brandon was
supposed especially to affect as his own model. Of unblemished integrity in
public life,—for, as he supported all things that exist with the most
unbending rigidity, he could not be accused of inconsistency,—William
Brandon was (as we have said in a former place of unhappy memory to our
hero) esteemed in private life the most honourable, the most moral, even the
most austere of men; and his grave and stern repute on this score, joined to
the dazzle of his eloquence and forensic powers, had baffled in great
measure the rancour of party hostility, and obtained for him a character for
virtues almost as high and as enviable as that which he had acquired for
abilities.

While William was thus treading a noted and an honourable career, his
elder brother, who had married into a clergyman's family, and soon lost his
consort, had with his only child, a daughter named Lucy, resided in his
paternal mansion in undisturbed obscurity. The discreditable character and
habits of the preceding lords of Warlock, which had sunk their
respectability in the county as well as curtailed their property, had rendered
the surrounding gentry little anxious to cultivate the intimacy of the present
proprietor; and the heavy mind and retired manners of Joseph Brandon were
not calculated to counterbalance the faults of his forefathers, nor to reinstate
the name of Brandon in its ancient popularity and esteem. Though dull and
little cultivated, the squire was not without his “proper pride;” he attempted
not to intrude himself where he was unwelcome, avoided county meetings
and county balls, smoked his pipe with the parson, and not unoften with the
surgeon and the solicitor, and suffered his daughter Lucy to educate herself
with the help of the parson's wife, and to ripen (for Nature was more
favourable to her than Art) into the very prettiest girl that the whole county
—we long to say the whole country—at that time could boast of. Never did
glass give back a more lovely image than that of Lucy Brandon at the age of
nineteen. Her auburn hair fell in the richest luxuriance over a brow never
ruffled, and a cheek where the blood never slept; with every instant the
colour varied, and at every variation that smooth, pure; virgin cheek seemed
still more lovely than before. She had the most beautiful laugh that one who
loved music could imagine,—silvery, low, and yet so full of joy! All her
movements, as the old parson said, seemed to keep time to that laugh, for
mirth made a great part of her innocent and childish temper; and yet the
mirth was feminine, never loud, nor like that of young ladies who had
received the last finish at Highgate seminaries. Everything joyous affected
her, and at once,—air, flowers, sunshine, butterflies. Unlike heroines in
general, she very seldom cried, and she saw nothing charming in having the
vapours. But she never looked so beautiful as in sleep; and as the light
breath came from her parted lips, and the ivory lids closed over those eyes
which only in sleep were silent,—and her attitude in her sleep took that
ineffable grace belonging solely to childhood, or the fresh youth into which
childhood merges,—she was just what you might imagine a sleeping
Margaret, before that most simple and gentle of all a poet's visions of
womanhood had met with Faust, or her slumbers been ruffled with a dream
of love.

We cannot say much for Lucy's intellectual acquirements; she could,
thanks to the parson's wife, spell indifferently well, and write a tolerable
hand; she made preserves, and sometimes riddles,—it was more difficult to
question the excellence of the former than to answer the queries of the
latter. She worked to the admiration of all who knew her, and we beg leave
to say that we deem that “an excellent thing in woman.” She made caps for
herself and gowns for the poor, and now and then she accomplished the
more literary labour of a stray novel that had wandered down to the
Manorhouse, or an abridgment of ancient history, in which was omitted
everything but the proper names. To these attainments she added a certain
modicum of skill upon the spinet, and the power of singing old songs with
the richest and sweetest voice that ever made one's eyes moisten or one's
heart beat.
Her moral qualities were more fully developed than her mental. She was
the kindest of human beings; the very dog that had never seen her before
knew that truth at the first glance, and lost no time in making her
acquaintance. The goodness of her heart reposed upon her face like
sunshine, and the old wife at the lodge said poetically and truly of the effect
it produced, that “one felt warm when one looked on her.” If we could
abstract from the description a certain chilling transparency, the following
exquisite verses of a forgotten poet might express the purity and lustre of
her countenance:—

“Her face was like the milky way i' the sky,
A meeting of gentle lights without a name.”

She was surrounded by pets of all kinds, ugly and handsome,—from
Ralph the raven to Beauty the pheasant, and from Bob, the sheep-dog
without a tail, to Beau, the Blenheim with blue ribbons round his neck; all
things loved her, and she loved all things. It seemed doubtful at that time
whether she would ever have sufficient steadiness and strength of character.
Her beauty and her character appeared so essentially womanlike—soft yet
lively, buoyant yet caressing—that you could scarcely place in her that
moral dependence that you might in a character less amiable but less
yieldingly feminine. Time, however, and circumstance, which alter and
harden, were to decide whether the inward nature did not possess some
latent and yet undiscovered properties. Such was Lucy Brandon in the year

——; and in that year, on a beautiful autumnal evening, we first introduce
her personally to our readers.
She was sitting on a garden-seat by the river side, with her father, who
was deliberately conning the evening paper of a former week, and gravely
seasoning the ancient news with the inspirations of that weed which so
bitterly excited the royal indignation of our British Solomon. It happens,
unfortunately for us,—for outward peculiarities are scarcely worthy the
dignity to which comedy, whether in the drama or the narrative, aspires,—
that Squire Brandon possessed so few distinguishing traits of mind that he
leaves his delineator little whereby to designate him, save a confused and
parenthetical habit of speech, by which he very often appeared to those who
did not profit by long experience or close observation, to say exactly, and
somewhat ludicrously, that which he did not mean to convey.
“I say, Lucy,” observed Mr. Brandon, but without lifting his eyes from
the paper,—“I say, corn has fallen; think of that, girl, think of that! These
times, in my opinion (ay, and in the opinion of wiser heads than mine,
though I do not mean to say that I have not some experience in these
matters, which is more than can be said of all our neighbours), are very
curious and even dangerous.”
“Indeed, Papa!” answered Lucy.
“And I say, Lucy, dear,” resumed the squire, after a short pause, “there
has been (and very strange it is, too, when one considers the crowded
neighbourhood—Bless me! what times these are!) a shocking murder
committed upon (the tobacco stopper,—there it is)—think, you know, girl,
—just by Epping!—an old gentleman!”
“Dear, how shocking! By whom?”
“Ay, that's the question! The coroner's inquest has (what a blessing it is to
live in a civilized country, where a man does not die without knowing the
why and the wherefore!) sat on the body, and declared (it is very strange,
but they don't seem to have made much discovery; for why? we knew as
much before) that the body was found (it was found on the floor, Lucy)
murdered; murderer or murderers (in the bureau, which was broken open,
they found the money left quite untouched) unknown!”
Here there was again a slight pause; and passing to another side of the
paper, Mr. Brandon resumed, in a quicker tone,—“Ha! well, now this is
odd! But he's a deuced clever fellow, Lucy! That brother of mine has (and

in a very honourable manner, too, which I am sure is highly creditable to
the family, though he has not taken too much notice of me lately,—a
circumstance which, considering I am his elder brother, I am a little angry
at) distinguished himself in a speech, remarkable, the paper says, for its
great legal (I wonder, by the by, whether William could get me that
agistment-money! 't is a heavy thing to lose; but going to law, as my poor
father used to say, is like fishing for gudgeons [not a bad little fish; we can
have some for supper] with, guineas) knowledge, as well as its splendid and
overpowering (I do love Will for keeping up the family honour; I am sure it
is more than I have done, heigh-ho!), eloquence!”
“And on what subject has he been speaking, Papa?”
“Oh, a very fine subject; what you call a (it is astonishing that in this
country there should be such a wish for taking away people's characters,
which, for my part, I don't see is a bit more entertaining than what you are
always doing,—playing with those stupid birds) libel!”
“But is not my uncle William coming down to see us? He promised to do
so, and it made you quite happy—, Papa, for two days. I hope he will not
disappoint you; and I am sure that it is not his fault if he ever seems to
neglect you. He spoke of you to me, when I saw him, in the kindest and
most affectionate manner. I do think, my dear father, that he loves you very
much.”
“Ahem!” said the squire, evidently flattered, and yet not convinced. “My
brother Will is a very acute fellow, and I make no—my dear little girl—
question, but that (when you have seen as much of the world as I have, you
will grow suspicious) he thought that any good word said of me to my
daughter would (you see, Lucy, I am as clear-sighted as my neighbours,
though I don't give myself all their airs; which I very well might do,
considering my great-great-great-grandfather, Hugo Brandon, had a hand in
detecting the gunpowder plot) he told to me again!”
“Nay, but I am quite sure my uncle never spoke of you to me with that
intention.”
“Possibly, my dear child; but when (the evenings are much shorter than
they were!) did you talk with your uncle about me?
“Oh, when staying with Mrs. Warner, in London; to be sure, it is six years
ago, but I remember it perfectly. I recollect, in particular, that he spoke of
you very handsomely to Lord Mauleverer, who dined with him one evening

when I was there, and when my uncle was so kind as to take me to the play.
I was afterwards quite sorry that he was so good-natured, as he lost (you
remember I told you the story) a very valuable watch.”
“Ay, ay, I remember all about that, and so (how long friendship lasts with
some people!) Lord Mauleverer dined with William! What a fine thing it is
for a man (it is what I never did, indeed; I like being what they call 'Cock of
the Walk'—let me see, now I think of it, Pillum comes to-night to play a hit
at backgammon) to make friends with a great man early in (yet Will did not
do it very early, poor fellow! He struggled first with a great deal of sorrow
—hardship, that is) life! It is many years now since Will has been hand-and-
glove with my ('t is a bit of a puppy) Lord Mauleverer. What did you think
of his lordship?”
“Of Lord Mauleverer? Indeed I scarcely observed him; but he seemed a
handsome man, and was very polite. Mrs. Warner said he had been a very
wicked person when he was young, but he seems good-natured enough
now, Papa.”
“By the by,” said the squire, “his lordship has just been made (this new
ministry seems very unlike the old, which rather puzzles me; for I think it
my duty, d'ye see, Lucy, always to vote for his Majesty's government,
especially seeing that old Hugo Brandon had a hand in detecting the gun
powder plot; and it is a little odd-at least, at first-to think that good now
which one has always before been thinking abominable) Lord Lieutenant of
the county.”
“Lord Mauleverer our Lord Lieutenant?”
“Yes, child; and since his lordship is such a friend of my brother, I should
think, considering especially what an old family in the county we are,—not
that I wish to intrude myself where I am not thought as fine as the rest,—
that he would be more attentive to us than Lord ———— was; but that, my
dear Lucy, puts me in mind of Pillum; and so, perhaps, you would like to
walk to the parson's, as it is a fine evening. John shall come for you at nine
o'clock with (the moon is not up then) the lantern.”
Leaning on his daughter's willing arm, the good old man then rose and
walked homeward; and so soon as she had wheeled round his easy-chair,
placed the backgammon board on the table, and wished the old gentleman
an easy victory over his expected antagonist, the apothecary, Lucy tied
down her bonnet, and took her way to the rectory.

When she arrived at the clerical mansion and entered the drawing-room,
she was surprised to find the parson's wife, a good, homely, lethargic old
lady, run up to her, seemingly in a state of great nervous agitation and
crying,—
“Oh, my dear Miss Brandon! which way did you come? Did you meet
nobody by the road? Oh, I am so frightened! Such an accident to poor dear
Dr. Slopperton! Stopped in the king's highway, robbed of some tithe-money
he had just received from Farmer Slowforth! If it had not been for that dear
angel, good young man, God only knows whether I might not have been a
disconsolate widow by this time!”
While the affectionate matron was thus running on, Lucy's eye glancing
round the room discovered in an armchair the round and oily little person of
Dr. Slopperton, with a countenance from which all the carnation hues, save
in one circular excrescence on the nasal member, that was left, like the last
rose of summer, blooming alone, were faded into an aspect of miserable
pallor. The little man tried to conjure up a smile while his wife was
narrating his misfortune, and to mutter forth some syllable of unconcern;
but he looked, for all his bravado, so exceedingly scared that Lucy would,
despite herself, have laughed outright, had not her eye rested upon the
figure of a young man who had been seated beside the reverend gentleman,
but who had risen at Lucy's entrance, and who now stood gazing upon her
intently, but with an air of great respect. Blushing deeply and involuntarily,
she turned her eyes hastily away, and approaching the good doctor, made
her inquiries into the present state of his nerves, in a graver tone than she
had a minute before imagined it possible that she should have been enabled
to command.
“Ah! my good young lady,” said the doctor, squeezing her hand, “I—
may, I may say the church—for am I not its minister? was in imminent
danger—but this excellent gentleman prevented the sacrilege, at least in
great measure. I only lost some of my dues,—my rightful dues,—for which
I console myself with thinking that the infamous and abandoned villain will
suffer hereafter.”
“There cannot be the least doubt of that,” said the young man. “Had he
only robbed the mail-coach, or broken into a gentleman's house, the offence
might have been expiable; but to rob a clergyman, and a rector too!—Oh,
the sacrilegious dog!”

“Your warmth does you honour, sir,” said the doctor, beginning now to
recover; “and I am very proud to have made the acquaintance of a
gentleman of such truly religious opinions.”
“Ah!” cried the stranger, “my foible, sir,—if I may so speak,—is a sort of
enthusiastic fervour for the Protestant Establishment. Nay, sir, I never come
across the very nave of the church without feeling an indescribable emotion
—a kind of sympathy, as it were—with—with—you understand me, sir—I
fear I express myself ill.”
“Not at all, not at all!” exclaimed the doctor: “such sentiments are
uncommon in one so young.”
“Sir, I learned them early in life from a friend and preceptor of mine, Mr.
MacGrawler, and I trust they may continue with me to my dying day.”
Here the doctor's servant entered with (we borrow a phrase from the
novel of —————) “the tea-equipage;” and Mrs. Slopperton, betaking
herself to its superintendence, inquired with more composure than hitherto
had belonged to her demeanour, what sort of a looking creature the ruffian
was.
“I will tell you, my dear, I will tell you, Miss Lucy, all about it. I was
walking home from Mr. Slowforth's, with his money in my pocket,
thinking, my love, of buying you that topaz cross you wished to have.”
“Dear, good man!” cried Mrs. Slopperton; “what a fiend it must have
been to rob so excellent a creature!”
“And,” resumed the doctor, “it also occurred to me that the Madeira was
nearly out,—the Madeira, I mean, with the red seal; and I was thinking it
might not be amiss to devote part of the money to buy six dozen more; and
the remainder, my love, which would be about one pound eighteen, I
thought I would divide—'for he that giveth to the poor lendeth to the
Lord!'—among the thirty poor families on the common; that is, if they
behaved well, and the apples in the back garden were not feloniously
abstracted!”
“Excellent, charitable man!” ejaculated Mrs. Slopperton. “While I was
thus meditating, I lifted my eyes, and saw before me two men,—one of
prodigious height, and with a great profusion of hair about his shoulders;
the other was smaller, and wore his hat slouched over his face: it was a very
large hat. My attention was arrested by the singularity of the tall person's

hair, and while I was smiling at its luxuriance, I heard him say to his
companion, 'Well, Augustus, as you are such a moral dog, he is in your line,
not mine; so I leave him to you.' Little did I think those words related to me.
No sooner were they uttered than the tall rascal leaped over a gate and
disappeared; the other fellow, then marching up to me, very smoothly asked
me the way to the church, and while I was explaining to him to turn first to
the right and then to the left, and so on,—for the best way is, you know,
exceedingly crooked,—the hypocritical scoundrel seized me by the collar,
and cried out, 'Your money or your life!' I do assure you that I never
trembled so much,—not, my dear Miss Lucy, so much for my own sake, as
for the sake of the thirty poor families on the common, whose wants it had
been my intention to relieve. I gave up the money, finding my prayers and
expostulations were in vain; and the dog then, brandishing over my head an
enormous bludgeon, said—what abominable language!—'I think, doctor, I
shall put an end to an existence derogatory to your self and useless to
others.' At that moment the young gentleman beside me sprang over the
very gate by which the tall ruffian had disappeared, and cried, 'Hold,
villain!' On seeing my deliverer, the coward started back, and plunged into a
neighbouring wood. The good young gentleman pursued him for a few
minutes, but then returning to my aid, conducted me home; and as we used
to say at school,—

“' Te rediisse incolumem gaudeo,'—

which, being interpreted, means (sir, excuse a pun, I am sure so great a
friend to the Church understands Latin) that I am very glad to get back safe
to my tea. He! he! And now, Miss Lucy, you must thank that young
gentleman for having saved the life of your pastoral teacher, which act will
no doubt be remembered at the Great Day!”
As Lucy, looking towards the stranger, said something in compliment,
she observed a vague, and as it were covert smile upon his countenance,
which immediately and as if by sympathy conjured one to her own. The
hero of the adventure, however, in a very grave tone replied to her
compliment, at the same time bowing profoundly,—
“Mention it not, madam! I were unworthy of the name of a Briton and a
man, could I pass the highway without relieving the distress or lightening
the burden of a fellow-creature. And,” continued the stranger, after a

momentary pause, colouring while he spoke, and concluding in the high-
flown gallantry of the day, “methinks it were sufficient reward, had I saved
the whole church instead of one of its most valuable members, to receive
the thanks of a lady whom I might reasonably take for one of those celestial
beings to whom we have been piously taught that the Church is especially
the care!”
Though there might have been something really ridiculous in this
overstrained compliment, coupled as it was with the preservation of Dr.
Slopperton, yet, coming from the mouth of one whom Lucy thought the
very handsomest person she had ever seen, it appeared to her anything but
absurd; and for a very long time afterwards her heart thrilled with pleasure
when she remembered that the cheek of the speaker had glowed, and his
voice had trembled as he spoke it.
The conversation now, turning from robbers in particular, dwelt upon
robberies in general. It was edifying to hear the honest indignation with
which the stranger spoke of the lawless depredators with whom the country,
in that day of Macheaths, was infested.
“A pack of infamous rascals!” said he, in a glow, “who attempt to justify
their misdeeds by the example of honest men, and who say that they do no
more than is done by lawyers and doctors, soldiers, clergymen, and
ministers of State. Pitiful delusion, or rather shameless hypocrisy!”
“It all comes of educating the poor,” said the doctor. “The moment they
pretend to judge the conduct of their betters, there's an end of all order!
They see nothing sacred in the laws, though we hang the dogs ever so fast;
and the very peers of the land, spiritual and temporal, cease to be venerable
in their eyes.”
“Talking of peers,” said Mrs. Slopperton, “I hear that Lord Mauleverer is
to pass by this road to-night on his way to Mauleverer Park. Do you know
his lordship, Miss Lucy: He is very intimate with your uncle.”
“I have only seen him once,” answered Lucy.
“Are you sure that his lordship will come this road?” asked the stranger,
carelessly. “I heard something of it this morning, but did not know it was
settled.”
“Oh, quite so!” rejoined Mrs. Slopperton. “His lordship's gentleman
wrote for post-horses to meet his lordship at Wyburn, about three miles on

the other side of the village, at ten o'clock to-night. His lordship is very
impatient of delay.”
“Pray,” said the doctor, who had not much heeded this turn in the
conversation, and was now “on hospitable cares intent,”—“pray, sir, if not
impertinent, are you visiting or lodging in the neighbourhood; or will you
take a bed with us?”
“You are extremely kind, my dear sir, but I fear I must soon wish you
good-evening. I have to look after a little property I have some miles hence,
which, indeed, brought me down into this part of the world.”
“Property!—in what direction, sir, if I may ask?” quoth the doctor; “I
know the country for miles.”
“Do you, indeed? Where's my property, you say? Why, it is rather
difficult to describe it, and it is, after all, a mere trifle; it is only some
common-land near the highroad, and I came down to try the experiment of
hedging and draining.”
“'T is a good plan, if one has capital, and does not require a speedy
return.”
“Yes; but one likes a good interest for the loss of principal, and a speedy
return is always desirable,—although, alas! it is often attended with risk!”
“I hope, sir,” said the doctor, “if you must leave us so soon, that your
property will often bring you into our neighbourhood.”
“You overpower me with so much unexpected goodness,” answered the
stranger. “To tell you the truth, nothing can give me greater pleasure than to
meet those again who have once obliged me.”
“Whom you have obliged, rather!” cried Mrs. Slopperton; and then
added, in a loud whisper to Lucy, “How modest! but it is always so with
true courage!”
“I assure you, madam,” returned the benevolent stranger, “that I never
think twice of the little favours I render my fellow-men; my only hope is
that they may be as forgetful as myself.”
Charmed with so much unaffected goodness of disposition, the doctor
and Mrs. Slopperton now set up a sort of duet in praise of their guest: after
enduring their commendations and compliments for some minutes with
much grimace of disavowal and diffidence, the stranger's modesty seemed

at last to take pain at the excess of their gratitude; and accordingly, pointing
to the clock, which was within a few minutes to nine, he said,—
“I fear, my respected host and my admired hostess, that I must now leave
you; I have far to go.”
“But are you yourself not afraid of the highwaymen?” cried Mrs.
Slopperton, interrupting him.
“The highwaymen!” said the stranger, smiling; “no; I do not fear them;
besides, I have little about me worth robbing.”
“Do you superintend your property yourself?” said the doctor, who
farmed his own glebe and who, unwilling to part with so charming a guest,
seized him now by the button.
“Superintend it myself! why, not exactly. There is a bailiff, whose views
of things don't agree with mine, and who now and then gives me a good
deal of trouble.”
“Then why don't you discharge him altogether?”
“Ah! I wish I could; but 't is a necessary evil. We landed proprietors, my
dear sir, must always be plagued with some thing of the sort. For my part, I
have found those cursed bailiffs would take away, if they could, all the little
property one has been trying to accumulate. But,” abruptly changing his
manner into one of great softness, “could I not proffer my services and my
companionship to this young lady? Would she allow me to conduct her
home, and indeed stamp this day upon my memory as one of the few
delightful ones I have ever known?”
“Thank you, dear sir,” said Mrs. Slopperton, answering at once for Lucy;
“it is very considerate of you.—And I am sure, my love, I could not think of
letting you go home alone with old John, after such an adventure to the poor
dear doctor.”
Lucy began an excuse which the good lady would not hear. But as the
servant whom Mr. Brandon was to send with a lantern to attend his
daughter home had not arrived, and as Mrs. Slopperton, despite her
prepossessions in favour of her husband's deliverer, did not for a moment
contemplate his accompanying, without any other attendance, her young
friend across the fields at that unseasonable hour, the stranger was forced,
for the present, to re-assume his seat. An open harpsichord at one end of the
room gave him an opportunity to make some remark upon music; and this

introducing an eulogium on Lucy's voice from Mrs. Slopperton, necessarily
ended in a request to Miss Brandon to indulge the stranger with a song.
Never had Lucy, who was not a shy girl,—she was too innocent to be
bashful,—felt nervous hitherto in singing before a stranger; but now she
hesitated and faltered, and went through a whole series of little natural
affectations before she complied with the request. She chose a song
composed somewhat after the old English school, which at that time was
reviving into fashion. The song, though conveying a sort of conceit, was
not, perhaps, altogether without tenderness; it was a favourite with Lucy,
she scarcely knew why, and ran thus:—

LUCY'S SONG.

Why sleep, ye gentle flowers, ah, why,
When tender eve is falling,
And starlight drinks the happy sigh
Of winds to fairies calling?
Calling with low and plaining note,
Most like a ringdove chiding,
Or flute faint-heard from distant boat
O'er smoothest waters gliding.
Lo, round you steals the wooing breeze;
Lo, on you falls the dew!
O sweets, awake, for scarcely these
Can charm while wanting you!
Wake ye not yet, while fast below
The silver time is fleeing?
O heart of mine, those flowers but show
Thine own contented being.
The twilight but preserves the bloom,
The sun can but decay
The warmth that brings the rich perfume
But steals the life away.
O heart, enjoy thy present calm,
Rest peaceful in the shade,
And dread the sun that gives the balm
To bid the blossom fade.

When Lucy ended, the stranger's praise was less loud than either the
doctor's or his lady's; but how far more sweet it was! And for the first time
in her life Lucy made the discovery that eyes can praise as well as lips. For
our part, we have often thought that that discovery is an epoch in life.
It was now that Mrs. Slopperton declared her thorough conviction that
the stranger himself could sing. He had that about him, she said, which
made her sure of it.
“Indeed, dear madam,” said he, with his usual undefinable, half-frank,
half-latent smile, “my voice is but so-so, and any memory so indifferent that

even in the easiest passages I soon come to a stand. My best notes are in the
falsetto; and as for my execution—But we won't talk of that.”
“Nay, nay; you are so modest,” said Mrs. Slopperton. “I am sure you
could oblige us if you would.”
“Your command,” said the stranger, moving to the harpsichord, “is all-
sufficient; and since you, madam,” turning to Lucy, “have chosen a song
after the old school, may I find pardon if I do the same? My selection is, to
be sure, from a lawless song-book, and is supposed to be a ballad by Robin
Hood, or at least one of his merry men,—a very different sort of outlaws
from the knaves who attacked you, sir!”
With this preface the stranger sung to a wild yet jovial air, with a
tolerable voice, the following effusion:

THE LOVE OF OUR PROFESSION; OR THE ROBBER'S LIFE.

On the stream of the world, the robber's life
Is borne on the blithest wave;
Now it bounds into light in a gladsome strife,
Now it laughs in its hiding cave.

At his maiden's lattice he stays the rein;
How still is his courser proud
(But still as a wind when it hangs o'er the main
In the breast of the boding cloud),

With the champed bit and the archd crest,
And the eye of a listening deer,
Like valour, fretful most in rest,
Least chafed when in career.

Fit slave to a lord whom all else refuse
To save at his desperate need;
By my troth! I think one whom the world pursues
Hath a right to a gallant steed.

“Away, my beloved, I hear their feet!
I blow thee a kiss, my fair,
And I promise to bring thee, when next we meet,
A braid for thy bonny hair.

Hurrah! for the booty!—my steed, hurrah!
Thorough bush, thorough brake, go we;
And the coy moon smiles on our merry way,
Like my own love,—timidly.”

The parson he rides with a jingling pouch,
How it blabs of the rifled poor!
The courtier he lolls in his gilded coach,
—How it smacks of a sinecure!

The lawyer revolves in his whirling chaise
Sweet thoughts of a mischief done;

And the lady that knoweth the card she plays
Is counting her guineas won!

“He, lady!—What, holla, ye sinless men!
My claim ye can scarce refuse;
For when honest folk live on their neighbours, then
They encroach on the robber's dues!”

The lady changed cheek like a bashful maid,
The lawyer talked wondrous fair,
The parson blasphemed, and the courtier prayed,
And the robber bore off his share.

“Hurrah! for the revel! my steed, hurrah!
Thorough bush, thorough brake, go we!
It is ever a virtue, when others pay,

To ruffle it merrily!”

Oh, there never was life like the robber's,
—so Jolly and bold and free!
And its end-why, a cheer from the crowd below,
And a leap from a leafless tree!

This very moral lay being ended, Mrs. Slopperton declared it was
excellent; though she confessed she thought the sentiments rather loose.
Perhaps the gentleman might be induced to favour them with a song of a
more refined and modern turn,—something sentimental, in short. Glancing
towards Lucy, the stranger answered that he only knew one song of the kind
Mrs. Slopperton specified, and it was so short that he could scarcely weary
her patience by granting her request.
At this moment the river, which was easily descried from the windows of
the room, glimmered in the starlight; and directing his looks towards the
water, as if the scene had suggested to him the verses he sung, he gave the
following stanzas in a very low, sweet tone, and with a far purer taste, than,
perhaps, would have suited the preceding and ruder song.

THE WISH.

As sleeps the dreaming Eve below,
Its holiest star keeps ward above,
And yonder wave begins to glow,
Like friendship bright'ning into Love!

Ah, would thy bosom were that stream,
Ne'er wooed save by the virgin air!—
Ah, would that I were that star, whose beam
Looks down and finds its image there!

Scarcely was the song ended, before the arrival of Miss Brandon's
servant was announced; and her destined escort, starting up, gallantly

assisted her with her cloak and her hood,—happy, no doubt, to escape in
some measure the overwhelming compliments of his entertainers.
“But,” said the doctor, as he shook hands with his deliverer, “by what
name shall I remember and” (lifting his reverend eyes) “pray for the
gentleman to whom I am so much indebted?”
“You are very kind,” said the stranger; “my name is Clifford. Madam,”
turning to Lucy, “may I offer my hand down the stairs?”
Lucy accepted the courtesy; and the stranger was half-way down the
staircase, when the doctor, stretching out his little neck, exclaimed,—
“Good-evening, sir! I do hope we shall meet again.”
“Fear not!” said Mr. Clifford, laughing gayly; “I am too great a traveller
to make that hope a matter of impossibility. Take care, madam,—one step
more.”
The night was calm and tolerably clear, though the moon had not yet
risen, as Lucy and her companion passed through the fields, with the
servant preceding them at a little distance with the lantern.
After a pause of some length, Clifford said, with a little hesitation, “Is
Miss Brandon related to the celebrated barrister of her name?”
“He is my uncle,” said Lucy; “do you know him?”
“Only your uncle?” said Clifford, with vivacity, and evading Lucy's
question. “I feared—hem! hem!—that is, I thought he might have been a
nearer relation.” There was another, but a shorter pause, when Clifford
resumed, in a low voice: “Will Miss Brandon think me very presumptuous
if I say that a countenance like hers, once seen, can never be forgotten; and
I believe, some years since, I had the honour to see her in London, at the
theatre? It was but a momentary and distant glance that I was then enabled
to gain; and yet,” he added significantly, “it sufficed!”
“I was only once at the theatre while in London, some years ago,” said
Lucy, a little embarrassed; “and indeed an unpleasant occurrence which
happened to my uncle, with whom I was, is sufficient to make me
remember it.”
“Ha! and what was it?”
“Why, in going out of the play-house his watch was stolen by some
dexterous pickpocket.”

“Was the rogue caught?” asked the stranger.
“Yes; and was sent the next day to Bridewell. My uncle said he was
extremely young, and yet quite hardened. I remember that I was foolish
enough, when I heard of his sentence, to beg very hard that my uncle would
intercede for him; but in vain.”
“Did you, indeed, intercede for him?” said the stranger, in so earnest a
tone that Lucy coloured for the twentieth time that night, without seeing any
necessity for the blush. Clifford continued, in a gayer tone: “Well, it is
surprising how rogues hang together. I should not be greatly surprised if the
person who despoiled your uncle were one of the same gang as the rascal
who so terrified your worthy friend the doctor. But is this handsome old
place your home?”
“This is my home,” answered Lucy; “but it is an old-fashioned, strange
place; and few people, to whom it was not endeared by associations, would
think it handsome.”
“Pardon me!” said Lucy's companion, stopping, and surveying with a
look of great interest the quaint pile, which now stood close before them; its
dark bricks, gable-ends, and ivied walls, tinged by the starry light of the
skies, and contrasted by the river, which rolled in silence below. The
shutters to the large oriel window of the room in which the squire usually
sat were still unclosed, and the steady and warm light of the apartment
shone forth, casting a glow even to the smooth waters of the river; at the
same moment, too, the friendly bark of the house-dog was heard, as in
welcome; and was followed by the note of the great bell, announcing the
hour for the last meal of the old-fashioned and hospitable family.
“There is a pleasure in this,” said the stranger, unconsciously, and with a
half-sigh; “I wish I had a home!”
“And have you not a home?” said Lucy, with naivety. “As much as a
bachelor can have, perhaps,” answered Clifford, recovering without an
effort his gayety and self-possession. “But you know we wanderers are not
allowed the same boast as the more fortunate Benedicts; we send our hearts
in search of a home, and we lose the one without gaining the other. But I
keep you in the cold, and we are now at your door.”
“You will come in, of course!” said Miss Brandon, “and partake of our
evening cheer.”

The stranger hesitated for an instant, and then said in a quick tone,—
“No! many, many thanks; it is already late. Will Miss Brandon accept my
gratitude for her condescension in permitting the attendance of one
unknown to her?” As he thus spoke, Clifford bowed profoundly over the
hand of his beautiful charge; and Lucy, wishing him good-night, hastened
with a light step to her father's side.
Meanwhile Clifford, after lingering a minute, when the door was closed
on him, turned abruptly away; and muttering to himself, repaired with rapid
steps to whatever object he had then in view.

CHAPTER XII.
Up rouse ye then,
My merry, merry men!
—JOANNA BAILLIE.

When the moon rose that night, there was one spot upon which she palely
broke, about ten miles distant from Warlock, which the forewarned traveller
would not have been eager to pass, but which might not have afforded a bad
study to such artists as have caught from the savage painter of the
Apennines a love for the wild and the adventurous. Dark trees, scattered far
and wide over a broken but verdant sward, made the background; the moon
shimmered through the boughs as she came slowly forth from her pavilion
of cloud, and poured a broader beam on two figures just advanced beyond
the trees. More plainly brought into light by her rays than his companion,
here a horseman, clad in a short cloak that barely covered the crupper of his
steed, was looking to the priming of a large pistol which he had just taken
from his holster. A slouched hat and a mask of black crape conspired with
the action to throw a natural suspicion on the intentions of the rider. His
horse, a beautiful dark gray, stood quite motionless, with arched neck, and
its short ears quickly moving to and fro, demonstrative of that sagacious
and anticipative attention which characterizes the noblest of all tamed
animals; you would not have perceived the impatience of the steed, but for
the white foam that gathered round the bit, and for an occasional and
unfrequent toss of the head. Behind this horseman, and partially thrown into
the dark shadow of the trees, another man, similarly clad, was busied in
tightening the girths of a horse, of great strength and size. As he did so, he
hummed, with no unmusical murmur, the air of a popular drinking-song.
“'Sdeath, Ned!” said his comrade, who had for some time been plunged
in a silent revery,—“'Sdeath! why can you not stifle your love for the fine
arts at a moment like this? That hum of thine grows louder every moment;
at last I expect it will burst out into a full roar. Recollect we are not at
Gentleman George's now!”
“The more's the pity, Augustus,” answered Ned. “Soho, Little John;
woaho, sir! A nice long night like this is made on purpose for drinking. Will

you, sir? keep still then!”
“Man never is, but always to be blest,” said the moralizing Tomlinson;
“you see you sigh for other scenes even when you have a fine night and the
chance of a God-send before you.”
“Ay, the night is fine enough,” said Ned, who was rather a grumbler, as,
having finished his groom-like operation, he now slowly mounted. “D—-it,
Oliver! [The moon] looks out as broadly as if he were going to blab. For my
part, I love a dark night, with a star here and there winking at us, as much as
to say, 'I see you, my boys, but I won't say a word about it,' and a small,
pattering, drizzling, mizzling rain, that prevents Little John's hoofs being
heard, and covers one's retreat, as it were. Besides, when one is a little wet,
it is always necessary to drink the more, to keep the cold from one's
stomach when one gets home.”
“Or in other words,” said Augustus, who loved a maxim from his very
heart, “light wet cherishes heavy wet!”
“Good!” said Ned, yawning. “Hang it, I wish the captain would come.
Do you know what o'clock it is? Not far short of eleven, I suppose?”
“About that! Hist, is that a carriage? No, it is only a sudden rise in the
wind.”
“Very self-sufficient in Mr. Wind to allow himself to be raised without
our help!” said Ned; “by the way, we are of course to go back to the Red
Cave?”
“So Captain Lovett says. Tell me, Ned, what do you think of the new
tenant Lovett has put into the cave?”
“Oh, I have strange doubts there,” answered Ned, shaking the hairy
honours of his head. “I don't half like it; consider the cave is our stronghold,
and ought only to be known—”
“To men of tried virtue,” interrupted Tomlinson. “I agree with you; I
must try and get Lovett to discard his singular protege, as the French say.”
“'Gad, Augustus, how came you by so much learning? You know all the
poets by heart, to say nothing of Latin and French.”
“Oh, hang it, I was brought up, like the captain, to a literary way of life.”
“That's what makes you so thick with him, I suppose. He writes (and
sings too) a tolerable song, and is certainly a deuced clever fellow. What a

rise in the world he has made! Do you recollect what a poor sort of way he
was in when you introduced him at Gentleman George's? and now he's the
Captain Crank of the gang.”
“The gang! the company, you mean. Gang, indeed! One would think you
were speaking of a knot of pickpockets. Yes, Lovett is a clever fellow; and,
thanks to me, a very decent philosopher!” It is impossible to convey to our
reader the grave air of importance with which Tomlinson made his
concluding laudation. “Yes,” said he, after a pause, “he has a bold, plain
way of viewing things, and, like Voltaire, he becomes a philosopher by
being a Man of Sense! Hist! see my horse's ears! Some one is coming,
though I don't hear him! Keep watch!”
The robbers grew silent; the sound of distant hoofs was indistinctly
heard, and, as it came nearer, there was a crash of boughs, as if a hedge had
been ridden through. Presently the moon gleamed picturesquely on the
figure of a horseman, approaching through the copse in the rear of the
robbers.
Now he was half seen among the sinuosities of his forest path; now in
full sight, now altogether hid; then his horse neighed impatiently; now he
again came in sight, and in a moment more he had joined the pair! The new-
comer was of a tall and sinewy frame, and in the first bloom of manhood. A
frock of dark green, edged with a narrow silver lace, and buttoned from the
throat to the middle, gave due effect to an upright mien, a broad chest, and a
slender but rounded waist, that stood in no need of the compression of the
tailor. A short riding-cloak, clasped across the throat with a silver buckle,
hung picturesquely over one shoulder, while his lower limbs were cased in
military boots, which, though they rose above the knee, were evidently
neither heavy nor embarrassing to the vigorous sinews of the horseman. The
caparisons of the steed—the bit, the bridle, the saddle, the holster—were
according to the most approved fashion of the day; and the steed itself was
in the highest condition, and of remarkable beauty. The horseman's air was
erect and bold; a small but coal-black mustachio heightened the resolute
expression of his short, curved lip; and from beneath the large hat which
overhung his brow his long locks escaped, and waved darkly in the keen
night air. Altogether, horseman and horse exhibited a gallant and even a
chivalrous appearance, which the hour and the scene heightened to a
dramatic and romantic effect.

“Ha! Lovett.”
“How are you, my merry men?” were the salutations exchanged.
“What news?” said Ned.
“Brave news! look to it. My lord and his carriage will be by in ten
minutes at most.”
“Have you got anything more out of the parson I frightened so
gloriously?” asked Augustus.
“No; more of that hereafter. Now for our new prey.”
“Are you sure our noble friend will be so soon at hand?” said Tomlinson,
patting his steed, that now pawed in excited hilarity.
“Sure! I saw him change horses; I was in the stable-yard at the time. He
got out for half an hour, to eat, I fancy. Be sure that I played him a trick in
the mean while.”
“What for?” asked Ned.
“Self and servant.”
“The post-boys?”
“Ay, I forgot them. Never mind, you, must frighten them.”
“Forwards!” cried Ned; and his horse sprang from his armed heel.
“One moment,” said Lovett; “I must put on my mask. Soho, Robin, soho!
Now for it,—forwards!”
As the trees rapidly disappeared behind them, the riders entered, at a
hand gallop, on a broad tract of waste land interspersed with dikes and
occasionally fences of hurdles, over which their horses bounded like
quadrupeds well accustomed to such exploits.
Certainly at that moment, what with the fresh air, the fitful moonlight
now breaking broadly out, now lost in a rolling cloud, the exciting exercise,
and that racy and dancing stir of the blood, which all action, whether evil or
noble in its nature, raises in our veins; what with all this, we cannot but
allow the fascination of that lawless life,—a fascination so great that one of
the most noted gentlemen highwaymen of the day, one too who had
received an excellent education and mixed in no inferior society, is reported
to have said, when the rope was about his neck, and the good Ordinary was
exhorting him to repent of his ill-spent life, “Ill-spent, you dog! 'Gad!”
(smacking his lips) “it was delicious!”

“Fie! fie! Mr. ———-, raise your thoughts to Heaven!”
“But a canter across the common—oh!” muttered the criminal; and his
soul cantered off to eternity.
So briskly leaped the heart of the leader of the three that, as they now
came in view of the main road, and the distant wheel of a carriage whirred
on the ear, he threw up his right hand with a joyous gesture, and burst into a
boyish exclamation of hilarity and delight.
“Whist, captain!” said Ned, checking his own spirits with a mock air of
gravity, “let us conduct ourselves like gentlemen; it is only your low fellows
who get into such confoundedly high spirits; men of the world like us
should do everything as if their hearts were broken.”
“Melancholy ever cronies with Sublimity, and Courage is sublime,” said
Augustus, with the pomp of a maxim-maker.

[A maxim which would have pleased Madame de Stael, who thought that
philosophy consisted in fine sentiments. In the “Life of Lord
Byron,” just published by Mr. Moore, the distinguished biographer
makes a similar assertion to that of the sage Augustus: “When did
ever a sublime thought spring up in the soul that melancholy was not
to be found, however latent, in its neighbourhood?” Now, with due
deference to Mr. Moore, this is a very sickly piece of nonsense,
that has not even an atom of truth to stand on. “God said, Let
there be light, and there was light!”—we should like to know where
lies the melancholy of that sublime sentence. “Truth,” says Plato,
“is the body of God, and light is his shadow.” In the name of
common-sense, in what possible corner in the vicinity of that lofty
image lurks the jaundiced face of this eternal bete noir of Mr.
Moore's? Again, in that sublimest passage in the sublimest of the
Latin poets (Lucretius), which bursts forth in honour of Epicurus,
is there anything that speaks to us of sadness? On the contrary, in
the three passages we have referred to, especially in the two first
quoted, there is something splendidly luminous and cheering. Joy is
often a great source of the sublime; the suddenness of its ventings
would alone suffice to make it so. What can be more sublime than
the triumphant Psalms of David, intoxicated as they are with an
almost delirium of transport? Even in the gloomiest passages of the
poets, where we recognize sublimity, we do not often find
melancholy. We are stricken by terror, appalled by awe, but seldom
softened into sadness. In fact, melancholy rather belongs to
another class of feelings than those excited by a sublime passage or
those which engender its composition. On one hand, in the loftiest
flights of Homer, Milton, and Shakspeare, we will challenge a critic
to discover this “green sickness” which Mr. Moore would convert
into the magnificence of the plague. On the other hand, where is
the evidence that melancholy made the habitual temperaments of those
divine men? Of Homer we know nothing; of Shakspeare and Milton, we
have reason to believe the ordinary temperament was constitutionally
cheerful. The latter boasts of it. A thousand instances, in
contradiction to an assertion it were not worth while to contradict,
were it not so generally popular, so highly sanctioned, and so
eminently pernicious to everything that is manly and noble in

literature, rush to our memory. But we think we have already quoted
enough to disprove the sentence, which the illustrious biographer
has himself disproved in more than twenty passages, which, if he is
pleased to forget, we thank Heaven posterity never will. Now we are
on the subject of this Life, so excellent in many respects, we
cannot but observe that we think the whole scope of its philosophy
utterly unworthy of the accomplished mind of the writer; the
philosophy consists of an unpardonable distorting of general truths,
to suit the peculiarities of an individual, noble indeed, but
proverbially morbid and eccentric. A striking instance of this
occurs in the laboured assertion that poets make but sorry domestic
characters. What! because Lord Byron is said to have been a bad
husband, was (to go no further back for examples)—was Walter Scott
a bad husband, or was Campbell, or is Mr. Moore himself? why, in
the name of justice, should it be insinuated that Milton was a bad
husband, when, as far as any one can judge of the matter, it was
Mrs. Milton who was the bad wife? And why, oh! why should we be
told by Mr. Moore,—a man who, to judge by Captain Rock and the
Epicurean, wants neither learning nor diligence,—why are we to be
told, with peculiar emphasis, that Lord Bacon never married, when
Lord Bacon not only married, but his marriage was so advantageous as
to be an absolute epoch in his career? Really, really, one begins
to believe that there is not such a thing as a fact in the world!]

“Now for the hedge!” cried Lovett, unheeding his comrades; and his
horse sprang into the road.
The three men now were drawn up quite still and motionless by the side
of the hedge. The broad road lay before them, curving out of sight on either
side; the ground was hardening under an early tendency to frost, and the
clear ring of approaching hoofs sounded on the ear of the robbers, ominous,
haply, of the chinks of “more attractive metal” about, if Hope told no
flattering tale, to be their own.
Presently the long-expected vehicle made its appearance at the turn of the
road, and it rolled rapidly on behind four fleet post-horses.
“You, Ned, with your large steed, stop the horses; you, Augustus, bully
the post-boys; leave me to do the rest,” said the captain.
“As agreed,” returned Ned, laconically. “Now, look at me!” and the horse
of the vain highwayman sprang from its shelter. So instantaneous were the
operations of these experienced tacticians, that Lovett's orders were almost
executed in a briefer time than it had cost him to give them.
The carriage being stopped, and the post-boys white and trembling, with
two pistols (levelled by Augustus and Pepper) cocked at their heads, Lovett,
dismounting, threw open the door of the carriage, and in a very civil tone
and with a very bland address accosted the inmate.

“Do not be alarmed, my lord, you are perfectly safe; we only require your
watch and purse.”
“Really,” answered a voice still softer than that of the robber, while a
marked and somewhat French countenance, crowned with a fur cap, peered
forth at the arrester,—“Really, sir, your request is so modest that I were
worse than cruel to refuse you. My purse is not very full, and you may as
well have it as one of my rascally duns; but my watch I have a love for, and
—”
“I understand you, my lord,” interrupted the highwayman. “What do you
value your watch at?”
“Humph! to you it may be worth some twenty guineas.”
“Allow me to see it!”
“Your curiosity is extremely gratifying,” returned the nobleman, as with
great reluctance he drew forth a gold repeater, set, as was sometimes the
fashion of that day, in precious stones. The highwayman looked slightly at
the bauble.
“Your lordship,” said he, with great gravity, “was too modest in your
calculation; your taste reflects greater credit on you. Allow me to assure you
that your watch is worth fifty guinea's to us, at the least. To show you that I
think so most sincerely, I will either keep it, and we will say no more on the
matter; or I will return it to you upon your word of honour that you will
give me a check for fifty guineas payable, by your real bankers, to 'bearer
for self.' Take your choice; it is quite immaterial to me!”
“Upon my honour, sir,” said the traveller, with some surprise struggling
to his features, “your coolness and self-possession are quite admirable. I see
you know the world.”
“Your lordship flatters me!” returned Lovett, bowing. “How do you
decide?”
“Why, is it possible to write drafts without ink, pen, or paper?”
Lovett drew back, and while he was searching in his pockets for writing
implements, which he always carried about him, the traveller seized the
opportunity, and suddenly snatching a pistol from the pocket of the carriage,
levelled it full at the head of the robber. The traveller was an excellent and
practised shot,—he was almost within arm's length of his intended victim,
—his pistols were the envy of all his Irish friends. He pulled the trigger,—

the powder flashed in the pan; and the highwayman, not even changing
countenance, drew forth a small ink-bottle, and placing a steel pen in it,
handed it to the nobleman, saying, with incomparable sang froid: “Would
you like, my lord, to try the other pistol? If so, oblige me by a quick aim, as
you must see the necessity of despatch. If not, here is the back of a letter, on
which you can write the draft.”
The traveller was not a man apt to become embarrassed in anything save
his circumstances; but he certainly felt a little discomposed and confused as
he took the paper, and uttering some broken words, wrote the check. The
highwayman glanced over it, saw it was written according to form, and then
with a bow of cool respect, returned the watch, and shut the door of the
carriage.
Meanwhile the servant had been shivering in front, boxed up in that
solitary convenience termed, not euphoniously, a dickey. Him the robber
now briefly accosted.
“What have you got about you belonging to your master?”
“Only his pills, your honour! which I forgot to put in the—”
“Pills!—throw them down to me!” The valet tremblingly extricated from
his side-pocket a little box, which he threw down and Lovett caught in his
hand.
He opened the box, counted the pills,—“One, two, four, twelve,—aha!”
He reopened the carriage door. “Are these your pills, my lord?”
The wondering peer, who had begun to resettle himself in the corner of
his carriage, answered that they were.
“My lord, I see you are in a high state of fever; you were a little delirious
just now when you snapped a pistol in your friend's face. Permit me to
recommend you a prescription,—swallow off all these pills!”
“My God!” cried the traveller, startled into earnestness; “what do you
mean?—twelve of those pills would kill a man!”
“Hear him!” said the robber, appealing to his comrades, who roared with
laughter. “What, my lord, would you rebel against your doctor? Fie, fie! be
persuaded.”
And with a soothing gesture he stretched the pill-box towards the
recoiling nose of the traveller. But though a man who could as well as any
one make the best of a bad condition, the traveller was especially careful of

his health; and so obstinate was he where that was concerned, that he would
rather have submitted to the effectual operation of a bullet than incurred the
chance operation of an extra pill. He therefore, with great indignation, as
the box was still extended towards him, snatched it from the hand of the
robber, and flinging it across the road, said with dignity,—
“Do your worst, rascals! But if you leave me alive, you shall repent the
outrage you have offered to one of his Majesty's household!” Then, as if
becoming sensible of the ridicule of affecting too much in his present
situation, he added in an altered tone: “And now, for Heaven's sake, shut the
door; and if you must kill somebody, there's my servant on the box,—he's
paid for it.”
This speech made the robbers laugh more than ever; and Lovett, who
liked a joke even better than a purse, immediately closed the carriage door,
saying,—
“Adieu, my lord; and let me give you a piece of advice: whenever you
get out at a country inn, and stay half an hour while your horses are
changing, take your pistols with you, or you may chance to have the charge
drawn.”
With this admonition the robber withdrew; and seeing that the valet held
out to him a long green purse, he said, gently shaking his head,—
“Rogues should not prey on each other, my good fellow. You rob your
master; so do we. Let each keep what he has got.”
Long Ned and Tomlinson then backing their horses, the carriage was
freed; and away started the post-boys at a pace which seemed to show less
regard for life than the robbers themselves had evinced.
Meanwhile the captain remounted his steed, and the three confederates,
bounding in gallant style over the hedge through which they had previously
gained the road, galloped off in the same direction they had come; the moon
ever and anon bringing into light their flying figures, and the sound of many
a joyous peal of laughter ringing through the distance along the frosty air.

CHAPTER XIII
What is here?—

Gold?

Thus much of this will make black white, foul fair.

Timon of Athens.

Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly drest,
Fresh as a bridegroom.

Henry the Fourth.

I do not know the man I should avoid
So soon as that spare Cassius!
He reads much. He is a great observer; and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men.
Often he smiles; but smiles in such a sort,
As if he mocked himself or scorned his spirit,
That could be moved to smile at anything.

Julius Caesar.

The next day, late at noon, as Lucy was sitting with her father, not as
usual engaged either in work or in reading, but seemingly quite idle, with
her pretty foot upon the squire's gouty stool, and eyes fixed on the carpet,
while her hands (never were hands so soft and so small as Lucy's, though
they may have been eclipsed in whiteness) were lightly clasped together
and reposed listlessly on her knees,—the surgeon of the village abruptly
entered with a face full of news and horror. Old Squire Brandon was one of
those persons who always hear news, whatever it may be, later than any of
their neighbours; and it was not till all the gossips of the neighbourhood had
picked the bone of the matter quite bare, that he was now informed, through
the medium of Mr. Pillum, that Lord Mauleverer had on the preceding night
been stopped by three highwaymen in his road to his country-seat, and
robbed to a considerable amount.
The fame of the worthy Dr. Slopperton's maladventure having long ere
this been spread far and wide, the whole neighbourhood was naturally
thrown into great consternation. Magistrates were sent to, large dogs
borrowed, blunderbusses cleaned, and a subscription made throughout the
parish for the raising of a patrol. There seemed little doubt but that the

offenders in either case were members of the same horde; and Mr. Pillum,
in his own mind, was perfectly convinced that they meant to encroach upon
his trade, and destroy all the surrounding householders who were worth the
trouble.
The next week passed in the most diligent endeavours, on the part of the
neighbouring magistrates and yeomanry, to detect and seize the robbers; but
their labours were utterly fruitless; and one justice of peace, who had been
particularly active, was himself entirely “cleaned out” by an old gentleman
who, under the name of Mr. Bagshot,—rather an ominous cognomen,—
offered to conduct the unsuspicious magistrate to the very spot where the
miscreants might be seized. No sooner, however, had he drawn the poor
justice away from his comrades into a lonely part of the road than he
stripped him to his shirt. He did not even leave his worship his flannel
drawers, though the weather was as bitter as the dog-days of 1829.
“It is not my way,” said the hoary ruffian, when the justice petitioned at
least for the latter article of attire,—“'t is not my way. I be 's slow about my
work, but I does it thoroughly; so off with your rags, old un.”
This was, however, the only additional instance of aggression in the
vicinity of Warlock Manor-house; and by degrees, as the autumn declined,
and no further enormities were perpetrated, people began to look out for a
new topic of conversation. This was afforded them by a piece of unexpected
good fortune to Lucy Brandon:
Mrs. Warner—an old lady to whom she was slightly related, and with
whom she had been residing during her brief and only visit to London—
died suddenly, and in her will declared Lucy to be her sole heiress. The
property, which was in the Funds, and which amounted to L60,000, was to
be enjoyed by Miss Brandon immediately on her attaining her twenty-first
year; meanwhile the executors to the will were to pay to the young heiress
the annual sum of L600. The joy which this news created in Warlock
Manor-house may easily be conceived. The squire projected improvements
here, and repairs there; and Lucy, poor girl, who had no idea of money for
herself, beyond the purchase of a new pony, or a gown from London,
seconded with affectionate pleasure all her father's suggestions, and
delighted herself with the reflection that those fine plans, which were to
make the Brandons greater than the Brandons ever were before, were to be
realized by her own, own money! It was at this identical time that the

surrounding gentry made a simultaneous and grand discovery,—namely, of
the astonishing merits and great good-sense of Mr. Joseph Brandon. It was a
pity, they observed, that he was of so reserved and shy a turn,—it was not
becoming in a gentleman of so ancient a family; but why should they not
endeavour to draw him from his retirement into those more public scenes
which he was doubtless well calculated to adorn?
Accordingly, as soon as the first month of mourning had expired, several
coaches, chariots, chaises, and horses which had never been seen at
Warlock Manor-house before, arrived there one after the other in the most
friendly manner imaginable. Their owners admired everything,—the house
was such a fine relic of old times!—for their parts they liked an oak
staircase!—and those nice old windows!—and what a beautiful peacock!—
and, Heaven save the mark! that magnificent chestnut-tree was worth a
forest! Mr. Brandon was requested to make one of the county hunt, not that
he any longer hunted himself, but that his name would give such
consequence to the thing! Miss Lucy must come to pass a week with her
dear friends the Honourable Misses Sansterre! Augustus, their brother, had
such a sweet lady's horse! In short, the customary change which takes place
in people's characters after the acquisition of a fortune took place in the
characters of Mr. and Miss Brandon; and when people become suddenly
amiable, it is no wonder that they should suddenly gain a vast accession of
friends.
But Lucy, though she had seen so little of the world, was not quite blind;
and the squire, though rather obtuse, was not quite a fool. If they were not
rude to their new visitors, they were by no means overpowered with
gratitude at their condescension. Mr. Brandon declined subscribing to the
hunt, and Miss Lucy laughed in the face of the Honourable Augustus
Sansterre. Among their new guests, however, was one who to great
knowledge of the world joined an extreme and even brilliant polish of
manners, which at least prevented deceit from being disagreeable, if not
wholly from being unseen this was the new lieutenant of the county, Lord
Mauleverer.
Though possessed of an immense property in that district, Lord
Mauleverer had hitherto resided but little on his estates. He was one of
those gay lords who are now somewhat uncommon in this country after
mature manhood is attained, who live an easy and rakish life, rather among

their parasites than their equals, and who yet, by aid of an agreeable
manner, natural talents, and a certain graceful and light cultivation of mind
(not the less pleasant for its being universally coloured with worldliness,
and an amusing rather than offensive regard for self), never lose their
legitimate station in society; who are oracles in dress, equipages, cookery,
and beauty, and, having no character of their own, are able to fix by a single
word a character upon any one else. Thus, while Mauleverer rather lived the
dissolute life of a young nobleman, who prefers the company of agreeable
demireps to that of wearisome duchesses, than maintained the decorous
state befitting a mature age, and an immense interest in the country, he was
quite as popular at court, where he held a situation in the household, as he
was in the green-room, where he enchanted every actress on the right side
of forty. A word from him in the legitimate quarters of power went further
than an harangue from another; and even the prudes—at least, all those who
had daughters—confessed that his lordship was a very interesting character.
Like Brandon, his familiar friend, he had risen in the world (from the Irish
baron to the English earl) without having ever changed his politics, which
were ultra-Tory; and we need not observe that he was deemed, like
Brandon, a model of public integrity. He was possessed of two places under
government, six votes in the House of Commons, and eight livings in the
Church; and we must add, in justice to his loyal and religious principles,
that there was not in the three kingdoms a firmer friend to the existing
establishments.
Whenever a nobleman does not marry, people try to take away his
character. Lord Mauleverer had never married. The Whigs had been very
bitter on the subject; they even alluded to it in the House of Commons,—
that chaste assembly, where the never-failing subject of reproach against
Mr. Pitt was the not being of an amorous temperament; but they had not
hitherto prevailed against the stout earl's celibacy. It is true that if he was
devoid of a wife, he had secured to himself plenty of substitutes; his
profession was that of a man of gallantry; and though he avoided the
daughters, it was only to make love to the mothers. But his lordship had
now attained a certain age, and it was at last circulated among his friends
that he intended to look out for a Lady Mauleverer.
“Spare your caresses,” said his toady-in-chief to a certain duchess, who
had three portionless daughters; “Mauleverer has sworn that he will not
choose among your order. You know his high politics, and you will not

wonder at his declaring himself averse in matrimony as in morals to a
community of goods.”
The announcement of the earl's matrimonial design and the circulation of
this anecdote set all the clergymen's daughters in England on a blaze of
expectation; and when Mauleverer came to shire, upon obtaining the honour
of the lieutenancy, to visit his estates and court the friendship of his
neighbours, there was not an old-young lady of forty, who worked in broad-
stitch and had never been to London above a week at a time, who did not
deem herself exactly the sort of person sure to fascinate his lordship.
It was late in the afternoon when the travelling-chariot of this
distinguished person, preceded by two outriders, in the earl's undress livery
of dark green, stopped at the hall door of Warlock House. The squire was at
home, actually and metaphorically; for he never dreamed of denying
himself to any one, gentle or simple. The door of the carriage being opened,
there descended a small slight man, richly dressed (for lace and silk
vestments were not then quite discarded, though gradually growing less the
mode), and of an air prepossessing and distinguished rather than dignified.
His years—for his countenance, though handsome, was deeply marked, and
evinced the tokens of dissipation—seemed more numerous than they really
were; and though not actually past middle age, Lord Mauleverer might
fairly have received the unpleasing epithet of elderly. However, his step was
firm, his gait upright, and his figure was considerably more youthful than
his physiognomy. The first compliments of the day having passed, and Lord
Mauleverer having expressed his concern that his long and frequent absence
from the county had hitherto prevented his making the acquaintance of Mr.
Brandon, the brother of one of his oldest and most esteemed friends,
conversation became on both sides rather an effort. Mr. Brandon first
introduced the subject of the weather, and the turnips; inquired whether his
lordship was not very fond (for his part he used to be, but lately the
rheumatism had disabled him; he hoped his lordship was not subject to that
complaint) of shooting!
Catching only the last words,—for, besides the awful complexity of the
squire's sentences, Mauleverer was slightly affected by the aristocratic
complaint of deafness,—the earl answered, with a smile,—
“The complaint of shooting! Very good indeed, Mr. Brandon; it is seldom
that I have heard so witty a phrase. No, I am not in the least troubled with

that epidemic. It is a disorder very prevalent in this county.”
“My lord!” said the squire, rather puzzled; and then, observing that
Mauleverer did not continue, he thought it expedient to start another
subject.
“I was exceedingly grieved to hear that your lordship, in travelling to
Mauleverer Park (that is a very ugly road across the waste land; the roads in
this country are in general pretty good,—for my own part, when I was a
magistrate I was very strict in that respect), was robbed. You have not yet, I
believe, detected (for my part, though I do not profess to be much of a
politician, I do think that in affairs of robbery there is a great deal of
remissness in the ministers) the villains!”
“Our friend is disaffected!” thought the lord-lieutenant, imagining that
the last opprobrious term was applied to the respectable personages
specified in the parenthesis. Bowing with a polished smile to the squire,
Mauleverer replied aloud, that he was extremely sorry that their conduct
(meaning the ministers) did not meet with Mr. Brandon's approbation.
“Well,” thought the squire, “that is playing the courtier with a vengeance!
—Meet with my approbation!” said he, warmly; “how could your lordship
think me (for though I am none of your saints, I am, I hope, a good
Christian; an excellent one, judging from your words, your lordship must
be!) so partial to crime!”
“I partial to crime!” returned Mauleverer, thinking he had stumbled
unawares on some outrageous democrat, yet smiling as softly as usual; “you
judge me harshly, Mr. Brandon! You must do me more justice, and you can
only do that by knowing me better.”
Whatever unlucky answer the squire might otherwise have made was cut
off by the entrance of Lucy; and the earl, secretly delighted at the
interruption, rose to render her his homage, and to remind her of the
introduction he had formerly been so happy as to obtain to her through the
friendship of Mr. William Brandon,—a “friendship,” said the gallant
nobleman, “to which I have often before been indebted, but which was
never more agreeably exerted on my behalf.”
Upon this Lucy, who though she had been so painfully bashful during her
meeting with Mr. Clifford, felt no overpowering diffidence in the presence
of so much greater a person, replied laughingly, and the earl rejoined by a
second compliment. Conversation was now no longer an effort; and

Mauleverer, the most consummate of epicures, whom even royalty trembled
to ask without preparation, on being invited by the unconscious squire to
partake of the family dinner, eagerly accepted the invitation. It was long
since the knightly walls of Warlock had been honoured by the presence of a
guest so courtly. The good squire heaped his plate with a profusion of
boiled beef; and while the poor earl was contemplating in dismay the Alps
upon Alps which he was expected to devour, the gray-headed butler,
anxious to serve him with alacrity, whipped away the overloaded plate, and
presently returned it, yet more astoundingly surcharged with an additional
world of a composition of stony colour and sudorific aspect, which, after
examining in mute attention for some moments, and carefully removing as
well as he was able to the extreme edge of his plate, the earl discovered to
be suet pudding.
“You eat nothing, my lord,” cried the squire; “let me give you—this is
more underdone;” holding between blade and fork in middle air abhorrent
fragment of scarlet, shaking its gory locks,—“another slice.”
Swift at the word dropped upon Mauleverer's plate the harpy finger and
ruthless thumb of the gray-headed butler. “Not a morsel more,” cried the
earl, struggling with the murderous domestic. “My dear sir, excuse me; I
assure you I have never ate such a dinner before,—never!”
“Nay, now!” quoth the squire, expostulating, “you really (and this air is
so keen that your lordship should indulge your appetite, if you follow the
physician's advice) eat nothing!”
Again Mauleverer was at fault.
“The physicians are right, Mr. Brandon,” said he, “very right, and I am
forced to live abstemiously; indeed I do not know whether, if I were to
exceed at your hospitable table, and attack all that you would bestow upon
me, I should ever recover it. You would have to seek a new lieutenant for
your charming county, and on the tomb of the last Mauleverer the
hypocritical and unrelated heir would inscribe, 'Died of the visitation of
Beef, John, Earl, etc.'”
Plain as the meaning of this speech might have seemed to others, the
squire only laughed at the effeminate appetite of the speaker, and inclined to
think him an excellent fellow for jesting so good-humouredly on his own
physical infirmity. But Lucy had the tact of her sex, and, taking pity on the
earl's calamitous situation, though she certainly never guessed at its extent,

entered with so much grace and ease into the conversation which he sought
to establish between them, that Mauleverer's gentleman, who had hitherto
been pushed aside by the zeal of the gray-headed butler, found an
opportunity, when the squire was laughing and the butler staring, to steal
away the overburdened plate unsuspected and unseen.
In spite, however, of these evils of board and lodgement, Mauleverer was
exceedingly well pleased with his visit; nor did he terminate it till the
shades of night had begun to close, and the distance from his own residence
conspired with experience to remind him that it was possible for a
highwayman's audacity to attack the equipage even of Lord Mauleverer. He
then reluctantly re-entered his carriage, and, bidding the postilions drive as
fast as possible, wrapped himself in his roquelaire, and divided his thoughts
between Lucy Brandon and the homard au gratin with which he proposed to
console him self immediately on his return home. However, Fate, which
mocks our most cherished hopes, ordained that on arriving at Mauleverer
Park the owner should be suddenly afflicted with a loss of appetite, a
coldness in the limbs, a pain in the chest, and various other ungracious
symptoms of portending malady. Lord Mauleverer went straight to bed; he
remained there for some days, and when he recovered his physicians
ordered him to Bath. The Whig Methodists, who hated him, ascribed his
illness to Providence; and his lordship was firmly of opinion that it should
be ascribed to the beef and pudding. However this be, there was an end, for
the present, to the hopes of young ladies of forty, and to the intended
festivities at Mauleverer Park.
“Good heavens!” said the earl, as his carriage wheels turned from his
gates, “what a loss to country tradesmen may be occasioned by a piece of
underdone beef, especially if it be boiled!”
About a fortnight had elapsed since Mauleverer's meteoric visit to
Warlock House, when the squire received from his brother the following
epistle:—

MY DEAR JOSEPH,—You know my numerous avocations, and, amid the
press of business which surrounds me, will, I am sure, forgive me
for being a very negligent and remiss correspondent. Nevertheless,
I assure you, no one can more sincerely sympathize in that good
fortune which has befallen my charming niece, and of which your last
letter informed me, than I do. Pray give my best love to her, and
tell her how complacently I look forward to the brilliant sensation
she will create, when her beauty is enthroned upon that rank which,
I am quite sure, it will one day or other command.

You are not aware, perhaps, my dear Joseph, that I have for some
time been in a very weak and declining state of health. The old
nervous complaint in my face has of late attacked me grievously, and
the anguish is sometimes so great that I am scarcely able to bear
it. I believe the great demand which my profession makes upon a
frame of body never strong, and now beginning prematurely to feel
the infirmities of time, is the real cause of my maladies. At last,
however, I must absolutely punish my pocket, and indulge my
inclinations by a short respite from toil. The doctors—sworn
friends, you know, to the lawyers, since they make common cause
against mankind—have peremptorily ordered me to lie by, and to try
a short course of air, exercise, social amusements, and the waters
of Bath. Fortunately this is vacation time, and I can afford to
lose a few weeks of emolument, in order, perhaps, to secure many
years of life. I purpose, then, early next week, repairing to that
melancholy reservoir of the gay, where persons dance out of life and
are fiddled across the Styx. In a word, I shall make one of the
adventurers after health who seek the goddess at King Bladud's pump-
room. Will you and dear Lucy join me there? I ask it of your
friendship, and I am quite sure that neither of you will shrink
aghast at the proposal of solacing your invalid relation. At the
same time that I am recovering health, my pretty niece will be
avenging Pluto, by consigning to his dominions many a better and
younger hero in my stead. And it will be a double pleasure to me to
see all the hearts, etc.—I break off, for what can I say on that
subject which the little coquette does not anticipate? It is high
time that Lucy should see the world; and though there are many—at
Bath, above all places, to whom the heiress will be an object of
interested attentions, yet there are also many in that crowded city
by no means undeserving her notice. What say you, dear Joseph? But
I know already: you will not refuse to keep company with me in my
little holiday; and Lucy's eyes are already sparkling at the idea of
new bonnets, Milsom Street, a thousand adorers, and the pump-room.

Ever, dear Joseph, yours affectionately,

WILLIAM BRANDON.

P. S. I find that my friend Lord Mauleverer is at Bath; I own that
is an additional reason to take me thither; by a letter from him,
received the other day, I see that he has paid you a visit, and he
now raves about his host and the heiress. Ah, Miss Lucy, Miss Lucy!
are you going to conquer him whom all London has, for years more
than I care to tell (yet not many, for Mauleverer is still young),
assailed in vain? Answer me!

This letter created a considerable excitement in Warlock House. The old
squire was extremely fond of his brother, and grieved to the heart to find
that he spoke so discouragingly of his health. Nor did the squire for a
moment hesitate at accepting the proposal to join his distinguished relative
at Bath. Lucy also—who had for her uncle, possibly from his profuse yet
not indelicate flattery, a very great regard and interest, though she had seen
but little of him—urged the squire to lose no time in arranging matters for
their departure, so as to precede the barrister, and prepare everything for his
arrival. The father and daughter being thus agreed, there was little occasion

for delay; an answer to the invalid's letter was sent by return of post, and on
the fourth day from their receipt of the said epistle, the good old squire, his
daughter, a country girl by way of abigail, the gray-headed butler, and two
or three live pets, of the size and habits most convenient for travelling, were
on their way to a city which at that time was gayer at least, if somewhat less
splendid, than the metropolis.
On the second day of their arrival at Bath, Brandon (as in future, to avoid
confusion, we shall call the younger brother, giving to the elder his
patriarchal title of squire) joined them.
He was a man seemingly rather fond of parade, though at heart he
disrelished and despised it. He came to their lodging, which had not been
selected in the very best part of the town, in a carriage and six, but attended
only by one favourite servant.
They found him in better looks and better spirits than they had
anticipated. Few persons, when he liked it, could be more agreeable than
William Brandon; but at times there mixed with his conversation a bitter
sarcasm, probably a habit acquired in his profession, or an occasional tinge
of morose and haughty sadness, possibly the consequence of his ill-health.
Yet his disorder, which was somewhat approaching to that painful affliction
the tic douloureux, though of fits more rare in occurrence than those of that
complaint ordinarily are, never seemed even for an instant to operate upon
his mood, whatever that might be. That disease worked unseen; not a
muscle of his face appeared to quiver; the smile never vanished from his
mouth, the blandness of his voice never grew faint as with pain, and, in the
midst of intense torture, his resolute and stern mind conquered every
external indication; nor could the most observant stranger have noted the
moment when the fit attacked or released him. There was something
inscrutable about the man. You felt that you took his character upon trust,
and not on your own knowledge. The acquaintance of years would have left
you equally dark as to his vices or his virtues. He varied often, yet in each
variation he was equally undiscoverable. Was he performing a series of
parts, or was it the ordinary changes of a man's true temperament that you
beheld in him? Commonly smooth, quiet, attentive, flattering in social
intercourse, he was known in the senate and courts of law for a cold
asperity, and a caustic venom,—scarcely rivalled even in those arenas of
contention. It seemed as if the bitterer feelings he checked in private life, he

delighted to indulge in public. Yet even there he gave not way to
momentary petulance or gushing passion; all seemed with him systematic
sarcasm or habitual sternness. He outraged no form of ceremonial or of
society. He stung, without appearing conscious of the sting; and his
antagonist writhed not more beneath the torture of his satire than the
crushing contempt of his self-command. Cool, ready, armed and defended
on all points, sound in knowledge, unfailing in observation, equally
consummate in sophistry when needed by himself, and instantaneous in
detecting sophistry in another; scorning no art, however painful; begrudging
no labour, however weighty; minute in detail, yet not the less
comprehending the whole subject in a grasp,—such was the legal and
public character William Brandon had established, and such was the fame
he joined to the unsullied purity of his moral reputation. But to his friends
he seemed only the agreeable, clever, lively, and, if we may use the phrase
innocently, the worldly man,—never affecting a superior sanctity, or an
over-anxiety to forms, except upon great occasions; and rendering his
austerity of manners the more admired, because he made it seem so
unaccompanied by hypocrisy.
“Well,” said Brandon, as he sat after dinner alone with his relations, and
had seen the eyes of his brother close in diurnal slumber, “tell me, Miss
Lucy, what you think of Lord Mauleverer; do you find him agreeable?”
“Very; too much so, indeed!”
“Too much so! That is an uncommon fault, Lucy, unless you mean to
insinuate that you find him too agreeable for your peace of mind.”
“Oh, no! there is little fear of that. All that I meant to express was that he
seems to make it the sole business of his life to be agreeable, and that one
imagines he had gained that end by the loss of certain qualities which one
would have liked better.”
“Umph! and what are they?”
“Truth, sincerity, independence, and honesty of mind.”
“My dear Lucy, it has been the professional study of my life to discover a
man's character, especially so far as truth is concerned, in as short a time as
possible; but you excel me in intuition, if you can tell whether there be
sincerity in a courtier's character at the first interview you have with him.”

“Nevertheless, I am sure of my opinion,” said Lucy, laughing; “and I will
tell you one instance I observed among a hundred. Lord Mauleverer is
rather deaf, and he imagined, in conversation, that my father said one thing
—it was upon a very trifling subject, the speech of some member of
parliament [the lawyer smiled],—when in reality he meant to say another.
Lord Mauleverer, in the warmest manner in the world, chimed in with him,
appeared thoroughly of his opinion, applauded his sentiments, and wished
the whole country of his mind. Suddenly my father spoke; Lord Mauleverer
bent down his ear, and found that the sentiments he had so lauded were
exactly those my father the least favoured. No sooner did he make this
discovery than he wheeled round again,—dexterously and gracefully, I
allow; condemned all that he had before extolled, and extolled all that he
had before abused!”
“And is that all, Lucy?” said Brandon, with a keener sneer on his lip than
the occasion warranted. “Why, that is what every one does; only some more
gravely than others. Mauleverer in society, I at the bar, the minister in
parliament, friend to friend, lover to mistress, mistress to lover,—half of us
are employed in saying white is black, and the other half in swearing that
black is white. There is only one difference, my pretty niece, between the
clever man and the fool: the fool says what is false while the colours stare
in his face and give him the lie; but the clever man takes as it were a brush
and literally turns the black into white and the white into black before he
makes the assertion, which is then true. The fool changes, and is a liar; the
clever man makes the colours change, and is a genius. But this is not for
your young years yet, Lucy.”
“But I can't see the necessity of seeming to agree with people,” said
Lucy, simply; “surely they would be just as well pleased if you differed
from them civilly and with respect?”
“No, Lucy,” said Brandon, still sneering; “to be liked, it is not necessary
to be anything but compliant. Lie, cheat, make every word a snare, and
every act a forgery; but never contradict. Agree with people, and they make
a couch for you in their hearts. You know the story of Dante and the
buffoon. Both were entertained at the court of the vain pedant, who called
himself Prince Scaliger,—the former poorly, the latter sumptuously. 'How
comes it,' said the buffoon to the poet, 'that I am so rich and you so poor?' 'I

shall be as rich as you,' was the stinging and true reply, 'whenever I can find
a patron as like myself as Prince Scaliger is like you!'”
“Yet my birds,” said Lucy, caressing the goldfinch, which nestled to her
bosom, “are not like me, and I love them. Nay, I often think I could love
those better who differ from me the most. I feel it so in books,—when, for
instance, I read a novel or a play; and you, uncle, I like almost in proportion
to my perceiving in myself nothing in common with you.”
“Yes,” said Brandon, “you have in common with me a love for old stories
of Sir Hugo and Sir Rupert, and all the other 'Sirs' of our mouldered and
bygone race. So you shall sing me the ballad about Sir John de Brandon,
and the dragon he slew in the Holy Land. We will adjourn to the drawing-
room, not to disturb your father.”
Lucy agreed, took her uncle's arm, repaired to the drawing-room, and
seating herself at the harpsichord, sang to an inspiriting yet somewhat rude
air the family ballad her uncle had demanded.
It would have been amusing to note in the rigid face of the hardened and
habitual man of peace and parchments a certain enthusiasm which ever and
anon crossed his cheek, as the verses of the ballad rested on some allusion
to the knightly House of Brandon and its old renown. It was an early
prejudice, breaking out despite of himself,—a flash of character, stricken
from the hard fossil in which it was imbedded. One would have supposed
that the silliest of all prides (for the pride of money, though meaner, is less
senseless), family pride, was the last weakness which at that time the
callous and astute lawyer would have confessed, even to himself.
“Lucy,” said Brandon, as the song ceased, and he gazed on his beautiful
niece with a certain pride in his aspect, “I long to witness your first
appearance in the world. This lodging, my dear, is not fit—But pardon me!
what I was about to say is this: your father and yourself are here at my
invitation, and in my house you must dwell; you are my guests, not mine
host and hostess. I have therefore already directed my servant to secure me
a house and provide the necessary establishment; and I make no doubt, as
he is a quick fellow, that within three days all will be ready. You must then
be the magnet of my abode, Lucy; and meanwhile you must explain this to
my brother, and—for you know his jealous hospitality—obtain his
acquiescence.”
“But—” began Lucy.

“But me no buts,” said Brandon, quickly, but with an affectionate tone of
wilfulness; “and now, as I feel very much fatigued with my journey, you
must allow me to seek my own room.”
“I will conduct you to it myself,” said Lucy, for she was anxious to show
her father's brother the care and forethought which she had lavished on her
arrangements for his comfort. Brandon followed her into an apartment
which his eye knew at a glance had been subjected to that female
superintendence which makes such uses from what men reject as
insignificant; and he thanked her with more than his usual amenity, for the
grace which had presided over, and the kindness which had dictated her
preparations. As soon as he was left alone, he wheeled his armchair near the
clear, bright fire, and resting his face upon his hand, in the attitude of a man
who prepares himself as it were for the indulgence of meditation, he
muttered,—
“Yes! these women are, first, what Nature makes them, and that is good;
next, what use make them, and that is evil! Now, could I persuade myself
that we ought to be nice as to the use we put these poor puppets to, I should
shrink from enforcing the destiny which I have marked for this girl. But that
is a pitiful consideration, and he is but a silly player who loses his money
for the sake of preserving his counters. So the young lady must go as
another score to the fortunes of William Brandon. After all, who suffers?
Not she. She will have wealth, rank, honour. I shall suffer, to yield so pretty
and pure a gem to the coronet of—Faugh! How I despise that dog; but how
I could hate, crush, mangle him, could I believe that he despised me! Could
he do so? Umph! No, I have resolved myself that is impossible. Well, let me
hope that matrimonial point will be settled; and now let me consider what
next step I shall take for myself,—myself, ay, only myself! With me
perishes the last male of Brandon; but the light shall not go out under a
bushel.”
As he said this, the soliloquist sunk into a more absorbed and silent
revery, from which he was disturbed by the entrance of his servant.
Brandon, who was never a dreamer save when alone, broke at once from his
reflections.
“You have obeyed my orders, Barlow?” said he.
“Yes, sir,” answered the domestic. “I have taken the best house yet
unoccupied; and when Mrs. Roberts [Brandon's housekeeper] arrives from

London, everything will, I trust, be exactly to your wishes.”
“Good! And you gave my note to Lord Mauleverer?”
“With my own hands, sir; his lordship will await you at home all to-
morrow.”
“Very well! and now, Barlow, see that your room is within call [bells,
though known, were not common at that day], and give out that I am gone
to bed, and must not be disturbed. What's the hour?”
“Just on the stroke of ten, sir.”
“Place on that table my letter-case and the inkstand. Look in, to help me
to undress, at half-past one; I shall go to bed at that hour. And—stay—be
sure, Barlow, that my brother believes me retired for the night. He does not
know my habits, and will vex himself if he thinks I sit up so late in my
present state of health.”
Drawing the table with its writing appurtenances near to his master, the
servant left Brandon once more to his thoughts or his occupations.

CHAPTER XIV.
Servant. Get away, I say, wid dat nasty bell.

Punch. Do you call this a bell? (patting it.) It is an
organ.

Servant. I say it is a bell,—a nasty bell!

Punch. I say it is an organ (striking him with it). What do
you say it is now?

Servant. An organ, Mr. Punch!

The Tragical Comedy of Punch and Judy.

The next morning, before Lucy and her father had left their apartments,
Brandon, who was a remarkably early riser, had disturbed the luxurious
Mauleverer in his first slumber. Although the courtier possessed a villa
some miles from Bath, he preferred a lodging in the town, both as being
warmer than a rarely inhabited country-house, and as being to an indolent
man more immediately convenient for the gayeties and the waters of the
medicinal city. As soon as the earl had rubbed his eyes, stretched himself,
and prepared himself for the untimeous colloquy, Brandon poured forth his
excuses for the hour he had chosen for a visit. “Mention it not, my dear
Brandon,” said the good-natured nobleman, with a sigh; “I am glad at any
hour to see you, and I am very sure that what you have to communicate is
always worth listening to.”
“It was only upon public business, though of rather a more important
description than usual, that I ventured to disturb you,” answered Brandon,
seating himself on a chair by the bedside. “This morning, an hour ago, I
received by private express a letter from London, stating that a new
arrangement will positively be made in the Cabinet,—nay, naming the very
promotions and changes. I confess that as my name occurred, as also your
own, in these nominations, I was anxious to have the benefit of your
necessarily accurate knowledge on the subject, as well as of your advice.”
“Really, Brandon,” said Mauleverer, with a half-peevish smile, “any
other hour in the day would have done for 'the business of the nation,' as the
newspapers call that troublesome farce we go through; and I had imagined

you would not have broken my nightly slumbers except for something of
real importance,—the discovery of a new beauty or the invention of a new
dish.”
“Neither the one nor the other could you have expected from me, my
dear lord,” rejoined Brandon. “You know the dry trifles in which a lawyer's
life wastes itself away; and beauties and dishes have no attraction for us,
except the former be damsels deserted, and the latter patents invaded. But
my news, after all, is worth hearing, unless you have heard it before.”
“Not I! but I suppose I shall hear it in the course of the day. Pray Heaven
I be not sent for to attend some plague of a council. Begin!”
“In the first place Lord Duberly resolves to resign, unless this negotiation
for peace be made a Cabinet question.”
“Pshaw! let him resign. I have opposed the peace so long that it is out of
the question. Of course, Lord Wansted will not think of it, and he may count
on my boroughs. A peace!—shameful, disgraceful, dastardly proposition!”
“But, my dear lord, my letter says that this unexpected firmness on the
part of Lord Daberly has produced so great a sensation that, seeing the
impossibility of forming a durable Cabinet without him, the king has
consented to the negotiation, and Duberly stays in!”
“The devil!—what next?”
“Raffden and Sternhold go out in favour of Baldwin and Charlton, and in
the hope that you will lend your aid to—”
“I!” said Lord Mauleverer, very angrily,—“I lend my aid to Baldwin, the
Jacobin, and Charlton, the son of a brewer!”
“Very true!” continued Brandon. “But in the hope that you might be
persuaded to regard the new arrangements with an indulgent eye, you are
talked of instead of the Duke of for the vacant garter and the office of
chamberlain.”
“You don't mean it!” cried Mauleverer, starting from his bed.
“A few other (but, I hear, chiefly legal) promotions are to be made.
Among the rest, my learned brother, the democrat Sarsden, is to have a silk
gown; Cromwell is to be attorney-general; and, between ourselves, they
have offered me a judgeship.”

“But the garter!” said Mauleverer, scarcely hearing the rest of the
lawyer's news,—“the whole object, aim, and ambition of my life. How truly
kind in the king! After all,” continued the earl, laughing, and throwing
himself back, “opinions are variable, truth is not uniform. The times
change, not we; and we must have peace instead of war!”
“Your maxims are indisputable, and the conclusion you come to is
excellent,” said Brandon.
“Why, you and I, my dear fellow,” said the earl, “who know men, and
who have lived all our lives in the world, must laugh behind the scenes at
the cant we wrap in tinsel, and send out to stalk across the stage. We know
that our Coriolanus of Tory integrity is a corporal kept by a prostitute, and
the Brutus of Whig liberty is a lacquey turned out of place for stealing the
spoons; but we must not tell this to the world. So, Brandon, you must write
me a speech for the next session, and be sure it has plenty of general
maxims, and concludes with 'my bleeding country!'”
The lawyer smiled. “You consent then to the expulsion of Sternhold and
Raffden? for, after all, that is the question. Our British vessel, as the d—-d
metaphor-mongers call the State, carries the public good safe in the hold
like brandy; and it is only when fear, storm, or the devil makes the rogues
quarrel among themselves and break up the casks, that one gets above a
thimbleful at a time. We should go on fighting with the rest of the world
forever, if the ministers had not taken to fight among themselves.”
“As for Sternhold,” said the earl, “'t is a vulgar dog, and voted for
economical reform. Besides, I don't know him; he may go to the devil, for
aught I care; but Raffden must be dealt handsomely with, or, despite the
garter, I will fall back among the Whigs, who, after all, give tolerable
dinners.”
“But why, my lord, must Raffden be treated better than his brother
recusant?”
“Because he sent me, in the handsomest manner possible, a pipe of that
wonderful Madeira, which you know I consider the chief grace of my
cellars, and he gave up a canal navigation bill, which would have enriched
his whole county, when he knew that it would injure my property. No,
Brandon, curse public cant! we know what that is. But we are gentlemen,
and our private friends must not be thrown overboard,—unless, at least, we
do it in the civilest manner we can.”

“Fear not,” said the lawyer; “you have only to say the word, and the
Cabinet can cook up an embassy to Owhyhee, and send Raffden there with
a stipend of five thousand a year.”
“Ah! that's well thought of; or we might give him a grant of a hundred
thousand acres in one of the colonies, or let him buy crown land at a
discount of eighty per cent. So that's settled.”
“And now, my dear friend,” said Brandon, “I will tell you frankly why I
come so early; I am required to give a hasty answer to the proposal I have
received, namely, of the judgeship. Your opinion?”
“A judgeship! you a judge? What! forsake your brilliant career for so
petty a dignity? You jest!”
“Not at all. Listen. You know how bitterly I have opposed this peace, and
what hot enemies I have made among the new friends of the administration.
On the one hand, these enemies insist on sacrificing me; and on the other, if
I were to stay in the Lower House and speak for what I have before
opposed, I should forfeit the support of a great portion of my own party.
Hated by one body, and mistrusted by the other, a seat in the House of
Commons ceases to be an object. It is proposed that I should retire on the
dignity of a judge, with the positive and pledged though secret promise of
the first vacancy among the chiefs. The place of chief-justice or chief-baron
is indeed the only fair remuneration for my surrender of the gains of my
profession, and the abandonment of my parliamentary and legal career; the
title, which will of course be attached to it, might go (at least, by an
exertion of interest) to the eldest son of my niece,—in case she married a
commoner,—or,” added he, after a pause, “her second son in case she
married a peer.”
“Ha, true!” said Mauleverer, quickly, and as if struck by some sudden
thought; “and your charming niece, Brandon, would be worthy of any
honour, either to her children or herself. You do not know how struck I was
with her. There is something so graceful in her simplicity; and in her
manner of smoothing down the little rugosities of Warlock House there was
so genuine and so easy a dignity that I declare I almost thought myself
young again, and capable of the self-cheat of believing myself in love. But,
oh! Brandon, imagine me at your brother's board,—me, for whom ortolans
are too substantial, and who feel, when I tread, the slightest inequality in the
carpets of Tournay,—imagine me, dear Brandon, in a black wainscot room,

hung round with your ancestors in brown wigs with posies in their button-
hole; an immense fire on one side, and a thorough draught on the other; a
huge circle of beef before me, smoking like Vesuvius, and twice as large; a
plateful (the plate was pewter,—is there not a metal so called?) of this
mingled flame and lava sent under my very nostril, and upon pain of ill-
breeding to be despatched down my proper mouth; an old gentleman in
fustian breeches and worsted stockings, by way of a butler, filling me a can
of ale, and your worthy brother asking me if I would not prefer port; a lean
footman in livery,—such a livery, ye gods!—scarlet, blue, yellow, and
green, a rainbow ill made!—on the opposite side of the table, looking at the
'Lord' with eyes and mouth equally open, and large enough to swallow me;
and your excellent brother himself at the head of the table glowing through
the mists of the beef, like the rising sun in a signpost; and then, Brandon,
turning from this image, behold beside me the fair, delicate, aristocratic, yet
simple loveliness of your niece, and—But you look angry; I have offended
you?”
It was high time for Mauleverer to ask that question, for during the whole
of the earl's recital the dark face of his companion had literally burned with
rage; and here we may observe how generally selfishness, which makes the
man of the world, prevents its possessor, by a sort of paradox, from being
consummately so. For Mauleverer, occupied by the pleasure he felt at his
own wit, and never having that magic sympathy with others which creates
the incessantly keen observer, had not for a moment thought that he was
offending to the quick the hidden pride of the lawyer. Nay, so little did he
suspect Brandon's real weaknesses that he thought him a philosopher who
would have laughed alike at principles and people, however near to him
might be the latter, and however important the former. Mastering by a
single effort, which restored his cheek to its usual steady hue, the outward
signs of his displeasure, Brandon rejoined,—
“Offend me! By no means, my dear lord. I do not wonder at your painful
situation in an old country-gentleman's house, which has not for centuries
offered scenes fit for the presence of so distinguished a guest,—never, I
may say, since the time when Sir Charles de Brandon entertained Elizabeth
at Warlock, and your ancestor (you know my old musty studies on those
points of obscure antiquity), John Mauleverer, who was a noted goldsmith
of London, supplied the plate for the occasion.”

“Fairly retorted,” said Mauleverer, smiling; for though the earl had a
great contempt for low birth set on high places in other men, he was utterly
void of pride in his own family,—“fairly retorted! But I never meant
anything else but a laugh at your brother's housekeeping,—a joke surely
permitted to a man whose own fastidiousness on these matters is so
standing a jest. But, by heavens, Brandon! to turn from these subjects, your
niece is the prettiest girl I have seen for twenty years; and if she would
forget my being the descendant of John Mauleverer, the noted goldsmith of
London, she may be Lady Mauleverer as soon as she pleases.”
“Nay, now, let us be serious, and talk of the judgeship,” said Brandon,
affecting to treat the proposal as a joke.
“By the soul of Sir Charles de Brandon, I am serious!” cried the earl;
“and as a proof of it, I hope you will let me pay my respects to your niece
to-day,—not with my offer in my hand yet, for it must be a love match on
both sides.” And the earl, glancing towards an opposite glass, which
reflected his attenuated but comely features beneath his velvet nightcap
trimmed with Mechlin, laughed half-triumphantly as he spoke.
A sneer just passed the lips of Brandon, and as instantly vanished, while
Mauleverer continued,—
“And as for the judgeship, dear Brandon, I advise you to accept it, though
you know best; and I do think no man will stand a fairer chance of the
chief-justiceship,—or, though it be somewhat unusual for 'common'
lawyers, why not the woolsack itself? As you say, the second son of your
niece might inherit the dignity of a peerage!”
“Well, I will consider of it favourably,” said Brandon; and soon
afterwards he left the nobleman to renew his broken repose.
“I can't laugh at that man,” said Mauleverer to himself, as he turned
round in his bed, “though he has much that I should laugh at in another;
and, faith, there is one little matter I might well scorn him for, if I were not
a philosopher. 'T is a pretty girl, his niece, and with proper instructions
might do one credit; besides, she has L60,000 ready money; and, faith, I
have not a shilling for my own pleasure, though I have—or alas! had—fifty
thousand a year for that of my establishment! In all probability she will be
the lawyer's heiress, and he must have made at least as much again as her
portion; nor is he, poor devil, a very good life. Moreover, if he rise to the

peerage? and the second son—Well! well! it will not be such a bad match
for the goldsmith's descendant either!”
With that thought, Lord Mauleverer fell asleep. He rose about noon,
dressed himself with unusual pains, and was just going forth on a visit to
Miss Brandon, when he suddenly remembered that her uncle had not
mentioned her address or his own. He referred to the lawyer's note of the
preceding evening; no direction was inscribed on it; and Mauleverer was
forced, with much chagrin, to forego for that day the pleasure he had
promised himself.
In truth, the wary lawyer, who, as we have said, despised show and
outward appearances as much as any man, was yet sensible of their effect
even in the eyes of a lover; and moreover, Lord Mauleverer was one whose
habits of life were calculated to arouse a certain degree of vigilance on
points of household pomp even in the most unobservant. Brandon therefore
resolved that Lucy should not be visited by her admirer till the removal to
their new abode was effected; nor was it till the third day from that on
which Mauleverer had held with Brandon the interview we have recorded,
that the earl received a note from Brandon, seemingly turning only on
political matters, but inscribed with the address and direction in full form.
Mauleverer answered it in person. He found Lucy at home, and more
beautiful than ever; and from that day his mind was made up, as the
mammas say, and his visits became constant.

CHAPTER XV.
There is a festival where knights and dames,
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims,
Appear.

'T is he,—how came he thence?
What doth he here?
Lara.

There are two charming situations in life for a woman,—one, the first
freshness of heiressship and beauty; the other, youthful widowhood, with a
large jointure. It was at least Lucy's fortune to enjoy the first. No sooner
was she fairly launched into the gay world than she became the object of
universal idolatry. Crowds followed her wherever she moved nothing was
talked of or dreamed of, toasted or betted on, but Lucy Brandon; even her
simplicity, and utter ignorance of the arts of fine life, enhanced the eclat of
her reputation. Somehow or other, young people of the gentler sex are
rarely ill-bred, even in their eccentricities; and there is often a great deal of
grace in inexperience. Her uncle, who accompanied her everywhere,
himself no slight magnet of attraction, viewed her success with a
complacent triumph which he suffered no one but her father or herself to
detect. To the smooth coolness of his manner, nothing would have seemed
more foreign than pride at the notice gained by a beauty, or exultation at
any favour won from the caprices of fashion. As for the good old squire,
one would have imagined him far more the invalid than his brother. He was
scarcely ever seen; for though he went everywhere, he was one of those
persons who sink into a corner the moment they enter a room. Whoever
discovered him in his retreat, held out their hands, and exclaimed, “God
bless me! you here! We have not seen you for this age!” Now and then, if in
a very dark niche of the room a card-table had been placed, the worthy
gentleman toiled through an obscure rubber; but more frequently he sat with
his hands clasped and his mouth open, counting the number of candles in
the room, or calculating “when that stupid music would be over.”
Lord Mauleverer, though a polished and courteous man, whose great
object was necessarily to ingratiate himself with the father of his intended
bride, had a horror of being bored, which surpassed all other feelings in his

mind. He could not therefore persuade himself to submit to the melancholy
duty of listening to the squire's “linked speeches long drawn out.” He
always glided by the honest man's station, seemingly in an exceeding hurry,
with a “Ah, my dear sir, how do you do? How delighted I am to see you!
And your incomparable daughter? Oh, there she is! Pardon me, dear sir,—
you see my attraction.”
Lucy, indeed, who never forgot any one (except herself occasionally),
sought her father's retreat as often as she was able; but her engagements
were so incessant that she no sooner lost one partner than she was claimed
and carried off by another. However, the squire bore his solitude with
tolerable cheerfulness, and always declared that “he was very well amused;
although balls and concerts were necessarily a little dull to one who came
from a fine old place like Warlock Manor-house, and it was not the same
thing that pleased young ladies (for, to them, that fiddling and giggling till
two o'clock in the morning might be a very pretty way of killing time) and
their papas!”
What considerably added to Lucy's celebrity was the marked notice and
admiration of a man so high in rank and ton as Lord Mauleverer. That
personage, who still retained much of a youthful mind and temper, and who
was in his nature more careless than haughty, preserved little or no state in
his intercourse with the social revellers at Bath. He cared not whither he
went, so that he was in the train of the young beauty; and the most
fastidious nobleman of the English court was seen in every second and third
rate set of a great watering-place,—the attendant, the flirt, and often the
ridicule of the daughter of an obscure and almost insignificant country
squire. Despite the honour of so distinguished a lover, and despite all the
novelties of her situation, the pretty head of Lucy Brandon was as yet,
however, perfectly unturned; and as for her heart, the only impression that it
had ever received was made by that wandering guest of the village rector,
whom she had never again seen, but who yet clung to her imagination,
invested not only with all the graces which in right of a singularly
handsome person he possessed, but with those to which he never could
advance a claim,—more dangerous to her peace, for the very circumstance
of their origin in her fancy, not his merits.
They had now been some little time at Bath, and Brandon's brief respite
was pretty nearly expired, when a public ball of uncommon and manifold

attraction was announced. It was to be graced not only by the presence of
all the surrounding families, but also by that of royalty itself; it being an
acknowledged fact that people dance much better and eat much more
supper when any relation to a king is present.
“I must stay for this ball, Lucy,” said Brandon, who, after spending the
day with Lord Mauleverer, returned home in a mood more than usually
cheerful,—“I must stay for this one ball, Lucy, and witness your complete
triumph, even though it will be necessary to leave you the very next
morning.”
“So soon!” cried Lucy.
“So soon!” echoed the uncle, with a smile. “How good you are to speak
thus to an old valetudinarian, whose company must have fatigued you to
death! Nay, no pretty denials! But the great object of my visit to this place
is accomplished: I have seen you, I have witnessed your debut in the great
world, with, I may say, more than a father's exultation, and I go back to my
dry pursuits with the satisfaction of thinking our old and withered
genealogical tree has put forth one blossom worthy of its freshest day.”
“Uncle!” said Lucy, reprovingly, and holding up her taper finger with an
arch smile, mingling with a blush, in which the woman's vanity spoke,
unknown to herself.
“And why that look, Lucy?” said Brandon.
“Because—because—well, no matter! you have been bred to that trade in
which, as you say yourself, men tell untruths for others till they lose all
truth for themselves. But let us talk of you, not me; are you really well
enough to leave us?”
Simple and even cool as the words of Lucy's question, when written,
appear, in her mouth they took so tender, so anxious a tone, that Brandon,
who had no friend nor wife nor child, nor any one in his household in
whom interest in his health or welfare was a thing of course, and who was
consequently wholly unaccustomed to the accent of kindness, felt himself
of a sudden touched and stricken.
“Why, indeed, Lucy,” said he, in a less artificial voice than that in which
he usually spoke, “I should like still to profit by your cares, and forget my
infirmities and pains in your society; but I cannot: the tide of events, like
that of nature, waits not our pleasure!”

“But we may take our own time for setting sail!” said Lucy.
“Ay, this comes of talking in metaphor,” rejoined Brandon, smiling; “they
who begin it always get the worst of it. In plain words, dear Lucy, I can give
no more time to my own ailments. A lawyer cannot play truant in term-time
without—”
“Losing a few guineas!” said Lucy, interrupting him.
“Worse than that,—his practice and his name.”
“Better those than health and peace of mind.”
“Out on you, no!” said Brandon, quickly, and almost fiercely. “We waste
all the greenness and pith of our life in striving to gain a distinguished
slavery; and when it is gained, we must not think that an humble
independence would have been better. If we ever admit that thought, what
fools, what lavish fools, we have been! No!” continued Brandon, after a
momentary pause, and in a tone milder and gayer, though not less
characteristic of the man's stubbornness of will, “after losing all youth's
enjoyments and manhood's leisure, in order that in age the mind, the all-
conquering mind, should break its way at last into the applauding opinions
of men, I should be an effeminate idler indeed, did I suffer, so long as its
jarring parts hold together, or so long as I have the power to command its
members, this weak body to frustrate the labour of its better and nobler
portion, and command that which it is ordained to serve.”
Lucy knew not while she listened, half in fear, half in admiration, to her
singular relation, that at the very moment he thus spoke, his disease was
preying upon him in one of its most relentless moods, without the power of
wringing from him a single outward token of his torture. But she wanted
nothing to increase her pity and affection for a man who in consequence,
perhaps, of his ordinary surface of worldly and cold properties of
temperament never failed to leave an indelible impression on all who had
ever seen that temperament broken through by deeper though often by more
evil feelings.
“Shall you go to Lady————'s rout?” asked Brandon, easily sliding
back into common topics. “Lord Mauleverer requested me to ask you.”
“That depends on you and my father.”
“If on me, I answer yes,” said Brandon. “I like hearing Mauleverer,
especially among persons who do not understand him. There is a refined

and subtle sarcasm running through the commonplaces of his conversation,
which cuts the good fools, like the invisible sword in the fable, that lopped
off heads without occasioning the owners any other sensation than a
pleasing and self-complacent titillation. How immeasurably superior he is
in manner and address to all we meet here! Does it not strike you?”
“Yes—no—I can't say that it does exactly,” rejoined Lucy.
“Is that confusion tender?” thought Brandon.
“In a word,” continued Lucy, “Lord Mauleverer is one whom I think
pleasing without fascination, and amusing without brilliancy. He is
evidently accomplished in mind and graceful in manner, and withal the
most uninteresting person I ever met.”
“Women have not often thought so,” said Brandon. “I cannot believe that
they can think otherwise.”
A certain expression, partaking of scorn, played over Brandon's hard
features. It was a noticeable trait in him, that while he was most anxious to
impress Lucy with a favourable opinion of Lord Mauleverer, he was never
quite able to mask a certain satisfaction at any jest at the earl's expense, or
any opinion derogatory to his general character for pleasing the opposite
sex; and this satisfaction was no sooner conceived than it was immediately
combated by the vexation he felt that Lucy did not seem to share his own
desire that she should become the wife of the courtier. There appeared as if
in that respect there was a contest in his mind between interest on one hand
and private dislike or contempt on the other.
“You judge women wrongly!” said Brandon. “Ladies never know each
other; of all persons, Mauleverer is best calculated to win them, and
experience has proved my assertion. The proudest lot I know for a woman
would be the thorough conquest of Lord Mauleverer; but it is impossible.
He may be gallant, but he will never be subdued. He defies the whole
female world, and with justice and impunity. Enough of him. Sing to me,
dear Lucy.”
The time for the ball approached; and Lucy, who was a charming girl and
had nothing of the angel about her, was sufficiently fond of gayety, dancing,
music, and admiration to feel her heart beat high at the expectation of the
event.

At last the day itself came. Brandon dined alone with Mauleverer, having
made the arrangement that he, with the earl, was to join his brother and
niece at the ball. Mauleverer, who hated state, except on great occasions,
when no man displayed it with a better grace, never suffered his servants to
wait at dinner when he was alone or with one of his peculiar friends. The
attendants remained without, and were summoned at will by a bell laid
beside the host.
The conversation was unrestrained.
“I am perfectly certain, Brandon,” said Mauleverer, “that if you were to
live tolerably well, you would soon get the better of your nervous
complaints. It is all poverty of blood, believe me. Some more of the fins,
eh?—No! Oh, hang your abstemiousness; it is d——d unfriendly to eat so
little! Talking of fins and friends, Heaven defend me from ever again
forming an intimacy with a pedantic epicure, especially if he puns!”
“Why, what has a pedant to do with fins?”
“I will tell you,—ah, this madeira—I suggested to Lord Dareville, who
affects the gourmand, what a capital thing a dish all fins (turbot's fins)
might be made. 'Capital!' said he, in a rapture; 'dine on it with me to-
morrow.' 'Volontiers!' said I. The next day, after indulging in a pleasing
revery all the morning as to the manner in which Dareville's cook, who is
not without genius, would accomplish the grand idea, I betook myself
punctually to my engagement. Would you believe it? When the cover was
removed, the sacrilegious dog of an Amphitryon had put into the dish
Cicero's 'De Finibus.' 'There is a work all fins!' said he. “Atrocious jest!”
exclaimed Brandon, solemnly.
“Was it not? Whenever the gastronomists set up a religious inquisition, I
trust they will roast every impious rascal who treats the divine mystery with
levity. Pun upon cooking, indeed! A propos of Dareville, he is to come into
the administration.”
“You astonish me!” said Brandon. “I never heard that; I don't know him.
He has very little power; has he any talent?”
“Yes, a very great one,—acquired, though.”
“What is it?”
“A pretty wife!”
“My lord!” exclaimed Brandon, abruptly, and half rising from his seat.

Mauleverer looked up hastily, and on seeing the expression of his
companion's face coloured deeply; there was a silence for some moments.
“Tell me,” said Brandon, indifferently, helping himself to vegetables, for
he seldom touched meat; and a more amusing contrast can scarcely be
conceived than that between the earnest epicurism of Mauleverer and the
careless contempt of the sublime art manifested by his guest,—“tell me, you
who necessarily know everything, whether the government really is settled,
—whether you are to have the garter, and I (mark the difference!) the
judgeship.”
“Why so, I imagine, it will be arranged; namely, if you will consent to
hang up the rogues instead of living by the fools!”
“One may unite both!” returned Brandon. “But I believe, in general, it is
vice versa; for we live by the rogues, and it is only the fools we are able to
hang up. You ask me if I will take the judgeship. I would not—no, I would
rather cut my hand off,” and the lawyer spoke with great bitterness,
“forsake my present career, despite all the obstacles that now encumber it,
did I think that this miserable body would suffer me for two years longer to
pursue it.”
“You shock me!” said Mauleverer, a little affected, but nevertheless
applying the cayenne to his cucumber with his usual unerring nicety of tact,
—“you shock me; but you are considerably better than you were.”
“It is not,” continued Brandon, who was rather speaking to himself than
to his friend,—“it is not that I am unable to conquer the pain and to master
the recreant nerves; but I feel myself growing weaker and weaker beneath
the continual exertion of my remaining powers, and I shall die before I have
gained half my objects, if I do not leave the labours which are literally
tearing me to pieces.”
“But,” said Lord Mauleverer, who was the idlest of men, “the judgeship
is not an easy sinecure.”
“No; but there is less demand on the mind in that station than in my
present one;” and Brandon paused before he continued. “Candidly,
Mauleverer, you do not think they will deceive me,—you do not think they
mean to leave me to this political death without writing 'Resurgam' over the
hatchment?”
“They dare not!” said Mauleverer, quaffing his fourth glass of madeira.

“Well, I have decided on my change of life,” said the lawyer, with a
slight sigh.
“So have I on my change of opinion,” chimed in the earl. “I will tell you
what opinions seem to me like.”
“What?” said Brandon, abstractedly.
“Trees!” answered Mauleverer, quaintly. “If they can be made
serviceable by standing, don't part with a stick; but when they are of that
growth that sells well, or whenever they shut out a fine prospect, cut them
down, and pack them off by all manner of means!—And now for the second
course.”
“I wonder,” said the earl, when our political worthies were again alone,
“whether there ever existed a minister who cared three straws for the
people; many care for their party, but as for the country—”
“It is all fiddlestick!” added the lawyer, with more significance than
grace.
“Right; it is all fiddlestick, as you tersely express it. King, Constitution,
and Church, forever! which, being interpreted, means, first, King or Crown
influence, judgeships, and garters; secondly, Constitution, or fees to the
lawyer, places to the statesman, laws for the rich, and Game Laws for the
poor; thirdly, Church, or livings for our younger sons, and starvings for
their curates!”
“Ha, ha!” said Brandon, laughing sardonically; “we know human
nature!”
“And how it may be gulled!” quoth the courtier. “Here's a health to your
niece; and may it not be long before you hail her as your friend's bride!”
“Bride, et cetera,” said Brandon, with a sneer meant only for his own
satisfaction. “But mark me, my dear lord, do not be too sure of her. She is a
singular girl, and of more independence than the generality of women. She
will not think of your rank and station in estimating you; she will think only
of their owner; and pardon me if I suggest to you, who know the sex so
well, one plan that it may not be unadvisable for you to pursue. Don't let her
fancy you entirely hers; rouse her jealousy, pique her pride, let her think
you unconquerable, and unless she is unlike all women, she will want to
conquer you.”
The earl smiled. “I must take my chance!” said he, with a confident tone.

“The hoary coxcomb!” muttered Brandon, between his teeth; “now will
his folly spoil all.”
“And that reminds me,” continued Mauleverer, “that time wanes, and
dinner is not over; let us not hurry, but let us be silent, to enjoy the more.
These truffles in champagne,—do taste them; they would raise the dead.”
The lawyer smiled, and accepted the kindness, though he left the delicacy
untouched; and Mauleverer, whose soul was in his plate, saw not the
heartless rejection.
Meanwhile the youthful beauty had already entered the theatre of
pleasure, and was now seated with the squire at the upper end of the half-
filled ball-room.
A gay lady of the fashion at that time, and of that half and half rank to
which belonged the aristocracy of Bath,—one of those curious persons we
meet with in the admirable novels of Miss Burney, as appertaining to the
order of fine ladies,—made the trio with our heiress and her father, and
pointed out to them by name the various characters that entered the
apartments. She was still in the full tide of scandal, when an unusual
sensation was visible in the environs of the door; three strangers of marked
mien, gay dress, and an air which, though differing in each, was in all alike
remarkable for a sort of “dashing” assurance, made their entree. One was of
uncommon height, and possessed of an exceedingly fine head of hair;
another was of a more quiet and unpretending aspect, but nevertheless he
wore upon his face a supercilious yet not ill-humoured expression; the third
was many years younger than his companions, strikingly handsome in face
and figure, altogether of a better taste in dress, and possessing a manner
that, though it had equal ease, was not equally noticeable for impudence
and swagger.
“Who can those be?” said Lucy's female friend, in a wondering tone. “I
never saw them before,—they must be great people,—they have all the airs
of persons of quality! Dear, how odd that I should not know them!”
While the good lady, who, like all good ladies of that stamp, thought
people of quality had airs, was thus lamenting her ignorance of the new-
comers, a general whisper of a similar import was already circulating round
the room, “Who are they?” and the universal answer was, “Can't tell,—
never saw them before!”

Our strangers seemed by no means displeased with the evident and
immediate impression they had made. They stood in the most conspicuous
part of the room, enjoying among themselves a low conversation,
frequently broken by fits of laughter,—tokens, we need not add, of their
supereminently good breeding. The handsome figure of the youngest
stranger, and the simple and seemingly unconscious grace of his attitudes
were not, however, unworthy of the admiration he excited; and even his
laughter, rude as it really was, displayed so dazzling a set of teeth, and was
accompanied by such brilliant eyes, that before he had been ten minutes in
the room there was scarcely a young lady under thirty-nine not disposed to
fall in love with him.
Apparently heedless of the various remarks which reached their ears, our
strangers, after they had from their station sufficiently surveyed the beauties
of the ball, strolled arm-in-arm through the rooms. Having sauntered
through the ball and card rooms, they passed the door that led to the
entrance passage, and gazed, with other loiterers, upon the new-comers
ascending the stairs. Here the two younger strangers renewed their
whispered conversation, while the eldest, who was also the tallest one,
carelessly leaning against the wall, employed himself for a few moments in
thrusting his fingers through his hair. In finishing this occupation, the
peculiar state of his rules forced itself upon the observation of our
gentleman, who, after gazing for some moments on an envious rent in the
right ruffle, muttered some indistinct words, like “the cock of that
confounded pistol,” and then tucked up the mutilated ornament with a
peculiarly nimble motion of the fingers of his left hand; the next moment,
diverted by a new care, the stranger applied his digital members to the
arranging and caressing of a remarkably splendid brooch, set in the bosom
of a shirt the rude texture of which formed a singular contrast with the
magnificence of the embellishment and the fineness of the one ruffle
suffered by our modern Hyperion to make its appearance beneath his
cinnamon-coloured coatsleeve. These little personal arrangements
completed, and a dazzling snuff-box released from the confinement of a
side-pocket, tapped thrice, and lightened of two pinches of its titillating
luxury, the stranger now, with the guardian eye of friendship, directed a
searching glance to the dress of his friends. There all appeared meet for his
strictest scrutiny, save, indeed, that the supercilious-looking stranger having
just drawn forth his gloves, the lining of his coat-pocket which was rather

soiled into the bargain—had not returned to its internal station; the tall
stranger, seeing this little inelegance, kindly thrust three fingers with a
sudden and light dive into his friend's pocket, and effectually repulsed the
forwardness of the intrusive lining. The supercilious stranger no sooner felt
the touch than he started back, and whispered to his officious companion,—
“What! among friends, Ned! Fie now; curb the nature of thee for one
night at least.”
Before he of the flowing locks had time to answer, the master of the
ceremonies, who had for the last three minutes been eying the strangers
through his glass, stepped forward with a sliding bow; and the handsome
gentleman, taking upon himself the superiority and precedence over his
comrades, was the first to return the courtesy. He did this with so good a
grace and so pleasing an expression of countenance that the censor of bows
was charmed at once, and with a second and more profound salutation
announced himself and his office. “You would like to dance probably,
gentlemen?” he asked, glancing at each, but directing his words to the one
who had prepossessed him.
“You are very good,” said the comely stranger; “and, for my part, I shall
be extremely indebted to you for the exercise of your powers in my behalf.
Allow me to return with you to the ball-room, and I can there point out to
you the objects of my especial admiration.”
The master of the ceremonies bowed as before, and he and his new
acquaintance strolled into the ball-room, followed by the two comrades of
the latter.
“Have you been long in Bath, sir?” inquired the monarch of the rooms.
“No, indeed! we only arrived this evening.”
“From London?”
“No; we made a little tour across the country.”
“Ah! very pleasant, this fine weather.”
“Yes; especially in the evenings.”
“Oho! romantic!” thought the man of balls, as he rejoined aloud, “Why,
the nights are agreeable, and the moon is particularly favourable to us.”
“Not always!” quoth the stranger.

“True, true, the night before last was dark; but, in general, surely the
moon has been very bright.”
The stranger was about to answer, but checked himself, and simply
bowed his head as in assent.
“I wonder who they are!” thought the master of the ceremonies. “Pray,
sir,” said he, in a low tone, “is that gentle man, that tall gentleman, any way
related to Lord —————? I cannot but think I see a family likeness.”
“Not in the least related to his lordship,” answered the stranger; “but he is
of a family that have made a noise in the world; though he, as well as my
other friend, is merely a commoner!” laying a stress on the last word.
“Nothing, sir, can be more respectable than a commoner of family,”
returned the polite Mr. ———-, with a bow.
“I agree with you, sir,” answered the stranger, with another. “But,
heavens!”—and the stranger started; for at that moment his eye caught for
the first time, at the far end of the room, the youthful and brilliant
countenance of Lucy Brandon,—“do I see rightly, or is that Miss Brandon?”
“It is indeed that lovely young lady,” said Mr. ———-. “I congratulate
you on knowing one so admired. I suppose that you, being blessed with her
acquaintance, do not need the formality of my introduction?”
“Umph!” said the stranger, rather shortly and uncourteously. “No!
Perhaps you had better present me!”
“By what name shall I have that honour, sir?” discreetly inquired the
nomenclator.
“Clifford!” answered the stranger; “Captain Clifford!” Upon this the prim
master of the ceremonies, threading his path through the now fast-filling
room, approached towards Lucy to obey Mr. Clifford's request. Meanwhile
that gentleman, before he followed the steps of the tutelary spirit of the
place, paused and said to his friends, in a tone careless yet not without
command, “Hark ye, gentlemen; oblige me by being as civil and silent as ye
are able; and don't thrust yourselves upon me, as you are accustomed to do,
whenever you see no opportunity of indulging me with that honour with the
least show of propriety!” So saying, and waiting no reply, Mr. Clifford
hastened after the master of the ceremonies.
“Our friend grows mighty imperious!” said Long Ned, whom our readers
have already recognized in the tall stranger.

“'T is the way with your rising geniuses,” answered the moralizing
Augustus Tomlinson. “Suppose we go to the cardroom and get up a
rubber!”
“Well thought of,” said Ned, yawning,—a thing he was very apt to do in
society; “and I wish nothing worse to those who try our rubbers than that
they may be well cleaned by them.” Upon this witticism the Colossus of
Roads, glancing towards the glass, strutted off, arm-in-arm with his
companion, to the card-room.
During this short conversation the re-introduction of Mr. Clifford (the
stranger of the Rectory and deliverer of Dr. Slopperton) to Lucy Brandon
had been effected, and the hand of the heiress was already engaged,
according to the custom of that time, for the two ensuing dances.
It was about twenty minutes after the above presentation had taken place
that Lord Mauleverer and William Brandon entered the rooms; and the buzz
created by the appearance of the noted peer and the distinguished lawyer
had scarcely subsided, before the royal personage expected to grace the
“festive scene” (as the newspapers say of a great room with plenty of
miserable-looking people in it) arrived. The most attractive persons in
Europe may be found among the royal family of England, and the great
personage then at Bath, in consequence of certain political intrigues,
wished, at that time especially, to make himself as popular as possible.
Having gone the round of the old ladies, and assured them, as the “Court
Journal” assures the old ladies at this day, that they were “morning stars”
and “swan-like wonders,” the prince espied Brandon, and immediately
beckoned to him with a familiar gesture. The smooth but saturnine lawyer
approached the royal presence with the manner that peculiarly distinguished
him, and which blended in no ungraceful mixture a species of stiffness that
passed with the crowd for native independence, with a supple insinuation
that was usually deemed the token of latent benevolence of heart. There was
something, indeed, in Brandon's address that always pleased the great; and
they liked him the better because, though he stood on no idle political
points, mere differences in the view taken of a hairbreadth,—such as a corn-
law or a Catholic bill, alteration in the Church or a reform in parliament,—
yet he invariably talked so like a man of honour (except when with
Mauleverer) that his urbanity seemed attachment to individuals, and his

concessions to power sacrifices of private opinion for the sake of obliging
his friends.
“I am very glad indeed,” said the royal personage, “to see Mr. Brandon
looking so much better. Never was the crown in greater want of his
services; and if rumour speak true, they will soon be required in another
department of his profession.”
Brandon bowed, and answered,—
“So please your royal highness, they will always be at the command of a
king from whom I have experienced such kindness, in any capacity for
which his Majesty may deem them fitting.”
“It is true, then!” said his royal highness, significantly. “I congratulate
you! The quiet dignity of the bench must seem to you a great change after a
career so busy and restless.”
“I fear I shall feel it so at first, your royal highness,” answered Brandon,
“for I like even the toil of my profession; and at this moment, when I am in
full practice, it more than ever—But” (checking himself at once) “his
Majesty's wishes, and my satisfaction in complying with them, are more
than sufficient to remove any momentary regret I might otherwise have felt
in quitting those toils which have now become to me a second nature.”
“It is possible,” rejoined the prince, “that his Majesty took into
consideration the delicate state of health which, in common with the whole
public, I grieve to see the papers have attributed to one of the most
distinguished ornaments of the bar.”
“So please your royal highness,” answered Brandon, coolly, and with a
smile which the most piercing eye could not have believed the mask to the
agony then gnawing at his nerves, “it is the interest of my rivals to
exaggerate the little ailments of a weak constitution. I thank Providence that
I am now entirely recovered; and at no time of my life have I been less
unable to discharge—so far as my native and mental, incapacities will allow
—the duties of any occupation, however arduous. Nay, as the brute grows
accustomed to the mill, so have I grown wedded to business; and even the
brief relaxation I have now allowed myself seems to me rather irksome than
pleasurable.”
“I rejoice to hear you speak thus,” answered his royal highness, warmly;
“and I trust for many years, and,” added he, in a lower tone, “in the highest

chamber of the senate, that we may profit by your talents. The times are
those in which many occasions occur that oblige all true friends of the
Constitution to quit minor employment for that great constitutional one that
concerns us all, the highest and the meanest; and” (the royal voice sank still
lower) “I feel justified in assuring you that the office of chief-justice alone
is not considered by his Majesty as a sufficient reward for your generous
sacrifice of present ambition to the difficulties of government.”
Brandon's proud heart swelled, and that moment the veriest pains of hell
would scarcely have been felt.
While the aspiring schemer was thus agreeably engaged, Mauleverer,
sliding through the crowd with that grace which charmed every one, old and
young, and addressing to all he knew some lively or affectionate remark,
made his way to the dancers, among whom he had just caught a glimpse of
Lucy. “I wonder,” he thought, “whom she is dancing with. I hope it is that
ridiculous fellow, Mossop, who tells a good story against himself; or that
handsome ass, Belmont, who looks at his own legs, instead of seeming to
have eyes for no one but his partner. Ah! if Tarquin had but known women
as well as I do, he would have had no reason to be rough with Lucretia. 'T is
a thousand pities that experience comes, in women as in the world, just
when it begins to be no longer of use to us!”
As he made these moral reflections, Mauleverer gained the dancers, and
beheld Lucy listening, with downcast eyes and cheeks that evidently
blushed, to a young man whom Mauleverer acknowledged at once to be one
of the best-looking fellows he had ever seen. The stranger's countenance,
despite an extreme darkness of complexion, was, to be sure, from the great
regularity of the features, rather effeminate; but, on the other hand, his
figure, though slender and graceful, betrayed to an experienced eye an
extraordinary proportion of sinew and muscle; and even the dash of
effeminacy in the countenance was accompanied by so manly and frank an
air, and was so perfectly free from all coxcombry or self-conceit, that it did
not in the least decrease the prepossessing effect of his appearance. An
angry and bitter pang shot across that portion of Mauleverer's frame which
the earl thought fit, for want of another name, to call his heart. “How
cursedly pleased she looks!” muttered he. “By Heaven! that stolen glance
under the left eyelid, dropped as suddenly as it is raised; and he—ha! how
firmly he holds that little hand! I think I see him paddle with it; and then the

dog's earnest, intent look,—and she all blushes, though she dare not look up
to meet his gaze, feeling it by intuition. Oh, the demure, modest,
shamefaced hypocrite! How silent she is! She can prate enough to me! I
would give my promised garter if she would but talk to him. Talk, talk,
laugh, prattle, only simper, in God's name, and I shall be happy. But that
bashful, blushing silence,—it is insupportable. Thank Heaven, the dance is
over! Thank Heaven, again! I have not felt such pains since the last
nightmare I had after dining with her father!”
With a face all smiles, but with a mien in which more dignity than he
ordinarily assumed was worn, Mauleverer now moved towards Lucy, who
was leaning on her partner's arm. The earl, who had ample tact where his
consummate selfishness did not warp it, knew well how to act the lover,
without running ridiculously into the folly of seeming to play the hoary
dangler. He sought rather to be lively than sentimental; and beneath the wit
to conceal the suitor.
Having paid, then, with a careless gallantry his first compliments, he
entered into so animated a conversation, interspersed with so many naive
yet palpably just observations on the characters present, that perhaps he had
never appeared to more brilliant advantage. At length, as the music was
about to recommence, Mauleverer, with a careless glance at Lucy's partner,
said, “Will Miss Brandon now allow me the agreeable duty of conducting
her to her father?”
“I believe,” answered Lucy, and her voice suddenly became timid, “that,
according to the laws of the rooms, I am engaged to this gentleman for
another dance.”
Clifford, in an assured and easy tone, replied in assent.
As he spoke. Mauleverer honoured him with a more accurate survey than
he had hitherto bestowed on him; and whether or not there was any
expression of contempt or superciliousness in the survey, it was sufficient to
call up the indignant blood to Clifford's cheek. Returning the look with
interest, he said to Lucy, “I believe, Miss Brandon, that the dance is about
to begin;” and Lucy, obeying the hint, left the aristocratic Mauleverer to his
own meditations.
At that moment the master of the ceremonies came bowing by, half afraid
to address so great a person as Mauleverer, but willing to show his respect
by the profoundness of his salutation.

“Aha! my dear Mr. ———-!” said the earl, holding out both his hands to
the Lycurgus of the rooms; “how are you? Pray can you inform me who that
young man is, now dancing with Miss Brandon?”
“It is—let me see-oh! it is a Captain Clifford, my lord! a very fine young
man, my lord! Has your lordship never met him?”
“Never! Who is he? One under your more especial patronage?” said the
earl, smiling.
“Nay, indeed!” answered the master of the ceremonies, with a simper of
gratification; “I scarcely know who he is yet; the captain only made his
appearance here to-night for the first time. He came with two other
gentlemen,—ah! there they are!” and he pointed the earl's scrutinizing
attention to the elegant forms of Mr. Augustus Tomlinson and Mr. Ned
Pepper, just emerging from the card-rooms. The swagger of the latter
gentleman was so peculiarly important that Mauleverer, angry as he was,
could scarcely help laughing. The master of the ceremonies noted the earl's
countenance, and remarked that “that fine-looking man seemed disposed to
give himself airs.”
“Judging from the gentleman's appearance,” said the earl, dryly (Ned's
face, to say truth, did betoken his affection for the bottle), “I should imagine
that he was much more accustomed to give himself thorough draughts!”
“Ah!” renewed the arbiter elegantiarum, who had not heard Mauleverer's
observation, which was uttered in a very low voice,—“ah! they seem real
dashers!”
“Dashers!” repeated Mauleverer; “true, haberdashers!” Long Ned now,
having in the way of his profession acquitted himself tolerably well at the
card-table, thought he had purchased the right to parade himself through the
rooms, and show the ladies what stuff a Pepper could be made of.
Leaning with his left hand on Tomlinson's arm, and employing the right
in fanning himself furiously with his huge chapeau bras, the lengthy
adventurer stalked slowly along, now setting out one leg jauntily, now the
other, and ogling “the ladies” with a kind of Irish look,—namely, a look
between a wink and a stare.
Released from the presence of Clifford, who kept a certain check on his
companions, the apparition of Ned became glaringly conspicuous; and
wherever he passed, a universal whisper succeeded.

“Who can he be?” said the widow Matemore. “'T is a droll creature; but
what a head of hair!”
“For my part,” answered the spinster Sneerall, “I think he is a linen-
draper in disguise; for I heard him talk to his companion of 'tape.'”
“Well, well,” thought Mauleverer, “it would be but kind to seek out
Brandon, and hint to him in what company his niece seems to have fallen!”
And so thinking, he glided to the corner where, with a gray-headed old
politician, the astute lawyer was conning the affairs of Europe.
In the interim the second dance had ended, and Clifford was conducting
Lucy to her seat, each charmed with the other, when he found himself
abruptly tapped on the back, and turning round in alarm,—for such taps
were not unfamiliar to him,—he saw the cool countenance of Long Ned,
with one finger sagaciously laid beside the nose.
“How now?” said Clifford, between his ground teeth; “did I not tell thee
to put that huge bulk of thine as far from me as possible?”
“Humph!” granted Ned; “if these are my thanks, I may as well keep my
kindness to myself; but know you, my kid, that Lawyer Brandon is here,
peering through the crowd at this very moment, in order to catch a glimpse
of that woman's face of thine.”
“Ha!” answered Clifford, in a very quick tone; “begone, then! I will meet
you without the rooms immediately.” Clifford now turned to his partner,
and bowing very low, in reality to hide his face from those sharp eyes which
had once seen it in the court of Justice Burnflat, said: “I trust, madam, I
shall have the honour to meet you again. Is it, if I may be allowed to ask,
with your celebrated uncle that you are staying, or—”
“With my father,” answered Lucy, concluding the sentence Clifford had
left unfinished; “but my uncle has been with us, though I fear he leaves us
to-morrow.”
Clifford's eyes sparkled; he made no answer, but bowing again, receded
into the crowd and disappeared. Several times that night did the brightest
eyes in Somersetshire rove anxiously round the rooms in search of our hero;
but he was seen no more.
It was on the stairs that Clifford encountered his comrades; taking an arm
of each, he gained the door without any adventure worth noting, save that,
being kept back by the crowd for a few moments, the moralizing Augustus

Tomlinson, who honoured the moderate Whigs by enrolling himself among
their number, took up, pour passer le temps, a tall gold-headed cane, and
weighing it across his finger with a musing air, said, “Alas! among our
supporters we often meet heads as heavy, but of what a different metal!”
The crowd now permitting, Augustus was walking away with his
companions, and, in that absence of mind characteristic of philosophers,
unconsciously bearing with him the gold-headed object of his reflection,
when a stately footman, stepping up to him, said, “Sir, my cane!”
“Cane, fellow!” said Tomlinson. “Ah, I am so absent! Here is thy cane.
Only think of my carrying off the man's cane, Ned! Ha, ha!”
“Absent indeed!” grunted a knowing chairman, watching the receding
figures of the three gentlemen; “body o' me! but it was the cane that was
about to be absent!”

CHAPTER XVI.
Whackum. My dear rogues, dear boys, Bluster and Dingboy! you
are the bravest fellows that ever scoured yet!—SHADWELL:
Scourers.

Cato, the Thessalian, was wont to say that some things may be
done unjustly, that many things may be done justly.—LORD BACON
(being a justification of every rascality).

Although our three worthies had taken unto themselves a splendid
lodging in Milsom Street, which, to please Ned, was over a hairdresser's
shop, yet, instead of returning thither, or repairing to such taverns as might
seem best befitting their fashion and garb, they struck at once from the gay
parts of the town, and tarried not till they reached a mean-looking alehouse
in a remote suburb.
The door was opened to them by an elderly lady; and Clifford, stalking
before his companions into an apartment at the back of the house, asked if
the other gentlemen were come yet.
“No,” returned the dame. “Old Mr. Bags came in about ten minutes ago;
but hearing more work might be done, he went out again.”
“Bring the lush and the pipes, old blone!” cried Ned, throwing himself on
a bench; “we are never at a loss for company!”
“You, indeed, never can be, who are always inseparably connected with
the object of your admiration,” said Tomlinson, dryly, and taking up an old
newspaper. Ned, who, though choleric, was a capital fellow, and could bear
a joke on himself, smiled, and drawing forth a little pair of scissors, began
trimming his nails.
“Curse me,” said he, after a momentary silence, “if this is not a devilish
deal pleasanter than playing the fine gentleman in that great room, with a
rose in one's button-hole! What say you, Master Lovett?”
Clifford (as henceforth, despite his other aliases, we shall denominate our
hero), who had thrown himself at full length on a bench at the far end of the
room, and who seemed plunged into a sullen revery, now looked up for a
moment, and then, turning round and presenting the dorsal part of his body
to Long Ned, muttered, “Fish!”

“Harkye, Master Lovett!” said Long Ned, colouring. “I don't know what
has come over you of late; but I would have you to learn that gentlemen are
entitled to courtesy and polite behaviour; and so, d' ye see, if you ride your
high horse upon me, splice my extremities if I won't have satisfaction!”
“Hist, man! be quiet,” said Tomlinson, philosophically, snuffing the
candles,—

“'For companions to quarrel,
Is extremely immoral.'

“Don't you see that the captain is in a revery? What good man ever loves
to be interrupted in his meditations? Even Alfred the Great could not bear
it! Perhaps at this moment, with the true anxiety of a worthy chief, the
captain is designing something for our welfare!”
“Captain indeed!” muttered Long Ned, darting a wrathful look at
Clifford, who had not deigned to pay any attention to Mr. Pepper's threat;
“for my part I cannot conceive what was the matter with us when we chose
this green slip of the gallows-tree for our captain of the district. To be sure,
he did very well at first, and that robbery of the old lord was not ill-planned;
but lately—”
“Nay, nay,” quoth Augustus, interrupting the gigantic grumbler; “the
nature of man is prone to discontent. Allow that our present design of
setting up the gay Lothario, and trying our chances at Bath for an heiress, is
owing as much to Lovett's promptitude as to our invention.”
“And what good will come of it?” returned Ned, as he lighted his pipe;
“answer me that. Was I not dressed as fine as a lord, and did not I walk
three times up and down that great room without being a jot the better for
it?”
“Ah! but you know not how many secret conquests you may have made.
You cannot win a prize by looking upon it.”
“Humph!” grunted Ned, applying himself discontentedly to the young
existence of his pipe.
“As for the captain's partner,” renewed Tomlinson, who maliciously
delighted in exciting the jealousy of the handsome “tax-collector,”—for that
was the designation by which Augustus thought proper to style himself and
companions,—“I will turn Tory if she be not already half in love with him;
and did you hear the old gentleman who cut into our rubber say what a fine

fortune she had? Faith, Ned, it is lucky for us two that we all agreed to go
shares in our marriage speculations; I fancy the worthy captain will think it
a bad bargain for himself.”
“I am not so sure of that, Mr. Tomlinson,” said Long Ned, sourly eying
his comrade. “Some women may be caught by a smooth skin and a showy
manner; but real masculine beauty,—eyes, colour, and hair,—Mr.
Tomlinson, must ultimately make its way; so hand me the brandy, and cease
your jaw.”
“Well, well,” said Tomlinson, “I'll give you a toast,—'The prettiest girl in
England,' and that's Miss Brandon!”
“You shall give no such toast, sir!” said Clifford, starting from the bench.
“What the devil is Miss Brandon to you? And now, Ned,” seeing that the
tall hero looked on him with an unfavourable aspect, “here's my hand;
forgive me if I was uncivil. Tomlinson will tell you, in a maxim, men are
changeable. Here's to your health; and it shall not be my fault, gentlemen, if
we have not a merry evening!”
This speech, short as it was, met with great applause from the two
friends; and Clifford, as president, stationed himself in a huge chair at the
head of the table. Scarcely had he assumed this dignity, before the door
opened, and half-a-dozen of the gentlemen confederates trooped somewhat
noisily into the apartment.
“Softly, softly, messieurs,” said the president, recovering all his
constitutional gayety, yet blending it with a certain negligent command,
—“respect for the chair, if you please! 'T is the way with all assemblies
where the public purse is a matter of deferential interest!”
“Hear him!” cried Tomlinson.
“What, my old friend Bags!” said the president; “you have not come
empty-handed, I will swear; your honest face is like the table of contents to
the good things in your pockets!”
“Ah, Captain Clifford,” said the veteran, groaning, and shaking his
reverend head, “I have seen the day when there was not a lad in England
forked so largely, so comprehensively-like, as I did. But, as King Lear says
at Common Garden, 'I be's old now!'”
“But your zeal is as youthful as ever, my fine fellow,” said the captain,
soothingly; “and if you do not clean out the public as thoroughly as

heretofore, it is not the fault of your inclinations.”
“No, that it is not!” cried the “tax-collectors” unanimously.
“And if ever a pocket is to be picked neatly, quietly, and effectually,”
added the complimentary Clifford, “I do not know to this day, throughout
the three kingdoms, a neater, quieter, and more effective set of fingers than
Old Bags's!”
The veteran bowed disclaimingly, and took his seat among the heartfelt
good wishes of the whole assemblage.
“And now, gentlemen,” said Clifford, as soon as the revellers had
provided themselves with their wonted luxuries, potatory and fumous, “let
us hear your adventures, and rejoice our eyes with their produce. The
gallant Attie shall begin; but first, a toast,—'May those who leap from a
hedge never leap from a tree!'”
This toast being drunk with enthusiastic applause, Fighting Attie began
the recital of his little history.
“You sees, Captain,” said he, putting himself in a martial position, and
looking Clifford full in the face, “that I'm not addicted to much blarney.
Little cry and much wool is my motto. At ten o'clock A.M. saw the enemy
—in the shape of a Doctor of Divinity. 'Blow me,' says I to Old Bags, 'but I
'll do his reverence!' 'Blow me,' says Old Bags, 'but you sha' n't,—you'll
have us scragged if you touches the Church.' 'My grandmother!' says I.
Bags tells the pals,—all in a fuss about it,—what care I? I puts on a decent
dress, and goes to the doctor as a decayed soldier wot supplies the shops in
the turning line. His reverence—a fat jolly dog as ever you see—was at
dinner over a fine roast pig; so I tells him I have some bargains at home for
him. Splice me, if the doctor did not think he had got a prize; so he puts on
his boots, and he comes with me to my house. But when I gets him into a
lane, out come my pops. 'Give up, Doctor,' says I; 'others must share the
goods of the Church now.' You has no idea what a row he made; but I did
the thing, and there's an end on't.”
“Bravo, Attie!” cried Clifford; and the word echoed round the board.
Attie put a purse on the table, and the next gentleman was called to
confession.
“It skills not, boots not,” gentlest of readers, to record each of the
narratives that now followed one another. Old Bags, in especial, preserved

his well-earned reputation by emptying six pockets, which had been filled
with every possible description of petty valuables. Peasant and prince
appeared alike to have come under his hands; and perhaps the good old man
had done in the town more towards effecting an equality of goods among
different ranks than all the Reformers, from Cornwall to Carlisle. Yet so
keen was his appetite for the sport that the veteran appropriator absolutely
burst into tears at not having “forked more.”
“I love a warm-hearted enthusiasm,” cried Clifford, handling the
movables, while he gazed lovingly on the ancient purloiner. “May new
cases never teach us to forget Old Bags!”
As soon as this “sentiment” had been duly drunk, and Mr. Bagshot had
dried his tears and applied himself to his favourite drink,—which, by the
way, was “blue ruin,”—the work of division took place. The discretion and
impartiality of the captain in this arduous part of his duty attracted universal
admiration; and each gentleman having carefully pouched his share, the
youthful president hemmed thrice, and the society became aware of a
purposed speech.
“Gentlemen!” began Clifford,—and his main supporter, the sapient
Augustus, shouted out, “Hear!”—“gentlemen, you all know that when some
months ago you were pleased, partly at the instigation of Gentleman George
—God bless him!—partly from the exaggerated good opinion expressed of
me by my friends, to elect me to the high honour of the command of this
district, I myself was by no means ambitious to assume that rank, which I
knew well was far beyond my merits, and that responsibility which I knew
with equal certainty was too weighty for my powers. Your voices, however,
overruled my own; and as Mr. Muddlepud, the great metaphysician, in that
excellent paper, 'The Asinaeum,' was wont to observe, 'the susceptibilities,
innate, extensible, incomprehensible, and eternal,' existing in my bosom,
were infinitely more powerful than the shallow suggestions of reason,—that
ridiculous thing which all wise men and judicious Asinaeans sedulously
stifle.”
“Plague take the man! what is he talking about?” said Long Ned, who we
have seen was of an envious temper, in a whisper to Old Bags. Old Bags
shook his head.
“In a word, gentlemen,” renewed Clifford, “your kindness overpowered
me; and despite my cooler inclinations, I accepted your flattering proposal.

Since then I have endeavoured, so far as I have been able, to advance your
interests; I have kept a vigilant eye upon all my neighbours; I have, from
county to county, established numerous correspondents; and our exertions
have been carried on with a promptitude that has ensured success.
“Gentlemen, I do not wish to boast; but on these nights of periodical
meetings, when every quarter brings us to go halves,—when we meet in
private to discuss the affairs of the public, show our earnings as it were in
privy council, and divide them amicably as it were in the Cabinet ['Hear!
hear!' from Mr. Tomlinson],—it is customary for your captain for the time
being to remind you of his services, engage your pardon for his
deficiencies, and your good wishes for his future exertions. Gentlemen, has
it ever been said of Paul Lovett that he heard of a prize and forgot to tell
you of his news? ['Never! never!' loud cheering.] Has it ever been said of
him that he sent others to seize the booty, and stayed at home to think how
it should be spent? ['No! no!' repeated cheers.] Has it ever been said of him
that he took less share than his due of your danger, and more of your
guineas? [Cries in the negative, accompanied with vehement applause.]
Gentlemen, I thank you for these flattering and audible testimonials in my
favour; but the points on which I have dwelt, however necessary to my
honour, would prove but little for my merits; they might be worthy notice in
your comrade, you demand more subtle duties in your chief. Gentlemen,
has it ever been said of Paul Lovett that he sent out brave men on forlorn
hopes; that he hazarded your own heads by rash attempts in acquiring
pictures of King George's; that zeal, in short, was greater in him than
caution, or that his love of a quid (A guinea) ever made him neglectful of
your just aversion to a quod? (A prison) [Unanimous cheering.]
“Gentlemen, since I have had the honour to preside over your welfare,
Fortune, which favours the bold, has not been unmerciful to you! But three
of our companions have been missed from our peaceful festivities. One,
gentlemen, I myself expelled from our corps for ungentlemanlike practices;
he picked pockets of fogles, (handkerchiefs)—it was a vulgar employment.
Some of you, gentlemen, have done the same for amusement; Jack
Littlefork did it for occupation. I expostulated with him in public and in
private; Mr. Pepper cut his society; Mr. Tomlinson read him an essay on
Real Greatness of Soul: all was in vain. He was pumped by the mob for the
theft of a bird's-eye wipe. The fault I had borne with,—the detection was
unpardonable; I expelled him. Who's here so base as would be a fogle-

hunter? If any, speak; for him have I offended! Who's here so rude as would
not be a gentleman? If any, speak; for him have I offended! I pause for a
reply! What, none! then none have I offended. [Loud cheers.] Gentlemen, I
may truly add, that I have done no more to Jack Littlefork than you should
do to Paul Lovett! The next vacancy in our ranks was occasioned by the
loss of Patrick Blunderbull. You know, gentlemen, the vehement exertions
that I made to save that misguided creature, whom I had made exertions no
less earnest to instruct. But he chose to swindle under the name of the
'Honourable Captain Smico;' the Peerage gave him the lie at once; his case
was one of aggravation, and he was so remarkably ugly that he 'created no
interest.' He left us for a foreign exile; and if as a man I lament him, I
confess to you, gentlemen, as a 'tax-collector' I am easily consoled.
“Our third loss must be fresh in your memory. Peter Popwell, as bold a
fellow as ever breathed, is no more! [A movement in the assembly.] Peace
be with him! He died on the field of battle; shot dead by a Scotch Colonel,
whom poor Popwell thought to rob of nothing with an empty pistol. His
memory, gentlemen,—in solemn silence!
“These make the catalogue of our losses,” resumed the youthful chief, so
soon as the “red cup had crowned the memory” of Peter Popwell; “I am
proud, even in sorrow, to think that the blame of those losses rests not with
me. And now, friends and followers! Gentlemen of the Road, the Street, the
Theatre, and the Shop! Prigs, Tobymen, and Squires of the Cross! according
to the laws of our Society, I resign into your hands that power which for
two quarterly terms you have confided to mine, ready to sink into your
ranks as a comrade, nor unwilling to renounce the painful honour I have
borne,—borne with much infirmity, it is true, but at least with a sincere
desire to serve that cause with which you have intrusted me.”
So saying, the captain descended from his chair amidst the most
uproarious applause; and as soon as the first burst had partially subsided,
Augustus Tomlinson rising, with one hand in his breeches' pocket and the
other stretched out, said,—
“Gentlemen, I move that Paul Lovett be again chosen as our captain for
the ensuing term of three months. [Deafening cheers.] Much might I say
about his surpassing merits; but why dwell upon that which is obvious? Life
is short! Why should speeches be long? Our lives, perhaps, are shorter than
the lives of other men; why should not our harangues be of a suitable

brevity? Gentlemen, I shall say but one word in favour of my excellent
friend,—of mine, say I? ay, of mine, of yours. He is a friend to all of us! A
prime minister is not more useful to his followers and more burdensome to
the public than I am proud to say is—Paul Lovett. [Loud plaudits.] What I
shall urge in his favour is simply this: the man whom opposite parties unite
in praising must have supereminent merit. Of all your companions,
gentlemen, Paul Lovett is the only man who to that merit can advance a
claim. [Applause.] You all know, gentlemen, that our body has long been
divided into two factions,—each jealous of the other, each desirous of
ascendancy, and each emulous which shall put the greatest number of
fingers into the public pie. In the language of the vulgar, the one faction
would be called 'swindlers,' and the other 'highwaymen.' I, gentlemen, who
am fond of finding new names for things and for persons, and am a bit of a
politician, call the one Whigs, and the other Tories. [Clamorous cheering.]
Of the former body I am esteemed no uninfluential member; of the latter
faction Mr. Bags is justly considered the most shining ornament. Mr. Attie
and Mr. Edward Pepper can scarcely be said to belong entirely to either;
they unite the good qualities of both. 'British compounds' some term them; I
term them Liberal Aristocrats! [Cheers.] I now call upon you all, Whig, or
Swindler, Tory, or Highwayman, 'British Compounds,' or Liberal
Aristocrats,—I call upon you all to name me one man whom you will all
agree to elect.”
All,—“Lovett forever!”
“Gentlemen,” continued the sagacious Augustus, “that shout is sufficient;
without another word, I propose, as your captain, Mr. Paul Lovett.”
“And I seconds the motion!” said old Mr. Bags.
Our hero, being now by the unanimous applause of his confederates
restored to the chair of office, returned thanks in a neat speech; and Scarlet
Jem declared, with great solemnity, that it did equal honour to his head and
heart.
The thunders of eloquence being hushed, flashes of lightning, or, as the
vulgar say, glasses of gin, gleamed about. Good old Mr. Bags stuck,
however, to his blue ruin, and Attie to the bottle of bingo; some, among
whom were Clifford and the wise Augustus, called for wine; and Clifford,
who exerted himself to the utmost in supporting the gay duties of his
station, took care that the song should vary the pleasures of the bowl. Of the

songs we have only been enabled to preserve two. The first is by Long Ned;
and though we confess we can see but little in it, yet (perhaps from some
familiar allusion or other with which we are necessarily unacquainted) it
produced a prodigious sensation. It ran thus:—

THE ROGUE'S RECIPE.

Your honest fool a rogue to make,
As great as can be seen, sir,
Two hackneyed rogues you first must take,
Then place your fool between, sir.

Virtue 's a dunghill cock, ashamed
Of self when paired with game ones;
And wildest elephants are tamed
If stuck betwixt two tame ones.

The other effusion with which we have the honour to favour our readers
is a very amusing duet which took place between Fighting Attie and a tall
thin robber, who was a dangerous fellow in a mob, and was therefore called
Mobbing Francis; it was commenced by the latter:—

MOBBING FRANCIS:

The best of all robbers as ever I knowed
Is the bold Fighting Attie, the pride of the road!—
Fighting Attie, my hero, I saw you to-day
A purse full of yellow boys seize;
And as, just at present, I'm low in the lay,
I'll borrow a quid, if you please.
Oh! bold Fighting Attie, the knowing, the natty,
By us all it must sure be confest,
Though your shoppers and snobbers are pretty good robbers,
A soldier is always the best.

FIGHTING ATTIE

Stubble your whids, (Hold your tongue)
You wants to trick I.
Lend you my quids?
Not one, by Dickey.

MOBBING FRANCIS:

Oh, what a beast is a niggardly ruffler,
Nabbing, grabbing all for himself!
Hang it, old fellow, I'll hit you a muffler,
Since you won't give me a pinch of the pelf.
You has not a heart for the general distress,
You cares not a mag if our party should fall,
And if Scarlet Jem were not good at a press,
By Goles, it would soon be all up with us all!
Oh, Scarlet Jem, he is trusty and trim,
Like his wig to his poll, sticks his conscience to him;
But I vows I despises the fellow who prizes

More his own ends than the popular stock, sir;
And the soldier as bones for himself and his crones,
Should be boned like a traitor himself at the block, sir.

The severe response of Mobbing Francis did not in the least ruffle the
constitutional calmness of Fighting Attie; but the wary Clifford, seeing that
Francis had lost his temper, and watchful over the least sign of disturbance
among the company, instantly called for another song, and Mobbing Francis
sullenly knocked down Old Bags.
The night was far gone, and so were the wits of the honest tax-gatherers,
when the president commanded silence, and the convivialists knew that
their chief was about to issue forth the orders for the ensuing term. Nothing
could be better timed than such directions,—during merriment and before
oblivion.
“Gentlemen,” said the captain, “I will now, with your leave, impart to
you all the plans I have formed for each. You, Attie, shall repair to London:
be the Windsor road and the purlieus of Pimlico your especial care. Look
you, my hero, to these letters; they will apprise you of much work. I need
not caution you to silence. Like the oyster, you never open your mouth but
for something. Honest Old Bags, a rich grazier will be in Smithfield on
Thursday; his name is Hodges, and he will have somewhat like a thousand
pounds in his pouch. He is green, fresh, and avaricious; offer to assist him
in defrauding his neighbours in a bargain, and cease not till thou hast done
that with him which he wished to do to others. Be, excellent old man, like
the frog-fish, which fishes for other fishes with two horns that resemble
baits; the prey dart at the horns, and are down the throat in an instant!—For
thee, dearest Jem, these letters announce a prize: fat is Parson Pliant; full is
his purse; and he rides from Henley to Oxford on Friday,—I need say no
more! As for the rest of you, gentlemen, on this paper you will see your
destinations fixed. I warrant you, ye will find enough work till we meet
again this day three months. Myself, Augustus Tomlinson, and Ned Pepper
remain in Bath; we have business in hand, gentlemen, of paramount
importance; should you by accident meet us, never acknowledge us,—we
are incog.; striking at high game, and putting on falcon's plumes to do it in
character,—you understand; but this accident can scarcely occur, for none
of you will remain at Bath; by to-morrow night, may the road receive you.
And now, gentlemen, speed the glass, and I'll give you a sentiment by way
of a spur to it,—

“'Much sweeter than honey
Is other men's money!”'

Our hero's maxim was received with all the enthusiasm which agreeable
truisms usually create. And old Mr. Bags rose to address the chair;
unhappily for the edification of the audience, the veteran's foot slipped
before he had proceeded further than “Mr. President;” he fell to the earth
with a sort of reel,—

“Like shooting stars he fell to rise no more!”

His body became a capital footstool for the luxurious Pepper. Now
Augustus Tomlinson and Clifford, exchanging looks, took every possible
pains to promote the hilarity of the evening; and before the third hour of
morning had sounded, they had the satisfaction of witnessing the effects of
their benevolent labours in the prostrate forms of all their companions.
Long Ned, naturally more capacious than the rest, succumbed the last.
“As leaves of trees,” said the chairman, waving his hand,

“'As leaves of trees the race of man is found,
Now fresh with dew, now withering on the ground.'”

“Well said, my Hector of Highways;” cried Tomlinson; and then helping
himself to the wine, while he employed his legs in removing the supine
forms of Scarlet Jem and Long Ned, he continued the Homeric quotation,
with a pompous and self-gratulatory tone,—

“'So flourish these when those have passed away!'”

“We managed to get rid of our friends,” began Clifford—
“Like Whigs in place,” interrupted the politician.
“Right, Tomlinson, thanks to the milder properties of our drink, and
perchance to the stronger qualities of our heads; and now tell me, my friend,
what think you of our chance of success? Shall we catch an heiress or not?”
“Why, really,” said Tomlinson, “women are like those calculations in
arithmetic, which one can never bring to an exact account; for my part, I
shall stuff my calves, and look out for a widow. You, my good fellow, seem
to stand a fair chance with Miss ———”

“Oh, name her not!” cried Clifford, colouring, even through the flush
which wine had spread over his countenance. “Ours are not the lips by
which her name should be breathed; and, faith, when I think of her, I do it
anonymously.”
“What, have you ever thought of her before this evening?”
“Yes, for months,” answered Clifford. “You remember some time ago,
when we formed the plan for robbing Lord Mauleverer, how, rather for
frolic than profit, you robbed Dr. Slopperton, of Warlock, while I
compassionately walked home with the old gentleman. Well, at the parson's
house I met Miss Brandon—mind, if I speak of her by name, you must not;
and, by Heaven!—But I won't swear. I accompanied her home. You know,
before morning we robbed Lord Mauleverer; the affair made a noise, and I
feared to endanger you all if I appeared in the vicinity of the robbery. Since
then, business diverted my thoughts; we formed the plan of trying a
matrimonial speculation at Bath. I came hither,—guess my surprise at
seeing her—”
“And your delight,” added Tomlinson, “at hearing she is as rich as she is
pretty.”
“No!” answered Clifford, quickly; “that thought gives me no pleasure.
You stare. I will try and explain. You know, dear Tomlinson, I'm not much
of a canter, and yet my heart shrinks when I look on that innocent face, and
hear that soft happy voice, and think that my love to her can be only ruin
and disgrace; nay, that my very address is contamination, and my very
glance towards her an insult.”
“Heyday!” quoth Tomlinson; “have you been under my instructions, and
learned the true value of words, and can you have any scruples left on so
easy a point of conscience? True, you may call your representing yourself to
her as an unprofessional gentleman, and so winning her affections, deceit;
but why call it deceit when a genius for intrigue is so much neater a phrase?
In like manner, by marrying the young lady, if you say you have ruined her,
you justly deserve to be annihilated; but why not say you have saved
yourself, and then, my dear fellow, you will have done the most justifiable
thing in the world.”
“Pish, man!” said Clifford, peevishly; “none of thy sophisms and sneers!”
“By the soul of Sir Edward Coke, I am serious! But look you, my friend!
this is not a matter where it is convenient to have a tender-footed

conscience. You see these fellows on the ground, all d—-d clever, and so
forth; but you and I are of a different order. I have had a classical education,
seen the world, and mixed in decent society; you, too, had not been long a
member of our club before you distinguished yourself above us all. Fortune
smiled on your youthful audacity. You grew particular in horses and dress,
frequented public haunts, and being a deuced good-looking fellow, with an
inborn air of gentility and some sort of education, you became sufficiently
well received to acquire in a short time the manner and tone of a—what
shall I say?—a gentleman, and the taste to like suitable associates. This is
my case too! Despite our labours for the public weal, the ungrateful dogs
see that we are above them; a single envious breast is sufficient to give us to
the hangman. We have agreed that we are in danger; we have agreed to
make an honourable retreat; we cannot do so without money. You know the
vulgar distich among our set. Nothing can be truer,—

“'Hanging is 'nation
More nice than starvation!'

You will not carry off some of the common stock, though I think you
justly might, considering how much you have put into it. What, then, shall
we do? Work we cannot, beg we will not; and, between you and me, we are
cursedly extravagant! What remains but marriage?”
“It is true,” said Clifford, with a half sigh.
“You may well sigh, my good fellow. Marriage is a lackadaisical
proceeding at best; but there is no resource. And now, when you have got a
liking to a young lady who is as rich as a she-Craesus, and so gilded the pill
as bright as a lord mayor's coach, what the devil have you to do with
scruples?”
Clifford made no answer, and there was a long pause; perhaps he would
not have spoken so frankly as he had done, if the wine had not opened his
heart.
“How proud,” renewed Tomlinson, “the good old matron at Thames
Court would be if you married a lady! You have not seen her lately?”
“Not for years,” answered our hero. “Poor old soul! I believe that she is
well in health, and I take care that she should not be poor in pocket.”
“But why not visit her? Perhaps, like all great men, especially of a liberal
turn of mind, you are ashamed of old friends, eh?”

“My good fellow, is that like me? Why, you know the beaux of our set
look askant on me for not keeping up my dignity, robbing only in company
with well-dressed gentlemen, and swindling under the name of a lord's
nephew. No, my reasons are these: first, you must know, that the old dame
had set her heart on my turning out an honest man.”
“And so you have,” interrupted Augustus,—“honest to your party; what
more would you have from either prig or politician?”
“I believe,” continued Clifford, not heeding the interruption, “that my
poor mother, before she died, desired that I might be reared honestly; and
strange as it may seem to you, Dame Lobkins is a conscientious woman in
her own way,—it is not her fault if I have turned out as I have done. Now I
know well that it would grieve her to the quick to see me what I am.
Secondly, my friend, under my new names, various as they are,—Jackson
and Howard, Russell and Pigwiggin, Villiers and Gotobed, Cavendish and
Solomons,—you may well suppose that the good persons in the
neighbourhood of Thames Court have no suspicion that the adventurous and
accomplished ruffler, at present captain of this district, under the new
appellation of Lovett, is in reality no other than the obscure and
surnameless Paul of the Mug. Now you and I, Augustus, have read human
nature, though in the black letter; and I know well that were I to make my
appearance in Thames Court, and were the old lady (as she certainly would,
not from unkindness, but insobriety,—not that she loves me less, but heavy
wet more) to divulge the secret of that appearance—”
“You know well,” interrupted the vivacious Tomlinson, “that the identity
of your former meanness with your present greatness would be easily
traced; the envy and jealousy of your early friends aroused; a hint of your
whereabout and your aliases given to the police, and yourself grabbed, with
a slight possibility of a hempen consummation.”
“You conceive me exactly!” answered Clifford. “The fact is, that I have
observed in nine cases out of ten our bravest fellows have been taken off by
the treachery of some early sweetheart or the envy of some boyish friend.
My destiny is not yet fixed. I am worthy of better things than a ride in the
cart with a nosegay in my hand; and though I care not much about death in
itself, I am resolved, if possible, not to die a highwayman. Hence my
caution, and that prudential care for secrecy and safe asylums, which men

less wise than you have so often thought an unnatural contrast to my
conduct on the road.”
“Fools!” said the philosophical Tomlinson; “what has the bravery of a
warrior to do with his insuring his house from fire?”
“However,” said Clifford, “I send my good nurse a fine gift every now
and then to assure her of my safety; and thus, notwithstanding my absence,
I show my affection by my presents,—excuse a pun.”
“And have you never been detected by any of your quondam associates?”
“Never! Remember in what a much more elevated sphere of life I have
been thrown; and who could recognize the scamp Paul with a fustian jacket
in gentleman Paul with a laced waistcoat? Besides, I have diligently
avoided every place where I was likely to encounter those who saw me in
childhood. You know how little I frequent flash houses, and how scrupulous
I am in admitting new confederates into our band; you and Pepper are the
only two of my associates—save my protege, as you express it, who never
deserts the cave—that possess a knowledge of my identity with the lost
Paul; and as ye have both taken that dread oath to silence, which to disobey
until indeed I be in the jail or on the gibbet, is almost to be assassinated, I
consider my secret is little likely to be broken, save with my own consent.”
“True,” said Augustus, nodding; “one more glass, and to bed, Mr.
Chairman.”
“I pledge you, my friend; our last glass shall be philanthropically
quaffed,—'All fools, and may their money soon be parted!'”
“All fools!” cried Tomlinson, filling a bumper; “but I quarrel with the
wisdom of your toast. May fools be rich, and rogues will never be poor! I
would make a better livelihood off a rich fool than a landed estate.”
So saying, the contemplative and ever-sagacious Tomlinson tossed off his
bumper; and the pair, having kindly rolled by pedal applications the body of
Long Ned into a safe and quiet corner of the room, mounted the stairs, arm-
in-arm, in search of somnambular accommodations.

CHAPTER XVII
That contrast of the hardened and mature,
The calm brow brooding o'er the project dark,
With the clear loving heart, and spirit pure
Of youth,—I love, yet, hating, love to mark!

H. FLETCHER.

On the forenoon of the day after the ball, the carriage of William
Brandon, packed and prepared, was at the door of his abode at Bath;
meanwhile the lawyer was closeted with his brother.
“My dear Joseph,” said the barrister, “I do not leave you without being
fully sensible of your kindness evinced to me, both in coming hither,
contrary to your habits, and accompanying me everywhere, despite of your
tastes.”
“Mention it not, my dear William,” said the kind-hearted squire, “for
your delightful society is to me the most agreeable (and that's what I can
say of very few people like you; for, for my own part, I generally find the
cleverest men the most unpleasant) in the world! And I think lawyers in
particular (very different, indeed, from your tribe you are!) perfectly
intolerable!”
“I have now,” said Brandon, who with his usual nervous quickness of
action was walking with rapid strides to and fro the apartment, and scarcely
noted his brother's compliment,—“I have now another favour to request of
you. Consider this house and these servants yours for the next month or two
at least. Don't interrupt me,—it is no compliment,—I speak for our family
benefit.” And then seating himself next to his brother's armchair, for a fit of
the gout made the squire a close prisoner, Brandon unfolded to his brother
his cherished scheme of marrying Lucy to Lord Mauleverer.
Notwithstanding the constancy of the earl's attentions to the heiress, the
honest squire had never dreamed of their palpable object; and he was
overpowered with surprise when he heard the lawyer's expectations.
“But, my dear brother,” he began, “so great a match for my Lucy, the
Lord-Lieutenant of the Coun—”

“And what of that?” cried Brandon, proudly, and interrupting his brother.
“Is not the race of Brandon, which has matched its scions with royalty, far
nobler than that of the upstart stock of Mauleverer? What is there
presumptuous in the hope that the descendant of the Earls of Suffolk should
regild a faded name with some of the precious dust of the quondam
silversmiths of London? Besides,” he continued, after a pause, “Lucy will
be rich, very rich, and before two years my rank may possibly be of the
same order as Mauleverer's!”
The squire stared; and Brandon, not giving him time to answer, resumed.
It is needless to detail the conversation; suffice it to say that the artful
barrister did not leave his brother till he had gained his point,—till Joseph
Brandon had promised to remain at Bath in possession of the house and
establishment of his brother; to throw no impediment on the suit of
Mauleverer; to cultivate society, as before; and above all, not to alarm Lucy,
who evidently did not yet favour Mauleverer exclusively, by hinting to her
the hopes and expectations of her uncle and father. Brandon, now taking
leave of his brother, mounted to the drawing-room in search of Lucy. He
found her leaning over the gilt cage of one of her feathered favourites, and
speaking to the little inmate in that pretty and playful language in which all
thoughts, innocent yet fond, should be clothed. So beautiful did Lucy seem,
as she was thus engaged in her girlish and caressing employment, and so
utterly unlike one meet to be the instrument of ambitious designs, and the
sacrifice of worldly calculations, that Brandon paused, suddenly smitten at
heart, as he beheld her. He was not, however, slow in recovering himself; he
approached. “Happy he,” said the man of the world, “for whom caresses
and words like these are reserved!”
Lucy turned. “It is ill!” she said, pointing to the bird, which sat with its
feathers stiff and erect, mute and heedless even of that voice which was as
musical as its own.
“Poor prisoner!” said Brandon; “even gilt cages and sweet tones cannot
compensate to thee for the loss of the air and the wild woods!”
“But,” said Lucy, anxiously, “it is not confinement which makes it ill! If
you think so, I will release it instantly.”
“How long have you had it?” asked Brandon.
“For three years!” said Lucy.
“And is it your chief favourite?”

“Yes; it does not sing so prettily as the other, but it is far more sensible,
and so affectionate!”
“Can you release it then?” asked Brandon, smiling. “Would it not be
better to see it die in your custody than to let it live and to see it no more?”
“Oh, no, no!” said Lucy, eagerly; “when I love any one, anything, I wish
that to be happy, not me!”
As she said this, she took the bird from the cage; and bearing it to the
open window, kissed it, and held it on her hand in the air. The poor bird
turned a languid and sickly eye around it, as if the sight of the crowded
houses and busy streets presented nothing familiar or inviting; and it was
not till Lucy with a tender courage shook it gently from her, that it availed
itself of the proffered liberty. It flew first to an opposite balcony; and then
recovering from a short and as it were surprised pause, took a brief circuit
above the houses; and after disappearing for a few minutes, flew back,
circled the window, and re-entering, settled once more on the fair form of
its mistress and nestled into her bosom.
Lucy covered it with kisses. “You see it will not leave me!” said she.
“Who can?” said the uncle, warmly, charmed for the moment from every
thought but that of kindness for the young and soft creature before him,
—“who can,” he repeated with a sigh, “but an old and withered ascetic like
myself? I must leave you indeed; see, my carriage is at the door! Will my
beautiful niece, among the gayeties that surround her, condescend now and
then to remember the crabbed lawyer, and assure him by a line of her
happiness and health? Though I rarely write any notes but those upon cases,
you, at least, may be sure of an answer. And tell me, Lucy, if there be in all
this city one so foolish as to think that these idle gems, useful only as a vent
for my pride in you, can add a single charm to a beauty above all
ornament?”
So saying, Brandon produced a leathern case; and touching a spring, the
imperial flash of diamonds, which would have made glad many a patrician
heart, broke dazzlingly on Lucy's eyes.
“No thanks, Lucy,” said Brandon, in answer to his niece's disclaiming
and shrinking gratitude; “I do honour to myself, not you; and now bless
you, my dear girl. Farewell! Should any occasion present itself in which
you require an immediate adviser, at once kind and wise, I beseech you, my
dearest Lucy, as a parting request, to have no scruples in consulting Lord

Mauleverer. Besides his friendship for me, he is much interested in you, and
you may consult him with the more safety and assurance; because” (and the
lawyer smiled) “he is perhaps the only man in the world whom my Lucy
could not make in love with her. His gallantry may appear adulation, but it
is never akin to love. Promise me that you will not hesitate in this.”
Lucy gave the promise readily; and Brandon continued in a careless tone:
“I hear that you danced last night with a young gentleman whom no one
knew, and whose companions bore a very strange appearance. In a place
like Bath, society is too mixed not to render the greatest caution in forming
acquaintances absolutely necessary. You must pardon me, my dearest niece,
if I remark that a young lady owes it not only to herself but to her relations
to observe the most rigid circumspection of conduct. This is a wicked
world, and the peach-like bloom of character is easily rubbed away. In these
points Mauleverer can be of great use to you. His knowledge of character,
his penetration into men, and his tact in manners are unerring. Pray, be
guided by him; whomsoever he warns you against, you may be sure is
unworthy of your acquaintance. God bless you! You will write to me often
and frankly, dear Lucy; tell me all that happens to you,—all that interests,
nay, all that displeases.”
Brandon then, who had seemingly disregarded the blushes with which
during his speech Lucy's cheeks had been spread, folded his niece in his
arms, and hurried, as if to hide his feelings, into his carriage. When the
horses had turned the street, he directed the postilions to stop at Lord
Mauleverer's. “Now,” said he to himself, “if I can get this clever coxcomb
to second my schemes, and play according to my game and not according to
his own vanity, I shall have a knight of the garter for my nephew-in-law!”
Meanwhile Lucy, all in tears, for she loved her uncle greatly, ran down to
the squire to show him Brandon's magnificent present.
“Ah,” said the squire, with a sigh, “few men were born with more good,
generous, and great qualities (pity only that his chief desire was to get on in
the world; for my part, I think no motive makes greater and more cold-
hearted rogues) than my brother William!”

CHAPTER XVIII.
Why did she love him? Curious fool, be still!
Is human love the growth of human will?
To her he might be gentleness!

LORD BYRON.

In three weeks from the time of his arrival, Captain Clifford was the most
admired man in Bath. It is true the gentlemen, who have a quicker tact as to
the respectability of their own sex than women, might have looked a little
shy upon him, had he not himself especially shunned appearing intrusive,
and indeed rather avoided the society of men than courted it; so that after he
had fought a duel with a baronet (the son of a shoemaker), who called him
one Clifford, and had exhibited a flea-bitten horse, allowed to be the finest
in Bath, he rose insensibly into a certain degree of respect with the one sex
as well as popularity with the other. But what always attracted and kept
alive suspicion, was his intimacy with so peculiar and dashing a gentleman
as Mr. Edward Pepper. People could get over a certain frankness in
Clifford's address, but the most lenient were astounded by the swagger of
Long Ned. Clifford, however, not insensible to the ridicule attached to his
acquaintances, soon managed to pursue his occupations alone; nay, he took
a lodging to himself, and left Long Ned and Augustus Tomlinson (the latter
to operate as a check on the former) to the quiet enjoyment of the
hairdresser's apartments. He himself attended all public gayeties; and his
mien, and the appearance of wealth which he maintained, procured him
access into several private circles which pretended to be exclusive,—as if
people who had daughters ever could be exclusive! Many were the kind
looks, nor few the inviting letters, which he received; and if his sole object
had been to marry an heiress, he would have found no difficulty in attaining
it. But he devoted himself entirely to Lucy Brandon; and to win one glance
from her, he would have renounced all the heiresses in the kingdom. Most
fortunately for him, Mauleverer, whose health was easily deranged, had
fallen ill the very day William Brandon left Bath; and his lordship was thus
rendered unable to watch the movements of Lucy, and undermine or totally
prevent the success of her lover. Miss Brandon, indeed, had at first, melted

by the kindness of her uncle, and struck with the sense of his admonition
(for she was no self-willed young lady, who was determined to be in love),
received Captain Clifford's advances with a coldness which, from her
manner the first evening they had met at Bath, occasioned him no less
surprise than mortification. He retreated, and recoiled on the squire, who,
patient and bold, as usual, was sequestered in his favourite corner. By
accident, Clifford trod on the squire's gouty digital; and in apologizing for
the offence, was so struck by the old gentleman's good-nature and
peculiarity of expressing himself, that without knowing who he was, he
entered into conversation with him. There was an off-hand sort of liveliness
and candour, not to say wit, about Clifford, which always had a charm for
the elderly, who generally like frankness above all the cardinal virtues; the
squire was exceedingly pleased with him. The acquaintance, once begun,
was naturally continued without difficulty when Clifford ascertained who
was his new friend; and next morning, meeting in the pump-room, the
squire asked Clifford to dinner. The entree to the house thus gained, the rest
was easy. Long before Mauleverer recovered his health, the mischief
effected by his rival was almost beyond redress; and the heart of the pure,
the simple, the affectionate Lucy Brandon was more than half lost to the
lawless and vagrant cavalier who officiates as the hero of this tale.
One morning, Clifford and Augustus strolled out together. “Let us,” said
the latter, who was in a melancholy mood, “leave the busy streets, and
indulge in a philosophical conversation on the nature of man, while we are
enjoying a little fresh air in the country.” Clifford assented to the proposal,
and the pair slowly sauntered up one of the hills that surround the city of
Bladud.
“There are certain moments,” said Tomlinson, looking pensively down at
his kerseymere gaiters, “when we are like the fox in the nursery rhyme, 'The
fox had a wound, he could not tell where,'—we feel extremely unhappy, and
we cannot tell why. A dark and sad melancholy grows over us; we shun the
face of man; we wrap ourselves in our thoughts like silkworms; we mutter
fag-ends of dismal songs; tears come into our eyes; we recall all the
misfortunes that have ever happened to us; we stoop in our gait, and bury
our hands in our breeches-pockets; we say, 'What is life?—a stone to be
shied into a horsepond!' We pine for some congenial heart, and have an
itching desire to talk prodigiously about ourselves; all other subjects seem
weary, stale, and unprofitable. We feel as if a fly could knock us down, and

are in a humour to fall in love, and make a very sad piece of business of it.
Yet with all this weakness we have at these moments a finer opinion of
ourselves than we ever had before. We call our megrims the melancholy of
a sublime soul, the yearnings of an indigestion we denominate yearnings
after immortality, nay, sometimes 'a proof of the nature of the soul!' May I
find some biographer who understands such sensations well, and may he
style those melting emotions the offspring of the poetical character, which,
in reality, are the offspring of—a mutton-chop!”

[Vide Moore's “Life of Byron,” in which it is satisfactorily shown
that if a man fast forty-eight hours, then eat three lobsters, and
drink Heaven knows how many bottles of claret; if, when he wake the
next morning, he sees himself abused as a demon by half the
periodicals of the country,—if, in a word, he be broken in his
health, irregular in his habits, unfortunate in his affairs, unhappy
in his home, and if then he should be so extremely eccentric as to
be low-spirited and misanthropical, the low spirits and the
misanthropy are by no means to be attributed to the above agreeable
circumstances, but, God wot, to the “poetical character”!]

“You jest pleasantly enough on your low spirits,” said Clifford; “but I
have a cause for mine.”
“What then?” cried Tomlinson. “So much the easier is it to cure them.
The mind can cure the evils that spring from the mind. It is only a fool and
a quack and a driveller when it professes to heal the evils that spring from
the body. My blue devils spring from the body; consequently my mind,
which, as you know, is a particularly wise mind, wrestles not against them.
Tell me frankly,” renewed Augustus, after a pause, “do you ever repent? Do
you ever think, if you had been a shop-boy with a white apron about your
middle, that you would have been a happier and a better member of society
than you now are?”
“Repent!” said Clifford, fiercely; and his answer opened more of his
secret heart, its motives, its reasonings, and its peculiarities than were often
discernible,—“repent! that is the idlest word in our language. No; the
moment I repent, that moment I reform! Never can it seem to me an
atonement for crime merely to regret it. My mind would lead me, not to
regret, but to repair! Repent! no, not yet. The older I grow, the more I see of
men and of the callings of social life, the more I, an open knave, sicken at
the glossed and covert dishonesties around. I acknowledge no allegiance to
society. From my birth to this hour, I have received no single favour from
its customs or its laws; openly I war against it, and patiently will I meet its

revenge. This may be crime; but it looks light in my eyes when I gaze
around, and survey on all sides the masked traitors who acknowledge large
debts to society, who profess to obey its laws, adore its institutions, and,
above all—oh, how righteously!—attack all those who attack it, and who
yet lie and cheat and defraud and peculate,—publicly reaping all the
comforts, privately filching all the profits. Repent!—of what? I come into
the world friendless and poor; I find a body of laws hostile to the friendless
and the poor! To those laws hostile to me, then, I acknowledge hostility in
my turn. Between us are the conditions of war. Let them expose a
weakness,—I insist on my right to seize the advantage; let them defeat me,
and I allow their right to destroy.”—[The author need not, he hopes,
observe that these sentiments are Mr. Paul Clifford's, not his.]
“Passion,” said Augustus, coolly, “is the usual enemy of reason; in your
case it is the friend.”
The pair had now gained the summit of a hill which commanded a view
of the city below. Here Augustus, who was a little short-winded, paused to
recover breath. As soon as he had done so, he pointed with his forefinger to
the scene beneath, and said enthusiastically, “What a subject for
contemplation!”
Clifford was about to reply, when suddenly the sound of laughter and
voices was heard behind. “Let us fly!” cried Augustus; “on this day of
spleen man delights me not—or woman either.”
“Stay!” said Clifford, in a trembling accent; for among those voices he
recognized one which had already acquired over him an irresistible and
bewitching power. Augustus sighed, and reluctantly remained motionless.
Presently a winding in the road brought into view a party of pleasure, some
on foot, some on horseback, others in the little vehicles which even at that
day haunted watering-places, and called themselves “Flies” or “Swallows.”
But among the gay procession Clifford had only eyes for one! Walking
with that elastic step which so rarely survives the first epoch of youth, by
the side of the heavy chair in which her father was drawn, the fair beauty of
Lucy Brandon threw—at least in the eyes of her lover—a magic and a lustre
over the whole group. He stood for a moment, stilling the heart that leaped
at her bright looks and the gladness of her innocent laugh; and then
recovering himself, he walked slowly, and with a certain consciousness of
the effect of his own singularly handsome person, towards the party. The

good squire received him with his usual kindness, and informed him,
according to that lucidus ordo which he so especially favoured, of the whole
particulars of their excursion. There was something worthy of an artist's
sketch in the scene at that moment: the old squire in his chair, with his
benevolent face turned towards Clifford, and his hands resting on his cane,
Clifford himself bowing down his stately head to hear the details of the
father; the beautiful daughter on the other side of the chair, her laugh
suddenly stilled, her gait insensibly more composed, and blush chasing
blush over the smooth and peach-like loveliness of her cheek; the party, of
all sizes, ages, and attire, affording ample scope for the caricaturist; and the
pensive figure of Augustus Tomlinson (who, by the by, was exceedingly
like Liston) standing apart from the rest, on the brow of the hill where
Clifford had left him, and moralizing on the motley procession, with one
hand hid in his waistcoat, and the other caressing his chin, which slowly
and pendulously with the rest of his head moved up and down.
As the party approached the brow of the hill, the view of the city below
was so striking that there was a general pause for the purpose of survey.
One young lady in particular drew forth her pencil, and began sketching,
while her mamma looked complacently on, and abstractedly devoured a
sandwich. It was at this time, in the general pause, that Clifford and Lucy
found themselves—Heaven knows how!—next to each other, and at a
sufficient distance from the squire and the rest of the party to feel in some
measure alone. There was a silence in both which neither dared to break;
when Lucy, after looking at and toying with a flower that she had brought
from the place which the party had been to see, accidentally dropped it; and
Clifford and herself stooping at the same moment to recover it, their hands
met. Involuntarily, Clifford detained the soft fingers in his own; his eyes,
that encountered hers, so spell-bound and arrested them that for once they
did not sink beneath his gaze; his lips moved, but many and vehement
emotions so suffocated his voice that no sound escaped them. But all the
heart was in the eyes of each; that moment fixed their destinies. Henceforth
there was an era from which they dated a new existence; a nucleus around
which their thoughts, their remembrances, and their passions clung. The
great gulf was passed; they stood on the same shore, and felt that though
still apart and disunited, on that shore was no living creature but
themselves! Meanwhile Augustus Tomlinson, on finding himself
surrounded by persons eager to gaze and to listen, broke from his

moodiness and reserve. Looking full at his next neighbour, and flourishing
his right hand in the air, till he suffered it to rest in the direction of the
houses and chimneys below, he repeated that moral exclamation which had
been wasted on Clifford, with a more solemn and a less passionate gravity
than before,—“What a subject, ma'am, for contemplation!”
“Very sensibly said, indeed, sir,” said the lady addressed, who was rather
of a serious turn.
“I never,” resumed Augustus in a louder key, and looking round for
auditors,—“I never see a great town from the top of a hill without thinking
of an apothecary's shop!”
“Lord, sir!” said the lady. Tomlinson's end was gained. Struck with the
quaintness of the notion, a little crowd gathered instantly around him, to
hear it further developed.
“Of an apothecary's shop, ma'am!” repeated Tomlinson. “There lie your
simples and your purges and your cordials and your poisons,—all things to
heal and to strengthen and to destroy. There are drugs enough in that
collection to save you, to cure you all; but none of you know how to use
them, nor what medicines to ask for, nor what portions to take; so that the
greater part of you swallow a wrong dose, and die of the remedy!”
“But if the town be the apothecary's shop, what, in the plan of your idea,
stands for the apothecary?” asked an old gentleman, who perceived at what
Tomlinson was driving.
“The apothecary, sir,” answered Augustus, stealing his notion from
Clifford, and sinking his voice lest the true proprietor should overhear him
(Clifford was otherwise employed),—“the apothecary, sir, is the LAW! It is
the law that stands behind the counter, and dispenses to each man the dose
he should take. To the poor it gives bad drugs gratuitously; to the rich, pills
to stimulate the appetite; to the latter, premiums for luxury; to the former,
only speedy refuges from life! Alas! either your apothecary is but an
ignorant quack, or his science itself is but in its cradle. He blunders as much
as you would do if left to your own selection. Those who have recourse to
him seldom speak gratefully of his skill. He relieves you, it is true,—but of
your money, not your malady; and the only branch of his profession in
which he is an adept is that which enables him to bleed you! O mankind!”
continued Augustus, “what noble creatures you ought to be! You have keys
to all sciences, all arts, all mysteries, but one! You have not a notion how

you ought to be governed; you cannot frame a tolerable law, for the life and
soul of you! You make yourselves as uncomfortable as you can by all sorts
of galling and vexatious institutions, and you throw the blame upon 'Fate.'
You lay down rules it is impossible to comprehend, much less to obey; and
you call each other monsters, because you cannot conquer the impossibility!
You invent all sorts of vices, under pretence of making laws for preserving
virtue; and the anomalous artificialities of conduct yourselves produce, you
say you are born with; you make a machine by the perversest art you can
think of, and you call it, with a sigh, 'Human Nature.' With a host of good
dispositions struggling at your breasts, you insist upon libelling the
Almighty, and declaring that he meant you to be wicked. Nay, you even call
the man mischievous and seditious who begs and implores you to be one jot
better than you are. O mankind! you are like a nosegay bought at Covent
Garden. The flowers are lovely, the scent delicious. Mark that glorious hue;
contemplate that bursting petal! How beautiful, how redolent of health, of
nature, of the dew and breath and blessing of Heaven, are you all! But as for
the dirty piece of string that ties you together, one would think you had
picked it out of the kennel.”
So saying, Tomlinson turned on his heel, broke away from the crowd,
and solemnly descended the hill. The party of pleasure slowly followed; and
Clifford, receiving an invitation from the squire to partake of his family
dinner, walked by the side of Lucy, and felt as if his spirit were drunk with
the airs of Eden.
A brother squire, who among the gayeties of Bath was almost as forlorn
as Joseph Brandon himself, partook of the Lord of Warlock's hospitality.
When the three gentlemen adjourned to the drawing-room, the two elder sat
down to a game at backgammon, and Clifford was left to the undisturbed
enjoyment of Lucy's conversation. She was sitting by the window when
Clifford joined her. On the table by her side were scattered books, the
charm of which (they were chiefly poetry) she had only of late learned to
discover; there also were strewn various little masterpieces of female
ingenuity, in which the fairy fingers of Lucy Brandon were especially
formed to excel. The shades of evening were rapidly darkening over the
empty streets; and in the sky, which was cloudless and transparently clear,
the stars came gradually out one by one, until,—

“As water does a sponge, so their soft light

Filled the void, hollow, universal air.”

Beautiful evening! (if we, as well as Augustus Tomlinson, may indulge in
an apostrophe)—beautiful evening! For thee all poets have had a song, and
surrounded thee with rills and waterfalls and dews and flowers and sheep
and bats and melancholy and owls; yet we must confess that to us, who in
this very sentimental age are a bustling, worldly, hard-minded person,
jostling our neighbours, and thinking of the main chance,—to us thou art
never so charming as when we meet thee walking in thy gray hood through
the emptying streets and among the dying sounds of a city. We love to feel
the stillness where all, two hours back, was clamour. We love to see the
dingy abodes of Trade and Luxury—those restless patients of earth's
constant fever—contrasted and canopied by a heaven full of purity and
quietness and peace. We love to fill our thought with speculations on man,
even though the man be the muffin-man, rather than with inanimate objects,
—hills and streams,—things to dream about, not to meditate on. Man is the
subject of far nobler contemplation, of far more glowing hope, of a far purer
and loftier vein of sentiment, than all the “floods and fells” in the universe;
and that, sweet evening! is one reason why we like that the earnest and
tender thoughts thou excitest within us should be rather surrounded by the
labours and tokens of our species than by sheep and bats and melancholy
and owls. But whether, most blessed evening! thou delightest us in the
country or in the town, thou equally disposest us to make and to feel love!
Thou art the cause of more marriages and more divorces than any other
time in the twenty-four hours! Eyes that were common eyes to us before,
touched by thy enchanting and magic shadows, become inspired, and
preach to us of heaven. A softness settles on features that were harsh to us
while the sun shone; a mellow “light of love” reposes on the complexion
which by day we would have steeped “full fathom five” in a sea of Mrs.
Gowland's lotion. What, then, thou modest hypocrite! to those who already
and deeply love,—what, then, of danger and of paradise dost thou bring?
Silent, and stilling the breath which heaved in both quick and fitfully,
Lucy and Clifford sat together. The streets were utterly deserted; and the
loneliness, as they looked below, made them feel the more intensely not
only the emotions which swelled within them, but the undefined and
electric sympathy which, in uniting them, divided them from the world. The
quiet around was broken by a distant strain of rude music; and as it came

nearer, two forms of no poetical order grew visible. The one was a poor
blind man, who was drawing from his flute tones in which the melancholy
beauty of the air compensated for any deficiency (the deficiency was but
slight) in the execution. A woman much younger than the musician, and
with something of beauty in her countenance, accompanied him, holding a
tattered hat, and looking wistfully up at the windows of the silent street. We
said two forms; we did the injustice of forgetfulness to another,—a rugged
and simple friend, it is true, but one that both minstrel and wife had many
and moving reasons to love. This was a little wiry terrier, with dark piercing
eyes, that glanced quickly and sagaciously in all quarters from beneath the
shaggy covert that surrounded them. Slowly the animal moved onward,
pulling gently against the string by which he was held, and by which he
guided his master. Once his fidelity was tempted: another dog invited him
to play; the poor terrier looked anxiously and doubtingly round, and then,
uttering a low growl of denial, pursued—

“The noiseless tenour of his way.”

The little procession stopped beneath the window where Lucy and
Clifford sat; for the quick eye of the woman had perceived them, and she
laid her hand on the blind man's arm, and whispered him. He took the hint,
and changed his air into one of love. Clifford glanced at Lucy; her cheek
was dyed in blushes. The air was over; another succeeded,—it was of the
same kind; a third,—the burden was still unaltered; and then Clifford threw
into the street a piece of money, and the dog wagged his abridged and
dwarfed tail, and darting forward, picked it up in his mouth; and the woman
(she had a kind face!) patted the officious friend, even before she thanked
the donor, and then she dropped the money with a cheering word or two
into the blind man's pocket, and the three wanderers moved slowly on.
Presently they came to a place where the street had been mended, and the
stones lay scattered about. Here the woman no longer trusted to the dog's
guidance, but anxiously hastened to the musician, and led him with evident
tenderness and minute watchfulness over the rugged way. When they had
passed the danger, the man stopped; and before he released the hand which
had guided him, he pressed it gratefully, and then both the husband and the
wife stooped down and caressed the dog. This little scene—one of those
rough copies of the loveliness of human affections, of which so many are

scattered about the highways of the world—both the lovers had
involuntarily watched; and now as they withdrew their eyes,—those eyes
settled on each other,—Lucy's swam in tears.
“To be loved and tended by the one I love,” said Clifford, in a low voice,
“I would walk blind and barefoot over the whole earth!”
Lucy sighed very gently; and placing her pretty hands (the one clasped
over the other) upon her knee, looked down wistfully on them, but made no
answer. Clifford drew his chair nearer, and gazed on her, as she sat; the long
dark eyelashes drooping over her eyes, and contrasting the ivory lids; her
delicate profile half turned from him, and borrowing a more touching
beauty from the soft light that dwelt upon it; and her full yet still scarcely
developed bosom heaving at thoughts which she did not analyze, but was
content to feel at once vague and delicious. He gazed, and his lips trembled;
he longed to speak; he longed to say but those words which convey what
volumes have endeavoured to express and have only weakened by detail,
—“I love.” How he resisted the yearnings of his heart, we know not,—but
he did resist; and Lucy, after a confused and embarrassed pause, took up
one of the poems on the table, and asked him some questions about a
particular passage in an old ballad which he had once pointed to her notice.
The passage related to a border chief, one of the Armstrongs of old, who,
having been seized by the English and condemned to death, vented his last
feelings in a passionate address to his own home—his rude tower—and his
newly wedded bride. “Do you believe,” said Lucy, as their conversation
began to flow, “that one so lawless and eager for bloodshed and strife as
this robber is described to be, could be so capable of soft affections?”
“I do,” said Clifford, “because he was not sensible that he was as
criminal as you esteem him. If a man cherish the idea that his actions are
not evil, he will retain at his heart all its better and gentler sensations as
much as if he had never sinned. The savage murders his enemy, and when
he returns home is not the less devoted to his friend or the less anxious for
his children. To harden and embrute the kindly dispositions, we must not
only indulge in guilt but feel that we are guilty. Oh! many that the world
load with their opprobrium are capable of acts—nay, have committed acts
—which in others the world would reverence and adore. Would you know
whether a man's heart be shut to the power of love,—ask what he is, not to
his foes, but to his friends! Crime, too,” continued Clifford, speaking fast

and vehemently, while his eyes flashed and the dark blood rushed to his
cheek,—“crime,—what is crime? Men embody their worst prejudices, their
most evil passions, in a heterogeneous and contradictory code; and
whatever breaks this code they term a crime. When they make no
distinction in the penalty—that is to say, in the estimation—awarded both to
murder and to a petty theft imposed on the weak will by famine, we ask
nothing else to convince us that they are ignorant of the very nature of guilt,
and that they make up in ferocity for the want of wisdom.”
Lucy looked in alarm at the animated and fiery countenance of the
speaker. Clifford recovered himself after a moment's pause, and rose from
his seat, with the gay and frank laugh which made one of his peculiar
characteristics. “There is a singularity in politics, Miss Brandon,” said he,
“which I dare say you have often observed,—namely, that those who are
least important are always most noisy, and that the chief people who lose
their temper are those who have nothing to gain in return.”
As Clifford spoke, the doors were thrown open, and some visitors to Miss
Brandon were announced. The good squire was still immersed in the
vicissitudes of his game; and the sole task of receiving and entertaining “the
company,” as the chambermaids have it, fell, as usual, upon Lucy.
Fortunately for her, Clifford was one of those rare persons who possess
eminently the talents of society. There was much in his gay and gallant
temperament, accompanied as it was with sentiment and ardour, that
resembled our beau-ideal of those chevaliers, ordinarily peculiar to the
Continent,—heroes equally in the drawing-room and the field. Observant,
courteous, witty, and versed in the various accomplishments that combine
(that most unfrequent of all unions!) vivacity with grace, he was especially
formed for that brilliant world from which his circumstances tended to
exclude him. Under different auspices, he might have been—Pooh! we are
running into a most pointless commonplace; what might any man be under
auspices different from those by which his life has been guided? Music
soon succeeded to conversation, and Clifford's voice was of necessity put
into requisition. Miss Brandon had just risen from the harpsichord, as he sat
down to perform his part; and she stood by him with the rest of the group
while he sang. Only twice his eye stole to that spot which her breath and
form made sacred to him; once when he began, and once when he
concluded his song. Perhaps the recollection of their conversation inspired
him; certainly it dwelt upon his mind at the moment,—threw a richer flush

over his brow, and infused a more meaning and heartfelt softness into his
tone.

STANZAS.

When I leave thee, oh! ask not the world what that heart
Which adores thee to others may be!
I know that I sin when from thee I depart,
But my guilt shall not light upon thee!

My life is a river which glasses a ray
That hath deigned to descend from above;
Whatever the banks that o'ershadow its way,
It mirrors the light of thy love.

Though the waves may run high when the night wind awakes,
And hurries the stream to its fall;
Though broken and wild be the billows it makes,
Thine image still trembles on all!”

While this ominous love between Clifford and Lucy was thus finding
fresh food in every interview and every opportunity, the unfortunate
Mauleverer, firmly persuaded that his complaint was a relapse of what he
termed the “Warlock dyspepsia,” was waging dire war with the remains of
the beef and pudding, which he tearfully assured his physicians “were
lurking in his constitution.” As Mauleverer, though complaisant, like most
men of unmistakable rank, to all his acquaintances, whatever might be their
grade, possessed but very few friends intimate enough to enter his sick-
chamber, and none of that few were at Bath, it will readily be perceived that
he was in blissful ignorance of the growing fortunes of his rival; and to say
the exact truth, illness, which makes a man's thoughts turn very much upon
himself, banished many of the most tender ideas usually floating in his
mind around the image of Lucy Brandon. His pill superseded his passion;
and he felt that there are draughts in the world more powerful in their
effects than those in the phials of Alcidonis.—[See Marmontel's pretty tale
of “Les Quatres Flacons.”]—He very often thought, it is true, how pleasant
it would be for Lucy to smooth his pillow, and Lucy to prepare that mixture;
but then Mauleverer had an excellent valet, who hoped to play the part
enacted by Gil Blas towards the honest Licentiate, and to nurse a legacy
while he was nursing his master. And the earl, who was tolerably good-
tempered, was forced to confess that it would be scarcely possible for any
one “to know his ways better than Smoothson.” Thus, during his illness, the
fair form of his intended bride little troubled the peace of the noble adorer.

And it was not till he found himself able to eat three good dinners
consecutively, with a tolerable appetite, that Mauleverer recollected that he
was violently in love. As soon as this idea was fully reinstated in his
memory, and he had been permitted by his doctor to allow himself “a little
cheerful society,” Mauleverer resolved to go to the rooms for an hour or
two.
It may be observed that most great personages have some favourite place,
some cherished Baiae, at which they love to throw off their state, and to
play the amiable instead of the splendid; and Bath at that time, from its
gayety, its ease, the variety of character to be found in its haunts, and the
obliging manner in which such characters exposed themselves to ridicule,
was exactly the place calculated to please a man like Mauleverer, who loved
at once to be admired and to satirize. He was therefore an idolized person at
the city of Bladud; and as he entered the rooms he was surrounded by a
whole band of imitators and sycophants, delighted to find his lordship
looking so much better and declaring himself so convalescent. As soon as
the earl had bowed and smiled, and shaken hands sufficiently to sustain his
reputation, he sauntered towards the dancers in search of Lucy. He found
her not only exactly in the same spot in which he had last beheld her, but
dancing with exactly the same partner who had before provoked all the
gallant nobleman's jealousy and wrath. Mauleverer, though not by any
means addicted to preparing his compliments beforehand, had just been
conning a delicate speech for Lucy; but no sooner did the person of her
partner flash on him than the whole flattery vanished at once from his
recollection. He felt himself grow pale; and when Lucy turned, and seeing
him near, addressed him in the anxious and soft tone which she thought due
to her uncle's friend on his recovery, Mauleverer bowed, confused and
silent; and that green-eyed passion, which would have convulsed the mind
of a true lover, altering a little the course of its fury, effectually disturbed
the manner of the courtier.
Retreating to an obscure part of the room, where he could see all without
being conspicuous, Mauleverer now employed himself in watching the
motions and looks of the young pair. He was naturally a penetrating and
quick observer, and in this instance jealousy sharpened his talents; he saw
enough to convince him that Lucy was already attached to Clifford; and
being, by that conviction, fully persuaded that Lucy was necessary to his
own happiness, he resolved to lose not a moment in banishing Captain

Clifford from her presence, or at least in instituting such inquiries into that
gentleman's relatives, rank, and respectability as would, he hoped, render
such banishment a necessary consequence of the research.
Fraught with this determination, Mauleverer repaired at once to the
retreat of the squire, and engaging him in conversation, bluntly asked him
who the deuce Miss Brandon was dancing with.
The squire, a little piqued at this brusquerie, replied by a long eulogium
on Paul; and Mauleverer, after hearing it throughout with the blandest smile
imaginable, told the squire, very politely, that he was sure Mr. Brandon's
good-nature had misled him. “Clifford!” said he, repeating the name,
—“Clifford! It is one of those names which are particularly selected by
persons nobody knows,—first, because the name is good, and secondly,
because it is common. My long and dear friendship with your brother
makes me feel peculiarly anxious on any point relative to his niece; and,
indeed, my dear William, overrating, perhaps, my knowledge of the world
and my influence in society, but not my affection for him, besought me to
assume the liberty of esteeming myself a friend, nay, even a relation of
yours and Miss Brandon's; so that I trust you do not consider my caution
impertinent.”
The flattered squire assured him that he was particularly honoured, so far
from deeming his lordship (which never could be the case with people so
distinguished as his lordship was, especially!) impertinent.
Lord Mauleverer, encouraged by this speech, artfully renewed, and
succeeded, if not in convincing the squire that the handsome captain was a
suspicious character, at least in persuading him that common prudence
required that he should find out exactly who the handsome captain was,
especially as he was in the habit of dining with the squire thrice a week, and
dancing with Lucy every night.
“See,” said Mauleverer, “he approaches you now; I will retreat to the
chair by the fireplace, and you shall cross-examine him,—I have no doubt
you will do it with the utmost delicacy.”
So saying, Mauleverer took possession of a seat where he was not
absolutely beyond hearing (slightly deaf as he was) of the ensuing colloquy,
though the position of his seat screened him from sight. Mauleverer was
esteemed a man of the most punctilious honour in private life, and he would

not have been seen in the act of listening to other people's conversation for
the world.
Hemming with an air and resettling himself as Clifford approached, the
squire thus skilfully commenced the attack “Ah, ha! my good Captain
Clifford, and how do you do? I saw you (and I am very glad, my friend, as
every one else is, to see you) at a distance. And where have you left my
daughter?”
“Miss Brandon is dancing with Mr. Muskwell, sir,” answered Clifford.
“Oh! she is! Mr. Muskwell,—humph! Good family the Muskwells,—
came from Primrose Hall. Pray, Captain, not that I want to know for my
own sake, for I am a strange, odd person, I believe, and I am thoroughly
convinced (some people are censorious, and others, thank God, are not!) of
your respectability,—what family do you come from? You won't think my
—my caution impertinent?” added the shrewd old gentleman, borrowing
that phrase which he thought so friendly in the mouth of Lord Mauleverer.
Clifford coloured for a moment, but replied with a quiet archness of look,
“Family! oh, my dear sir, I come from an old family,—a very old family
indeed.”
“So I always thought; and in what part of the world?”
“Scotland, sir,—all our family come from Scotland; namely, all who live
long do,—the rest die young.”
“Ay, particular air does agree with particular constitutions. I, for instance,
could not live in all countries; not—you take me—in the North!”
“Few honest men can live there,” said Clifford, dryly.
“And,” resumed the squire, a little embarrassed by the nature of his task,
and the cool assurance of his young friend,—“and pray, Captain Clifford,
what regiment do you belong to?”
“Regiment?—oh, the Rifles!” answered Clifford. (“Deuce is in me,”
muttered he, “if I can resist a jest, though I break my neck over it.”)
“A very gallant body of men,” said the squire.
“No doubt of that, sir!” rejoined Clifford.
“And do you think, Captain Clifford,” renewed the squire, “that it is a
good corps for getting on?”