 Chapter 1 of the Boarding House, from Sketches by Boz. Mrs. Tibbs was, beyond all dispute, the most tidy, fidgety, thrifty little personage that ever inhaled the smoke of London. And the house of Mrs. Tibbs was decidedly the neatest in all great Quorum Street. The area and the area steps and the street door and the street door steps and the brass handle and the door plate and the knocker and the fan light were all as clean and bright as indefatigable whitewashing and half-stoning and scrubbing and rubbing could make them. The wonder was that the brass door plate with the interesting inscription Mrs. Tibbs had never caught fire from constant friction, so perseveringly was it polished. There were meat-safe-looking blinds in the parlour windows, blue and gold curtains in the drawing room and spring roller blinds as Mrs. Tibbs was want in the pride of her heart to boast all the way up. The bell lamp in the passage looked as clear as a soap bubble. You could see yourself in all the tables and French polish yourself on any one of the chairs. The banisters were beeswaxed and the very stair-wires made your eyes wink. They were so glittering. Mrs. Tibbs was somewhat short of stature and Mr. Tibbs was by no means a large man. He had moreover very short legs, but by way of indemnification his face was peculiarly long. He was to his wife what the zero is in ninety. He was of some importance with her. He was nothing without her. Mrs. Tibbs was always talking. Mr. Tibbs rarely spoke, but if it were at any time possible to put in a word when he should have said nothing at all, he had that talent. Mrs. Tibbs detested long stories and Mr. Tibbs had won the conclusion of which had never been heard by his most intimate friends. It always began. I recollect when I was in the volunteer corps in eighteen hundred and six, but as he spoke very slowly and softly and his better half very quickly and loudly, he rarely got beyond the introductory sentence. He was a melancholy specimen of the storyteller. He was the wandering Jew of Joe Millerism. Mr. Tibbs enjoyed a small independence from the pension list, about forty-three pounds, fifteen shillings and tenpence a year. His father, mother and five interesting sins from the same stock drew alike some from the revenue of a grateful country, though for what particular service was never known. But as this said, independence was not quite sufficient to furnish two people with all the luxuries of this life. It had occurred to the busy little spouse of Tibbs that the best thing she could do with a legacy of seven hundred pounds would be to take and furnish a tolerable house, somewhere in that partially explored track of country which lies between the British Museum and a remote village called Somers Town for the reception of borders. Great Corum Street was the spot pitched upon. The house had been furnished accordingly, two female servants and a boy engaged and an advertisement inserted in the morning papers, informing the public that six individuals would meet with all the comforts of a cheerful musical home in a select private family, reciting within ten minutes' walk of everywhere. Answers out of number were received with all sorts of initials. All the letters of the alphabet seemed to be seized with a sudden wish to go out boarding and lodging. For luminous was the correspondence between Mrs Tibbs and the applicants, and most profound was the secrecy observed. He didn't like this. I couldn't think of putting up with that. IOU didn't think the terms would suit him, and GR had never slept in a French bed. The result, however, was that three gentlemen became inmates of Mrs Tibbs' house on terms which were agreeable to all parties. In went the advertisement again, and a lady with her two daughters proposed to increase not their families but Mrs Tibbs. Charming woman that Mrs Mapleson said Mrs Tibbs, as she and her spouse were sitting by the fire after breakfast, the gentlemen having gone out on their several avocations. Charming woman indeed repeated little Mrs Tibbs, more by way of siliqui than anything else, for she never thought of consulting her husband, and the two daughters are delightful. We must have some fish today. They'll join us at dinner for the first time. Mr Tibbs placed the poker at right angles with the fire shovel, and assayed to speak, but recollected he had nothing to say. The young ladies continued Mrs T, have kindly volunteered to bring their own piano. Tibbs thought of the volunteer's story, but did not venture it. A bright thought struck him. It's very likely, said he. Pray don't lean your head against the paper, interrupted Mrs Tibbs, and don't put your feet on the steel fender. That's worse. Tibbs took his head from the paper, and his feet from the fender, and proceeded. It's very likely that one of the young ladies may set a cap at young Mr Simpson, and you know a marriage of what, shrieked Mrs Tibbs? Tibbs modestly repeated his former suggestion. I beg you, won't mention such a thing, said Mrs T. A marriage indeed to rob me of my borders. No, not for the world. Tibbs thought in his own mind that the event was by no means unlikely, but as he never argued with his wife, he put a stop to the dialogue by observing it was time to go to business. He always went out at ten o'clock in the morning, and returned at five in the afternoon with an exceedingly dirty face, and smelling mouldy. Nobody knew what he was, or where he went, but Mrs Tibbs used to say with an air of great importance, that he was engaged in the city. The Miss Maplesons and their accomplished parent arrived in the course of the afternoon in a hackney coach, and accompanied by a most astonishing number of packages, trunks, bonnet boxes, muff boxes and parasols, guitar cases and parcels of all imaginable shapes, done up in brown paper, and fastened with pins filled the passage. Then there was such a running up and down with the luggage, such scampering for warm water for the ladies to wash in, and such a bustle and confusion and heating of servants and curling irons, Little Mrs Tibbs was quiet in her element, bustling about, talking incessantly, and distributing towels and soap like a head nurse in a hospital. The house was not restored to a usual state of quiet repose until the ladies were safely shut up in their respective bedrooms, engaged in the important occupation of dressing for dinner. Aunties Galzansum inquired Mr Simpson of Mr Septimus Hicks, another of the boarders, as they were amusing themselves in the drawing room before dinner by lolling on sofas and contemplating their pumps. Don't know replied Mr Septimus Hicks, who was a tallish, white-faced young man with spectacles and a black ribbon around his neck instead of a neckerchief, a most interesting person, a poetical walker of the hospitals, and a very talented young man. He was fond of lugging into conversation all sorts of quotations from Don Juan, without fettering himself by the propriety of their application, in which particularly he was remarkably independent. The other, Mr Simpson, was one of those young men who are in society what walking gentlemen are on the stage, only infinitely worse skilled in his vocation than the most indifferent artist. He was as empty-headed as the Great Bell of St. Paul's, always dressed according to the caricatures published in the monthly fashion and spelt character with a K. I saw a devilish number of parcels in the passage when I came home, simp at Mr Simpson. Materials for the toilet, no doubt, rejoined the Don Juan reader. Much linen, lace, and several pair of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, with other articles of ladies fair to keep them beautiful or leave them neat. Is that from Milton, inquired Mr Simpson? No from Byron, returned Mr Hicks with a look of contempt. He was quite sure of his author because he had never read any other. Hush, here come the gals, and they both commenced talking in a very loud key. Mrs Mapleson and the Miss Maplesons, Mr Hicks. Mr Hicks, Mrs Mapleson and the Miss Maplesons, said Mrs Tibbs with a very red face, for she had been super-intending the cooking operations below stairs, and looked like a wax doll on a sunny day. Mr Simpson, I beg your pardon. Mr Simpson, Mrs Mapleson and the Miss Maplesons, and vice versa. The gentlemen immediately began to slide about with much politeness, and to look as if they wished their arms had been legs. So little did they know what to do with them. The ladies smiled, curtsied, and glided into chairs, and dived for dropped pocket handkerchiefs. The gentlemen leaned against two of the curtain pegs. Mrs Tibbs went through an admiral bit of serious pantomime with a servant who had come up to ask some question about the fish sauce. And then the two young ladies looked at each other, and everybody else appeared to discover something very attractive in the pattern of the fender. Julia, my love, said Mrs Mapleson to her youngest daughter, in a tone loud enough for the remainder of the company to hear. Julia? Yes, ma. Don't stoop. This was said for the purpose of directing general attention to Miss Julia's figure, which was undeniable. Everybody looked at her accordingly, and there was another pause. We had the most uncivil Hackney Coachman today, you can imagine, said Mrs Mapleson to Mrs Tibbs in a confidential tone. Dear me, replied the hostess, with an air of great commiseration. She couldn't say more, for the servant again appeared at the door, and commenced telegraphing most earnestly to her misses. I think Hackney Coachman generally are uncivil, said Mr Hicks in his most insinuating tone. Positively, I think they are, replied Mrs Mapleson, as if the idea had never struck her before. And Cabman, too, said Mr Simpson. This remark was a failure for no one intimated by word or sign the slightest knowledge of the manners and customs of Cabman. Robinson, what do you want? said Mrs Tibbs to the servant, who, by way of making her presence known to her mistress, had been giving sundry hems and sniffs outside the door during the preceding five minutes. Please, ma'am, master wants his clean things, replied the servant, taken off her guard. The two young men turned their faces to the window and went off like a couple of bottles of ginger beer. The ladies put their handkerchiefs to their mouths, and little Mrs Tibbs bustled out of the room to give Tibbs his clean linen, and the servant warning. Mr Carlton, the remaining board, assuredly afterwards made his appearance and proved a surprising promoter of the conversation. Mr Carlton was a superannuated bow, an old boy. He used to say of himself that although his features were not regularly handsome, they were striking. They certainly were. It was impossible to look at his face without being reminded of a chubby street or knocker, half lion, half monkey. The comparison might be extended to his whole character and conversation. He had stood still while everything else had been moving. He never originated a conversation or started an idea, but if any commonplace topic were broached or to pursue the comparison, if anybody lifted him up, he would hammer away with surprising rapidity. He had the tick-dollareur occasionally, and then he might be said to be muffled because he did not make quite as much noise as at other times, when he would go on prosing rat-a-tat-tat the same thing over and over again. He had never been married, but he was still on the lookout for a wife with money. He had a life interest worth about three hundred pounds a year. He was exceedingly vain and inordinately selfish. He had acquired the reputation of being the very pink of politeness, and he walked around the park and up Regent Street every day. This respectable personage had made up his mind to render himself exceedingly agreeable to Mrs. Mapleson. Indeed, the desire of being as amiable as possible extended itself to the whole party. Mrs. Tibbs, having considered it an admirable little bit of management to represent to the gentleman that she had some reason to believe the ladies were fortunes, and to hint to the ladies that all the gentlemen were eligible. A little flirtation, she thought, might keep her house full without leading to any other result. Mrs. Mapleson was an enterprising widow of about fifty, shrewd, scheming and good-looking. She was amably anxious on behalf of her daughters, in proof whereof she used to remark that she would have no objection to marry again if it would benefit her dear girls. She could have no other motive. The dear girls themselves were not at all insensible to the merits of a good establishment. One of them was twenty-five. The other three years younger. They had been at different watering places for four seasons. They had gambled at libraries, read books in balconies, sold at fancy fairs, danced at assemblies, talked sentiment. In short, they had done all that industrious girls could do, but as yet to no purpose. What a magnificent dresser, Mr. Simpson is, whispered Matilda Mapleson to her sister Julia. Splendid returned the youngest. The magnificent individual alluded to wore a maroon-colored dress coat with a velvet collar and cuffs of the same tint, very like that which usually invests the form of the distinguished unknown who condescends to play the swell in the pantomime at Richardson's show. What whiskers, said Miss Julia, charming, responded her sister. And what hair? His hair was like a wig and distinguished by that insinuating wave which graces the shining locks of those chef-derve of arts surmounting the waxen images in Bartolo's window in Regent Street. His whiskers, meeting beneath his chin, seemed strings were with to tie it on. Air science had rendered them unnecessary by her patent invisible springs. Dinners on the table, ma'am, if you please, said the boy who now appeared for the first time in a revived black coat of his masters. Oh, Mr. Carlton, will you lead Mrs. Mapleson? Thank you. Mr. Simpson offered his arm to Miss Julia, Mr. Septimus Hicks escorted the lovely Matilda, and the procession proceeded to the dining room. Mr. Tibbs was introduced, and Mr. Tibbs bobbed up and down to the three ladies like a figure in a Dutch clock, with a powerful spring in the middle of his body, and then dived rapidly into his seat at the bottom of the table, delighted to screen himself behind the soup-terrain which he could just see over, and that was all. The borders were seated, a lady and gentleman alternately, like the layers of bread and meat in a plate of sandwiches. And then Mrs. Tibbs directed James to take off the covers. Salmon, lobster sauce, giblet soup, and the usual accompaniments were discovered. Potatoes like petrofactions, and bits of toasted bread the shape and size of blank dice. Soup for Mrs. Mapleson, my dear, said the bustling Mrs. Tibbs. She always called her husband, my dear, before company. Tibbs, who had been eating his bread and calculating how long it would be before he could get any fish, helped the soup in a hurry, made a small island on the tablecloth, and put his glass upon it to hide it from his wife. Miss Julia, shall I assist you to some fish, if you please? Very little, oh, plenty, thank you. A bit about the size of a walnut put upon the plate. Julia is a very little eater, said Mrs. Mapleson to Mr. Carlton. The knocker gave a single wrap. He was busy eating the fish with his eyes, so he only ejaculated. Ah, my dear, said Mrs. Tibbs to her spouse after everyone else had been helped. What do you take? The inquiry was accompanied with a look intimating that he mustn't say fish, because there was not much left. Tibbs thought the frown referred to the island on the tablecloth. He therefore coolly replied, why, I'll take a little fish, I think. Did you say fish, my dear, another frown? Yes, dear, replied the villain, with an expression of acute hunger depicted in his countenance. The tears almost started to Mrs. Tibbs' eyes as she helped her wretch of a husband as she inwardly called him to the last edible bit of salmon on the dish. James, take this to your master, and take away your master's knife. This was deliberate revenge, as Tibbs never could eat fish without one. He was, however, constrained to chase small particles of salmon round and round his plate with a piece of bread and a fork, the number of successful attempts being about one in seventeen. Take away, James, said Mrs. Tibbs, as Tibbs swallowed the fourth mouthful, and away went the plates like lightning. I'll take a bit of bread, James, said the poor master of the house, more hungry than ever. Never mind your master now, James, said Mrs. Tibbs. See you about the meat. This was conveyed in the tone in which ladies usually give admonitions to servants in company, that is to say a low one, but which, like a stage whisper from its peculiar emphasis, is most distinctly heard by everybody present. A pause ensued before the table was replenished. A sort of parenthesis in which Mr. Simpson, Mr. Carlton and Mr. Hicks produced, respectively, a bottle of saterne, butchellus, and sherry, and took wine with everybody except Tibbs. No one ever thought of him. Between the fish and an intimated sirloin there was a prolonged interval. Here was an opportunity for Mr. Hicks. He could not resist the singularly appropriate quotation, but beef is rare within these oxless aisles. Goat's flesh there is no doubt, and kid and mutton, but when a holiday upon them smiles, a joint upon their barbarous spits they put on. Very ungentlemanly behaviour, thought little Mrs. Tibbs, to talk in that way. Ah, said Mr. Carlton, filling his glass. Tom Moore is my poet, and mine, said Mrs. Mapleson. And mine, said Mrs. Julia, and mine, added Mr. Simpson. Look at his compositions resumed the knocker. To be sure, said Simpson, with confidence. Look at Don Juan, replied Mr. Septimus Hicks. Julia's letter suggested Mrs. Matilda. Can anything be grander than the fire worshipers, inquired Mrs. Julia? To be sure, said Simpson. Or Paradise and the Peary, said the old bow. Yes, or Paradise and the Pear, repeated Simpson, who thought he was getting through it capitalally. It's all very well, replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who, as we have before hinted, never had read anything but Don Juan. Where will you find anything finer than the description of the Siege at the commencement of the Seventh Canto? Talking of the Siege, said Tibbs, with a mouth full of bread. When I was in the Volunteer Corps in 1806, our commanding officer was Sir Charles Rampart. And one day, when we were exercising on the ground on which London University now stands, he says, says he, Tibbs, calling me from the ranks, Tibbs, tell your master, James, interrupted Mrs. Tibbs in an awfully distinct tone. Tell your master if he won't carve those fowls to send them to me. The discomforted Volunteer, instantly set to work and carved the fowls, almost as expeditiously as his wife operated on the haunch of mutton. Whether he ever finished the story is not known, but if he did, nobody heard it. As the ice was now broken and the new inmates more at home, every member of the company felt more at ease. Tibbs himself most certainly did, because he went to sleep immediately after dinner. Mr. Hicks and the ladies discussed most eloquently about poetry and the theatres and Lord Chesterfield's letters, and Mr. Carlton followed up what everybody said with continuous double knocks. Mrs. Tibbs highly approved of every observation that fell from Mrs. Mapleson, and, as Mr. Simpson sat with a smile upon his face and said yes, but certainly at intervals of about five minutes each, he received full credit for understanding what was going forward. The gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room very shortly after they had left the dining-pala. Mrs. Mapleson and Mr. Carlton played cribbage, and the young people amused themselves with music and conversation. The Miss Mapleson sang the most fascinating duets and accompanied themselves on guitars, ornamented with bits of ethereal blue ribbon. Mr. Simpson put on a pink waistcoat and said he was in raptures, and Mr. Hicks felt in the seventh heaven of poetry, or the seventh canto of Don Juan, it was the same thing to him. Mrs. Tibbs was quite charmed with the newcomers, and Mr. Tibbs spent the evening in his usual way. He went to sleep, and woke up, and went to sleep again, and woke at supper-time. We are not about to adopt the license of novel writers and to let years roll on, but we will take the liberty of requesting the reader to suppose that six months have elapsed since the dinner we have described, and that Mrs. Tibbs' borders have, during that period, sang and danced, and gone to theatres and exhibitions together, as ladies and gentlemen wherever they board often do. And we will beg them, the period we have mentioned having elapsed, to imagine father, that Mr. Septimus Hicks received in his own bedroom a front attic at an early hour one morning a note from Mr. Carlton, requesting the favour of seeing him as soon as convenient to himself in his, Carlton's, dressing room, on the second floor back. Tell Mr. Carlton I'll come down directly, said Mr. Septimus, to the boy. Stop! Is Mr. Carlton unwell? Inquired this excited walker of hospitals as he put on a bed-furniture-looking dressing gown? Not as I know as on it, sir, replied the boy. Please, sir, he looked rather room as it might be. Ah, there's no proof of his being ill returned Hicks unconsciously. Very well, I'll be down directly. Downstairs ran the boy with the message, and down went the excited Hicks himself, almost as soon as the message was delivered. Tap, tap, come in, door opens and discovers Mr. Carlton sitting in an easy chair. Mutual shakes of the hand exchanged and Mr. Septimus Hicks motioned to a seat. A short pause. Mr. Hicks coughed, and Mr. Carlton took a pinch of snuff. It was one of those interviews when neither party knows what to say. Mr. Septimus Hicks broke the silence. I received a note, he said, very tremulously, in a voice like a punch with a cold. Yes, returned the other. You did. Exactly. Yes. Now, although this dialogue must have been satisfactory, both gentlemen felt there was something more important to be said. Therefore they did as most men in such a situation would have done. They looked at the table with a determined aspect. The conversation had been opened, however, and Mr. Carlton had made up his mind to continue it with a regular double-knock. He always spoke very pompously. Hicks said he, I have sent for you in consequence of certain arrangements which are pending in this house connected with a marriage. With a marriage, gasped Hicks, compared with whose expression of countenance hamlets when he sees his father's ghost is pleasing and composed. With a marriage, returned the knocker, I have sent for you to prove the great confidence I can repose in you. And will you betray me, eagerly inquired Hicks, who in his alarm had even forgotten to quote, I betray you? Won't you betray me? Never. No one shall know to my dying day that you had a hand in the business," responded the agitated Hicks, with an inflamed countenance and his hair standing on end as if he were on the stool of an electrifying machine in full operation. People must know that, some time or other, within a year, I imagine, said Mr. Carlton with an air of great self-complacency. We may have a family. We? That won't affect you, surely. The devil it won't. No, how can it? said the bewildered Hicks. Carlton was too much enrapt in the contemplation of his happiness to see the equivoc between Hicks and himself, and threw himself back in his chair. Oh, Matilda sighed the antique bowl in a lackadaisical voice and applying his right hand a little to the left of the fourth button on his waistcoat, counting from the bottom. Oh, Matilda. What Matilda inquired Hicks starting up? Matilda Mapleson responded the other, doing the same. I marry her tomorrow morning, said Hicks. It's false, rejoined his companion. I marry her. You marry her? I marry her. You marry Matilda Mapleson? Matilda Mapleson. Miss Mapleson marry you? Miss Mapleson? No, Mrs. Mapleson. Good heavens, said Hicks, falling into his chair. You marry the mother, and I the daughter. Most extraordinary circumstance, replied Mr. Carlton, and rather inconvenient, too. For the fact is that owing to Matilda's wishing to keep her intentions secret from her daughters until the ceremony had taken place, she doesn't like applying to any of her friends to give her away. I entertain an objection to making the affair known to my acquaintance just now, and the consequence is that I sent to you to know whether you'd oblige me by acting as father. I should have been most happy, I assure you, said Hicks in a tone of condolence. But you see, I shall be acting as bridegroom. One character is frequently a consequence of the other, but it is not usual to act in both at the same time. There's Simpson, I have no doubt he'll do it for you. I don't like to ask him, replied Carlton, he's such a donkey. Mr. Septimus Hicks looked up at the ceiling and down at the floor. At last an idea struck him. Let the man of the house, Tibbs, be the father, he suggested. Then he quoted as peculiarly applicable to Tibbs and the pair, O powers of heaven, what dark eyes meet she there! Tis her father's fixed upon the pair. The idea has struck me already, said Mr. Carlton, but you see, Matilda, for what reason, I know not, is very anxious that Mrs. Tibbs should know nothing about it till it is all over. It's a natural delicacy, after all, you know. He's the best-natured little man in existence if you manage him properly, said Mr. Septimus Hicks. Tell him not to mention it to his wife, and assure him she won't mind it, and he'll do it directly. My marriage is to be a secret one, on account of the mother and my father. Therefore he must be enjoined to secrecy. A small double knock like a presumptuous single one was that instant heard at the street door. It was Tibbs, it could be no one else, for no one else occupied five minutes in rubbing his shoes. He had been out to pay the baker's bill. Mr. Tibbs called Mr. Carlton in a very bland tone looking over the banisters. Sir, replied he of the dirty face, will you have the kindness to step upstairs for a moment? Certainly, sir, said Tibbs, delighted to be taken notice of. The bedroom door was carefully closed, and Tibbs, having put his hat on the floor, as most him had men do, and been accommodated with a seat, looked as astounded as if he were suddenly summoned before the familiars of the inquisition. A rather unpleasant occurrence, Mr. Tibbs, said Carlton in a very portentous manner, obliges me to consult you, and to beg you will not communicate what I am about to say to your wife. Tibbs acquiesced, wondering in his own mind what the duce the other could have done, and imagining that at least he must have broken the best decanters. Mr. Carlton resumed, I am placed, Mr. Tibbs, in rather an unpleasant situation. Tibbs looked at Mr. Septimus Hicks as if he thought Mr. H is being in the immediate vicinity of his fellow border, might constitute the unpleasantness of his situation. But as he did not exactly know what to say, he merely ejaculated the monosyllable law. Now continued the knocker. Let me beg you will exhibit no manifestations of surprise which may be overheard by the domestics, when I tell you, command your feelings of astonishment, that two inmates of this house intend to be married tomorrow morning, and he drew back his chair several feet to perceive the effect of the unlooked-for announcement. If Tibbs had rushed from the room staggered downstairs and fainted in the passage, if he had instantaneously jumped out of the window into the muse behind the house in an agony of surprise, his behaviour would have been much less inexplicable to Mr. Carlton than it was. When he put his hands into his inexpressible pockets and said with half a chuckle, just so. You are not surprised, Mr. Tibbs, inquired Mr. Carlton. Bless you, no, sir, return, Tibbs. After all, it's very natural when two young people get together, you know. Certainly, certainly, Sir Carlton, with an indescribable air of self-satisfaction. You don't think it's at all an out-of-the-way affair, then, asked Mr. Septimus Hicks, who had watched the countenance of Tibbs in mute astonishment. No, sir, replied Tibbs. I was just the same at his age. He actually smiled when he said this. How devilishly well I must carry my years, thought the delighted old bow, knowing he was at least ten years older than Tibbs at that moment. Well, then, to come to the point at once, he continued, I have to ask you whether you will object to actor's father on the occasion. Certainly not, replied Tibbs, still without evincing an atom of surprise. You will not? Decidedly not, reiterated Tibbs, still as calm as a pot of porter with the head-off. Mr. Carlton seized the hand of the petticoat-governed little man and vowed eternal friendship from that hour. Hicks, who was all admiration and surprise, did the same. Now confess, asked Mr. Carlton of Tibbs, as he picked up his hat. Were you not a little surprised? I believe you, replied that illustrious person holding up one hand. I believe you, when I first heard of it. So sudden, said Septimus Hicks. So strange to ask me, you know, said Tibbs. So odd altogether, said the superannuated love-maker, and then all three laughed. I say, said Tibbs, shutting the door which had previously opened and giving full vent to a hitherto-cooked-up giggle. What bothers me is what will his father say? Mr. Septimus Hicks looked at Mr. Carlton. Yes, but the best of it is, said the latter, giggling in his turn. I haven't got a father, ha-ha. You haven't got a father, no, but he has, said Tibbs. Who has, inquired Septimus Hicks? Why him, him who? Do you know my secret? Do you mean me? You know, you know who I mean, said Tibbs, with a knowing wing. For heaven's sake, whom do you mean, inquired Mr. Carlton? Who, like Septimus Hicks, was all but out of his senses at the strange confusion? Why, Mr. Simpson, of course, replied Tibbs. Who else could I mean? I see it all, said the buyer and quota. Simpson marries Julia Mapleson tomorrow morning. Undoubtedly replied Tibbs thoroughly satisfied. Of course he does. It would require the pencil of Hogarth to illustrate, our feeble pen is inadequate to describe, the expression which the countenances of Mr. Carlton and Mr. Septimus Hicks respectively assumed at this unexpected announcement. Equally impossible is it to describe, although perhaps it is easier for our lady readers to imagine, what arts the three ladies could have used so completely to entangle their separate partners. Whatever they were, however they were successful. The mother was perfectly aware of the intended marriage of both daughters, and the young ladies were equally acquainted with the intention of their estimable parent. They agreed, however, that it would have a much better appearance if each feigned ignorance of the other's engagement. And it was equally desirable that all the marriages should take place on the same day, to prevent the discovery of one clandestine alliance operating prejudiciously on the others. Hence the mystification of Mr. Carlton and Mr. Septimus Hicks, and the pre-engagement of the unwary Tibbs. On the following morning Mr. Septimus Hicks was united to Miss Matilda Mapleson. Mr. Simpson also entered into a holy alliance with Miss Julia, Tibbs acting as father. His first appearance in that character, Mr. Carlton not being quite so eager as the two young men, was rather struck by the double discovery. And as he had found some difficulty in getting anyone to give the lady away, it occurred to him that the best mode of obviating the inconvenience would be not to take her at all. The lady, however, appealed, as her counsel said on the trial of the cause, Mapleson vs. Carlton, for a breach of promise, with a broken heart to the outraged laws of her country. She recovered damages to the amount of a thousand pounds, which the unfortunate knocker was compelled to pay. Mr. Septimus Hicks, having walked the hospitals, took it into his head to walk off altogether. His injured wife is at present reciting with her mother at Boulogne. Mr. Simpson having the misfortune to lose his wife six weeks after marriage, by her eloping with an officer during his temporary sojourn in the flee prison, in consequence of his inability to discharge her little man to a maker's bill, and being disinherited by his father, who died soon afterwards, was fortunate enough to obtain a permanent engagement at a fashionable haircutters, hairdressing being a science to which he had frequently directed his attention. In this situation he had necessarily many opportunities of making himself acquainted with the habits and style of thinking of the exclusive portion of the nobility of this kingdom. To this fortunate circumstance are we indebted for the production of those brilliant efforts of genius, his fashionable novels, which so long as good taste, unsullied by exaggeration, Kant and Quackery, continues to exist, cannot fail to instruct and amuse the thinking portion of the community. It only remains to add that this complication of disorders completely deprived poor Mrs. Tibbs of all her inmates, except the one whom she could have best spared, her husband, that wretched little man returned home on the day of the wedding in a state of partial intoxication, and, under the influence of wine, excitement and despair, actually dared to brave the anger of his wife. Since that ill-fated hour he has constantly taken his meals in the kitchen, to which apartment it is understood his witticisms will be in future confined, a turn-up bedstead having been conveyed thereby Mrs. Tibbs' order for his exclusive accommodation. It is possible that he will be enabled to finish, in that seclusion, his story of the volunteers. The advertisement has again appeared in the morning papers. Results must be reserved for another chapter. End of chapter 1 of The Boarding House from Sketches by Boz. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by David Lazarus. Sketches by Boz. by Charles Dickens. Illustrated by George Crookshank. Chapter 1, Part 2 of Tales. Well, said little Mrs. Tibbs to herself as she sat in the front parlor of the Corum Street mansion one morning in a piece of stair-carpet off the first landings. Things have not turned out so badly either, and if I only get a favorable answer to the advertisement, we shall be full again. Mrs. Tibbs resumed her occupation of making worsted latticework in the carpet, anxiously listening to the Tupperney postman who was hammering his way down the street at the rate of a penny a knock. The house was as quiet as possible. There was only one low sound to be heard. It was the unhappy Tibbs cleaning the gentleman's boots in the back kitchen and accompanying himself with a buzzing noise in wretched mockery of humming a tune. The postman drew near the house. He paused. So did Mrs. Tibbs. A knock, a bustle, a letter, post-paid. t.i presents comp2i.t and t.i begs to say that I see the advertisement and she will do herself the pleasure of calling on you at twelve o'clock tomorrow morning. t.i has to apologize to i.t for the shortness of the notice, but I hope it will not inconvenience you. I remain yours truly Wednesday evening. Little Mrs. Tibbs perused the document over and over again, and the more she read it, the more she was confused by the mixture of the first and third person. The substitution of the i for the t.i and the transition from the i.t to the u. The writing looked like a skein of thread in a tangle and the note was ingeniously folded into a perfect square with the direction squeezed up into the right-hand corner as if it were ashamed of itself. The back of the epistle was pleasingly ornamented with a large red wafer which, with the addition of divers ink stains, bore a marvellous resemblance to a black beetle trodden upon. One thing, however, was perfectly clear to the perplexed Mrs. Tibbs. Somebody was to call at twelve. The drawing room was forthwith dusted for the third time that morning. Three or four chairs were pulled out of their place and a corresponding number of books carefully upset in order that there might be a due absence of formality. Down went the piece of stair-cop it before noticed and up ran Mrs. Tibbs to make herself tidy. The clock of New St. Pancras Church struck twelve and the foundling with laudable politeness did the same ten minutes afterwards. St. Something else strung the quarter and then there arrived a single lady with a double knock in a police the colour of the interior of a damson pie, a bonnet of the same with a regular conservatory of artificial flowers, a white veil and a green parasol with a cobweb border. The visitor who was also very fat and red-faced was shown into the drawing room. Mrs. Tibbs presented herself and the negotiation commenced. I called in conquests of an advertisement, said the stranger, in a voice as if she had been playing a set of pans-pipes for a fortnight leaving off. Yes, said Mrs. Tibbs, rubbing her hands very slowly and looking the applicant full in the face, two things she did on such occasions. Money is no object whatever to me, said the lady, so much as living in the state of retirement and intrusion. Mrs. Tibbs, as a matter of course, acquiesced in such an exceedingly natural desire. I am constantly attended by a medical man, resumed the police-wearer. I have been a shocking unitarian for some time. I indeed have very little peace since the death of Mr. Bloss. Mrs. Tibbs looked at the relic of the departed Bloss and thought he must have had very little peace in his time. Of course she could not say so, so she looked very sympathizing. I shall be a good deal of trouble to you, said Mrs. Bloss, but for that trouble I am willing to pay. I am going through a course of treatment which renders attention necessary. I have one mutton chop in bed at half-past eight and another at ten every morning. Mrs. Tibbs, as in duty-bound, expressed the pity she felt for anybody placed in such a distressing situation, and the carnivorous Mrs. Bloss proceeded to arrange the various preliminaries with wonderful dispatch. Now, mind, said the lady after terms were arranged, I am to have the second floor front for my bedroom. Yes, ma'am. And you'll find room for my little servant Agnes. Oh, certainly. And I can have one of these cellars in the area for my bottled porter. With the greatest pleasure James shall get it ready for you by Saturday. And I'll join the company at the breakfast table on Sunday morning, said Mrs. Bloss. I shall get up on purpose. Very well. It turned Mrs. Tibbs in her most amiable tone, for satisfactory reference had been given and required, and it was quite certain that the newcomer had plenty of money. It's rather singular, continued Mrs. Tibbs, with what was meant for a most bewitching smile, that we have a gentleman now with us who is in a very delicate state of health, a Mr. Gobler. His apartment is in the back drawing-room. Inquired Mrs. Bloss. The next room repeated the hostess. Oh, how very promiscuous, ejaculated the widow. Boy, he hardly ever gets up, said Mrs. Tibbs in a whisper. Law! cried Mrs. Bloss in an equally low tone. And when he is up, said Mrs. Tibbs, we never can persuade him to go to bed again. Dear me, said the astonished Mrs. Bloss, drawing her chair near a Mrs. Tibbs, what is Mrs. complained? Why, the fact is, replied Mrs. Tibbs with her most communicative air, he has no stomach whatever. No what? Inquired Mrs. Bloss with a look of the most indescribable alarm, and no stomach, repeated Mrs. Tibbs with a shake of the head. Lord bless us! What an extraordinary case! Goss, Mrs. Bloss, as if she understood the communication in its literal sense, and was without a stomach finding it necessary to bawl anywhere. When I say he has no stomach, explained the chatty little Mrs. Tibbs, I mean that his digestion is so much impaired, and his interior so deranged, that his stomach is not of the least used to him. In fact, it's an inconvenience. Never heard such a thing in my life, exclaimed Mrs. Bloss. Why, he's worse than I am. Oh, yes, replied Mrs. Tibbs, certainly. She said this with great confidence for the dams and police suggested that Mrs. Bloss, at all events, was not suffering under Mr. Gobler's complaint. You have quite incited my curiosity, said Mrs. Bloss as she rose to depart. How I long to see him! Well, he generally comes down once a week, replied Mrs. Tibbs. I dare say you'll see him on Sunday. With this consolatory promise Mrs. Bloss was obliged to be contented. She accordingly walked slowly down the stairs, detailing her complaints all the way, and Mrs. Tibbs followed her, uttering an explanation of compassion at every step. James, who looked very gritty for he was cleaning the knives, fell up the kitchen stairs and opened the street door, and after mutual farewells Mrs. Bloss slowly departed down the shady side of the street. It is almost superfluous to say that the lady whom we have just shown out at the street door, and whom the two female servants are now inspecting from the second floor windows was exceedingly vulgar, ignorant, and selfish. Her deceased better half had been an eminent cork-cutter, in which capacity he had amassed a decent fortune. He had no relative but his nephew and no friend but his cook. The former had the insolence one morning to ask for the loan of fifteen pounds, and by way of retaliation he married the latter next day. He made a will immediately afterwards containing a burst of honest indignation against his nephew, who supported himself and two sisters on a hundred a year, and a bequest of his whole property to his wife. He felt ill after breakfast and died after dinner. There is a mantelpiece looking tablet in a civic parish church, setting forth his virtues, and deploring his loss. He never dishonored a bill or gave away a hateney. The relict and soul-executrix of this noble-minded man was an odd mixture of shrewdness and simplicity, liberality, and meanness. Bed up as she had been, she knew no mode of living so agreeable as a boarding house, and having nothing to do and nothing to wish for, she naturally imagined she must be ill. An impression which was most ridiculously promoted by her medical attendant, Dr. Waskey, and her handmade agnes, both of whom doubtless for good reasons encouraged all her extravagant notions. Since the catastrophe recorded in the last chapter, Mrs. Tibbs had been very shy of young lady-borders. Her present inmates were all lords of the creation, and she availed herself of the opportunity of their assemblage at the dinner-table to announce the arrival of Mrs. Bloss. The gentleman received the communication with stoical indifference, and Mrs. Tibbs devoted all her energies to prepare for the reception of the valedutinarian. The second floor front was scrubbed and washed and flanneled till the wet went through to the drawing-room's ceiling. Clean white counterpains and curtains and napkins, water-bottles as clear as crystal, blue jugs and mahogany furniture were blended and increased the comfort of the apartment. The warming pan was in constant requisition and a fire-lighted in the room every day. The chattels of Mrs. Bloss was forwarded by instalments. First there came a large hamper of Guinness stout, and an umbrella, then a train of trunks, then a pair of clogs and a band-box, then an easy chair with an air-cushion, then a variety of suspicious-looking and, though last not least, Mrs. Bloss and Agnes, the latter in a cherry-coloured merino dress, open-work stockings, and shoes with sandals like a disguised columbine. The installation of the Duke of Wellington as Chancellor of the University of Oxford was nothing in point of bustle and turmoil to the installation of Mrs. Bloss in her new quarters. True, there was no bright doctors of England who deliver a classical address on the occasion, but there were several other old women present, who spoke quite as much to the purpose, and understood themselves equally well. The chop-eater was so fatigued with the process of removal that she declined, leaving her room until the following morning, so a mutton-chop, pickle, a pill, a pint-bottle of stout, and other medicines were carried upstairs for her consumption. I think, ma'am, inquired the inquisitive agnes of her mistress after they had been in the house some three hours. Well, do you think, ma'am, the lady of the house is married? Married, said Mrs. Bloss, taking the pill and a draft of Guinness. Married? Unpossible. She is indeed, ma'am," returned the columbine, and her husband, ma'am, lives—hey, he lives in the kitchen, ma'am, in the kitchen. Yes, ma'am, and he—he—he—the housemaid says he never goes into the parlour except on Sundays, and that Mrs. Tibbs makes him clean the gentleman's boots, and that he cleans the windows too sometimes, and that one morning early, when he was in the front balcony cleaning the drawing-room windows, he called out to a gentleman on the opposite side of the way, who used to live here. Ah, Mr. Carlton, sir, how are you? And it laughed till Mrs. Bloss was in serious apprehension of her chuckling herself into a fit. Well, I never, said Mrs. Bloss. Yes, and please, ma'am, the servants give him gin and water sometimes, and then he cries, and says he hates his wife and the boarders, and wants to tickle them. Tickle the boarders? exclaimed Mrs. Bloss seriously alarmed. No, ma'am, not the boarders, the servants. Oh, is that all? said Mrs. Bloss. He wanted to kiss me as I came up the kitchen stairs just now, said Agnes indignantly, but I gave it to him a little wretch. This intelligence was but too true. A long course of snubbing and neglect, his days spent in the kitchen and his nights in the turn-up bed-stead, had completely broken the little spirit that the unfortunate volunteer had ever possessed. He had no one to whom he could detail his injuries to the servants, and they were almost of necessity his chosen confidants. It is no less strange than true, however, that the little weaknesses which he had incurred, most probably during his military career, seemed to increase as his comforts diminished. He was actually a sort of journeyman Giovanni of the basement story. The next morning, being Sunday, breakfast was laid in the front parlor at ten o'clock. Nine was the usual time, but the family always breakfasted an hour later on sabbath. Tibbs enrobed himself in his Sunday costume, a black coat and exceedingly short thin trousers, with a very large white waistcoat, white stockings, and cravat, and bluture boots, and mounted to the parlor aforesaid. Nobody had come down, and he amused himself by drinking the contents of the milk-pot with a teaspoon. A pair of slippers were heard descending the stairs. Tibbs flew to a chair, and a stern-looking man of about fifty with very little hair on his head and a Sunday paper in his hand entered the room. "'Good morning, Mr. Evanson,' said Tibbs, very humbly, with something between a nod and a bow. "'How do you do, Mr. Tibbs?' replied he of the slippers as he sat himself down and began to read his paper without saying another word. "'Hey, Mr. Whispottel in town today? Do you know, sir?' inquired Tibbs, just for the sake of saying something. "'I shouldn't think it was,' replied the stern gentleman. He was whistling the light guitar in the next room to mine at five o'clock this morning. "'He was very fond of whistling,' said Tibbs, with a slight smirk. "'Yes, I ain't,' was the laconic reply. Mr. John Evanson was in dependent income, arising chiefly from various houses he owned in different suburbs. He was very morose and discontented. He was a thorough radical and used to attend a great variety of public meetings for the express purpose of finding fault with everything that was proposed. Mr. Whispottel on the other hand was a high Tory. He was a plaque in the woods and forests office, which he considered rather an aristocratic world. He knew the peerage by heart and could tell you offhand where any illustrious personage lived. He had a good set of teeth and a capital tailor. Mr. Evanson looked on all these qualifications with profound contempt, and the consequence was that the two were always disputing much to the edification of the rest of the house. It should be added that in addition to his partiality for whistling Mr. Whispottel had a great career of his singing powers. There were two other borders besides the gentlemen in the back drawing room. Mr. Alfred Tomkins and Mr. Frederick O'Bleary. Mr. Tomkins was a clerk in a wine house. He was a connoisseur in paintings and had a wonderful eye for the picturesque. Mr. O'Bleary was an Irishman, recently imported. He was in a perfectly wild state and had come over to England to be an apothecary, a clerk in a government office, an actor, a reporter, or anything else that turned up. He was not particular. He was on familiar terms with two small Irish members and got franks for everybody in the house. He felt convinced that his intrinsic merits must procure him a high destiny. He wore shepherd's plaid inexpressibles and used to look under all the ladies' bonnets as he walked along the street. His manners and appearance reminded one of Orson. Here comes Mr. Wisbottle, said Tibbs, and Mr. Wisbottle forthwith appeared in blue slippers and a shawl dressing-gown whistling D.P. Assur. Good morning, sir, said Tibbs again. It was almost the only thing he ever said to anybody. How are you, Tibbs? Condescendingly replied the amateur, and he walked to the window and whistled louder than ever. Pretty air that, said Evansson with a snarl and without taking his eyes off the paper. I'm glad you like it, replied Wisbottle, highly gratified. Don't you think it would sound better if you whistled it a little louder, inquired the mastiff? No, I don't think it would, rejoined the unconscious, Wisbottle. I'll tell you what, Wisbottle, said Evansson, who had been bottling up his anger for some hours. The next time you feel disposed to whistle the light guitar at five o'clock in the morning, I'll trouble you to whistle it with your head out of the window. If you don't I'll learn the triangle. I will buy the entrance of Mrs. Tibbs with the keys and a little basket interrupted the threat and prevented its conclusion. Mrs. Tibbs apologized for being down rather late. The bell was run, James brought up the urn, and received an unlimited order for dry toast and bacon. Tibbs sat down at the bottom of the table, and began eating water-cresses like a Nebuchadnezzar. Mr. O'Bleary appeared and Mr. Alfred Tomkins, the compliments of the morning were exchanged and tea was made. God bless me, exclaimed Tomkins, who had been looking out at the window. Here, Wisbottle, break up here, make haste. Mr. Wisbottle started from the table and everyone looked up. Do you see? said the connoisseur, placing Wisbottle in the right position. Some more this way there. Do see how splendidly the light falls upon the left side of that broken chimney pot at number forty-eight. Dear me, I see," replied Wisbottle, in a tune of admiration. I never saw an object so beautiful against the clear sky in my life, ejaculated Alfred. Everybody except John Evans echoed the sentiment, for Mr. Tomkins had a great carry to find out beauties which no one else could discover. He certainly deserved it. Or he frequently observed a chimney pot in College Green Dublin, which had a much better effect, said the patriotic obliary, who never allowed Ireland to be outdone on any point. The assertion was received with obvious incredulity, for Mr. Tomkins declared that no other chimney pot in the United Kingdom broken or unbroken could be so beautiful as the one at number forty-eight. The room door was suddenly thrown open, and Agnes appeared leading in Mrs. Bloss, who was dressed in a geranium-coloured Muslim gown, and displayed a gold watch of huge dimensions, a chain to match, and a splendid assortment of rings with enormous stones. A general rush was made for the chair, and a regular introduction took place. Mr. John Evanson made a slight inclination of the head, Mr. Frederick Obliary, Mr. Alfred Collins, and Mr. Westbottle bowed like the mandarins in a grocer's shop. Tibbs rubbed hands and went round in circles. He was observed to close one eye and to assume a clockwork sort of expression with the other. This had been considered as a wink, and it has been reported that Agnes was its object. We repelled the Calumnean Challenge contradictions. Mrs. Tibbs inquired after Mrs. Bloss's health in a low gloss with a supreme contempt for the memory of Linley Murray answered the various questions in a most satisfactory manner and a pause ensued during which the eatables disappeared with awful rapidity. You must have been very much pleased with the appearance of the ladies going to the drawing-room the other day, Mr. Obliary, said Mrs. Tibbs, hoping to start a topic. Yes, replied Orson with a mouthful of toast. Never saw anything like it before, I suppose, suggested Whispottle. Nor except the Lord Lieutenant's Levies, replied Obliary. Are they at all equal to our drawing-rooms? Oh, entirely superior. Cal, I don't know, said the aristocratic Whispottle. The dowager and marchioness of public cash was most magnificently dressed, and so was the baron, slapin' Bakkenhausen. What was he presented on, inquired Evansson on his arrival in England? I thought so, growled the radical. You never hear of these fellows being presented on their going away again. They're no better than that, unless somebody pervades them in an appaintment, said Mrs. Bloss, joining in the conversation in a faint voice. Well, said Whispottle, evading the point, it's a splendid sight. And did it never occur to you, inquired the radical, who never would be quiet, did it never occur to you that you pay for these ornaments of society? It certainly has occurred to me, said Whispottle, who thought his answer was a poser. It has occurred to me, and I am willing to pay for them. Well, and it has occurred to me too, replied John Evansson, and I ain't willing to pay for them. And why should I? I say why should I? Continued the politician laying down the paper and knocking his knuckles on the table. There are two great principles. Dimon, a cup of tea, if you please, dear, interrupted tips, and supply. May I trouble you to hand this tea to Mr. Tips, said Mrs. Tips, interrupting the argument and unconsciously illustrating it. The thread of the oratus discourse was broken. He drank his tea and resumed his paper. If it's very fine, said Mr. Alfred Tompkins, addressing the company in general, I shall ride down to Richmond today and come back by the steamer. There are some splendid effects of light and shade on the Thames. The contrast between the blueness of the sky and the yellow water is frequently exceedingly beautiful. Mr. Westbottle Hummed, flow on now, shining river. We have some splendid steamboothers in Ireland, said O' Bleary. Certainly, said Mrs. Bloss, delighted to find a subject broached in which she could take part. The accommodations are extraordinary, said O' Bleary. Extraordinary, return, Mrs. Bloss. When Mr. Bloss was alive, he was promiscuously obligated to go to Ireland on business. I went with him, and rarely the manner in which the ladies and gentlemen were accommodated with births is not creditable. Tips, who had been listening to the dialogue, looked aghast and evinced along inclination to ask a question, but was checked by a look from his wife. Mr. Westbottle laughed and said Tompkins had made a pun and Tompkins laughed too, and said he had not. The remainder of the meal passed off as breakfast usually do. Conversation flagged and people played with their teaspoons. The gentlemen looked out of the window, walked about the room, and when they got near the door, dropped off one by one. Tips retired to the back parlor by his wife's order to check the Greengrocer's weekly account, and ultimately Mrs. Tips and Mrs. Bloss were left alone together. Dear, said the latter, I feel alarmingly faint. It's all very singular. It certainly was, for she had eaten four pounds of solids that morning. By the by, said Mrs. Bloss, I've not seen Mr. What's his name yet? Mr. Gobler suggested Mrs. Tips. Yes. Oh, said Mrs. Tips, he is a most mysterious person. He has his meals regularly up-stairs, and sometimes don't leave his room for weeks together. I haven't seen or heard nothing of him, reported Mrs. Bloss. I dare say you'll hear him tonight. Repied Mrs. Tips, he generally groans a good deal on Sunday evenings. I never felt such an interest in one of my life, ejaculated Mrs. Bloss. Little double-knock interrupted the conversation. Dr. Waskey was announced and duly shown in. He was a little man with a red face, dressed, of course, in black, with a stiff white neckerchief. He had a very good practice and plenty of money, which he had amassed by invariably humoring the worst fancies of all females, of all the families he had ever been introduced into. Mrs. Tips offered to retire but was entreated to stay. Well, my dear ma'am, and how are we? inquired Waskey in a soothing tone. Very ill, Dr. Very ill, said Mrs. Bloss in a whisper. Ah, we must take care of ourselves, we must indeed, said the obsequious Waskey as he felt the pulse of his interesting patient. How is our appetite? Mrs. Bloss shook her head. Our friend requires great care, said Waskey, appealing to Mrs. Tips, who, of course, assented. I hope, however, with the blessing of Providence, was unable to make her quite stout again. Mrs. Tips wondered in her own mind what the patient would be when she was made quite stout. We must take stimulants, said the cunning Waskey. Plenty of nourishment, and above all we must keep our nerves quiet. We positively must not give way to our sensibilities. We must take all we can get, concluded the doctor, as he pocketed his fee, and we must keep quiet. Dear man, exclaimed Mrs. Bloss as the doctor stepped into the carriage. Charming creature indeed, quite a ladies man, said Mrs. Tips, and Dr. Waskey rattled away to make fresh gulls of delicate females and pocket fresh fees. As we had occasion in a former paper to describe a dinner at Mrs. Tips's, and as one meal went off very like another on all ordinary occasions, we will not fatigue our readers by entering into any other detailed accounts of the domestic economy of the establishment. We will therefore proceed to events, merely premising that the mysterious tenant of the back drawing-room was a lazy, selfish, hypochondriac, always complaining and never ill, as his character in many respects closely assimilated to that of Mrs. Bloss, a very warm friendship soon between them. He was tall, thin, and pale. He always fancied he had a severe pain somewhere or other, and his face invariably wore a pinched, screwed-up expression. He looked indeed like a man who had got his feet in a tub of exceedingly hot water against his will. For two or three months after Mrs. Bloss' first appearance in Quorum Street, John Evanson was observed to become every day more sarcastic or ill-natured, and there was a degree of additional importance in his manner, which clearly showed that he fancied he had discovered something which he only wanted a proper opportunity of divulging. He found it at last. One evening the different inmates of the house were assembled in the drawing-room, engaged in their ordinary occupations. Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss were sitting at a small card-table near the center window, playing cribbage. Mr. Westbottle was describing semi-circles on the music stool, turning over the leaves of a book on the piano, and humming most melodiously. Alfred Tomkins was sitting at the round-table, and his elbows duly squared, making a pencil sketch of a head considerably larger than his own. Obliary was reading Horace, and trying to look as if he understood it, and John Evanson had drawn his chair close to Mrs. Tibbs' work-table, and was talking to her very earnestly in a low tone. I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs said the radical laying his forefinger on the Muslim she was at work on, I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs, that nothing but the interest I take in your welfare would induce me to make this communication. I repeat, I fear Westbottle is endeavoring to gain the affections of that young woman, Agnes, and that he is in the habit of meeting her in the storeroom on the first floor over the leads. From my bedroom I distinctly heard voices there last night. I opened my door immediately, and crept very softly onto the landing there. I saw Mr. Tibbs, who it seems had been disturbed also. Oh, bless me, Mr. Tibbs, you change color. Oh, no, no, it's nothing. Return, Mrs. T, in a hurried manner. It's only key to the room. A flash ejaculated Mrs. Bloss from the card-table. That's good for four. If I thought it was Mr. Westbottle, said Mrs. Tibbs after a pause, he should leave this house instantly. Go, said Mrs. Bloss again, and if I thought continued the hostess with the most threatening air, if I thought he was assisted by Mr. Tibbs, one for his knob, said Gobbler. Oh, said Evansson in a most soothing tone. He liked to make mischief. I should hope Mr. Tibbs was not in any way implicated. He always appeared to me very harmless. I have generally found him so. So, poor little Mrs. Tibbs crying like a watering pot. Hush, hush, pray, Mrs. Tibbs, consider. We shall be observed, but pray don't, said John Evansson, fearing his whole plan would be interrupted. We shall set the matter at rest with the utmost care, and I shall be most happy to assist you in doing so. Mrs. Tibbs moaned at her thanks. When you think everyone has retired to rest tonight, said Evansson very pompously, if you'll meet me without a light just outside my bedroom door by the staircase window, I think we can ascertain who the parties really are, and you will afterwards be enabled to proceed as you think proper. Mrs. Tibbs was easily persuaded. Her curiosity was excited. Her jealousy was roused, and the arrangement was forthwith made. She resumed her work, and John Evansson walked up and down the room with his hands in his pockets, looking as if nothing had happened. The game of cribbage was over, and conversation began again. Well, Mr. O'Bleary, said the humming-top turning round on his pivot, and in the company, what did you think of Vauxhall the other night? Oh, it's very fair, replied Orson, who had been enthusiastically delighted with the whole exhibition. Never saw anything like that Captain Ross's set out, eh? No, returned the patriot with his usual reservation, except in Doblin. I saw the counter-canky, and Captain Fitz Thompson in the gardens, said Wispottle, appeared much delighted. Then it must be beautiful, snarled Evansson. I think the white bears is particularly well done, suggested Mrs. Bloss. In their shaggy white coats they look just like polar bears. Don't you think they do, Mr. Evansson? I think they look a great deal more like omnibus-cads on all fours," replied the discontented one. Upon they all, I should have liked our evening very well, gosh gobbler, only I caught a desperate cold which increased quickly. I was obliged to have several shower-baths before I could leave my room. Capital things, those shower-baths, ejaculated Wispottle. Excellent," said Tomkins. Delightful, claimed Obliary. He had once seen one outside of Tinman's. Disgusting machines rejoined Evansson, who extended his dislike to almost every created object masculine, feminine or neuter. Disgusting, Mr. Evansson, said a tone of strong indignation. Disgusting! Look at their utility! Consider how many lives they have saved by promoting perspiration. Promoting perspiration, indeed, growled John Evansson, topping short in his walk across the large squares in the pattern of the carpet. I was ass enough to be persuaded some time ago to have one in my bedroom. God, I was in it once, and it effectually cured me, for the mere sight of it threw me a fuse perspiration for six months afterwards. A titter followed the announcement, and before it had subsided, James brought up the tray, containing the remains of a leg of lamb, which had made its debut at dinner. Bread, cheese, and atom of butter in a forest of parsley, one pickled walnut, and the third of another, and so forth. The boys disappeared and returned again with another tray, containing glasses and jugs of hot and cold water. The gentlemen brought in their spirit bottles. The housemaid placed divers, plated bedroom candlesticks under the card table, and the servants retired for the night. Chairs were drawn around the table, and the conversation proceeded in the customary manner. John Evansson, who never ate supper, lulled on the sofa, and amused himself by contradicting everybody. Obliriate as much as he could conveniently marry, and Mrs. Tibbs felt a due degree of indignation there at. Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Blass conversed most affectionately on the subject of pill-taking and other innocent amusements, and Tompkins and Wisperel got into an argument. That is to say, they both talked very loudly and vehemently, each flattering himself that he had got some advantage about something, and neither of them having more than a very indistinct idea of what they were talking about. An hour or two passed away, and the borders and their plated candlesticks retired in pairs to their respective bedrooms. John Evansson pulled off his boots, locked his door, and determined to sit up until Mr. Gobler had retired. He always sat in the drawing-room an hour after everybody had left it, taking medicine and groaning. Great Corum Street was hushed into a state of profound repose. It was nearly two o'clock. A hackney coach now and then rumbled slowly by, and occasionally some stray lawyer's clerk on his way home to Somersetown struck his iron heel on the top of the coal cell with a noise resembling the click of a smoke-jack. A low monotonous gushing sound was heard, which added considerably to the romantic dreariness of the scene. It was the water coming in at number eleven. He must be asleep by this time, said John Evansson to himself after waiting with exemplary patience for nearly an hour after Mr. Gobler had left the drawing-room. He listened for a few moments. The house was perfectly quiet. He extinguished his rush-light and opened his bedroom door. The staircase was so dark that it was impossible to see anything. Shhh! whispered the mischief-maker, making a noise like the first indications a Catherine wheel gives of the probability of its going off. Hush! whispered somebody else. Is that you, Mrs. Tibbs? Yes, sir. Where? Here. And the misty outline of Mrs. Tibbs appeared at the staircase window like the ghost of Queen Anne in the tense scene in Richard. This way, Mrs. Tibbs, whispered the delighted busybody, give me your hand, there, whoever these people are, they're in the storeroom now. For I have been looking down from my window, and I could see that they accidentally upset their candlestick and are now in darkness. You have no shoes on, have you? No, said little Mrs. Tibbs, who could hardly speak for trembling. Well, I have taken my boots off, so we can go down close to the storeroom and listen over the banisters. And downstairs they both crept accordingly, every board creaking like patent mangle on a Saturday afternoon. It's whispered and somebody else, I swear! exclaimed the radical in an energetic whisper when they had listened for a few moments. Hush! Pray, let's hear what they say! exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, the gratification of whose curiosity was now paramount to every other consideration. If I could but believe you, said a female voice coquettishly, I'd be bound to settle my Mrs. for life. What did she say, inquired Mr. Evanson, who was not quite so well situated as his companion? She says she'll settle her Mrs. life, replied Mrs. Tibbs, the rich, the plotting murderer. I know you want money, continued the voice which belonged to Agnes, and if you'd secure me the five hundred pound, I warrant she'd take fire soon enough. What's that, inquired Evanson again? He could just hear enough to want to hear more. I think she says she'll set the house on fire, replied the afraid in Mrs. Tibbs, but thank goodness I'm insured in the phoenix. The moment I have secured your mistress, my dear, said a man's voice and a strong Irish brogue, you may depend on having the money. Oh, bless my soul, it's Mr. O'Bleary! exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs in a parenthesis. The villain, said the indignant Mr. Evanson, the first thing to be done, continued the hibernian, is to poison Mr. Gobler's mind. Oh, certainly, returned Agnes. What's that, inquired Evanson again in an agony of curiosity and a whisper? He says she's to mind and poison Mr. Gobler, replied Mrs. Tibbs aghast at the sacrifice of human life. And in regard of Mrs. Tibbs, continued O'Bleary, Mrs. Tibbs shuddered. Hush! exclaimed Agneson in a tone of greatest alarm, just as Mrs. Tibbs was on the extreme verge of a fainting fit. Hush! exclaimed Evanson at the same moment to Mrs. Tibbs. There's somebody coming upstairs, said Agnes to O'Bleary. There's somebody coming downstairs, whispered Evanson to Mrs. Tibbs. Go into the parlour, sir, said Agnes to her companion. You'll get there before whoever it is gets to the top of the kitchen stairs. The drawing room, Mrs. Tibbs, whispered the astonished Evanson to his equally astonished companion and for the drawing room they both made, plainly hearing the rustling of two persons, one coming downstairs and one coming up. What can it be? exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs. It's like a dream. I wouldn't be found in this situation for the world. Nor I returned Evanson, who could never bear a joke at his own expense. Hush! here they are at the door. What fun! whispered one of the newcomers. It was Whispottle. Glorious! replied his companion in an equally low tone. This was Alfred Tomkins. Who would have thought it? I told you so. I said Whispottle in a low-knowing whisper. Lord bless you. He has paid a most extraordinary attention for the last two months. I saw him when I was sitting at the piano tonight. Well, do you know I didn't notice it? interrupted Tomkins. Not notice it? continued Whispottle. Bless you! I saw him whispering to her. And she crying, and then I swear I heard him say something about tonight when we were all in bed. They're talking of us. exclaimed the agonized Mrs. Tibbs as the painful suspicion and the sense of their situation flashed upon her mind. I know it. I know it. replied Evanson with a melancholy consciousness that there was no mode of escape. What can be done? We cannot both stop here. ejaculated Mrs. Tibbs in a state of partial derangement. I'll get up the chimney, replied Evanson, who really meant what he said. You can't, said Mrs. Tibbs in despair. You can't. It's a register stove. Hush, repeated John Evanson. Hush, hush, cried somebody downstairs. What a de-hushing, said Alfred Tomkins, who had begun to get rather bewildered. There they are, exclaimed the sapient Whispottle as a rustling noise was heard in the storeroom. Hark! whispered both the young men. Hark! repeated Mrs. Tibbs and Evanson. Let me alone, sir, said a female voice in the storeroom. Oh, Hagnus, cried another voice which clearly belonged to Tibbs for nobody else ever owned one like it. Oh, Hagnus, lovely creature. Be quiet, sir. Abounce. Hark! Be quiet, sir. I'm ashamed of you. Think of your wife, Mr. Tibbs. Be quiet, sir. My wife, exclaimed the valourious Tibbs, who was clearly under the influence of gin and water and a misplaced attachment. I ate her. Oh, Hagnus. When I was in the volunteer corps in 1800 and I declare I'll scream, be quiet, sir, will you? Another bounce and a scuffle. What's that? exclaimed Tibbs with a start. What's that? said Hagnus, stopping short. Why that? Ah, you have done it nicely now, sir, sobbed the frightened Hagnus, as a tapping was heard at Mrs. Tibbs's bedroom door which would have beaten any dozen woodpeckers hollow. Mrs. Tibbs? Mrs. Tibbs? Called out Mrs. Bloss. Mrs. Tibbs, pray you get up. Here, the imitation of a woodpecker was resumed with tenfold violence. Oh, dear, dear, exclaimed the Richard partner of the depraved Tibbs. She's knocking at my door. We must be discovered. What will they think? Mrs. Tibbs, Mrs. Tibbs? Screamed the woodpecker again. What's the matter? Shuddy gobbler bursting out of the back drawing-room like the dragon at Astley's. Oh, Mr. Gobbler! cried Mrs. Bloss with a proper approximation to hysterics. I think the house is on fire, or else there's thieves in it. I've heard the most dreadful noises. The W.L. shouted Gobbler again, bouncing back into his den in happy imitation of the aforesaid dragon and returning immediately with a lighted candle. Why, what's this? Whisp-ottle. Tom-ken-so-blary Hagnus? What the deuce? All up and dressed. Astonishing, said Mrs. Bloss who had run downstairs and taken Mr. Gobbler's arm. Called Mrs. Tibbs directly, somebody said Gobbler turning into the front drawing-room. What? Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evanson? Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evanson repeated everybody as the unhappy pair were discovered. Mrs. Tibbs seated in an arm-chair by the fireplace and Mr. Evanson standing by her side. We must leave the scene that ensued to the reader's imagination. We could tell you how Mrs. Tibbs' forthwith fainted away and how it required the united strength of Mr. Whisp-ottle and Mr. Alfred Tom-ken's to hold her in her chair, how Mr. Evanson explained, and how his explanation was evidently disbelieved, how Hagnus repelled the accusations of Mrs. Tibbs by proving that she was negotiating with Mr. Oblery to influence her mistress' affection on his behalf and how Mr. Gobbler threw a damp counterpane on the hopes of Mr. Oblery by avowing that he, Gobbler, had already proposed to and been accepted by Mrs. Bloss. How Hagnus was discharged from the lady's service, how Mr. Oblery discharged himself from Mrs. Tibbs' house without going through the form of previously discharging his bill and how that disappointed young gentleman rails against England and the English and vows there is no virtue or fine feeling extent except in Ireland. We repeat that we could tell all this, but we love to exercise our self-denial and we therefore prefer leaving it to be imagined. The lady whom we have hitherto described as Mrs. Bloss is no more. Mrs. Gobbler exists. Mrs. Bloss has left us forever in a secluded retreat in Newington Butts far, far removed from the noisy strife of that great boarding-house. The world, the enviable Gobbler and his pleasing wife revel in retirement, happy in their complaints, their table and their medicine, wafted through life by the grateful prayers of all the purveyors of animal food within three miles round. We would willingly stop here, but we have a painful duty imposed upon us to discharge. Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs have separated by mutual consent. Mrs. Tibbs receiving one moiety of forty-three pounds, fifteen shillings and tenpence, which we before stated to be the amount of her husband's annual income, and Mr. Tibbs the other. He is spending the evening of his days in retirement and he is spending also annually that small but honourable independence. He resides among the original settlers of Woolworth and it has been stated on unquestionable authority that the conclusion of the volunteer story has been heard in a small tavern in that respectable neighbourhood. The unfortunate Mrs. Tibbs has determined to dispose of the whole of her furniture by public auction and to retire from a residence in which she has suffered so much. Mr. Robbins has been applied to conduct the sale and the transcendent abilities of the literary gentleman connected with his establishment and now devoted to the task of drawing up the preliminary advertisement. It is to contain among a variety a brilliant matter seventy-eight words in large capitals and six original questions in inverted commas. End of chapter one, part two of Tales from Sketches by Boz by Charles Dickens. Recording by David Lazarus. Mr. Minns and his cousin. Mr. Augustus Minns was a bachelor of about forty as he said of about eight and forty as his friends said. He was always exceedingly clean, precise and tidy perhaps somewhat priggish and the most retiring man in the world. He usually wore a brown frock coat without a wrinkle light inexplicables without a spot a neat hankerchief with a remarkably neat tie and boots without a fault. Moreover he always carried a brown silk umbrella with an ivory handle. He was a clerk in Somerset House or as he said himself he held a responsible situation under government. He had a good and increasing salary in addition to some ten thousand pounds of his own invested in the funds and he occupied a first floor in Tavistock Street Covent Garden where he had resided for twenty years having been in the habit of quarrelling with his landlord the whole time regularly giving notice of his intention to quit on the first day of every quarter and as regularly countermanding it on the second. There were two classes of created objects which he held in the deepest and most unmingled horror. These were dogs and children. He was not unamiable but he could at any time have viewed the execution of a dog or the assassination of an infant with the liveliest satisfaction. Their habits were at variance with his love of order and his love of order was as powerful as his love of life. Mr. Augustus Minnes had no relations in all near London with the exception of his cousin Mr. Octavius Budden to whose son whom he had never seen for he disliked the father he had consented to become godfather by proxy. Mr. Budden having realised a moderate fortune by exercising the trade or calling of a corn chandler and having a great predilection for the country had purchased a cottage in the vicinity of Stamford Hill whether he retired with the wife of his bosom and his only son, Master Alexander Augustus Budden. One evening as Mr. and Mrs. B were admiring their son discussing his various merits talking over his education and disputing whether the classics should be made an essential part thereof the lady pressed so strongly upon her husband the propriety of cultivating the friendship of Mr. Minnes in behalf of their son that Mr. Budden at last made up his mind that it should not be his fault if he and his cousin were not in future more intimate. I'll break the ice, my love, said Mr. Budden stirring up the sugar at the bottom of his glass of brandy and water and casting a side-long look at his spouse to see the effect of the announcement of his determination by asking Minnes down to dine with our son Sunday. Then pray, Budden, right to your cousin at once," replied Mrs. Budden. Who knows? If we could only get him down here he might take a fancy to our Alexander and leave him his property. Alec, my dear, take your legs off the rail of the chair. Very true, said Mr. Budden, musing, very true indeed, my love. On the following morning, as Mr. Minnes was sitting at his breakfast-table, alternately biting his dry toast and casting a look upon the columns of his morning paper, which he always read from the title to the printer's name, he heard a loud knock at the street-door, which was shortly afterwards followed by the entrance of his servant who put into his hands a particularly small card on which was engraved in immense letters. Mr. Octavius Budden, Amelia Cottage, Mrs. B's name was Amelia, Poplar Walk, Stamford Hill, Budden, ejaculated Minnes, what can bring that vulgar man here? Say I'm asleep, say I'm out, and shall never be home again, anything to keep him downstairs. But please, sir, the gentleman's coming up," replied the servant, and the fact was made evident by an appalling creaking of boots on the staircase, accompanied by a pattering noise, the cause of which Minnes could not for the life of him divine. Show the gentleman in," said the unfortunate bachelor, exit servant and enter Octavius, preceded by a large white dog, dressed in a suit of fleecy hosiery with pink eyes, large ears, and no perceptible tail. The cause of the pattering on the stairs was but too plain. Mr. Augustus Minnes staggered beneath the shock of the dog's appearance. My dear fellow, how are you? said Budden as he entered. He always spoke at the top of his voice and always said the same thing half a dozen times. How are you, my hearty? How do you do, Mr. Budden? Pray take a chair. Politely stammered the discomforted Minnes. Thank you, thank you. Well, how are you, eh? Uncommonly well, thank you. Said Minnes, casting a diabolical look at the dog, who, with his hind legs on the floor and his forepaws resting on the table, was dragging a bit of bread and butter out of a plate, preparatory to devouring it, with the buttered side next to the carpet. Are you rogue? Said Budden to his dog. You see, Minnes, he's like me. Always at home, eh, my boy? He gared and precious, hot and hungry. I've walked all the way from Stamford Hill this morning. Have you had breakfast? Inquired Minnes. Oh, no. Kind of breakfast with you. So ring the bell, my dear fellow, will you? And let's have another cup and saucer. And the cold ham. Make myself at home, you see? Continued Budden, dusting his boots with a table napkin. Ha, ha, ha, upon my life I'm hungry. Minnes rang the bell and tried to smile. I decidedly never was so hot in my life. Continued Octavius, wiping his forehead. Well, but how are you, Minnes? Upon my soul you were capitol-y. You think so? Said Minnes, and he tried another smile. Upon my life I'd do. Mrs. B., and what's his name? Quite well. Alec, my son, you mean? Never better, never better. But at such a place as we've got at popular walk, you know, he couldn't be ill if he tried. When I first saw it, by Jove, it looked so knowing, with the front garden, and the green railings, and the brass knocker, and all that, I really thought it was a cut above me. Don't you think you'd like the ham better? Interrupted Minnes, if you cut it the other way. He saw, with feelings which it is impossible to describe, that his visitor was cutting, or rather maiming, the ham, in utter violation of all established rules. No, thank ye. We turned button, with the most barbarous indifference to crime. I'll prefer it this way. It eats short. But I say, Minnes, when will you come down and see us? You will be delighted with the place. I know you will. Amelia and I were talking about you the other night. And Amelia said, another lump of sugar, please, thank you. She said, don't you think you could contrive, my dear, to say to Mr. Minnes, in a friendly way, come down, sir. A dog? He's spoiling your curtains, Minnes. Ha! Ha! Ha! Minnes leapt from his seat, as though he had received the discharge from a galvanic battery. Come out, sir! Go out! Who? cried poor Augustus, keeping, nevertheless, at a very respectable distance from the dog, having read of a case of hydrophobia in the paper of that morning. By dint of great exertion, much shouting, and a marvellous deal of poking under the tables with a stick and umbrella, the dog was at last dislodged and placed in the landing outside the door, where he immediately commenced a most appalling howling, at the same time vehemently scratching the paint off the two nicely varnished bottom panels, until they resembled the interior of a backgammon board. A good dog for the country, that, coolly observed a button to the distracted Minnes, but he's not much used to confinement. But now, Minnes, when will you come down? I'll take no denial positively. Let's see. Today's Thursday. Will you come on Sunday? We dine at five. Don't say no. Do. After a great deal of pressing, Mr. Augustus Minnes, driven to despair, accepted the invitation and promised to be at Poplar Walk, on the ensuing Sunday, at a quarter before five, to the minute. Now, mind the direction, said Budden. The coach goes from the flower pot in Bishop's Gate Street, every half hour. When the coach stops at the swan, you'll see, immediately opposite you, a white house. Which is your house, I understand, said Minnes, wishing to cut short the visit and the story at the same time. No, no, that's not mine. That's Grogus' the great ironmongers. I was going to say, you turn down by the side of the white house, till you can't go another step further. Mind that. And then you'll turn to your right by some stables. Well, close to you, you'll see a wall with Beware of the dog, written on it in large letters. Minnes shuttered. Go along by the side of that wall about a quarter of a mile, and anybody will show you which is my place. Very well, thank you. Goodbye. Be punctual. Certainly, good morning. I'll say, Minnes, you've got a card. Yes, I have, thank you. And Mr Octavius Budden departed, leaving his cousin looking forward to his visit on the following Sunday with the feelings of a penniless poet to the weekly visit of his scotch landlady. Sunday arrived. The sky was bright and clear. Crowds of people were hurrying along the streets, intent on their different schemes of pleasure for the day. Everything and everybody looked cheerful and happy, except Mr Augustus Minnes. The day was fine, but the heat was considerable. When Mr Minnes had fagged up the shady side of Fleet Street, cheap side and thread needle street, he had become pretty warm, tolerably dusty, and it was getting late into the bargain. By the most extraordinary good fortune, however, a coach was waiting at the flowerpot, into which Mr Augustus Minnes got on the solemn assurance of the CAD that the vehicle would start in three minutes, that being the very utmost extremity of time it was allowed to wait by active parliament. A quarter of an hour elapsed and there were no signs of moving. Minnes looked at his watch for the sixth time. "'Coachman, are you going or not?' bawled Mr Minnes with his head and half his body out of the coach window. "'Directly, sir,' said the coachman, with his hands in his pockets, looking as much unlike a man in a hurry as possible. "'Bill, take them clothes off!' Five minutes more elapsed. At the end of which time the coachman mounted the box from whence he looked down the street and up the street and hailed all the pedestrians for another five minutes. "'Coachman, if you don't go this moment, I shall get out,' said Mr Minnes, rendered desperate by the lateness of the hour and the impossibility of being in popular walk at the appointed time. "'Go in this minute, sir,' was the reply and, accordingly, the machine trundled on for a couple of hundred yards and then stopped again. Minnes doubled himself up in a corner of the coach and abandoned himself to his fate, as a child, a mother, a bandbox, and a parasol became his fellow passengers. The child was an affectionate and an amiable infant. The little dear mistook Minnes for his other parent and screamed to embrace him. "'Be quiet, dear,' said the mamar, restraining the impetuosity of the darling, whose little fat legs were kicking and stamping and twining themselves into the most complicated forms in an ecstasy of impatience. "'Be quiet, dear. That's not your papa!' "'Thank heaven I'm not,' thought Minnes, as the first gleam of pleasure he had experienced that morning, shone like a meteor through his wretchedness. Playfulness was agreeably mingled with affection in the disposition of the boy. When satisfied that Mr. Minnes was not his parent, he endeavored to attract his notice by scraping his drab trousers with his dirty shoes, poking his chest with his mamar's parasol, and other nameless endearments peculiar to infancy, with which he beguiled the tediousness of the ride, apparently very much to his own satisfaction. When the unfortunate gentleman arrived at the swan, he found to his great dismay that it was a quarter past five. The White House, the stables, the Beware the Dog, every landmark was passed, with a rapidity not unusual to a gentleman of a certain age when too late for dinner. After the lapse of a few minutes, Mr. Minnes found himself opposite a yellow brick house with a green door, brass knocker, and a door plate, green window frames, and ditto railings with a garden in front. That is to say, a small loose bit of graveled ground with one round and two scalene triangular beds containing a fir tree, twenty or thirty bulbs, and an unlimited number of marigolds. The taste of Mr. and Mrs. Budden was further displayed by the appearance of a cupid on each side of the door, perched upon a heap of large chalk flints, variegated with pink conch shells. His knock at the door was answered by a stumpy boy in drab livery, cotton stockings, and high-lows, who, after hanging his hat on one of the dozen brass pegs which ornamented the passage, denominated by courtesy The Hall, ushered him into a front drawing-room, commanding a very extensive view of the backs of the neighbouring houses. The usual ceremony of introduction and so forth over, Mr. Minnes took his seat, not a little agitated at finding that he was the last comer and, somehow or other, the lion of about a dozen people sitting together in a small drawing-room, getting rid of that most tedious of all time, the time preceding dinner. Well, Brogson, said Budden, addressing an elderly gentleman in a black coat, drab knee-breaches and long-gaters who, under pretence of inspecting the prince in an annual, had been engaged in satisfying himself on the subject of Mr. Minnes' general appearance by looking at him over the tops of the leaves. Well, Brogson, what do the ministers mean to do? Will they go out or what? Oh, why, really, you know. I'm the last person in the world to ask for news. Your cousin, from his situation, is the most likely person to answer the question. Mr. Minnes assured the last speaker that although he was in Somerset House he possessed no official communication relative to the projects of his Majesty's ministers, but his remark was evidently received incredulously and no further conjectures being hazarded on the subject, a long pause ensued, during which the company occupied themselves in coughing and blowing their noses until the entrance of Mrs. Budden caused a general rise. The ceremony of introduction being over, the dinner was announced and downstairs the party proceeded accordingly. Mr. Minnes escorting Mrs. Budden as far as the drawing-room door, but being prevented by the narrowness of the staircase from extending his gallantry any farther. The dinner passed off as such dinners usually do. Ever and anon, amidst the clatter of knives and forks and the hum of conversation, Mr. B's voice might be heard, asking a friend to take wine but assuring him he was glad to see him and a great deal of by-play took place between Mrs. B and the servants, respecting the removal of the dishes, during which her countenance assumed all the variations of a weather-glass from stormy to set-fair. Upon the dessert and wine being placed on the table, the servant, in compliance with a significant look from Mrs. B, brought down Master Alexander, habited in a sky-blue suit with silver buttons and possessing hair of nearly the same colour as the metal. After sundry praises from his mother and various admonitions as to his behaviours from his father, he was introduced to his godfather. Well, my little fellow, you are a fine boy, aren't you? said Mr. Minnes, as happy as a tom-tit on bird-lime. Yes. How old are you? Wait. Next Wednesday. How old are you? Alexander! interrupted his mother. How dare you ask Mr. Minnes how old he is? He asked me how old I was, said the precocious child, to whom Minnes had, from that moment, internally resolved that he would never bequeath one shilling. As soon as the titter occasioned by the observation had subsided, a little smirking man with red whiskers sitting at the bottom of the table, who, during the whole of dinner, had been endeavouring to obtain a listener to some stories about Sheridan, called out with a very patronising air. Erlick, what part of speech is B? A verb? That's a good boy, said Mrs. Budden, with all her mother's pride. Now, you know what a verb is? A verb is a word which signifies to be, to do, or to suffer. As I am, I rule, I am ruled. Give me an apple, Ma. I'll give you an apple," replied the man with the red whiskers, who was an established friend of the family, or, in other words, was always invited by Mrs. Budden, whether Mr. Budden liked it or not. If you tell me, what is the meaning of B? B, said the prodigy, after a little hesitation, an insect that gathers honey. No, dear, frowned Mrs. Budden, B double E is the substantive. I don't think he knows much yet about common substantives, said the smirking gentleman, who thought this an admirable opportunity for letting off a joke. It's clear he's not very well acquainted with proper names. Gentlemen, called out Mr. Budden from the end of the table, in a stentorian voice, and with a very important air. Will you have the goodness to charge your glasses? I have a toast to propose. Here, here," cried the gentleman, passing the decanters, after they had made the round of the table. Mr. Budden proceeded, Gentlemen, there is an individual present. Here, here," said the little man with red whiskers. Pray be quiet, Jones," remonstrated Budden. I say, gentlemen, there is an individual present," resumed the host, in whose society I am sure we must take great delight, and, and, the conversation of that individual must have afforded to every one present the utmost pleasure. Thank heaven he does not mean me," thought Minns. Conscious that his diffidence and exclusiveness had prevented his saying above a dozen words since he entered the house. Gentlemen, I am but a humble individual myself, and I perhaps ought to apologize for allowing any individual feeling of friendship and affection for the person I allude to, to induce me to venture to rise, to propose the health of that person, a person that, I am sure, that is to say, a person whose virtues must endear him to those who know him, and those who have not the pleasure of knowing him cannot dislike him. Here, here," said the company in a tone of encouragement and approval. Gentlemen, continued Budden, my cousin is a man who, who is a relation of my own. Here, here," Minns groaned audibly. Who I am most happy to see here, and who, if he were not here, would certainly have deprived us of the great pleasure we all feel in seeing him, loud cries of here. Gentlemen, I feel that I have already trespassed on your attention for too long a time, with every feeling of—with every sentiment of—of— gratification, suggested the friend of the family. Of gratification, I beg to propose the health of Mr. Minns. Standing, gentlemen," shouted the indefatigable little man with the whiskers, and with the honours, take your time from me, if you please. Hip, hip, hip, za! Hip, hip, hip, za! Hip, hip, za! All eyes were now fixed on the subject of the toast, who, by gulping down port wine at the imminent hazard of suffocation, endeavoured to conceal his confusion. After as long a pause as decency would admit, he rose, but, as the newspapers sometimes say in their reports, we regret that we are quite unable to give even the substance of the honourable gentleman's observations. The words, present company, honour, present occasion, and great happiness, heard occasionally and repeated at intervals, with a countenance expressive of the utmost confusion and misery, convinced the company that he was making an excellent speech, and, accordingly, on his resuming his seat, they cried, Bravo! and manifested tumultuous applause. Jones, who had been long watching his opportunity, then darted up. Budden said he, Will you allow me to propose a toast? Certainly, replied Budden, adding in an undertone to Min's right across the table, devilish sharp fellow that you'll be very much pleased with his speech. He talks equally well on any subject. Min's bowed, and Mr. Jones proceeded. It has, on several occasions, in various instances, for many circumstances, and in different companies, fallen to my lot to propose a toast to those by whom, at the time, I have had the honour to be surrounded. I have sometimes, I will cheerfully own, for why should I deny it, felt the overwhelming nature of the task I have undertaken, and my own utter incapability to do justice to the subject. If such have been my feelings, however, on former occasions, what must they be now, now, under the extraordinary circumstances in which I am placed? Hear, hear! To describe my feelings accurately would be impossible, but I cannot give you a better idea of them, gentlemen, than by referring to a circumstance which happens, oddly enough, to occur to my mind at the moment. On one occasion, when that truly great and illustrious man, Sheridan, was— Now there is no knowing what new villainy in the form of a joke would have been heaped on the grave of that very ill-used man, Mr. Sheridan, if the boy in drab had not at that moment entered the room in a breathless state to report that, as it was a very wet night, the nine o'clock stage had come round to know whether there was anybody going to town, as, in that case, he, the nine o'clock, had room for one inside. Mr. Minns started up, and, despite countless exclamations of surprise and entreaties to stay, persisted in his determination to accept the vacant place. But the brown silk umbrella was nowhere to be found, and, as the coachman couldn't wait, he drove back to the swan, leaving word for Mr. Minns to run round and catch him. However, as it did not occur to Mr. Minns for some ten minutes or so, that he had left the brown silk umbrella with the ivory handle in the other coach coming down, and, moreover, as he was by no means remarkable for speed, it is no matter of surprise that when he accomplished the feat of running round to the swan, the coach, the last coach, had gone without him. It was somewhere about three o'clock in the morning when Mr. Augustus Minns knocked feebly at the street door of his lodgings in Tavistock Street, cold, wet, cross, and miserable. He made his will next morning, and his professional man informs us, in that strict confidence in which we inform the public, that neither the name of Mr. Octavius Budden, nor of Mrs. Amelia Budden, nor of Master Alexander Augustus Budden, appears therein.