L I B RAHY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UN IVLR.5ITY 
 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 
 L942 
 
 v.1
 
 LOVE STORIES 
 
 OF THE 
 
 ENGLISH WATERING-PLACES. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18 CATHERINE ST. STRAND. 
 
 1869.
 
 LONDON : 
 ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
 
 id 
 
 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 +M+* 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Tale of the Scarborough Season . . i 
 
 Our Brilliant Failure 35 
 
 How Charlie Blake went in for the Heiress 65 
 
 A Romantic Incident 113 
 
 Where shall we go ? 143 
 
 Cox and Five 209 
 
 From Dull Court to Fairview . . .229 
 Recollections of Pic-nics . . . .247 
 What " came off" at Codlingham Regatta . 277 

 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/lovestoriesofeng01engl
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH 
 SEASON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. ON A STAIRCASE. 
 
 I don't know why there should be something 
 pleasantly suggestive about a staircase ; but there 
 is. A nice wide staircase, on whose carpet your 
 foot makes no sound, and against whose balus- 
 trade you might have leaned some hot night years 
 ago, talking, with a fan or a bouquet in your 
 hand, and a companion in gossamer listening to 
 you. Perhaps your words meant very little in- 
 deed in reality; but the chances were that they 
 would be heard again in dreams when you were 
 far away, and remembered them no more. You 
 couldn't help putting into them more than you 
 felt; time and place and surroundings were to 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 
 
 blame for that, not you. And it was so stifling 
 in the crowded rooms up there above. People 
 thronged and jostled each other without mercy; 
 whilst here there was space and quiet, pleasantly 
 broken by the distant music ; and you could talk 
 of the parting which might be for ever, and lower 
 your voice, and for the moment half persuade 
 yourself that here was your fate. Thus you might 
 have stood, as my friend Captain Ralph Galton 
 is standing to-night on that friendly staircase, 
 looking down upon the thick carpet under his 
 feet, and wondering with a vague sense of irre- 
 sponsibility, what he shall say next, and what will 
 come of it. Mr. Galton is but a country squire, 
 and his captaincy is simply a yeomanry cavalry 
 affair ; but he has a baronetcy in prospect, and 
 there is nothing countrified about him. He has 
 been everywhere, and seen everything. He is — 
 or was — a little tired of the London season. A 
 white hair or two might be seen prematurely 
 glistening in his black, close-cut locks, and no 
 one would suspect the wealth of strength and 
 muscle in that arm which is trilling rather lan- 
 guidly with a lady's bouquet of hothouse flowers. 
 "Lady Julia always leaves town before August
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 3 
 
 is over, then ?" said Mr. Galton, just raising liis 
 eyes to his companion's face. " And this year she 
 goes — " 
 
 "North. I believe it will be Filey or Scar- 
 borough. You know both places, of course ?" 
 
 " I'm ashamed to say no. I begin to think 
 a man should see something of his own country 
 before rambling over others. I'm sure you agree 
 with me ?" 
 
 "I don't know. I shall be glad to get away 
 from town ; and mamma likes going early. I'll 
 take my flowers now, Mr. Galton ; we had better 
 go back : they will wonder what has become of 
 me." 
 
 " Let them," said Ralph. " Consider that it's 
 all over for me," he added, rather incoherently, 
 " and I'm to look forward to no more meetings 
 like this, Miss Tennent. What an odd thing 
 it seems for people to come into almost everyday 
 contact for a time, and then go their separate ways 
 and forget each other ! Do you know it's a little 
 hard upon a fellow ?" 
 
 Miss Tennent gave him a quick puzzled glance, 
 and laughed. 
 
 " But I don't see why wo shouldn't meet again
 
 4 A TALE OF THE SCARBOEOUGH SEASON. 
 
 sometimes. I suppose you'll be here when all 
 the world is here, Mr. Galton?" 
 
 "No, I'm a rover. My cousin — you've heard 
 of him, I think ; they call him the count — lays 
 forcible hands on me and carries me off whither 
 he will. He has some mad plan about Africa in 
 his head now. Never mind that, however. You 
 say you are glad to get away to the country, Miss 
 Tennent. I don't think you'd like the country 
 all the year round." 
 
 " Perhaps not," said the young lady drily. 
 " Still, I've an idea that I should have made a 
 very good farmer's daughter. But I'm not likely 
 to try the country ; it wouldn't suit mamma." 
 
 When he spoke next they were moving on 
 into the ball-room, and he still held the flowers. 
 
 " I wish you'd give me one," he said. "Do. 
 I'm not a sentimental man, but I should like one 
 of these. I'll keep it as an augury that we shall 
 meet again." 
 
 And then a gentleman came up to claim Miss 
 Tennent, and Ealph's chance was over. He stood 
 a little while watching her moodily, so absorbed 
 in his own thoughts that he started when a voice 
 at his elbow accosted him familiarly.
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 5 
 
 "Hipped, Galton? Or — let me whisper it — 
 caught at last ? Poor old boy ! I did think you 
 were fireproof. A man ought to be, by Jove, in 
 such an atmosphere as this. But Lady Julia 
 doesn't do the thing badly, considering how poor 
 they are." 
 
 "Poor!" repeated Kalph speculatively. 
 
 "Pinched, very; and three daughters to get 
 off her hands. Look at her. Upon my word, 
 I've a sort of admiration for these indefatigable 
 women. And she has been handsome, too." 
 
 Now Mr. Galton experienced a sensation of 
 disgust at these remarks. He hardly knew why, 
 for a very little time ago he might probably have 
 made them himself. He shook-off the unwelcome 
 critic, and passed on. He had a great mind to 
 alter his plans. He was accountable to no one, 
 he thought, rather dismally. He was alone in the 
 world, and his own master ; what would it matter 
 to anybody where he went or what he did ? 
 
 More people in that room who knew him 
 nodded to each other, and murmured that the 
 captain was caught at last ; but inasmuch as these 
 kept their opinions quiet, they did not hurt him. 
 Lady Julia herself had not been unmindful of him,
 
 6 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 
 
 nor of the little tableau on the staircase. It was 
 true that she had three daughters, and was a care- 
 worn, hardworked woman. Moreover, this one, 
 Evelyn, was the youngest, and, as her mother 
 considered, the most hopeless of the three. The 
 poor lady thought of the baronetcy in prospect, 
 and sighed out a great sigh of mingled hope and 
 despair. They were so very poor, and it was so 
 difficult to keep up appearances and live like the 
 rest of the world. And these " at homes," which 
 of course she must give for her daughters' sakes, 
 did pull so heavily upon her lean purse. The an- 
 nual visit to the seaside, too, was an indispensable 
 outlay. She could not be in London when all the 
 world was rushing away from it. But here, too, 
 that hard necessity for economy had to be consi- 
 dered ; and when some kindly adviser went into 
 raptures over Scarborough, and assumed that of 
 course the fashionable south was the only part to 
 be thought of, Lady Julia smiled a ghastly smile, 
 and said that she dared not try it — the air was too 
 relaxing for the girls. Her medical man had posi- 
 tively ordered the North Cliff. Indeed, Lady Julia 
 herself needed bracing. She knew in her secret 
 heart that this evening, from which she had hoped
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 7 
 
 •.so much, must be reckoned a failure so far as the 
 affairs of her youngest daughter were concerned. 
 
 " Evelyn might," said her ladyship, with bitter 
 irritation; "the game was in her own hands; I 
 know she might have brought this tardy captain 
 to the point ; and he will be Sir Ralph — not that 
 a baronet is much ; but then he is rich. I almost 
 wish we were not going away." 
 
 If Lady Julia could have known the thoughts 
 which perplexed the brain of the country squire 
 that night, what a brilliant ray would have shot 
 across her gloomy regrets and forebodings ! 
 
 CHAPTER II. THE COUNT REMONSTRATES. 
 
 " I don't understand thee, Ralpho mio. Talk 
 of the attractions of this place — and to me! Stuff! 
 Will you smoke ?" 
 
 The squire turned in his seat and took the 
 offered cigar. 
 
 " I like the place," he said ; " it's fresh : and 
 you needn't have come ; nobody wanted you, that 
 I know of." 
 
 The gentleman of the cigar-case, a slim, black-
 
 8 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 
 
 haired fellow, with a fine moustache, and a would- 
 be Italian air about him, shrugged his shoulders 
 slightly, and punctured the end of his cigar pre- 
 paratory to lighting it. When this was accom- 
 plished, he threw a glance over the bay, far above 
 which the two were lounging on an iron seat 
 amongst the shrubs and flowers. He slurred over 
 the shoals of white sails in the distance with se- 
 rene contempt ; they were probably only insignifi- 
 cant trading-vessels ; and then he came back to 
 the pier and the little packet which had got up its 
 steam, and was scudding away for Filey. 
 
 "As to me, it matters little. I am every- 
 where, and everything, except stationary. But, 
 Kalpho, think of Ischia and Baiae. To us who 
 have stood on Tiberio and seen the sunlight shine 
 on Napoli and its blue bay ; on Amalfi ; on — but 
 what signifies talking? As little as these Sici- 
 lians understand the admiration of the forestieri, 
 which, nevertheless, they trade upon, can I com- 
 prehend this mad rush to a bleak northern rock, 
 and its chilly waters, unless — " 
 
 "Well, count, unless? Suppose I were tired 
 of wandering in foreign lands ?" 
 
 " Non capito."
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 9 
 
 " Speak English, Dick, and don't pretend," 
 said the country squire brusquely. "I shall not 
 indulge you with that fictitious count any longer. 
 It has got so habitual, that people will actually 
 begin to believe the scapegrace of his family a real 
 live count." 
 
 " You are so energetic," remonstrated the 
 count feebly ; " so very English. Seriously, 
 Kalplio, you introduced me last night to a Lady 
 Julia something — forget what. A rather lean 
 woman, you know, with daughters ; one of them 
 like a Capriote girl, only not so handsome. There 
 can be no attraction in that quarter, eh ?" 
 
 "Seriously, Dick," retorted Kalph, "I wish 
 you would become a respectable member of society. 
 Give up the wanderer, and settle down — marry, if 
 anyone will have you." 
 
 The count took his cigar from his lips in spe- 
 culative amazement. 
 
 " Amico mio, I possess a bare competency for 
 one. Look at me. Are these hands to work ? Is 
 this restless soul to be still? No, no, the fool 
 marries and settles down ; the great-hearted man 
 travels. He enlarges his experience ; he learns 
 from the wide open book of human nature; ho
 
 10 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 
 
 becomes a god in his knowledge of good and evil ; 
 lie is able to move men like puppets to his will." 
 
 "And then?" said Ralph, with an odd sort of 
 pity in his tone ; " and then he grows old, and his 
 friends, if he has made any, which is doubtful, 
 fall away, and his knowledge turns to bitterness, 
 and—" 
 
 "Ah, bah! my good fellow, no croaking; it's 
 commonplace. The best of life is but intoxica- 
 tion. Come, we will settle the Burton and Speke 
 controversy next. We will have a look at the 
 Victoria Nyanza. Let us go at once, and give up 
 the Capriote. Ralph," said the count more ear- 
 nestly, " don't you know that you are a catch in 
 the matrimonial market-place ? The lean woman 
 knows it, my pius Eneas. I have spoken. If 
 this goes on, I shall feel compelled, as your cousin 
 and fidus Achates, to win the young lady's affec- 
 tions myself, and save you. It's distressing to 
 think of, I know — a blighted young heart — con- 
 sumption, an early grave — but che fare ?" 
 
 Captain Galton's face flushed an angry red : 
 then he broke into a laugh, for what use to be 
 angry with the count ? 
 
 " Dick, you are an insufferable puppy, and
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 11 
 
 worse ; but we have been friends ; don't force 
 me to quarrel with you." 
 
 "Who— I? I quarrel? My dear hoy, what 
 for ? I haven't the energy in me. By the way, 
 en garde ! cigars down !" 
 
 The two gentlemen rose ; and the wandering 
 count, Richard Galton, familiarly Dick, stood for 
 some moments as a Frenchman would stand, with 
 his hat in his hand, in the vain expectation of 
 being told to return it to its natural position. 
 Lady Julia scarcely saw him. For Ralph her 
 sweetest smile, her most cordial hand-shake ; for 
 Ralph at first a charming flow of animated trifles, 
 and then a slight expression of regret in answer 
 to his polite inquiries after the two absent daugh- 
 ters. Dear Evelyn was not quite well, and Grace 
 had remained indoors with her ; but it was no- 
 thing ; it would pass off. Most probably they 
 should all enjoy together the evening promenade 
 at the Spa. Delightful, was it not? All the 
 pleasure of the sea-air combined with the at- 
 tractions of a concert-room. Mr. Galton would 
 excuse Lady Julia now ; she was really obliged to 
 pass on. 
 
 The count, looking after her ladyship, twinkled
 
 12 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 
 
 his black eyes as he selected a fresh cigar, and 
 said aloud, " Keen — very keen. Never mind, 
 Ealpho. We have been fellow-travellers too long 
 to be separated. You will yet traverse with me 
 the bogs of Uganda, and stand enraptured on the 
 shores of the mighty lake." 
 
 Ralph never heard a word; he was looking 
 down into the short grass under his feet with a 
 lazy half-smile on his lips that told his cousin 
 well enough where his thoughts had wandered. 
 Richard Galton sank back on the iron seat, and 
 smoked sulkily. 
 
 " It never shall be, if I can help it," said this 
 gentleman to himself. "Is my life to be mulcted 
 of half its luxuries for a dark-faced girl with a 
 gaunt mamma ? No, Ealpho mio, I can't afford 
 to lose thee. Pleasant company and a long purse 
 — no, no !" 
 
 CHAPTER III. THE GUARDS WALTZ. 
 
 Lady Julia sat in the amphitheatre under the 
 colonnade, well screened from any draught. A 
 slim gentleman with an olive complexion had 
 secured this seat for her, and he had been talking
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 13 
 
 to her for some time : one low languid voice 
 amidst the general buzz, distinct only to the ear 
 for which it was intended. Lady Julia's eyes had 
 wandered to the little pavilion wherein the hand 
 was stationed, and her attention, to all appear- 
 ance, was fixed upon the rows of gas-jets running 
 round it ; the glittering chandelier and the musi- 
 cians themselves. No one would have guessed, 
 except perhaps her companion, the suppressed 
 anxiety which was hidden under her smile as she 
 listened to the conversation of the slim gentleman 
 beside her. 
 
 " He was always an excitable fellow," pro- 
 ceeded the latter gently. " A very good fellow 
 indeed, very; my nearest friend, in fact, as well 
 as my cousin ; but a confirmed rover, I fear, like 
 myself, by this time. You know how much we 
 all become the creatures of habit." 
 
 "I suppose so," said Lady Julia, still smiling. 
 "But habits may be broken, you know." 
 
 The count shook his head. 
 
 "It might have been better, as you observed 
 just now, Lady Julia, if my cousin had settled 
 down early in life and become a steady country 
 squire ; but that is all over now ; it is too late.
 
 14 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 
 
 I am firmly convinced that Ralph will never marry. 
 As for me, there are no social considerations to 
 affect my movements. Lonely men, Lady Julia, 
 naturally seek to create for themselves interests 
 and pursuits in place of those which are denied to 
 them. These may be but as paste to the diamond. 
 I cannot say. I fancy in Ralph's position I might 
 have been different, yet you see how it is with 
 him ; and after all, what a fine generous fellow he 
 is ! Forgive me, however ; it must seem egotis- 
 tical in me to parade my friend before you. I — " 
 
 " Don't say so, Mr. Galton. I am a believer in 
 friendship. The world scarcely does justice to it." 
 
 A slight smile curled the count's black mous- 
 tache ; but he did not answer, for just then the 
 " Guards' Waltz" struck up, and Lady Julia be- 
 gan to speak of the music. It fell softly on 
 other ears besides those of the poor harassed 
 lady, if indeed there was any softness in it to her 
 anxious heart. 
 
 "You remember where we heard that last," 
 said Captain Galton ; " and the flower you gave 
 me. I said I'd keep it as an augury, and you 
 see we have met again. Miss Tennent, have I 
 done something to offend you ?"
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 15 
 
 He asked this with a sudden accession of 
 bravery, for lie had been disappointed. This was 
 not the young lady who had stood with him on 
 the staircase, but a chilly likeness of her. Ralph 
 did not know why, but as he recoiled from the 
 freezing politeness of her greeting, an angry, un- 
 easy suspicion darted into his mind, with the 
 count for its object. It was soon banished, how- 
 ever. As he asked that bold question, Ralph, 
 leaning over the wall with his face seaward, was 
 dimly conscious of all the surroundings, which, 
 as part of a whole, seemed to come between him 
 and the answer. He saw the lights spring up 
 in the little fishing-smacks out on the bay, and 
 heard the gentle slush of the water against the 
 wall as he leaned over it. Behind him there was 
 a moving of chairs under the colonnade, and the 
 buzz of a thousand voices, as the tulip-bed of 
 human beings sauntered in two distinct streams 
 up and down ; and, over all, mingling with other 
 sounds and softening them, the music of the 
 " Guards' Waltz." He waited patiently for Eve- 
 lyn's answer, but it did not come. And all at 
 once this poor foolish country squire felt his heart 
 leap into his throat, and his pulses stand still at
 
 16 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 
 
 the light touch of a gloved hand on his arm. He 
 knew the next moment that the action was uncon- 
 scious, and she was not thinking of him. 
 
 "Mr. Galton," said Evelyn, "look there." 
 The moon had come out from behind a cloud, and 
 threw down one long line of rippling glory to the 
 edge of the bay. A fishing-boat broke the line ; 
 a mass of black with silver light upon it. They 
 could almost see the form of the fisherman stand 
 out in relief against the black shadow of his boat, 
 and his red light shone like a watchfire in the 
 whiter radiance of the moonbeams. Ealph did 
 look at all this, and from it he turned to his 
 companion. 
 
 " How small it makes one feel, doesn't it ?" 
 said Evelyn ; " and what a poor affair all this gas 
 and glitter behind us seems ! I wonder what the 
 fisherman out there thinks of the quiet night, 
 and the silver on his face. Nothing, perhaps. I 
 should like to change places with him for five 
 minutes." 
 
 Mr. Galton did not answer. He could not 
 take his eyes from her face, it was so changed. 
 All the coldness was gone out of it, all the stiff- 
 ness and propriety which had so irritated and
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 17 
 
 disappointed him. And yet it was with a little 
 pang of regret that he acknowledged to himself 
 how far away he was, individually, from her 
 thoughts, and how little he had to do with the 
 change. For the moment, he was simply one out 
 of the mass — a sort of abstract comprehension, 
 to which her own instinctively appealed. 
 
 "Look round," she went on, "and listen. 
 Thousands of lives, and every life a story ; who 
 knows how hard some of those stories are ? And 
 then, hear the perpetual hush of the sea as it 
 creeps up the shore. I've read that somewhere ; 
 as though a pitiful patient 'hush' were all that 
 could be said to every struggling soul in its sor- 
 row. But they won't be patient for all that. It 
 makes one want to comfort people. I've an insane 
 desire at times to break away over the rubicon and 
 see if I can bind up no wound before I die. 5 ' 
 
 " You are thinking of Florence Nightingale ?" 
 
 " Yes, I am, and of such as she was. Not that 
 I could ever follow their steps. I rise no further 
 than wishes — empty and profitless." 
 
 "You are so young," said the captain, un- 
 easily. " When you know a little more of the 
 world—" 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 A TALE OF THE SCABBOBOUGH SEASON. 
 
 "The world!" broke in Evelyn, with some 
 bitterness. " What world, Mr. Galton ? You for- 
 get that this is my third season. No ! I don't 
 think I want to know more of the world." 
 
 The captain's next venture was a quotation 
 from a poem, and it was a blunder. She turned 
 upon him with a quick return to the old manner. 
 
 "I hate poetry; I never could bear it. Mr. 
 Galton, I am disposed to hate you too, for having 
 been a listener to my ravings just now. Don't 
 let us play the ridiculous any more, please. I 
 shall go and find mamma." 
 
 They turned towards the crowded amphi- 
 theatre, Evelyn leading the way, seemingly in- 
 different as to whether Ralph followed or not. 
 As for him, the light dazzled his eyes, the bray- 
 ing chorus which had succeeded the " Guards' 
 Waltz" deafened him, and he was vexed. Per- 
 haps Miss Tennent knew this, and repented a 
 little. At any rate, he found himself all at once 
 face to face with her, and heard her voice saying, 
 with something of appeal in it, "Mr. Galton, 
 some day, if mamma can get over her dread of 
 the water, we will go for the sail you spoke of. 
 Good night !"
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 19 
 
 She held out her hand to him, and then went 
 away. Kalph had a glimpse of the count's figure 
 rising to follow him as he turned to leave the 
 promenade. He had a sort of indistinct con- 
 sciousness that an arm was thrust through his 
 •own, that he was led unresisting among winding 
 paths, shrubs, and grottoes, while the distant 
 music mingled oddly with the never-ceasing tramp 
 over the bridge, and the red spark of Richard 
 Galton's cigar flashed before him from time to 
 time, as the count took it from his lips to tell 
 some fresh anecdote of Lady Julia's powers of 
 finesse. But the captain knew all this very 
 vaguely indeed, and he only roused himself with 
 a start when his cousin stood suddenly before him 
 in the path and barred his progress. 
 
 "You are bad company, amico, and I'll go," 
 said the count. 
 
 He bent forward a little as he spoke, and his 
 small black eyes gleamed into Ralph's with an 
 expression of intense mischief. 
 
 " Have a care of the Capriote, Ralph o mio. 
 There's an ugly story that she was engaged to 
 some poor fellow, and has jilted him for a greater 
 match. You and I know that the Lady Julia
 
 20 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 
 
 would manage this, don't we ? A clever woman, 
 very. A rivederti." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. ON THE CASTLE CLIFF. 
 
 There was a concert in the Assembly Rooms 
 at the Spa, and the promenade was thinner than 
 usual. Captain Galton sauntered about amongst 
 the flowers up above, trying to make up his mind. 
 He had a cigar in his mouth, and every now and 
 then the red spark at the end would go out while 
 he stopped to smile down into the turf at his feet,, 
 like a modern Narcissus, only the image that he 
 saw there was not his own. And at times, some- 
 thing troubled this image — a momentary cloud 
 only, which just darkened it to his eyes, and then 
 vanished. It was the speech which Richard Gal- 
 ton had made some nights ago when he parted 
 from his cousin in disgust at his lack of attention. 
 Not that Ralph believed it. He thrust the idea 
 from him with supreme scorn when it obtruded 
 itself upon his brighter dreams. But the thing 
 was, it would obtrude itself. He couldn't forget 
 it. He hated the possibility that gossip should
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 21 
 
 dare to take Evelyn's name upon its lips and slan- 
 der it. For if such a thing as that of which the 
 count had spoken were true, she could be no love 
 ■of his. But it was not true; he had but to call 
 up her face as he saw it at times, open and frank, 
 and beautiful exceedingly to him, and the doubt 
 fled away vanquished. Some day, he thought, he 
 might tell her this idle story, and laugh at it with 
 her. They had met very often in these last few 
 days, and the count, gazing on the sort of men- 
 tal paralysis which had seized his cousin, so far 
 as the outer world was concerned, shrugged his 
 shoulders with a moody "E sciolto," and almost 
 despaired. He did not know that even now fate 
 was about to play a single stroke in his favour. 
 Captain Galton suddenly flung away his cigar and 
 started at a quick pace to walk up the Castle Cliff. 
 He had been idle all day, and he wanted a good 
 stiff climb, and space and solitude to think it all 
 over once again. He passed the one-armed sailor 
 with his miniature ship, not stopping to talk as 
 he usually did, but pressing on as though he had 
 some object to gain in reaching the ruins before 
 him at a given moment. He stood on the broad 
 summit of the cliff, and leaned back against the
 
 22 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 
 
 iron railings, with his hat off, and the wind blow- 
 ing fresh about his head. Again he saw the lights 
 begin to spring up in the fishing-boats on the bay, 
 and the moon come out from a cloud and shine 
 down upon them as it had done when Evelyn 
 touched his arm to make him look. He was 
 thinking of her, of the count's words, which did 
 so haunt him, and of a possible future, when he 
 turned his head and saw a figure coming from 
 amongst the ruins in front of him. An odd feel- 
 ing of uneasiness began to steal over the captain. 
 He had no time to wonder what it meant, for the 
 figure came on hastily. It was a man, hatless 
 like himself, but with a face that looked haggard 
 and wild in the moonlight, and with bloodshot 
 eyes that seemed to see only one spot in all the 
 waste of water far away below the cliff. 
 
 Captain Galton was a brave man, but there 
 was something in this wild figure and its mad 
 rush towards the iron railing — all that separated it 
 from the precipice beyond — which made him draw 
 his breath sharply, with a vague sensation of ter- 
 ror — not altogether for himself. It flashed upon 
 him suddenly that the man was about to throw 
 himself over. There was no time to think. In-
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 23 
 
 stinctively, Ealpli started from his leaning pos- 
 ture and stood between him and the railings. 
 
 "Are you mad?" shouted Ralph. "Stop!" 
 There was a single violent word in answer, and 
 Ealph Galton saw the stranger fling up his arms 
 and spring forwards on one side of him. The 
 next moment the two had grappled with each 
 other. Ealph felt the hot breath on his cheek, 
 and the two arms close round him like a vice ; but 
 the country squire had been too well trained to be 
 taken by surprise. For a few seconds he stood 
 his ground firmly, and then all at once the man's 
 grasp relaxed, his arms dropped heavily, and he 
 stood back staring at his opponent with an ex- 
 pression of rage and hatred. The moon shone full 
 on the two faces; Ralph's a little paler than usual, 
 but steady and composed ; the stranger's haggard 
 and gaunt, with dark hollows under his eyes, and 
 a quiver of suppressed passion about his lips. 
 
 " You !" he cried out at last, raising his hand 
 and shaking it at the captain. " I knew it would 
 be so. A fit meeting. You miserable cowardly 
 villain ! I wish I had a pistol, that I might shoot 
 you like a dog. I swear I would do it, if they 
 hanged me for it."
 
 124 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 
 
 He went a little nearer and peered up into 
 Ralph's face of amazement with a fierce sneer. 
 
 "I saw you with her last night," he said be- 
 tween his teeth. "0, it was pleasant! honeyed 
 moments, were they not? Just so she used to 
 smile on me before you came and bought her with 
 your pitiful money. You poor dupe, you fancy 
 she cares for you. I tell you it's a lie. She loves 
 me — me, a poor devil of a younger son, who had 
 nothing but his love to give, and so she sells her- 
 self to you. No, I'll not punish you ; the punish- 
 ment is enough. Fool ! you may take her to your 
 home, but her soul is mine to all eternity." 
 
 Captain Galton stood stunned and helpless as 
 this strange flow of words fell from the man's lips. 
 The dark ruins, and the grass, and the distant 
 light, all danced before his eyes in one confused 
 mass, and the only thought that stood out clear 
 before him was this : Richard Galton's tale was 
 true. He never stopped to reason about it. The 
 terrible earnest and reality which burnt this man's 
 words into his heart left no room for mistrust or 
 hope. For a little while the two stood there 
 facing each other, and then the reaction which 
 follows such stormy passions as his came upon the
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 25 
 
 stranger, and lie staggered to the railings, and 
 sank into a sitting posture with his forehead in 
 his hands. 
 
 "Why did you stop me?" he said. "It's 
 cool down there, and my head is on fire. I am 
 quiet enough now ; the devil is gone out of me. 
 Leave me to myself, if you are a wise man." 
 
 Ralph was silent a moment, and then he hent 
 his white face down close to the hands which 
 looked so cold and hony in the moonlight. 
 
 " As you are a man," he said, in a low voice, 
 " as you shall answer for every word spoken here, 
 was she your promised wife ?" 
 
 "I swear it." 
 
 " And she — threw you over — for me ?" 
 
 "For your money, you fool! Go, I tell you, 
 while I am quiet, and free me from this devilish 
 torment. Hush ! who's that ?" 
 
 Ralph started hack, for a hand was put on his 
 arm drawing him away, and a third voice broke 
 the spell, which tempted him still to question. 
 
 " I didn't mean to be a listener," said the 
 count gently, "but come away now." 
 
 Like a man in a dream, Ralph turned and 
 went down the hill with his cousin. He hardly
 
 26 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 
 
 knew indeed where he was going or what it was 
 that had happened; he only felt that terrible 
 dead weight of oppression ; of something in the 
 background which he must think over by and by, 
 when he should be able for it ; that shrinking of 
 the soul from such an examination, which comes 
 upon us with some heavy and unlooked-for blow. 
 Half way down the hill the hand on his arm grew 
 heavier with a momentary pressure, and the count 
 spoke, a novel gentleness in his tone. 
 
 "Poor old boy!" he said, "I'm sorry." 
 
 Ralph turned with a sudden bitter and unac- 
 countable irritation, and shook him off. 
 
 " Leave me to myself, Dick. I don't want 
 pity, and there are times when a man can't brook 
 being worried." 
 
 The count walked on, and Ralph, leaning 
 against the wall, watched the round balls of light 
 far away on the promenade, and heard once more 
 faintly the music of the " Guards' Waltz." Was 
 she amongst that dim throng of moving figures ? 
 Only last night they had talked together beside 
 the sea wall ; and a dull sense of self-contempt 
 came over him as he remembered his own happi- 
 ness at being near her. With a common spirit
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 27 
 
 of self-torment, Kalph left his position and went 
 to walk up and down amongst the gay people on 
 the promenade. He would go over it all again ; 
 he would call hack the dream which had made 
 that place of bustle and glitter so sweet a para- 
 dise to him ; he even sought out the exact spot 
 where Evelyn had stood listening to him the 
 night before. 
 
 "False!" cried out Ralph, with a silent, in- 
 ward cry. It was all he could say or think. The 
 word was stamped upon everything he saw, in 
 his bitterness. False — to her lover, to him, and 
 to herself; false and mercenary. 
 
 "Like the rest of the world," he said aloud, 
 turning from the sea ; " I've done with it." 
 
 Someone looked up into his face astonished, 
 but he did not care. What were appearances to 
 him ? What was life — what anything ? 
 
 "Dick," said the captain, coming suddenly 
 upon his cousin that night, "let us go. Lady 
 Julia must have a farewell card, and then for 
 Egypt or Panama, California or the Catacombs; 
 but the farther away the better. I'll never see 
 Old England again."
 
 28 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 
 
 CHAPTER V. E SCIOLTO. 
 
 Never again. Away from it all, and forget 
 it. What was this foolish dream of a few weeks, 
 that it should wreck a life like his ? Captain Gal- 
 ton walked up and down the platform, glancing 
 aimlessly into the carriages of the train that stood 
 waiting its time. Not that he cared ahout choos- 
 ing his seat ; but he was restless and miserable, 
 impatient to be off; and he could not stand as 
 the count did, to all appearance absorbed in the 
 conversation which was going on briskly between 
 the station-master and some of the passengers. 
 Chancing to look at his cousin, however, Mr. 
 Galton's attention was caught by the expression 
 of his face ; it had a strangely eager look ; the 
 nostrils were dilated and the thin lips compressed. 
 Ralph's eyes rested upon him with a languid 
 wonder; and when he looked up and saw them 
 he started, and went hurriedly to meet his cousin. 
 
 "Not there," he said sharply, as the captain 
 paused. " Take the next, Ralph ; we shall have 
 it to ourselves." 
 
 Again Ralph looked up at him wondering. 
 The gentlemen to whose conversation Richard
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 29 
 
 Galtou had been listening had chosen the car- 
 riage before which he stood, but in a general way 
 the count liked to have fellow-travellers. A fit 
 of perverseness seized the country squire. 
 
 " This is as good as any other," he said, get- 
 ting in. "It doesn't matter to us about being 
 alone." 
 
 The count, biting his moustache as he fol- 
 lowed, muttered once more between his teeth 
 " E sciolto," and threw himself back upon the 
 cushions. The other occupants of the carriage 
 continued their talk, but Kalph was staring va- 
 cantly into the flat expanse of heath and moor- 
 land through which the train had begun to move, 
 and he paid no attention to them. All at once, 
 however, a sentence caught his ear, and made him 
 turn away from the window. 
 
 "They think he must have thrown himself 
 from the Castle Cliff. A one-armed sailor that 
 stands at the gate begging saw just such a figure 
 go up the cliff late in the evening. 
 
 Then Ealph leaned forward and asked a ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "Yes. I wonder you didn't hear of it," was 
 the reply. " The whole town was talking of it
 
 30 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 
 
 when we came away. He was a lunatic, you see, 
 and had managed to get away from his keeper 
 somehow. A fishing-smack brought in the body 
 early this morning." 
 
 Ralph shot a glance at his cousin ; but the 
 count's eyes were closed, and he seemed to be 
 asleep. 
 
 " It's a romantic story too," proceeded the gen- 
 tleman. " The poor young fellow was engaged 
 to be married, and the lady threw him over for a 
 rich merchant. They say he had been mad ever 
 since, always searching for his rival, and imagin- 
 ing eveiy stranger that came in contact with him 
 to be the man." 
 
 The captain's hands were pressed tightly into 
 each other, and he spoke again slowly. 
 
 "And— the lady?" 
 
 "0, she has been married some time. The 
 daughter of an Irish peer — poor, of course ; so it 
 was best for her. This young fellow was only 
 reading for the bar. I forget the name — AYar- 
 renne or Warrington, I think." 
 
 Again Ralph glanced at his cousin, and he 
 saw that the sleep was sham, and the count was 
 furtively watching him out of the half-closed eyes.
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 31 
 
 An angry spot came into Captain Galton's cheeks, 
 and lie turned again to the flat landscape, think- 
 ing with desperate impatience what a mad fool he 
 had been. His fellow-passengers talked on, but 
 he heard nothing more. The count, watching 
 him, saw once or twice a suppressed quiver about 
 his lips, which boded, he thought, no good to 
 himself; and Eichard Galton sighed, for he had 
 done a mean trick to no purpose. When they 
 reached York, the captain sprang out with an im- 
 patient " At last !" and on the platform he turned 
 to his cousin. 
 
 " Dick, you have played me false. You knew 
 all this, and never told me." 
 
 The count shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " I only knew this morning. You were half 
 cured, amico ; why should I interfere to bring- 
 back the disease ?" 
 
 " Our ways are different henceforward," said 
 Ralph briefly. 
 
 He walked a few steps down the platform, and 
 then hesitated. The same impulse must have 
 moved the two men; for when he paused and 
 looked back he saw that the count had stopped 
 also and was looking after him with an unusual
 
 32 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 
 
 wistfulness in his face. Kalpli went back and 
 held out his hand. 
 
 " I can forgive you, Dick, sooner than niy own 
 rash credulity. We may never meet again, and 
 it won't do to part like this." 
 
 " You're a good fellow," said the count, with 
 an odd mixture of pride and humility; "and I 
 wish you all the happiness that I would have kept 
 from you if I could — that is, if it is happiness, 
 which I doubt. And so good-bye, old fellow. 
 You'll hear from the Nyanza yet." 
 
 " Come back with me," said Ralph, with sud- 
 den compassion. 
 
 The count shook his head. He knew that he 
 was not wanted ; and the life that he saw stretched 
 out before his cousin would not suit him. He 
 was one of that restless tribe to be met with occa- 
 sionally here and there about the Continent or 
 the remoter corners of the world ; at home in all 
 scenes, yet never at rest; he will wander from 
 place to place a solitary man, until age or disease 
 comes on, and he creeps away, sick and fright- 
 ened, to some wayside inn, to die amongst stran- 
 gers, alone as he has lived. 
 
 But Ralph had little thought to spare for the
 
 A TALE OF THE SCARBOROUGH SEASON. 33 
 
 wandering count. His mind, which had been so 
 wavering when he took that walk up the Castle 
 Cliff, wavered no longer. He knew now what this 
 chance that he had so nearly flung away was to 
 him. Under the lamps on the promenade he told 
 Evelyn Tennent the story of his encounter, and 
 another story, as old as the hills, but always new. 
 And I think it would have done even the count's 
 impassive heart good to see the radiant look which 
 beamed on Lady Julia's poor tired face as she sat 
 under the colonnade that night and knew that the 
 future baronet was won, in spite of all those ab- 
 surdly romantic ideas with which her youngest 
 daughter had been wont to drive the poor lady to 
 despair. Then comes the national anthem, and 
 the bustle is greater than ever; then the prome- 
 nade is deserted, the lights are out, and nothing 
 but the perpetual hush of the sea breaks the 
 silence. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 
 
 §1 Sketch in Wixmamtiz* 
 
 Reader, my name is Coodler. Having unbosomed 
 myself to this extent, I need have no compunction 
 in adding that I have a wife, a family of two inter- 
 esting children, a snug business, and have been 
 recommended to try Banting. By this you must 
 not imagine that I am fat : I am only comfortable ; 
 my angles are pleasantly rounded, and I haven't 
 a wrinkle on my chubby countenance. I am of a 
 good temper — my wife once termed it seraphic, 
 but since my recent visit to the seaside I am afraid 
 she has not been able to apply that extravagant 
 term with the same consciousness of its correct 
 significancy as before we — but there, I mustn't 
 anticipate. 
 
 Immersed in business from ten till five, it is 
 not to be wondered at that I look forward to my
 
 36 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 
 
 annual holiday with, if I may he allowed the ex- 
 pression, my mental mouth watering. I am quite 
 aware that there is no such thing as a mental 
 mouth, though why there should not he, when we 
 have Shakespeare's authority for the existence of a 
 " mind's eye," I can't say. But I never had a very 
 great opinion of poets. I have had one or two on 
 my hooks hefore now, and they are not punctual 
 in their payments; far from it. Well, as I was 
 ^saying, when the weather begins to grow warm I 
 find my place of business insupportable. I soon 
 begin to grow warm myself, and a very small 
 amount of sunshine and exertion overcomes me. 
 My wife is something of the same temperament, 
 and she also longs annually for the seaside; for 
 we don't consider a mere visit to the country an 
 " out." We like fields, and hedges, and cows, 
 and all that sort of thing, but we can have all that 
 if we drive to Eichmond or Epping Forest. What 
 we want is a sniff of the briny, the bracing salt 
 air, the clammy sticky atmosphere, that makes 
 you feel uncomfortable and happy. I am vulgar 
 •in my tastes, and delight in Margate. Some people 
 say they like to go to the seaside for quiet. Very 
 good; let 'em go. I prefer noise. I hate quiet.
 
 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 37 
 
 I like niggers. I like Punch. I like the Jetty ; 
 and as for your Esplanades and dulness at your 
 fashionable places, they are not in my way, and 
 that's the honest truth. Now in her heart my 
 wife delights in Margate too. Why, we went 
 there when we were courting, and so the place has 
 a sort of charm for both of us. 
 
 But when I suggested Margate this year, you 
 should have seen the expression on my wife's 
 face. It was grand. I knew what it meant. 
 We've lately grown acquainted with Mrs. Mackin- 
 tosh of Square, and a very genteel lady she 
 
 is, and mighty grand notions she's imbued my 
 wife with — horror of Margate being one of them. 
 
 " Mrs. Mackintosh tells me that Margate is 
 unbearable this season ; such a set of people !' 
 said Mrs. Coodler to me when I mentioned mj 
 favourite haunt. 
 
 " Bother the people!" I replied; "I suppose 
 you want Brighton with the sun in your eyes 
 all day, and everybody dressed as if they were 
 going into the Parks." 
 
 " 0, dear no !" said my wife, with a toss of 
 the head ; "it's not the season at Brighton yet." 
 
 Pretty changes had taken place in my wife's
 
 38 OUE BKILLIANT FAILURE. 
 
 notions since Mrs. Mackintosh made her acquaint- 
 ance. She never used to lay such a stress on its 
 being the season ; in fact, she was rather partial 
 to the earlier portion of the summer or the autumn, 
 lodgings being cheaper at those times. Well, 
 from Brighton I went through all the seaside 
 places I could think of; but Mrs. Coodler had an 
 objection to them all. I began at last to have 
 serious fears that we should miss our seaside out 
 altogether, for Mrs. Mackintosh had something to 
 say against every place. My wife determined to 
 go nowhere "out of the season;" so really our 
 choice was limited, as those places whose seasons 
 fell late in the year were out of the question. I 
 must take my six weeks in the summer, }'0U see, 
 and so the Isle of Thanet being shut against us, 
 (for Eamsgate shared the Mackintosh denuncia- 
 tion, and Broadstairs I kicked at myself), I began 
 to feel uncomfortable. I at one time imagined 
 that Mrs. Coodler was about to propose Boulogne, 
 in order to come back with a foreign flavour ; but 
 she can't even go to Kew by the boat without being 
 ill for the day ; and as to my opinion of French- 
 men — well, there, if you want to get my back up, 
 mention 'em, that's all.
 
 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 39 
 
 As luck would have it, Mrs. Mackintosh's mo- 
 ther fell very ill about this time, and the genteel 
 friend had to go abroad, which was a great relief 
 to me ; for of all the women I ever knew, she — but 
 there, I say nothing, she's in a foreign land, poor 
 thing, and I can only pity her. 
 
 She had gone, it is true, but the genteel viper 
 we had been nourishing in the family bosom had 
 left its sting. 
 
 She had recommended Mudville. At present 
 you are, of course, by no means impreseed by the 
 enormity of recommending Mudville. You don't 
 know Mudville, never heard of Mudville, and will 
 probably not find Mudville in the map. But wait. 
 Hear more, and, I was going to add, avoid Mud- 
 ville ; but that advice would be superfluous ; for a 
 description of my visit to and my treat at that den 
 
 of but there, again, you'll excuse me, I'm sure, 
 
 when you have read a few pages further. 
 
 We were sitting at tea — a social meal in which 
 I delight — nobody ever quarrels over tea ; it's far 
 beyond dinner in my opinion. We were seated at 
 tea, Mrs. Coodler, myself and Grimley, an old 
 friend. Grimley has a disagreeable knack of 
 making himself universally unpleasant. Were it
 
 40 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 
 
 not for this, he would be a very nice fellow. He 
 is what they call a rough diamond, and takes a 
 pleasure in being rude ; but, as I say, it's his only 
 drawback. "Pass the buttered toast, Grimley," 
 I said with a smile, for I was in a good temper, 
 and was eating more than was prudent. 
 
 " Sooner keep you for a day than a week," 
 replied the rough diamond, with his mouth full of 
 muffin. 
 
 My wife threw a glance at Grimley that 
 would have annihilated many men, but he didn't 
 notice it. 
 
 "You go in for tea as if you were at the sea- 
 side," remarked Grimley, after a pause. 
 
 Disagreeable as was the remark, I was grateful 
 to my friend for making it, for I had been longing 
 to touch upon the subject of our summer tour 
 and hadn't known how to approach it. My wife 
 brightened up too, and left off looking black, a 
 thing she always does when Grimley comes. I 
 can't say why, but women are queer creatures, and 
 Mrs. Coodler is no exception to the rule. 
 
 "Wish I was at the seaside!" I exclaimed, 
 throwing a side-glance at my wife. 
 
 " Ah, indeed !" sighed Mrs. C.
 
 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 41 
 
 " Why don't you go, then ?" grunted our agree- 
 able friend. 
 
 " That's just it," I replied hurriedly; " why 
 don't we, eh, Jane ?" 
 
 Jane didn't know, she was sure. For her 
 part, she was ready to go to-morrow. 
 
 " Margate again, I suppose," sneered Grimley ; 
 he had a dreadful habit of sneering — all rough 
 diamonds have. 
 
 " Margate indeed !" said my wife, with a toss 
 of her head. " dear, no ! no more of your 
 Margates ;" then, after a pause, she added with 
 most irritating emphasis, " nor your Eamsgates." 
 
 Now this was quite uncalled-for, as we had 
 never stayed at Eamsgate, nor had I suggested 
 that we should. 
 
 Grimley had always abused Margate. Now, 
 however, he espoused the cause of that charming 
 place and praised it beyond measure. 
 
 " Got too grand for Margate, I suppose, Cood- 
 ler," he observed, taking another cup of tea — his 
 third. 
 
 "No I haven't," I replied indignantly. " Give 
 me Margate before all the watering-places in Eng- 
 land, ay or "Wales either, if you come to that ;"
 
 42 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 
 
 and I brushed the crumbs off my shirt-front with 
 an indignant sweep of my hand, for I was (though 
 seraphic) beginning to get a little put out. 
 
 "Margate's low," jerked out my wife with a 
 scowl at Grimley. 
 
 " Too many tradespeople, I suppose," sneered 
 the rough diamond, with a maddening grin. 
 
 "Well, I won't go," said my wife, bringing 
 down her fist (positively her fist) upon the 
 table, and making the cups and saucers rattle 
 again. 
 
 " Go abroad, ma'am," put in Grimley; " there's 
 lots of pretty places in Switzerland." 
 
 The puppy ! because he had once been down 
 the Rhine with Mr. Cook's party. 
 
 " Or America," he continued, with that hor- 
 rid smile of his; "there's all sorts of goings on 
 there now, notwithstanding the war. Saratoga, for 
 instance." 
 
 "And who is she, I should like to know?" 
 inquired my wife, whose geography is limited, 
 and, poor thing, she thought it was a female's 
 name. 
 
 " 0, rubbish !" I exclaimed, wishing to cover 
 her ignorance, "none of your chaff, Grimley, for
 
 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE . 43 
 
 it's not required. I shall stay at home, unless it's 
 settled very soon." 
 
 This frightened Mrs. Coodler, I can tell you. 
 She turned pale. I saw the change distinctly — 
 she turned very pale, and gasped out rather than 
 spoke the following : 
 
 " Mrs. Mackintosh has told me of a delightful 
 place on the — coast ; a lovely spot, which is 
 hardly known yet ; a wonderful place for' children, 
 and very, very genteel." 
 
 Eeader, a word in your ear. "Whenever you 
 hear of a spot being described as a "wonderful 
 place for children," avoid it. Eemember you are 
 not a child, and go somewhere else. 
 
 "And what's the name of it, my dear?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " Mudville," replied my wife, with a side-look 
 at Grimley, for she suspected he would make one 
 of his vulgar satirical remarks upon it. 
 
 "Well," he said, as I knew he would, "it 
 sounds very pretty; quite inviting, I may say;" 
 and he chuckled. He had a peculiar chuckle, 
 something like the laugh of the hyaena, only more 
 horrible. 
 
 I felt bound to rush to the rescue.
 
 44 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 
 
 " I have no doubt that if Mrs. Mackintosh 
 says it's nice, it is nice," I observed. 
 
 My wife gave me a grateful squeeze of the 
 hand under the table, which brought the tears 
 into my eyes ; for she is a muscular woman, 
 though short of stature. 
 
 "Has she ever been there, mum?" asked 
 Orimley. 
 
 " No, she hasn't," replied Mrs. C. snappishly ; 
 " but she's friends who have, and I can trust 
 her." 
 
 "Ah! can Coodler? that's the thing," said 
 Grimley, with a twinkle in his evil eye. This 
 was a sly dig at my business, a subject upon which 
 I allow no man to joke. I drew myself up. I am 
 not tall, but even my enemies admit that I am 
 dignified. I drew myself up, and placing my 
 thumbs in my waiscoat-holes, and my head back 
 — my favourite position when desirous of being im- 
 pressive — I thus addressed the satirical Grimley : 
 
 " Grimley, you are an old friend. As the 
 poet says, ' We were boys together ;' but I will 
 not allow you, Grimley, to throw my shop in my 
 teeth in the presence of the gentler sex. Don't 
 do it again, Grimley, because I don't like it."
 
 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 45 
 
 Then turning to my wife, I said, with a sudden 
 transition of manner from the imperially severe to 
 the domestically gentle, " My love, we go to Mud- 
 ville on Monday." 
 
 Going to Mudville, and getting there, are, I 
 beg to state, two very different matters. The 
 spirit may be willing, but the railway arrange- 
 ments are worse than weak, the train putting you 
 down at a very considerable distance from your 
 destination. 
 
 We started — self and wife, my son Christopher 
 aged nine, my nurse Sarah Naggles (estimable, 
 but warm-tempered), and my infant Roderick — 
 from the station after breakfast, and the train put 
 us down at Muffborough, and left us looking 
 disconsolately at our boxes on the platform, and 
 wondering whether we should get a fly ; for we 
 were some miles from Mudville, and we'd a good 
 deal of luggage — we always have. We didn't 
 wonder long. The Interesting Stranger soon fer- 
 reted out a fly, and a pretty specimen of a fly 
 it was. 
 
 But first, touching the Interesting Stranger. 
 He was a remarkably good-looking person, that is
 
 46 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 
 
 for those who admire tall people — I don't ; little 
 and good's my motto. He had a slight tendency 
 of blood to the nose ; but, as my wife remarked, 
 that might be constitutional : he had very large 
 and certainly very bushy whiskers, though they 
 were not things I ever admired much, looking a 
 good deal like blacking -brushes, I think; and 
 though I've not the slightest symptom of 'em 
 myself, I don't envy those who have 'em, not I. 
 He parted his hair down the middle (an idiotic 
 fashion, only fit for women ; but that's neither here 
 nor there) ; and he wore his seaside hat in a 
 jaunty manner, and was altogether rollicking, and 
 perhaps a trifle vagabondish-looking. However, I 
 never judge a man by his appearance, and I must 
 admit he was very polite. He talked politics to 
 me, for he got into the same carriage with us as 
 we were starting, hoping he didn't inconvenience 
 us, and not shying the least bit at the baby ; he 
 handed my wife the paper ; he snapped his fingers 
 atKoderick; and, he threw Christopher into con- 
 vulsions by showing him some tricks with half- 
 pence, and imitating the man who came round for 
 the tickets. We were quite delighted to hear he 
 was going to Mudville ; we were sure of one plea-
 
 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 47 
 
 sant acquaintance there, at all events. I never 
 saw my wife so pleased with anybody in my life, 
 for she generally puts on a haughty way with 
 strangers, which I have heard before to-day de- 
 scribed as " queenly ;" for she is chary of mak- 
 ing acquaintances, and never forgets her family, 
 who, between ourselves, were against her marry- 
 ing me, especially her uncle Benjamin, who was 
 a something or other under Government in foreign 
 parts, and came home with a pension, and no liver 
 to speak of. Aristocratic in a small way was Mrs. 
 C. before she condescended to smile on Chris- 
 topher Coodler, I can tell you; and she had 
 refused a half-pay officer, a young man high up 
 in the Customs, and a distiller with a beautiful 
 house at Brixton, previous to my popping the 
 question. So, considering all things, I was sur- 
 prised to see how affable she was with the 
 Interesting Stranger bound for Mudville. When 
 the Interesting Stranger — who, to save trouble, I 
 will, if you don't mind, denominate I. S. — found 
 us ruefully eyeing our luggage at the station, he 
 smilingly came to our assistance, and pounced 
 upon a fly like — like a spider. Then he helped 
 to pile our luggage on to the roof, and bullied
 
 48 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 
 
 and cajoled the stupid driver into an almost 
 wakeful condition ; and so at last we found our- 
 selves on the road to Mudville, and later on at 
 that retired spot. 
 
 Mudville was one of those places that beggar 
 description. It was small and melancholy; a 
 wretched little — but there, I won't attempt it. 
 We had been recommended to the apartments of 
 Mrs. Grogrurn, and thither we drove. 
 
 Mrs. Grogrum's front apartments looked out 
 on to the sea, and by an ingenious arrangement 
 the builder had contrived that the back windows 
 also gave you a fine view of the ocean. Mrs. 
 Grogrum's house was built diagonally (I think 
 that's the word), and it seemed to me to catch 
 every wind that blew. It was plentifully supplied 
 with windows too, and they rattled delightfully 
 without ceasing. 
 
 Mrs. Grogrurn was a fiery-faced female, with 
 the most obtrusive black " front" I ever saw. I 
 believe that front to have been made of horsehair, 
 it was so shiny, stiff, and undeceptive. From a 
 casual glance at the rubicund features of Mrs. G., 
 I came to a hasty conclusion that she was addicted 
 to ardent liquors. I was not surprised at this, as
 
 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 49 
 
 it is not altogether uncommon with brandy- and- 
 watering-place landladies. Pardon my humble 
 joke, it shall be my last. The instant we were 
 settled (though we were a long time coming to 
 terms with the one-eyed fly-driver, who was per- 
 tinacious, insolent, and apparently in a chronic 
 state of inebriety), my wife went out to see what 
 we could have to eat ; for she is a good manager, 
 is Mrs. Coodler, and I don't know a better judge 
 of butchers' meat or fish. So she started off with 
 the view to seeing the tradespeople, whilst I re- 
 mained to settle myself. Settle myself, indeed ! 
 I hadn't got through the first half of my police 
 reports (a part of the paper for which I have a 
 weakness, I admit), when a loud tap was heard at 
 my door, and before I had time to say come in, 
 the form of Mrs. Grogrum blocked up the entrance, 
 and stood quivering with some strong emotion. I 
 have before observed that I am beneath the middle 
 height — a good deal beneath it — I am also a peace- 
 able man, prone to let things take their own way, 
 and with a sublime respect for "peace and quiet." 
 Consequently, I will admit that the quivering 
 frame of Mrs. Grogrum flustered me, and I felt a 
 sudden palpitation and a general trembling, which 
 
 VOL. I. k
 
 50 OUE BEILLIANT FAILURE. 
 
 was not lost upon the landlady, whose quivering 
 increased, and whose features became, if possible, 
 more fiery, as she saw me quail beneath her lumi- 
 nous eye. 
 
 " sir," she blurted forth, making a sharp 
 bob, "asking your parding, but is Mrs. Coodler 
 to cook your mealses, or am I to do 'em? I 
 merely wish to know, to save confusion for the 
 futur'." 
 
 I stared. It was the only thing I could do at 
 the moment, and I did it. 
 
 " I repeat, sir, which is to do 'em ?" 
 
 "Why, Mrs. Groggins— " 
 
 " GrogRUM, sir, if you please," was the lofty 
 reply ; for I'd called the woman by a wrong name 
 in the agitation of the moment. 
 
 " Bum, by all means," I responded with a 
 touch of humour. 
 
 She looked daggers at me, but luckily, like the 
 gentleman in the play, " used none." 
 
 " For Mrs. Coodler, she come into my latch- 
 ing and made remarks. Now I'm missis in my 
 own 'ouse, I do 'ope, and I am not a' going to 
 have strange ladies a coming and a poking their 
 noses, and a prying into my latching, and a-
 
 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 51 
 
 making remarks about my domestic. Mis. Cood- 
 ler comes into my latching, she does, and re- 
 questes to look at my frying-pan, and speaks 
 sharp to my domestic as doesn't bring the frying- 
 pan instantaneous ; me being missis in my own 
 'ouse, and not lodgers, nor never will as long as 
 my name's Maria Grogrum. No. Imperent curi- 
 osity is what I won't stand, because it flusters 
 me ; and one as wishes to do her dooty to parties 
 as takes her apartments, can't be flustered and do 
 her dooty at the same time. So what I says, sir, 
 is, if your good lady is a going to cook, let's knov/ 
 at once, and the sooner we parts the best for all 
 concerned ; but if I'm to do the cooking, why 
 then let Mrs. Coodler keep herself to herself; a 
 making her complaints when proper, of course, 
 but not a coming a prying about in parties' kitch- 
 ings and a asking to see frying-pans." 
 
 I believe that if a violent fit of coughing had 
 not taken Mrs. Grogrum, she would have been 
 speaking still. However, she coughed and curt- 
 seyed and quivered herself gradually out of the 
 room ; and mentally determining to look for fresh 
 lodgings as soon as possible, I again attacked the 
 great embezzlement case at Bow-street. But I 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY.
 
 52 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 
 
 was not to get beyond the third paragraph unin- 
 terrupted. Again the door opened, and again a 
 form quivered with passion upon the mat. 
 
 This time it was not Mrs. Grogrum, but her 
 servant of all-work, Susan, or as she called her- 
 self " Shoozan." 
 
 Shoozan had a round rosy face, and round 
 rosy elbows ; she had red hair, and was freckled 
 in reckless profusion. She could not, even by 
 her most ardent admirers, have been considered 
 a " neat-handed Phyllis." The number of grates 
 she black-leaded weekly was evidently overwhelm- 
 ing, when compared to the ablutionary exercises 
 she indulged in. In short, she was "grimy" to 
 the last degree; and she wore black stockings, 
 and a black cap, both of which articles I would 
 abolish by act of parliament, if I could. Shoozan 
 was bursting with some strong grievance; so I 
 laid down my newspaper and waited to hear her 
 story. 
 
 " Please, sir," she gushed out after an inward 
 struggle, " would you like to be called a nuzzy ?" 
 
 Now I don't think I should like to be called a 
 nuzzy. I have no notion what it means, but it 
 sounds insolent. Before I could reply, however,
 
 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 53 
 
 the girl burst forth again, "And if she. expects 
 as I'm going to take the children's dinner up to 
 the top of the 'ouse, she's mistook." 
 
 Here Shoozan waggled her head about de- 
 fiantly. 
 
 "My good girl," I said, for I always feel for 
 servants in lodging-houses, poor wretches ! but 
 the kindly tone of my voice was too much for her ; 
 she burst into a vehement boo-hoo, and wept 
 loudly. Beauty in tears is all rubbish. Those 
 poets again ! Beauty blubbering looks frightful, 
 with a red nose and swollen eyes. Even the 
 plain domestic looked plainer after wiping her 
 eyes with her apron. 
 
 " It's very hard to be called names, a poor girl 
 as never see her parents." Here she burst out 
 again. 
 
 "There, go along," I said; " Sarah shall see 
 to the children's dinner;" and with a parting howl 
 Shoozan retired. 
 
 What a time my wife seemed away ! Again 
 I attacked the embezzlement case, and this time 
 I got as far as the magistrate's request if the 
 prisoner had anything to say. But no further. 
 
 The door again burst open, and Sarah Naggles
 
 54 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 
 
 stood before me. Sarah Naggles, than whom 
 there is not a better nurse and a more abomin- 
 able temper in Britain, stood there, shaking a 
 thousand times more than Grogrum. In a tre- 
 mulous point of view the landlady was a mere 
 blancmange compared to Sarah, who was a down- 
 right " shivering mountain." For some seconds 
 she could not speak : at length she did — loudly. 
 
 "Mr. Coodler, sir, I wish to leave your ser- 
 vice at once, sir, on the spot." Here she selected 
 a stain on the drugget to stand upon, thereby 
 adding, as she evidently imagined, force to her 
 remark. 
 
 " Good gracious, Sarah ! — " 
 
 " It's no use your trying to look dignified, 
 sir. When Sarah Naggles says a thing, Sarah 
 Naggles means it; and I'm off by the next con- 
 veyance." 
 
 I looked round helplessly ; but my wife was 
 out still, and until she came back I could say 
 nothing. Sarah could. She was apt to stick on 
 a good many superfluous h's when excited, and 
 she gave it as her " hopinion that the landlady 
 was honly a helderly hignoramus." 
 
 She would have continued in the same strain,
 
 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 55 
 
 but, luckily, my youngest child, with intelligence 
 beyond its years — or, rather, months — took ad- 
 vantage of her absence to fall off a high chair. 
 This necessitated the presence of Sarah upstairs, 
 and a temporary cessation of hostilities. 
 
 I was getting tired of being bullied, and I 
 seized my hat with the intention of going out 
 to find Mrs. Coodler. Chancing to look out of 
 window, I saw Mrs. Coodler. Mrs. Coodler was 
 in conversation with the Interesting Stranger. 
 Mrs. C. was smiling, the I. S. was smiling. Ap- 
 parently Mrs. C. was enjoying herself, whilst I — 
 but the contrast was too much, and I admit I was 
 injudicious enough to clash my hat down over my 
 brows. As it stuck tight, and wouldn't come up 
 again, I immediately repented my rashness, and 
 felt about for the door with a crab-like action, 
 which was appropriate to the locality, but un- 
 graceful. 
 
 Suddenly I found myself in somebody's arms. 
 With a convulsive effort I raised my hat ; terror 
 had endowed me with increased strength, and I 
 had a dreadful suspicion it might be Mrs. Grog- 
 rum. 
 
 It was not. It was the one-eyed fly-driver.
 
 56 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 
 
 The one-eyed fly-driver had been drinking, and 
 swayed backwards and forwards, occasionally hic- 
 cuping. I asked him his business. 
 
 " Business," replied the man, looking round, 
 as if undecided as to how he should continue, 
 then jumping to an indisputable conclusion, 
 " ain't pleasure. What is pleasure to some folks 
 is pain to others." 
 
 The combination of annoyances was getting too 
 much for me. I drew myself up, and assumed a 
 frown. 
 
 " When I clapped my eyes," continued the 
 driver. 
 
 " Your eye, sir," I replied, loftily. " Stick to 
 facts." 
 
 " On you," said the one-eyed incubus, not 
 noticing my interruption, " I said, that's a gent as 
 '11 stand a glass of summut. But you didn't now, 
 did you ?" and the fellow put his head on one side 
 and leered hideously. 
 
 "Most decidedly I did not," I replied proudly. 
 
 " Nor ain't going to ?" he continued. 
 
 "Nor ain't going to," I replied clenchingly, if 
 I may be allowed the expression. 
 
 "Werry good," said he; "then my mouth's
 
 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 57 
 
 sealed. I had a thing to say" (unintentionally 
 quoting Mr. William Shakespeare, who ivas a poet 
 rather), " but I won't. I'm not a-going to put my 
 finger in no one else's pie." 
 
 If you could have seen his finger ! I did, and 
 have not eaten pie since. 
 
 He vanished. I turned my head away shud- 
 deringly, and when I recovered myself he had 
 gone. 
 
 I was becoming rabid. I was also awfully 
 hungry. My wife came in. I should have re- 
 ceived her with an air of sarcastic politeness (any 
 friends of mine who read this will know the style 
 of thing I mean — my playfully severe air, you 
 know), but I was broken-spirited by recent trials, j 
 
 "It's so annoying," she said, coming to the 
 point at once; "there ain't a piece of meat to be 
 got in the place ; not even a chop to be procured 
 for love or money before to-morrow." 
 
 " Sweet spot !" I murmured. 
 
 "And I've been to every shop in the place to 
 get change for a five-pound note; but they say 
 there isn't as much money in the town." 
 
 I smiled sardonically, but didn't speak. 
 
 " Then the fishmonger only comes over from
 
 58 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 
 
 Shellborough on Mondays and Fridays, and to- 
 day's Wednesday : and Mrs. Grogrum says her 
 fireplace isn't big enough to roast joints, so we 
 must have all our meat baked; and there's no 
 draught ale that's drinkable to be got here, be- 
 cause there's so little demand for it; and the poul- 
 terer's only got one very small rabbit, which is not 
 at all good ; and Mrs. Grogrum says she under- 
 stood we found our own plate — she's only got two- 
 pronged steel forks ; and there's a dog next door 
 but one, they tell me, that howls all night ; and 
 the windows in our room rattle so dreadfully, 
 that we sha'n't get much sleep, I'm afraid ; and 
 there's no lock to the door ; and the pillows are 
 like dummies, they're so hard. And so you must 
 put up with an egg and a slice of bacon for your 
 tea." 
 
 The volubility of my wife, culminating in a 
 decided non sequitur, was more than I could bear. 
 I seized a chair in my agitation, and the back rails 
 came off in my hand. This calmed me. I propped 
 it against the wall, with the determination of 
 declaring I hadn't done it, and smiled once 
 more. 
 
 "Mrs. Coodler," I observed (I never address
 
 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 59 
 
 my wife thus except under very peculiar, circum- 
 stances), — " Mrs. Coodler, I have taken these 
 apartments for a month, and we must try and 
 make the best of them. Fortified by the cheering 
 society of the Interesting Stranger, no doubt you 
 will be able to bear up." 
 
 Mrs. Coodler coloured, and would have replied, 
 but I waved her aside, and went out into the street 
 to see the lions. 
 
 The lions ! I was not long in seeing them all. 
 There were the six bathing-machines, the "prin- 
 cipal" hotel, the post-office, the library, and — no- 
 thing else. The library was an imposing edifice ; 
 that is to say, it was a dead take-in. There were 
 no new books whatever, and I refused to be com- 
 forted by the Adventures of a Guinea; neither 
 could I be brought to properly appreciate the 
 charms of Pamela; so I went home again. I 
 walked upstairs, and entering the apartment, 
 found — no, reader, you're wrong for once — not the 
 Interesting Stranger, but a policeman — a regular 
 rural peeler. He eyed me with professional dis- 
 trust and a calm smile. I swelled with indigna- 
 tion, and tried to awe him, but he was not to be 
 awed.
 
 60 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 
 
 " Good-morning/' said the policeman fami- 
 liarly, " I presume — " 
 
 "You do, sir," I replied sharply, in my im- 
 perious manner; " you presume very considerably 
 in entering a gentleman's apartments in this way, 
 sir. Let me tell you, an Englishman's first floor 
 is his castle, sir. What do you want ?" 
 
 "You !" replied the constable in a deep tone. 
 
 I was becoming accustomed to this sort of 
 thing, and smiled. 
 
 " Your name is Dumpton," said the fellow. 
 
 "All right," I replied; "have it so, if } r ou 
 like ; you must know best." I was tickled by the 
 atrocity of the whole thing. "What's the charge ? 
 Burglary? garotting? murder? What is it?" 
 
 "You come from town by the half arter ten 
 train ?" 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " Good ! A telegram informs me I'm to arrest 
 a party of your description; at least you're near 
 enough the description for me to arrest you. So, 
 without more ado, come on." 
 
 My wife is an excellent woman, and at times 
 her feelings get too many for her. She heard the 
 final speech of the policeman, and with difficulty
 
 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 61 
 
 was dissuaded from flying at him. Such was also 
 the case with Sarah Naggles, who has highly-deve- 
 loped nails, and (in consequence of blighted hopes) 
 nourishes an abnormal hatred of "the force." Be- 
 tween these two desperate women the one police- 
 man of Mudville would, I am afraid, have come 
 to the most unmitigated grief. He saw his peril, 
 and produced a pair of handcuffs. I confess the 
 sight unmanned me, and I sank into a chair. I 
 produced my card ; I pointed to the direction on 
 my boxes ; I threatened to write to the Times ; I 
 explained how ridiculous it would be in a felon 
 travelling about with a family ; I pleaded and 
 stormed alternately, but to no object. The police- 
 man had received his instructions ; had been di- 
 rected to us by the malevolent one-eyed fly-driver ; 
 had executed his orders; and was deaf to reason, 
 blind to a bribe, and generally stupid and un- 
 swervingly upright. 
 
 Mrs. Grogrum coming in suddenly upon the 
 scene did not improve the tone of the meeting, as 
 may be supposed. She had settled that we " was 
 no good" the instant Mrs. C. had made rude re- 
 marks about her frying-pan, " a article as a reel 
 lady would despise to worrit herself about." And
 
 62 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. 
 
 as for that sylph in the hlack stockings, Shoozan, 
 she had long ago learnt to place the blindest con- 
 fidence in the Mudville policeman, who was the 
 model of manly beauty in the eyes of the neigh- 
 bouring maidservants. 
 
 We were at our wits' end. My wife was fran- 
 tic, the nurse furious, the children fractious. 
 Wrapped in his panoply of authority and pig- 
 headedness, the policeman alone was calm. 
 
 To us (at this juncture) entered blithely the 
 Interesting Stranger. A smile was on his lip, a 
 tear was not in his eye. I was about to appeal 
 to him to clear up the mystery, when I observed 
 a remarkable change come over his features. At 
 the same time a change as remarkable came over 
 the countenance of the aggressive constable. He 
 clapped his eye on the figure of the Interesting 
 Stranger, and almost instantly clapped his profes- 
 sional handcuffs on the wrists of the same indivi- 
 dual. 
 
 The Interesting Stranger answered to the de- 
 scription in the telegram in every particular ; and 
 to this day I cannot comprehend the reason for 
 arresting me, for we were not in the least alike. 
 The I. S. was tall, I am — well, under the middle
 
 OUR BRILLIANT FAILURE. t)3 
 
 height. The I. S. was good-looking (at least 
 Mrs. Coodler declares so, spite of everything; 
 and he was described by the police reporter as a 
 " person of fashionable appearance"), and I am, I 
 admit, not striking to look at, though dignified 
 for a short person. The I. S. was not dressed 
 like me either ; so altogether it was a muddle at 
 Mudville, and I might have kicked up a great row 
 about it. 
 
 Did I stop to have any arguments, to receive 
 the grovelling apologies of Mrs. Grogrum, the 
 trembling beseechings of the obtuse policeman, 
 the solemn assurances of attention and cleanliness 
 from Shoozan, the universal sympathy of the ex- 
 cited populace — did I wait for all this ? 
 
 Did I ? 
 
 Did I fetch the one-e3 r ed fly-driver from his 
 favourite haunt, and bundle self and family back 
 to town that afternoon ? 
 
 Didn't I !
 
 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE WENT IN FOR 
 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 Have you ever had a bosom friend ? By that I 
 don't mean only one on whom you bestow that 
 cheap article called your confidence, but one to 
 whom a half (and the biggest) of the loaf belongs, 
 while a loaf is there ; who has the key of your 
 cellar, even though you have arrived at your last 
 dozen ; who, in short, may put his hand into your 
 purse, take out the last shilling, and give you the 
 change. 
 
 Such friends were Charlie Blake and I. We 
 had been on the same side in all our games at 
 school. We had shared alike in tender years our 
 marbles and our half-yearly boxes from home ; and 
 if Charlie was bottom of his class, I was sure to 
 be found " next boy." Together we had strug- 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 gled through Smalls, and conquered Mods ; and 
 emerged at the same time from under the shadow 
 of our old college walls, and come together to the 
 Temple (that emporium for younger sons), and 
 gone on struggling for some two or three years 
 at the time of which I write. It might be that 
 deluded relatives had discovered in Charlie and 
 me the germs of undeveloped Eldons, but, alas I 
 briefless barristers we were, even though the down 
 on our cheeks (or rather on Charlie's, for I am a 
 smooth man) had ripened long ago, and grown 
 into dense forests of hair, and briefless we seemed 
 likely to remain. I don't think Charlie and I 
 should have fretted that the world in general did 
 not look upon our genius with a mother's eye,. 
 only we were hard up — very hard up — so hard up, 
 in short, that of course bulky papers came to us 
 day by day which decidedly were cheques upon no- 
 body's bank, but only very useless appeals for us 
 to give what we had not got. 
 
 So Charlie and I had determined to look mat- 
 ters in the face, and see what could be done. 
 Charlie was leaning on my mantelpiece, surveying 
 the fit of his coat, and the length of his whiskers, 
 in my mirror, on the day we had come to this
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 67 
 
 determination, while I was in my easiest, attitude 
 on one of my easiest chairs, with as good an ha- 
 vannah as Turk or Christian need wish to smoke 
 in my mouth — for, as Charlie wisely observed, if 
 one couldn't pay for anything, why shouldn't one 
 have the best ? 
 
 Pay ! why, we had given over even thinking of 
 paying for some time. Did we not know that had 
 we given a free entree to our rooms, and been left 
 with what only lawfully belonged to us, we should 
 have presented a very primitive appearance in- 
 deed? — N.B. I know Charlie had a pair of slip- 
 pers worked by a cousin ; 1 don't remember any- 
 thing else. How could we help it ? The world 
 would shake us by the hand in an unpaid-for 
 coat, but how would it look if we were strictly 
 honest, and had no coat at all ? Query ? 
 
 " I had rather not sweep a crossing, Arthur," 
 quoth Charlie; "for a B.A. it isn't dignified; or 
 even go to the diggings, which some of my coun- 
 trymen would hardly permit me to do at present 
 — and yet we can't hold on much longer." 
 
 Then Charlie's feelings burst through his 
 waistcoat and came forth in a sweeping anathema 
 against bills, and the rascals who sent them, and
 
 68 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 the unsatisfactory state of the world in general to 
 briefless barristers, as is the fashion with Oxford 
 men with large views and no income. 
 
 " My good fellow," I observed, throwing away 
 the end of my cigar, " let us look at the matter 
 in a business-like point of view. Statement of the 
 case : Two worthy gentlemen possessing — " 
 
 I paused — for what did we possess ? 
 
 " Possessing every advantage except those to 
 be derived from filthy lucre — can't get their 
 creditors to credit 'em any longer," observed 
 Charlie. 
 
 " Under which trying and unaccountable cir- 
 cumstance, the second point in view is — what are 
 they to do ?" 
 
 Men have been known to attempt a joke on 
 their way to the scaffold, but depend upon it the 
 first sight of the cord puts a stop to it. 
 
 Charlie looked grave — so did I. My havannah 
 was done, and there were only two more left in 
 the box. 
 
 " The governor has seven babes and sucklings 
 to provide for, and yours as many more : no 
 chance in that quarter," murmured Charlie. 
 
 N.B. Our forefathers were popularly supposed
 
 WENT IN FOE THE HEIEESS. 69 
 
 to have held landed estates somewhere in some 
 bypast time — a belief their descendants held to, 
 on the principle, " 'Tis better to have had and 
 lost, than never to have had at all." 
 
 Suddenly Charlie, who had been pensively 
 stroking out his moustachios, was roused by the 
 following remark from myself : 
 
 " Charlie, couldn't we marry?" 
 
 Charlie suspended his operation. 
 
 " Marry," he said vaguely — " what ? whom ?" 
 
 " Why, a woman who is not only a woman, 
 but an heiress." 
 
 "But where do they grow?" said Charlie. 
 " It strikes me golden apples are not to be had 
 without presenting a testimonial to the dragon; 
 besides, I have a polite objection to heiresses. 
 They have generally large mouths, haven't they ?" 
 he added plaintively. " However," he continued, 
 " I suppose one sacrifice is sufficient, so you may 
 have her, and I'll dance at the wedding, with a 
 pocket full of chinking gold." 
 
 " After I have come over the dragon." 
 
 "Precisely," said Charlie. "You wouldn't 
 expose my tender frame to the monster ; besides, 
 you know, you will have the golden hen all your
 
 70 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 life — only giving me an egg now and then. But 
 she mayn't like you." 
 
 " Then she'll like you, which doubtless you 
 consider far more likely." 
 
 " Chacun a son gout," Charlie observed; "if 
 I prefer myself, it doesn't hurt you. But seri- 
 ously, Arthur, if there's a chance of my having to 
 engage the young person's affections, I don't like 
 it. Hasn't anybody got a maiden aunt ? I possess 
 a mourning ring as a mark of respect from mine 
 — but isn't there some old spinster bottled up in 
 your family, Arthur ?" 
 
 "Yes, there was such an 'old spinster,' in 
 the north of Scotland, whom I hadn't seen since 
 I was a child in petticoats. She had petted me 
 then, but, owing to some feud with my father, 
 all intercourse between us had ceased even 
 before my mother's death. Was she acces- 
 sible ?" 
 
 "North of Scotland," quoth Charlie, "very 
 good indeed. 'Loved }ou when a boy,' ably 
 worked by a pleader like you — it is just the thing. 
 ' North of Scotland :' has she any salmon up at 
 her place ? By Jove ! I feel 'em bite already. 
 We are as safe as trivets."
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 71 
 
 I can't say I exactly shared Charlie's exhilara- 
 tion : but then I was Blondin, and had the rope 
 to cross, while Charlie was safe below ; and if I 
 fell, though he might sympathise, he would not 
 feel the bruises ; and, depend upon it, feeling the 
 bruises on your own person, and feeling for that 
 person, are two very different things indeed. 
 However, our present life of retirement was not 
 pleasant — to say the least ; so I commenced opera- 
 tions by writing to my relative. It is needless 
 now to write that letter again. There are so 
 many excellent jokes one makes to oneself, after 
 the party is over, and one can't rouse the house 
 to tell them — so many moves the spectator of a 
 game at chess feels he could make, which are 
 neglected. At the time, however, I considered 
 my letter a very fair sample of its class — from a 
 man who had kissed that celebrated Irish stone 
 at Blarney Castle. The letter was posted by our 
 own hands, after dusk, and a bottle of champagne 
 drunk to its success. 
 
 "I want some dress bags," said Charlie to me 
 that evening ; " shall I order them ?" 
 
 I muttered something to the effect that it is 
 inexpedient to reckon the number of your brood
 
 72 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 till your eggs have escaped the casualties peculiar 
 to eggs. 
 
 "Bother!" said Charlie. " What an old 
 curmudgeon you are over the tin ! I wish it were 
 my maiden aunt." 
 
 " I wish it were," I replied. 
 
 A few days passed over eventlessly, except that 
 Charlie and I grew restless at post hours, and 
 depressed afterwards — except that we were unsuc- 
 cessfully courted by seedy - looking individuals 
 with unshaven chins, who seemed to grow more 
 particular in their attentions as our engagements 
 from home increased. Being as I said, low down 
 in my class, I forget how long the siege of Derry 
 lasted, hut I know the ships only came in just 
 in time. Would our ship come in ? and in 
 time ? 
 
 Charlie's dress bags were still in perspective, 
 and allusions thereto rendered him touchy; but 
 the darkest hour is that before the dawn. We 
 had had our darkest hour, and the dawn came. 
 We had been wandering dejectedly in the gardens, 
 and stared at the river through the fog, without 
 being cheered — when, on entering my rooms, I 
 found a letter in an unknown female hand.
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 73 
 
 " Maiden aunt," said Charlie, " my bottle of 
 champagne to the next cigar you have bestowed 
 on you." 
 
 I took no notice of him, but tore open the 
 seal. 
 
 " ' Lyringa-grove, Edinburgh.' " 
 
 "Hang it!" said Charlie, "she's removed; 
 how about the salmon ?" 
 
 "'My dear Boy, — How I was carried back 
 yesterday to the time when you were a child at 
 my knee, and I teaching you your letters ! Do 
 you remember that big box, Arthur, and how you 
 would never say anything but B was a butcher, 
 and had a great dog ?' " 
 
 ("Pleasing," said Charlie. "Maiden aunt in 
 evident possession of faculties. Well — ") 
 
 "'Lackaday! I have no doubt you have for- 
 gotten it. I never thought once that my favourite 
 nephew would have let so long a time pass with- 
 out a word ; but as you say, " These unhappy dif- 
 ferences have come between us," and prevented 
 you seeking me out, for fear of being considered 
 intrusive. 
 
 " ' My dear boy, had you no better memory of
 
 74 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 me than that ? On many accounts I wish you 
 had made yourself known to me sooner. You 
 know — at all events it is so — that I have no near 
 relatives, and I hoped that you would stand in the 
 place of one to me. When I could hope so no 
 longer, and only think you had forgotten your old 
 aunt, I adopted a dear young friend and connec- 
 tion of mine — Mary Mackenzie — (not that she had 
 any need of adoption, in one sense ; for she has 
 a comfortable independent fortune) ; hut we are 
 both lonely women, and both know that riches 
 have nothing to do with happiness — ("By Jove! 
 haven't they, old lady !" burst in Charlie) — so we 
 have cast in our lot together, and she is a dear 
 friend and daughter to me. My dear boy, will 
 you come and see me ? I am a foolish old woman 
 to build castles in the air at my time of life ; but 
 still if you can manage to arrange your profes- 
 sional duties — (Charlie, irreverently, "Can't he 
 just, you maiden aunt ?") and will come to see me 
 next month, it will make me happy, and bring 
 back old times. Good-bye, my dear boy. — Yours 
 &c. Martha Thoroughgood.' 
 
 " ' P.S. Mary is away now, but returns next
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 75 
 
 week, I believe ; and will be prepared to like 
 you.' " 
 
 "0 maiden aunt — maiden aunt!" exclaimed 
 Charlie, "thou art shallow as thy nephew's 
 purse !" 
 
 "Has been, Charlie. You see the times 
 aren't over when, if some men choose to walk in 
 a new path, they find the road laid down with 
 gold paving - stones. But I wonder what age 
 she is ?" 
 
 "Who?— The aunt?" 
 
 " Pshaw !— Mary." 
 
 " Mary — ah, Mary. Why, considering your 
 female relative's powers of subtraction, and the 
 way she alludes to her as a lonely woman, I 
 should say not much below fifty." 
 
 " There's a limit to chaff," I observed angrily, 
 as I sat down to think of my position. 
 
 How Charlie appeased the Philistines, I do 
 not exactly know, but they were appeased for the 
 time. 
 
 Unshaven chins left off their craving for our 
 society, while Charlie Blake took pleasure in 
 openly parading in regions before marked danger-
 
 76 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 ous, with the graceful ease and assurance of a 
 man who has "come in" for what he has given 
 up expecting. I say Charlie Blake did this. As 
 for me, I had never felt less exhilarated. Had 
 the golden image in the future only appeared to 
 me in the form of my aunt, I should have been 
 happy indeed ; but one's prospects to hang on a 
 woman one had never seen ! 
 
 I was sitting in my rooms, one day, trying to 
 see a bright future through the medium of my 
 pipe, when a letter was brought to me in the 
 writing of my aunt. A wild rush at the seal, and 
 the contents were soon my own. The old lady 
 thought I might like to see a photograph of her 
 young friend Mary Mackenzie, and so she sent 
 me one which had been taken by a friend. 
 
 Now, at the time of which I speak cartes de 
 visite were not ; no benignant statesmen with ex- 
 tended forefinger on heavy volume ; no smiling 
 Spurgeons at home, or mighty foreign powers dis- 
 playing quite touching proofs of affection to their 
 families, might be bought for prices not worth 
 mentioning, to repose under cover of gay moroccos 
 on drawing-room tables. 
 
 These things were yet to be. So my heart
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 77 
 
 beat loudly as I undid the paper in which lay ray 
 future bride. 
 
 Did the royal Harry so unclasp the miniatures 
 of his lady-loves ? [I wonder, by the way, if poor 
 Anne would have been trotted over on her useless 
 mission, if photographs had come in ?] At all 
 events, the royal sceptre and crown were not 
 endangered. Alas for me, my all was staked 
 thereon ! 
 
 I opened the paper ! Ye powers ! could mor- 
 tal in the blessed guise of woman be so ugly? 
 This likeness represented a figure of colossal pro- 
 portions as far as the knees. Her eyes, or rather 
 her eye, for one was wanting, was of that kind 
 commonly denominated a " wall ;" her nose was 
 embellished by a disfiguring scar; while her 
 mouth — had I been in the mood to think of it, it 
 would have permitted a belief in the man who eat 
 the church and eat the steeple. My wife ! ! 
 
 At this moment Charlie Blake came in. I 
 had heard his laugh on the staircase. He was 
 going to some party, and the fellow had the 
 audacity to come before me in the dress bags 
 which he had ordered on my fortune. He had 
 some studs, too, I noticed angrily, and a new pin
 
 78 HOW CHAELIE BLAKE 
 
 with ruby eyes ; and as lie came up, he brought 
 in a perfume (only to be obtained at a great ex- 
 pense) which made me feel, friend though he was, 
 I hated him. 
 
 I flung the likeness of my bride at him with a 
 savage laugh, as he came in. He picked it up 
 and muttered, " Le diahle /" out of politeness, I 
 suppose, to a lady. 
 
 " Pleasant," I said, " considering that is the 
 person on the prospect of my marriage with whom 
 you choose to dress yourself up like a man-mil- 
 liner." 
 
 "By Jove !" said Charlie Blake again. 
 I hated him more than ever. I said so. I 
 told him to send back his jewelry and his per- 
 fumes, for I was not going to be tied to a creature 
 with one eye. 
 
 "My good fellow," said Charlie, " but you don't 
 know what you're saying; we'll trust reflection 
 will bring you to a more Christian frame of mind." 
 So saying, Charlie strolled up to the mirror, tried 
 on two fingers of a glove, murmured, "I'm en- 
 gaged to little Lucy for the 4th," and left me to 
 go to his confounded party. 
 
 How selfish men are ! I reflected ; and as I
 
 WENT IN FOE THE HEIRESS. 79 
 
 thought of those studs and perfumes my wrath 
 exploded. 
 
 I paced my room, I walked miles over 1113- car- 
 pet, and at every square I vowed that I would 
 not have Miss Mackenzie. But what could I do ? 
 .Deht and her Majesty's charitable institutions 
 stared me in the face, or — and I gave Miss Mac- 
 kenzie a passing salute on the carpet for being so 
 
 ugly- 
 
 Charlie returned at three in a provokingly 
 good humour. 
 
 The dancing had been a success, supper good, 
 champagne the correct thing. 
 
 " I'm glad you've been enjoying yourself," I 
 said savagely, "as it seems to me your enjoy- 
 ments are limited." 
 
 "You don't mean to say," exclaimed Charlie 
 looking hard at me, "that you are going to turn 
 us both over r M 
 
 "Yes, I do," I replied, "unless you have a 
 fancy to become the possessor of — " and I glanced 
 at Miss M. on the carpet; "'if you have, take 
 her, aunt's fortune, and all, and — bless you, my 
 boy." 
 
 Charlie whistled and took up the picture.
 
 80 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 " But I wish she had two eyes," he said, 
 thoughtfully; "it puts a man under a suspi- 
 cion." 
 
 " She mayn't be so bad, after all," I added, 
 viewing the case more hopefully. 
 
 "It is done by the sun," mused Charlie (with 
 that belief in photographic power we had at first), 
 " and that can't be mistaken." 
 
 " 0, well, after all, beauty is but skin-deep," I 
 pursued. 
 
 " It's a good thing you hold such views, old 
 fellow. It is simply (don't be hurt), hideous; but 
 we'll trust, seeing this, we know the worst. Come, 
 Arthur, do your duty like a man ; or stay, we've 
 lived and suffered together, and I won't desert you, 
 my boy. I'll agree to toss up as to who it shall 
 be." 
 
 " Very well." I grasped at the straw. 
 
 Charlie pulled from the recesses of his pocket 
 a suspicious-looking halfpenny. The golden age 
 had not begun with us. 
 
 " Heads !" I faltered. 
 
 " Tails !" quoth Charlie, as being more appro- 
 priate. 
 
 Up went her Majesty's current coin. Down —
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 81 
 
 I felt my heart beat against the table in that mo- 
 ment of suspense. 
 
 "All right, old fellow," said Charlie Blake, 
 " you've got her." 
 
 I looked. Heads — unmistakably heads. 
 
 " Well," said Charlie, as I continued speech- 
 less, " as it's settled, I suppose I may as well turn 
 in. At all events, it's some consolation to think 
 the young person's affections will probably be at 
 liberty to fix themselves on you. Good night, 
 Arthur, and pleasant dreams." 
 
 The savage left me. "Pleasant dreams!" I 
 tossed restlessly to and fro till my pillow scorched 
 me. I attacked my water-jug, and again returned 
 to my pillow, and arose, as it was probable, un- 
 refreshed. Days passed on — the appointed hour 
 grew near. I lost my appetite ; I lost all interest 
 in the parting of my hair ; I went and played with 
 little Tommy Smallwood at long whist for love, 
 for five hours without a murmur. I dined with 
 Smith, and stopped at the second glass of cham- 
 pagne. Altogether, I was in a fair way to alarm 
 my friends. Some men said I had a hopeless at- 
 tachment (hadn't I ?) ; others, that I had over- 
 worked my brain (those who didn't know me) ; 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 and, as I avoided my friends, so they grew tired 
 of me in my present state. Only Charlie Blake 
 avoided me too, and that cut me. I might he 
 surly to him, but still, under the present circum- 
 stances, I thought he would have stood by me. 
 I heard him laughing with Smith on the floor he- 
 low, possibly at me, and I grew hot at the idea. 
 Wouldn't I pay his debts after my marriage ? 
 (An icy shudder crossed me.) And now that 
 he knew I couldn't get out of it, he was basely 
 ungrateful. 
 
 It was the evening before my departure, and 
 I was standing helplessly regarding my portman- 
 teau, when Charlie Blake came in. 
 
 "All ready?" he said cheerfully. (How easy 
 is such cheerfulness!) 
 
 " I shall be in due time," I replied, in that 
 funeral tone I had adopted. 
 
 "But your hair," said Charlie, surveying 
 me, "and your garments, and — ahem, pardon 
 me — your general aspect. Beally you look 
 more like some Esau than a Christian of to- 
 day." 
 
 A mirror opposite reflected Charlie's words. 
 
 "lam not going to act happy lover."
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 83 
 
 " No. But won't she expect it ? and so i" 
 must do it, with your leave." 
 
 I stared wildly. 
 
 "Yes, Arthur," he went on; "this shutting 
 yourself up, and going about unshaven and un- 
 shorn, sounds better than it looks ; so, craving 
 your permission, I am going to try for the heiress." 
 
 " But—" 
 
 He cut me short : " My dear fellow, it's no 
 matter of choice ; one of us must do it. I am 
 "the tougher animal, and if it weren't for the aunt, 
 I should be as right as — " 
 
 " Take my name, my identity, what you will," 
 I said, wringing his hand, "and may I turn out 
 a more satisfactory fellow to j^ou than I have ever 
 been to myself." 
 
 "All right," said Charlie; "and now I must 
 turn in and pack — I suppose 1 may take the 
 'dress-bags in case my heiress dances, without ex- 
 citing your ire now." 
 
 He shut the door and left me. Did he really 
 think his offer so light and easy? I could not 
 tell. But who would not have a bosom friend 
 after this ? 
 
 I went to bed and slept as I had never
 
 84 HOW CHAELIE BLAKE 
 
 slept since that portrait had first haunted my 
 dreams. 
 
 Here ended all personal concern of mine in 
 that unlucky picture. The remaining portion of 
 the story I have no wish to speak about, and 
 leave it to Charlie Blake to tell in his own words. 
 
 And so I took Arthur's ticket, and the place 
 which should have been his in the Great Northern 
 train opposite an inflammatory-looking old gentle- 
 man in a fur cap, and a spinster getting on in 
 years unmistakably and of a most forbidding cast 
 of countenance. I was attracted by that spinster. 
 Would the Mackenzie be like her ? Would her 
 eyes suggest young gooseberries as unmistakably ? 
 Would she wear cotton gloves ; and have as strong 
 an appetite for tallow pies ? As I made these re- 
 marks to myself — I made them and sundry others 
 over and over again — the lady's face grew sterner 
 and sterner. I could not keep my eyes off. At 
 last, she requested me to hand her a corpulent 
 umbrella, upon which I sat oblivious, and left the 
 carriage. 
 
 A cold chill seized me. Could that have been 
 Miss Mackenzie ? I had seen her ticket, and it
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 85 
 
 was marked Edinburgh. " The last straw breaks 
 the camel's back." I was that camel. The idea 
 haunted me also how I should be received at Ly- 
 ringa Grove. I had a story to relate, but I had 
 not acted it on the stage, and I might fail. I read 
 Punch as if it were the milliner's bill, and I the 
 father of a family all wearing crinoline. His follies 
 failed to make me smile. 
 
 I was uncivil to the young women at the re- 
 freshment stalls. When the old gentleman in the 
 fur cap grew crimson with the heat, I did not 
 offer my seat near the window. What were his 
 feelings to mine ? 
 
 At last, in the dull gray light of a foggy even- 
 ing, we reached Edinburgh. Everybody got out. 
 I got out. 
 
 " Cab, sir ?" said a jolly-looking cabby, who 
 exasperated me by his jovial appearance. Should 
 I wait till morning ? No ; morning light would 
 make things worse. I gave the address and got 
 in. At every slackening of speed on the part of 
 the gaunt old horse, I felt a tremor. We drove 
 on into the suburbs. There were trees and fields ; 
 then an iron gate was opened. We creaked over 
 a gravel drive, and a glow of ruddy light from
 
 86 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 the windows of a good-sized house said we had 
 arrived. 
 
 There is on record the history of a venerable 
 mother of a family who lived in her shoe. Would 
 that I had been acquainted with her secret, and 
 could have retired into that residence ! As it was, 
 the entrance of myself (I'm six foot one in my 
 boots), my portmanteau, and cabby made a con- 
 siderable noise in the hall. A most highly re- 
 spectable and very corpulent flunky stood at the 
 door, before whom, owing to the intense respecta- 
 bility of his aspect I suppose, I actually blushed. 
 At this moment, a little old lady, who by reason 
 of a narrowness round the base, and a profusion 
 of headgear, reminded me of a well-grown cauli- 
 flower, appeared at a door, and rushed towards 
 me. And while I stood doubtful of her intentions, 
 she imprinted an anything but doubtful kiss on 
 my chin, as the only attainable feature. 
 
 "My dear Arthur, my dear boy!" said the 
 little old lady, "how glad I am to see you here!" 
 (In parentheses to hoary head who stood by, rubi- 
 cund and serene) " Saunders, this is my nephew, 
 Mr. Arthur." 
 
 What could I do ? Contradict the old lady to
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 87 
 
 her face? Be turned out by hoary head as au 
 impostor, and lose all chance of my golden bride ? 
 In honour to Arthur, I could not. There was 
 too a steaming odour ascending to my nostrils, 
 resembling roast goose unmistakably. At all 
 events, I would stay to dinner. 
 
 So, with many expressions of affection, the 
 aunt ushered me into the drawing-room. Was 
 my bride there? No. And Thoroughgood was 
 again repeating her expressions of satisfaction at 
 seeing me there — was roasting me at an enormous 
 fire, and feared I was starving, after the fashion 
 of old ladies, when I heard a step in the passage. 
 A lighter step than I should have thought the 
 foot of such a Colossus as the photograph repre- 
 sented would have made. Click went the door. 
 I turned round to meet my fate, and saw instead 
 ■ — not an angel with rosy wings borne on a cloud, 
 but something slightly of the genus in the form 
 of a young and pretty girl, with laughing blue 
 eyes, waving light hair, and most becomingly 
 dressed in — excuse me, ladies, whether muslin 
 or gauze I am unable to sa}\ 
 
 Aunt Thoroughgood looked up and sighed. 
 Well might she sigh. It was not policy to in-
 
 88 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 troduce rae to such a young lady, when I was to 
 fall in love with somebody else. 
 
 "Well, aunt," said the young lady at the 
 door, "won't you introduce me to your nephew?" 
 She smiled so oddly that I stared. Possibly she 
 knew about my coming for the heiress. "Miss 
 Murphey — my nephew, Arthur Hamilton," and I 
 was Charlie Blake. So we went into the roast 
 goose in the other room. I could not regret 
 Miss Mackenzie, with that merry little girl near 
 me, and plenty of " victuals to eat. and to drink," 
 as the song says. There would be plenty of time 
 for "the other," after a little flirtation with this, 
 before I settled down. 
 
 So I enjoyed my dinner. The soup was a 
 testimony to the principles of the Scotch cook, 
 who put in all that was required. The fish had 
 apparently but just left its native element; and 
 the roast goose was everything a goose roasted 
 should be. If I abstained from the stuffing on 
 account of the ladies, I did not regret that ab- 
 stinence. During the sweets, I looked at Miss 
 Murphey, and yet I am anything but a ladies' 
 man. 
 
 I might be a little absent sometimes when I
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 89 
 
 ought to have answered to the name of Arthur, 
 as the advertisements for lost dogs say. I might 
 feel I was eating Arthur's dinner, and drinking 
 Arthur's wine ; hut Arthur declined it, and really 
 I seemed to answer the purpose so well, that I 
 thought he was as well at the Temple. 
 
 "My dear," said Miss Thoroughgood, survey- 
 ing me intensely through her spectacles, as we 
 stood over the fire after dinner. " How much 
 lighter your hair has grown ! When you were a 
 boy it used to be nearly black, and your eyes are 
 lighter too." 
 
 "How very odd!" said Miss Murphey, with 
 another little sly glance out of her eyes at my 
 aunt. " Do you think he's an impostor ?" 
 
 An impostor, good heavens ! What did the 
 girl mean ? I felt I grew red even to the roots 
 of my whiskers ; but what was singular was that 
 aunt Thoroughgood turned very red too. 
 
 I felt (afterwards) what a good opportunity it 
 was for discovering myself. I think I should 
 have done it, had not thoughts of Saunders re- 
 strained me. Imagine his being told to take 
 down Mr. Hamilton's coat at night, and to bring 
 up Mr. Blake's in the morning ! However, Miss
 
 90 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 Thoroughgood dismissed my hair from the sub- 
 ject of conversation, sat down in an easy-chair, 
 and was very soon (God bless her, and preserve 
 the habit in old ladies!) in the land of Nod. So 
 Miss Murphey and I turned to each other. 
 
 "I am your cousin," she obseiwed, looking at 
 me with her blue eyes. " At least, I am aunt 
 Thoroughgood's once removed, though I do call 
 her aunt." 
 
 Whereupon I observed that we would not 
 count the removes. Truly if Arthur's identity 
 brought me nothing worse than this cousinship, 
 I should be a lucky fellow indeed. Here I de- 
 manded whether as cousins we should not address 
 each other in cousinly fashion. 
 
 " I think you may," said Miss Mary, working 
 vigorously at some mechanism in her lap, after 
 the fashion of young ladies, "as you aren't like 
 what I expected." 
 
 A marvel if I were, I thought. I said, how- 
 ever, as one isn't always obliged to say what 
 one thinks to a pretty girl sitting near one in a 
 drawing-room : 
 
 " Indeed ! pray what monster did you expect'?'* 
 
 "0, not a monster at all," said Miss Mary,
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 91 
 
 "only a very practical person, a sort of grown- 
 up version of the little boy who hated poetry be- 
 cause it was nothing to eat." 
 
 " A sensible little fellow," I replied, thinking 
 we were a good deal alike after all, "and very 
 like a young lady to condemn one for caring for 
 one's bread and butter." 
 
 " 0, I daresay it is very sensible," slightly 
 shrugging her shoulders; "and if I were an 
 heiress, I suppose it would be sensible of you to 
 offer to thread my needles," she said laughingly. 
 
 Whereupon — but this is folly. She told me 
 that Miss Mackenzie had had a trifling quarrel 
 with the old lady, and had gone away for a short 
 time, but would soon be back again. 
 
 "In the meantime, cousin Arthur, you must 
 be content with me." 
 
 Could I be content ? Ah yes, if it weren't for 
 Arthur and the unpaid debts. 
 
 And then Miss Thoroughgood awoke, and we 
 had our coffee. I watched the little figure of 
 Miss Murphey flitting about : she did everything 
 so prettily, even to putting the sugar in my cup, 
 and looked as if she was flirting with the cream- 
 jug. (I did not go so far as to wish myself a
 
 92 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 cream-jug that night for her sake, after the fashion 
 ©f Mr. Disraeli's lovers.) 
 
 Then Miss Thoroughgood began to grow per- 
 sonal and disagreeable once more. 
 
 " My dear Arthur, I was thinking just now 
 about your father." 
 
 "Dreaming, dear, don't you mean?" put in 
 Mary saucily. 
 
 "No, Mary, I was not asleep; though you 
 always persist in disbelieving me. You are like 
 your father, Arthur" (extraordinary coincidence 
 that I should be like Arthur's father). " There's 
 the same stern look about your mouth when 
 you are grave as I saw when you thought I was 
 asleep just now." (A decided proof she had 
 been.) 
 
 I only said, " Indeed !" 
 
 " Your father was a stern man, Arthur, when 
 I knew him. Is he altered ?" (Confound my 
 father.) 
 
 " But little," I said, and turned to Miss Mur- 
 phey; but she was eating her bread-and-butter 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " Has time dealt lightly with him ?" pursued 
 Miss Thoroughgood. " Is he gray?"
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 93 
 
 Was he gray? I felt uncomfortable. I might 
 commit myself, notwithstanding the old lady's 
 hazy recollections, and though the questions were 
 easy. Yet a man must be in very peculiar cir- 
 cumstances to feel as I felt then. 
 
 " Slightly," I observed. 
 
 " Well, I am surprised," said Miss Thorough- 
 good; "I always thought he would be gray so 
 early." 
 
 I turned to Miss Murphey again, and was- 
 silent. 
 
 "And how has Julia turned out?" continued 
 my tormentor. 
 
 I had heard of Arthur's sisters often, and seen 
 one or two of them, but — he had eight — whether 
 Julia was old or young, married or single, I had 
 quite forgotten. Besides, what was there in Julia 
 to turn out ? What could a person turn out ? 
 Why, pretty, of course. I felt myself growing 
 warm. 
 
 " She had turned out pretty," I observed, 
 prompted by my inner man. 
 
 "Pretty!" cried Miss Thoroughgood, hold- 
 ing up both her hands. "Julia pretty! I said 
 Julia." (I was silent.) " Well-a-day, we never
 
 94 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 know how to account for tastes. Listen." (I 
 was listening, heaven knows.) 
 
 Here the old lady dived into her bag, brought 
 out a letter, arranged her spectacles, and began 
 again about that wretched Julia. 
 
 "A friend of mine writes, who saw your sisters 
 at a ball a few weeks ago" (by Jove ! I hoped the 
 correspondent didn't write often), " - Ann and 
 Mary Hamilton looked as handsome young women 
 as any in the room, and were much sought after. 
 Poor Julia certainly doesn't take after the family. 
 She is unmistakably very plain.' " 
 
 " Tastes do differ, aunt," said little Miss 
 Murphey, to my great relief. " In the mean- 
 while, will you take your tea, and let your nephew 
 have his, or he will think as little of my tea as 
 your friend does of Miss Julia's beaut}*. You 
 must have a strong attachment to your family" 
 (turning to me). " You grew quite red when 
 aunt said your sister was thought plain. Besides, 
 you know she said she did not take after the 
 family." 
 
 And she looked demurely at her tea. 
 
 It icas disagreeable being somebody else under 
 Miss Murphey's eyes. However, the aunt's per-
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 95 
 
 sonalities ceased. Miss Murphey's tea, though I 
 ahhor the fluid, tasted drinkable to me, and I 
 felt tolerably happy, even though I was Charles 
 Blake — in debt — no nearer the heiress — and 
 wasting my time. How I wished Miss Murphey 
 had been that golden image ! and how oilily the 
 wheels would have gone then ! What a jolly little 
 girl she was ! I shouldn't object to turn Benedict 
 with such an inducement. The next morning 
 saw me established quite as a member of the 
 family at Lyringa Grove. Miss Murphey looked 
 quite as charming as she had done under the 
 lamplight. She was watering her flowers and 
 feeding her canaries, as busy as that little insect 
 whom Dr. Watts holds up for our example, when 
 I came in. I was not going to be cheated out of 
 my "good-morning," though; and waited till she 
 put down her seed-boxes. And then the old lady 
 came in. 
 
 I began to act dutiful nephew to her, but Mary 
 pushed me aside, arranged the cushions, and set 
 her up like a ninepin. 
 
 "Ah, Mary knows no one can do anything for 
 me like she does," apologised Miss Thorough- 
 good.
 
 96 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 " Except Miss Mackenzie," put iu Mary, look- 
 ing ironically at me ; and again the aunt sighed. 
 (Was it not a sigh of compassion for me ?) 
 
 After breakfast, I, who can only be induced 
 into a vehicle behind a thorough stepper — smok- 
 ing allowed — actually found myself like a domes- 
 tic animal, with a shawl over my arm, going into 
 a miniature clothes - basket on wheels, which I 
 could have carried with ease, pronged by an enor- 
 mous hoop (they had just come in again), with 
 Miss Mary beside me, holding the most absurd 
 whip growing out of a parasol. 
 
 I couldn't drive such a ridiculous conveyance. 
 I couldn't take reins which seemed made for a 
 rocking-horse ; so Mary took them, and drove me, 
 while I creaked in the clothes-basket, and actually 
 felt contented. I came back contented. After 
 luncheon, too, I found myself scratching my hands 
 in attempts at embedded violets in the hedges, 
 which Miss Murphey pointed out at the foot of the 
 banks with her parasol. It did strike me that the 
 parasol generally aimed at those violets which were 
 deepest in nettles; and when I returned, scratched 
 and bleeding, Miss Murphey suggested clocking- 
 leaf quite coolly as a remedy.
 
 WENT IN FOE, THE HEIRESS. 97 
 
 Still I was content. And was not this con- 
 tentment dangerous? Was it not? Evening 
 came on, and when the siesta was in process I 
 took up my position at an heroic distance from 
 Mary's pricker. The recollections afterwards were 
 less troublesome, only the aunt would puzzle her 
 head as to which of Arthur's ancestors I had de- 
 rived my light hair from. 
 
 " All the family had dark," she said, survey- 
 ing me perplexed. 
 
 Here Miss Mary came to my aid. 
 
 " There are mysteries in the masculine toi- 
 lette," she laughed. 
 
 And so aunt Thoroughgood's mind was re- 
 lieved in supposing my hair was dyed ! It was 
 come to this ! 
 
 And yet Mary's tea tasted more like nectar. 
 I felt I could have forsworn beer and tobacco at 
 unseemly hours, held the kettle, or walked out 
 with a poodle in a red jacket for Mary's sake ; but, 
 alas ! the grapes were unattainable. 
 
 So the days passed away. I took to the basket 
 carriage, and found myself trying to ingratiate 
 Mary's canaries (the feeble-minded creatures trem- 
 bling and fluttering at nry approach, not seeming 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 to take to me). I also found myself looking for- 
 ward to aunt Thoroughgood's nap, and suggest- 
 ing sleepy viands to the dear old lady at dinner. 
 She was a worthy soul, and did not seem to no- 
 tice my conversations with Mary. I wished Miss 
 Mackenzie would come ; at least — that is, I 
 thought it time. A letter from Arthur suggested 
 it. He wanted to hear how I got on with the 
 heiress. Why didn't I write ? Ah ! why didn't 
 I '? I had nothing to say. Hamlet had not come 
 on yet, though the play was Hamlet, and the pit 
 was growing impatient. It was time. I said so 
 twice that afternoon. I had written (though any- 
 thing hut a poet) a stanza to hlue eyes in Mary's 
 album — and very flowing lines indeed. I found 
 myself looking at the moon before I went down 
 to dinner, so I took myself to task; and when 
 Mary greeted me with her sunny smile, I re- 
 frained from any answering sunshine. During 
 dinner, I discussed the subject of drainage with 
 aunt Thoroughgood with the gravity of a whole 
 Board of Health. I saw Mary elevate her pretty 
 shoulders, and for that reason I avoided her 
 glance, and ate my dinner like an alderman. Had 
 I not been looking at the moon ? And when a
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 99 
 
 man had advanced to that stage, and the next was 
 impossible, had he not better panse at once ? 
 Pshaw ! it was time to end this trifling. 
 
 So, after dinner, when aunt Thoroughgood 
 had left our company for that other land so dis- 
 tant, I avoided Mary. I went to a distant table, 
 and taking up a great book, I sat down to it. Did 
 not that prove my weakness ? Mary put her work 
 by, and came to the table. She did not seem 
 offended. Nay, she had cause for triumph, if she 
 cared for such triumph. 
 
 " What have you there ?" she said, placing her 
 small fingers on the musty volume. 
 
 "Abridged edition of the Lives of Forty Scotch 
 Divines, by Job Plasterman." 
 
 " There, I'm sure you don't care for that. 
 Come and play chess with me." 
 
 I did not care for that, but I did not say so. 
 However, what could a man do but rise, with 
 musty book on one hand and pretty girl on the 
 other? And yet I felt it was a dangerous game. 
 That seeking in the box for the pieces, with small 
 fingers seeking for their pieces too, followed by 
 the importance of hiding the two pawns behind 
 your back, and the deliberate choice (Mary and I
 
 100 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 always made a great deal of this part of the pro- 
 ceedings). As I say, it's a dangerous game. To- 
 night, however, Mary made me put on all the 
 men, chose her hand without any deliberation, 
 and — I missed it. 
 
 "Why did you want to read?" said Miss Mary, 
 moving her pawn. 
 
 Why did I? I could not tell her. Oxford 
 man, and — ahem ! — rising barrister though I was, 
 I felt confused. 
 
 "Why shouldn't I read?" at length I feebly 
 remarked, and turned her attention to the game. 
 
 " Shall you read when Miss Mackenzie 
 comes?" persisted Mary. " Aunt Thoroughgood 
 heard to-day that she is coming most likely next 
 Wednesday." 
 
 Frantic movements on the part of the gen- 
 tleman's bishop ; and, goaded to desperation, he 
 says, 
 
 " Hang Miss Mackenzie !" After all his re- 
 solutions too. 
 
 "Arthur, isn't that rude? But you don't 
 know her — she's a very nice person." 
 
 " I have seen her, Mary — Arthur — that is, I 
 saw a likeness of her."
 
 WENT IN FOE THE HEIRESS. 101 
 
 " ! Plain, isn't she ?" 
 
 " Plain !" I exclaimed. " Hideous !" 
 
 I heard a suppressed laugh, but Mary was 
 under the table, having dropped a piece, and when 
 she rose, it was with a vehement " Check!" on her 
 tongue. 
 
 I didn't see it. 
 
 " No, you never do see anything; you are 
 very blind," she said, laughing. "I don't know 
 what you will be like, when Miss Mackenzie comes; 
 for you know what they say is blind." 
 
 "Nothing at all appropriate," I observed, in 
 a surly tone, thrusting my king on to destruction. 
 
 " Ah," said Mary, looking up ; " but you like 
 heiresses, don't you ?" 
 
 What an odious conversation to a man who 
 had come for an heiress ! I did hate prying 
 women. 
 
 Another mad move on the part of the frantic 
 bishop, and I was checkmated. 
 
 I would not play chess any more, I said to 
 myself ; and I did not. I ceased to coo to Mary's 
 canaries. The basket carriage did not creak under 
 my weight, and the pony doubtless was propor- 
 tionately relieved. Was it only the pony ? I did
 
 102 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 all this for two whole clays. I was acting with the 
 usual good sense of Charles Blake, Esquire. I 
 patted that gentleman on the hack. (This is 
 figurative.) I said, "Well done, Charlie, my 
 boy!" but I could not raise my own spirits 
 thereby; I still said, "Hang Miss Mackenzie!" 
 mentally, and looked at the moon when I was 
 alone. 
 
 And so the day came before that one on which 
 Mary told me the heiress was to come. "We were 
 going to a picnic, but I felt very low indeed. 
 Wasn't the apple going to swing over my head 
 for another twenty-four hours'? and hadn't I to 
 keep that great fence in view between it and me — 
 all the time ? Not all my cigar-bills, unpaid-for 
 coats, dunning brewers, covetous and mercenary 
 tailors, had ever preyed so upon my spirits. 
 
 I wasn't Charlie Blake. I was the little long- 
 ing boy for the plum-cake, and forced to submit 
 to the bread-and-butter. What ! did all little 
 boys have butter ? and wasn't I content ? I cut 
 my chin in shaving, though the sun was stream- 
 ing through the windows. Even the sight of 
 Mary in a white dress, and a hat with a bird of 
 paradise reposing on the top, did not raise my
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 103 
 
 spirits. What had I to do with birds of paradise, 
 or with anything but the most earthly of the 
 tribe ? There was a man, too, with a great deal 
 of red hair, who, aunt Thoroughgood said, was 
 much " sought after." He seemed, I thought, 
 on far too intimate terms with paradise. Mary 
 smiled, too, as if she liked him ; she shook-out 
 her blue ribbons, and actually seemed pleased 
 (girls have no discrimination) when he paid her 
 a stupid compliment. 
 
 More people came, and I was introduced, and 
 I bowed, and smiled, and hated them. I was to 
 drive two girls (by courtesy) in brown, who were 
 to be trusted — and very steady and mature they 
 looked. Red whiskers, who rejoiced in the name 
 of Gushington, was to drive aunt Thoroughgood 
 and Mary. What a fool he looked, handing her 
 into his trap ! As if she couldn't get in by her- 
 self! 
 
 The girls in brown did not belie their sober 
 nature. Their schoolmistress (though it must 
 have been long — very long since they required 
 such a preceptress) might have been guarding 
 them invisibly, and smiling in spirit; neverthe- 
 less they might have been desired a trifle more
 
 104 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 amusing. They — at least, the one on the seat 
 beside me, was of a pleasing turn of mind, and 
 seemed grateful for what luck had bestowed on 
 her in the shape of myself, and the back-seat. 
 She liked picnics? "0 yes." And driving? 
 " } r es." And a dusty road, with the sun like 
 blazes on her head? "0, she didn't mind dust 
 or the sun;" — all of which might be gratifying, 
 but not amusing. Happy " brown ribbons," who 
 could be happy in waltz or carriage, all uncon- 
 scious of the feelings of thy partner ! When we 
 reached the old abbey (which I thought we never 
 should reach), I was requested to show the brown 
 girl a good point for sketching, and would I take 
 a camp-stool ? I was a Christian, whatever my 
 frame of mind might be ; and we sat undisturbed 
 till a great bell sounded. Then the young lady, 
 whose time seemed to have been spent in rubbing* 
 out, and who was now struggling with the legs of 
 a cow figuratively on her paper, mildly asked, 
 "Was I hungry?" and as I thought this betokened 
 a desire for a prolonged struggle with the cow, I 
 gave a more truthful than polite " Yes," and we 
 descended. I felt angry as I took my place on 
 the grass. Mary told me afterwards I helped to
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 105 
 
 the pigeon-pie, as if I were at war with its con- 
 tents ; and so I was. Wasn't I Arthur's pigeon, 
 and wasn't my own plucking just about to begin ? 
 
 Mary sat opposite to me, smiling at Mr. Gush- 
 ington's very poor jokes over the crackers. For 
 my part, I see small amusement in crackers, un- 
 less indeed you happen yourself to make a par- 
 ticularly good remark. 
 
 However, Mary pulled the crackers at one 
 side, and red whiskers on the other, and she 
 laughed because it wouldn't go off — and then it 
 went off, and she laughed again, and then he read 
 the motto, and she laughed again, and gave him 
 the comfit. Why couldn't he pull the thing with 
 somebody else ? 
 
 I didn't enjoy it. The lady next to me, with 
 a fixed purpose for lobster-salad, was heavy. The 
 brown ribbons reverted to how she should finish 
 the cow after lunch, and was heavy too — while 
 Miss Murphey opposite was not heavy, and I am 
 not the man to look pleasantly at the cold mutton, 
 with the hot roast at the other table spread out 
 for somebody else. I found that champagne may 
 be as uninvigorating as toast-and-water, and that 
 chickens may be tender (and cut up) without a
 
 106 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 power to please in their tenderness, even though 
 one hopes to many an heiress shortly. I had 
 never thought so before. I did now. 
 
 I sat long over that cheerless entertainment, 
 until I saw an old lady eye me with suspicion, and 
 then I got up and moved on by myself into a little 
 wood, where — my thoughts being in a medley that 
 afternoon — I wished to avoid the world ; so I threw 
 myself on a bed of nettles, and called myself a 
 fool. 
 
 "What's done, Charlie Blake," I observed, 
 " can't be helped. For the future — " And then 
 down below I saw Mary coming over the stile by 
 herself, chopping off the heads of the flowers with 
 her parasol. So I strolled down my bank, and 
 met her. 
 
 "Hasn't it been pleasant," she said (by the 
 way, I thought her face looked very grave before 
 she saw me — but I wasn't up to young ladies), 
 " and everybody charming ?" 
 
 "Meaning, I suppose, thereby Mr. Gushing- 
 ton? — to me he seems an insufferable puppy." 
 
 If ever a girl who didn't talk slang said, " 
 you muff !" with her eyes, Mary said so then. 
 
 " There are many things worse than puppies,"
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 107 
 
 said Miss Murphey, colouring a little, and continu- 
 ing to chop. 
 
 "I am down — don't hit me, Mary," said I. 
 "Do you care for this red-whiskered fellow?" 
 
 " They aren't red, Arthur; but — no — I don't care 
 for him" (a little scornfully), and we were silent. 
 
 How pretty she looked ! I had made-up my 
 mind that I would go away without a word — but 
 I could not — so I " did it." I told her how I 
 had come for the sake of the heiress who was to 
 help us, and what a poor wretch I was, with a 
 cartload of debts hanging about me — and how 
 before the heiress had come, she being there — I — 
 &c. &c, and how useless it was. But though I 
 could not make love to her, I would not stay and 
 make it to anyone else. I would leave to-night, 
 and try if there was nothing else but an heiress 
 who would help to roll this heavy load away from 
 us. 
 
 Her blue eyes had a curious look in them when 
 I paused. The worst had yet to be told. 
 
 " Arthur," she began. 
 
 " Stay, Mary," I said, and I felt a blush on my 
 face, "I am not Arthur." 
 
 " Not Arthur — not my cousin ?" She started
 
 108 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 back as if she were about to cry out "Murder !" or 
 " Mr. Gushington !" but looking at me as a pre- 
 liminary measure seemed to reassure her. Then 
 I told her the rest, — how Arthur had grown ill 
 over the photograph, and I had taken his place. 
 How everyone had greeted me as Arthur, and I 
 had been too cowardly to face an explanation. 
 Then I asked her if she would not accord to 
 Charlie Blake the grace she would have given her 
 cousin ? I had freely confessed — 
 
 " And expect to be as freely forgiven, I sup- 
 pose. Well, I don't see what else you can do, 
 though it was very wrong. There is one condi- 
 tion, though, to the act of grace." 
 
 "Well, what was it?" 
 
 " You will stay till Miss Mackenzie comes — 
 for an act of penance. You are not obliged to 
 make love to her, you know." 
 
 " Thank you," I said; for I confess to a feel- 
 ing of disappointment at the cavalier way in which 
 she had treated my offer. I felt piqued. What 
 can a man offer more than his hand, even though 
 that hand be an empty one ? 
 
 She might be prudent; perhaps she deemed 
 such a hopeless attachment not worth alluding to ;
 
 WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 109 
 
 still, though prudence is douhtless an estimable 
 quality, yet a man may desire other qualities in 
 his fair one. Something seemed to amuse her 
 too. We were hardly out of the wood, when, 
 standing still, Mary burst forth into a peal of 
 silvery laughter. "I cannot help it, Arthur; 
 pray forgive it." 
 
 I felt angry in my heart at her ; and I think 
 Mary saw my disappointment and anger, as we 
 silently joined the rest of the party. I was glad 
 to get back — glad with a negative gladness, when 
 I put my companions again under the maternal 
 wing. There was nothing more to be done now. I 
 went upstairs and packed my portmanteau. This 
 was the first time I had meddled with young- 
 ladies, and it should be the last. 0, you wise 
 Solomon ! What a world this would be, if your 
 thoughts and your acts were the same ! 
 
 I had only to say good-bye to aunt Thorough - 
 good (London being unable to settle its lawsuits 
 without me would explain matters in that quarter) , 
 and to bid that — young person farewell — who 
 would doubtless hold out her pretty hand, smile, 
 and go out to gather violets with that puppy 
 Gushington five minutes afterwards.
 
 110 HOW CHARLIE BLAKE 
 
 As I went downstairs a servant met me, not 
 Saunders, but one of the housemaids, saying I 
 was wanted in the library. "Who is there?" I 
 inquired. 
 
 " Only Miss Mackenzie, sir," Susan replied. 
 
 "Only Miss Mackenzie!" Well, really, this 
 was making a dead-set at me ; she couldn't be 
 going to propose ! 
 
 I would represent my forlorn condition in very 
 plain terms, if I saw a chance of it. Hang it ! I 
 wished I had gone straight off. I didn't wish 
 Arthur at the Temple now. 
 
 I went into the room, but there was no one 
 but Mary. " Some one told me Miss Mackenzie 
 had come," I said. " Thank goodness she isn't 
 come — I hate seeing the woman." 
 
 " Hate seeing the woman !" said Mary, with a 
 little smile, which I couldn't make out, and a 
 bright colour in her cheeks. " Are you sure she 
 isn't here, Arthur — I mean Mr. Blake — hovering 
 about you in the shape of an invisible spirit." 
 
 For once in my life I stared. 
 
 "You won't notice her," she went on, " even 
 though she is before you. It was not fair that 
 you should not be Arthur, and I myself. You
 
 WENT IX FOR THE HEIEESS. Ill 
 
 are not like the knight in the fairy tale, Mr. 
 Blake, who found out the lady even after she was 
 changed into the cat, from the depth of feeling in 
 her mews." 
 
 "But the photograph?" I murmured feebly, 
 not being myself. Indeed, an infant, so to speak, 
 might at that moment have knocked me down. 
 " Who was that ?" 
 
 "I assure you," she said, smiling, "it was I 
 — only done by an amateur," (Grod bless him ! I 
 mentally added.) "I stood too near — that made 
 me look so gigantic, and then I moved — that 
 deprived me of an eye." 
 
 "We said you were like the Sphinx pyramid, 
 Mary." 
 
 Mary laughed. " They said it was not like 
 me, and so I sent it. I thought it would frighten 
 all the crows away; and when I heard you were 
 still coming, I thought I would rely upon it not 
 being like me. Iliad a struggle with dear aunty's 
 idea of deceit. She has had many a sigh over 
 me ; but as the servants all call me ■ Miss 
 Mary,' I was safe; — and so — and so I will forgive 
 you for all the pretty things you have said of me 
 to my face, and will never do so any more."
 
 112 HOW CHARLIE WENT IN FOR THE HEIRESS. 
 
 And then I stood before her, not knowing what 
 to say — wasn't the prize too great ? 
 
 " Mr. Blake," said Mary, coming towards me, 
 and shyly holding out her little white hand (which 
 it is needless to say was soon in another larger 
 and browner one), "you asked me something this 
 afternoon — shall I answer it now ? — or do you still 
 ' hate the woman' ?" 
 
 Did I hate the woman ? No, I don't think I 
 did. I had loved her for herself, and she knew it 
 — so I did not go away. 
 
 7|v TjC" 7p" "Jr 7fT "*£■ 
 
 I don't know what Arthur's feelings were when 
 he saw my pretty bride, because I only thought 
 about my own at that time. He had, however, a 
 well-made coat on at my wedding, which was paid 
 for — but — he did not dance — he sat apart, and 
 somewhat gloomy. 
 
 I keep the ugly photograph ; for I can never 
 forget what I gained and Arthur lost by amateur 
 photography. Here we may drop the curtain.
 
 A KOMANTIC INCIDENT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A man has very hard work in the International 
 Finance department at Somerset House. From 
 ten to one I have to sign my name some thirty 
 times, and to make myself familiar with the heads 
 of the department by sketching their countenances 
 on the blotting-paper. It is imperatively neces- 
 sary for the balance of power that I carefully 
 peruse the Times every morning. If people call 
 on business, I never forget what is due to official 
 life so far as to be able to give them any informa- 
 tion on the subject. Luckily reformers and the 
 economical adjusters of the estimates have not yet 
 found any abuses in the I. F. department, so that 
 I luxuriate in countless rolls of red tape supplied 
 at the public expense, and sip the brown sherry a 
 
 VOL. I. i
 
 114 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 
 
 grateful country furnishes for the leisure hours of 
 its overworked financiers with all the complacence 
 of the Poet Laureate. 
 
 One morning in 186 — , after having success- 
 fully adjusted an impending crisis in the national 
 credit of an European principality, and guarded 
 against an over-issue of paper money by the King 
 of Dahomey (the House never gives us fellows the 
 glory of these operations, it all goes to the ministry), 
 my eyes fell upon the following announcement in 
 the obituary of the Times : 
 
 " October 6. The Kev. John Gibbons, Rector 
 of Ashton, Herts, aged 67." 
 
 I did no more work that day. When a telegram 
 from the Prime Minister begged me at once to see 
 to a treaty of commerce being concluded with the 
 United States, I flung the missive to a sub. 
 
 Soon after I sauntered out and strolled down 
 to the Park. It was one of those delicious days 
 which sometimes occur in October. Not a breath 
 of air stirred beneath the fleecy gray sky. The 
 sycamore leaves hung by the last fibre, yet did not 
 fall. 
 
 Soon I made up my mind. Six hundred a 
 year was little enough to keep a wife on ; but it
 
 A KOMANTIC INCIDENT. 115 
 
 was impossible that my talents could long lie 
 hidden at the I. F. department. Sir Frederick 
 had said as much the other day. No one knew 
 so much about the Credit Mobilier of Austria, 
 and an envoy would soon be wanted to proceed to 
 Francis Joseph's court. Kate was a fine-looking 
 woman. Plenty of good hair, teeth unexception- 
 able ; we had certainly loved each other a good 
 deal last summer. What would the poor girl do 
 now she was alone in the world ? I had just 
 time at my lodgings to throw my things into a 
 portmanteau, seize my despatch-box, and reach 
 King's Cross in time for the 4*30 down train. 
 There was yet a moment to telegraph to my 
 clerk — 
 
 " Important Cabinet meeting at Lord H — 's. 
 Have to attend to settle the claims of Prussia. 
 Invest the Pomeranian 100,000/. Decline Em- 
 peror's offer. Back on the 20th. Letters to be 
 sent to Ashton Hall." 
 
 With dusk the train stopped at Ashton Station. 
 Oddly enough I found a trap from my uncle's 
 waiting there ; but then somehow or other things 
 always do arrange themselves for men born to 
 command their fellows.
 
 116 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 
 
 " Well, John," I said, as we sped along the 
 side of the park, "How is the master Y" 
 
 " Not anything to boast of, sir : he has a 
 touch of his old enemy; but he will be glad to see 
 you." 
 
 "Ah, I shall just save dinner. Birds plenti- 
 ful this season ?" 
 
 "Pretty fair, sir; no one has shot them yet. 
 The rector has been too ill to walk ; you know he 
 died on Saturday ?" 
 
 " Yes, I had heard; but here we are ! Hold 
 up, old horse ! Now, John, take the ribbons." 
 
 I descended, and was shown into the library. 
 My uncle nursed his gouty feet by the side of a 
 huge wood-fire carefully arranged on dogs three 
 centuries old. The great and wise of all times 
 and countries were caged around the walls in row 
 after row of books. His welcome, if somewhat 
 testy, was cordial. 
 
 "Well, Alan, what brings you here? Have 
 cab-hire and white kid gloves ruined you ?" 
 
 " Not exactly, or I should have stopped short 
 at Colney Hatch. The fact is, my dear uncle, 
 negotiations of a very important character have 
 been set on foot with Prussia. I had to run down
 
 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 117 
 
 to Lord H — 's ; they can't settle these affairs, you 
 know, without someone from the I. F. depart- 
 ment; I took you en route, hoping with Milton 
 that your experience 
 
 • Might attain 
 To something of prophetic strain' 
 
 on my behalf." 
 
 "Hem!" said the old man, mollified; "time 
 was when the Premier constantly sent down a 
 Queen's Messenger to me on the eve of an im° 
 portant debate. I remember Castlereagh waking 
 me at three in the morning and sitting on my bed 
 while I thought over what was the best course to 
 be taken with regard to the French intervention in 
 Spain." 
 
 "Political wisdom at present," I observed, 
 "too often consults the presiding genius of the 
 Morning Star. We will discuss Prussia's em- 
 barrassments over the Clos Yougeot. Shall I 
 ring for your valet to take your arm while I help 
 you in to dinner ?" 
 
 The puree and turbot were so unexception- 
 able that I was not surprised at my uncle's at- 
 tack of gout. When the cloth was removed 
 (dinners a la Ilusse found no favour at Ashton),
 
 118 A B0MANTIC INCIDENT. 
 
 the butler placed Mr. Norris's toast-and-water be- 
 fore him. 
 
 "No, no, Morton; Alan must be supported," 
 said lie, "at the sherry. Get me some Clos 
 Vougeot. Alan, you are quite right," he con- 
 tinued, " no one ever took harm from Burgundy. 
 Erasmus rejuvenated himself by drinking it. Old 
 Drencham may say what he likes to-morrow ; 
 nunc est MbendumJ" 
 
 After a pause he went on : " Poor Gibbons is 
 dead, Alan ; I shall miss him very much. It is 
 very sad - about Kate ; she will have to go out as 
 a governess. It seems her father invested largely 
 in the Tidal Wave Force Company, and has lost 
 his all. They smashed last week, and he had a 
 fit when they told him." 
 
 " I had hoped some good fellow ere this would 
 have asked for her hand," I observed carelessly. 
 
 "Yes, she is pretty, certainly, and what is 
 better, clever ; but you young men now-a-days 
 rave about a blonde cJievelure, and she has hair 
 as black as night." 
 
 " If I were a marrying man," I remarked, 
 holding my glass up to the light, " I think I 
 should have hazarded a refusal. But then she is
 
 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 119 
 
 penniless, and love in a cottage would not suit me 
 after diplomatic dinners; nor could I earth up 
 celery after having arbitrated the great Zollverein 
 treaty." 
 
 My uncle laid down his glass ere he had well 
 tasted the glowing liquid, and tapped his snuff-box 
 in great perturbation. 
 
 "To be sure, love-matches are all very well, 
 Alan, for your romantic men, college fellows and 
 the like. No practical man could think of such a 
 thing, were the lady Helen herself. Ashton Hall 
 is a fine estate, is it not ?" 
 
 "Yes, you have greatly improved it. Ne- 
 therby tells me the young timber is now saleable. 
 Planting in the manner you did fifty years ago 
 was most judicious." 
 
 "It ought to be made up with the Fluxton 
 estate," he went on, not heeding my interruption. 
 " People say Laura Fluxton is plain, as if an 
 heiress were ever beautiful ! I should like to see 
 the man who will have Ashton adding Fluxton to 
 it." 
 
 I was my uncle's favourite nephew, so I winced 
 internally at the suggestion. 
 
 "You see, sir, a fellow likes to see a pretty
 
 120 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 
 
 girl at the end of his table. Why didn't Dame 
 Fortune give Kate Gibbons the manor as a dowry 
 for her good looks ?" 
 
 " The heir of Ashton ought to marry Laura 
 Fluxton," said my uncle decisively, " were she 
 Mucklemouthed Meg herself!" 
 
 " Certainly, sir," I said with a perfectly un- 
 conscious look; "and if she refuses him, I will 
 get him an introduction to the Pig-faced Lady. 
 She has no end of money, they say ; and after a 
 year of her, a man might be further encouraged 
 to go in for the Dunmow flitch." 
 
 " Nay, Alan," observed he once more, with a 
 smile, " so rash a man you may be sure would 
 never get a rasher." 
 
 But when he wished me good-night he once 
 more returned to the point. 
 
 " You stop here to-morrow?" 
 " Unless the country goes to the dogs during 
 my absence." 
 
 "Bide over to see Laura to-morrow morning. 
 O ! by the way, tell Netherby and Stanley I shall 
 want them as witnesses to a document when you 
 return. Good-night !" 
 
 After breakfast next day I asked Mr. Norris if
 
 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 121 
 
 he had any commands for Fluxton Hall ere I 
 mounted my horse. 
 
 "Hah, hah!" he chuckled, "ask Fluxton 
 about that poaching rascal Morris ; and hark ye ! 
 sacrifice to the Graces, and vow a hecatomb to 
 Persuasion. Venus and all her doves go with 
 you!" 
 
 He stood watching me down the park : at 
 the lodge I turned and rode swiftly towards the 
 rectory. 
 
 Kate and I had exchanged divers love-passages 
 in years past. She was now in trouble. Come 
 what would, I would marry her. She must not 
 go forth into a cold world to earn her bread as 
 n governess. 
 
 The rectory stood apart from the rest of the 
 village, shaded by old elms. They were now 
 straining in the wind, and only here and there a 
 yellow leaf clung to the naked boughs. 
 
 I put the horse into the well-known stable, 
 crossed the lawn to the drawing-room bow-window, 
 opened it, and entered. 
 
 "Pardon me, Miss Gibbons, but I would not 
 ring and disturb you to-day. I am not going to 
 sympathise or condole with you as an ordinary
 
 122 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 
 
 friend might do. I have come down from London 
 to see, as something- dearer than a friend, in what 
 I can help." 
 
 " 0, Mr. Woodward ! what can I say to you at 
 such a time as this ? Yours is true kindness," 
 and she turned away much affected. 
 
 After a pause I resumed — "You will have to 
 see to your father's will and to dilapidations on 
 the house ; but first, where are you going while all 
 these duties — these sad duties to a mourner — are 
 being gone through ?" 
 
 "You have heard from your uncle, of course, 
 about my father's speculations. They have proved 
 most unfortunate — he lost all. The furniture will 
 pay for our debts ; but I grieve at not being able 
 to meet the dilapidations, which will certainly be 
 heavy on this old house. As for myself, I shall 
 seek employment, and hope in time to liquidate 
 everything." And Miss Gibbons proudly faced 
 her lover. 
 
 " Kate, I have three hundred pounds lying 
 idle at my banker's ; borrow it — you can pay me 
 interest if you will." 
 
 "How can I thank you for your generosity? 
 but — ah no, no, I cannot take it, Mr. Woodward."
 
 A K0MANTIC INCIDENT. 123 
 
 "Then take me with it, Kate, if that will 
 reconcile you better to it," and I held her hand 
 firmly, which struggled to be free. "You know 
 how long I have loved — I came here on purpose 
 to say this — Kate, my own Kate, look up !" 
 
 She paused a moment, and then she said : "It 
 is almost too happy ; but your uncle, he would 
 never forgive me. 0, Mr. Woodward — Alan — it 
 cannot be ! — do not ask me further ;" and she sat 
 down pale as death on the sofa. 
 
 I begged and implored, but to no purpose — 
 she would not even give me hope ; nothing was 
 so abhorrent to her feelings as to enter a family 
 where she was not welcome. I blamed her pride ; 
 she acknowledged she deserved it. I railed at my 
 uncle ; she said, 
 
 " Nay, nay, true friend, do not speak thus, with 
 him above yet unburied. You shall hear betimes 
 from me. If I am in difficulty, I promise to write 
 to you, and trust you as my brother — do not grieve. 
 Forgive me," and she turned her earnest eyes on 
 me. 
 
 I could only silently kiss her forehead and 
 gaze a moment into her face. Then I retreated 
 to my horse, and rode off silent and dispirited. I
 
 124 
 
 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 
 
 loved her truly ; why should she thus throw so 
 foolish an obstacle in the way ? She loved me — had 
 as good as confessed it : why are girls so fanciful ? 
 
 Occupied by these sombre reflections, I was 
 startled as I turned out of the lane into the main 
 road by a groom galloping by. He pulled up on 
 seeing me, and asked if I had seen his mistress. 
 
 " What ? A lady pass here ? No. Nothing 
 amiss, eh ?" 
 
 " She was riding Proud Peter, sir : he's a 
 desperate horse in his tantrums, and has started 
 off like mad with her, while I was getting a stone 
 out of this un's foot," — and chatting with the 
 butcher, he might have added. 
 
 We galloped on together. After a turn or two 
 the road opened upon a common, and there we 
 saw the runaway scattering the sheep in every 
 direction as he furiously bore off his helpless 
 rider. I knew enough of the country to be aware 
 that over the dip he was rapidly approaching were 
 several chalk-quarries, and that instant action was 
 necessary. My horse soon distanced the groom, 
 and bore me rapidly across the arc of the fugi- 
 tive's course, my aim being to cut off the terrified 
 animal, and either seize the reins, or at all events
 
 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 125 
 
 head him from the quarries. Onwards I sped, 
 with the riding-habit of the slim figure before me 
 fluttering behind her as my mark, and her hair 
 (she had lost her hat) streaming in the brisk 
 autumnal breeze. It was an exciting chase. I 
 was rapidly nearing them, when her horse swerved 
 to the right and made straight at a hedge — a regu- 
 lar bullfinch — my only comfort was there was 
 no quarry on the opposite side. The lady still 
 sat him bravely ; a moment more, and they neared 
 it. I had just time to shout, " Lift him to it !" 
 when there was a spring, a loud crash, and the 
 animal burst through, leaving his rider insensible 
 on the earth with an ugly cut on her head. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 "Well," said my uncle, with his hand on the 
 bell when I entered the library that afternoon, 
 "ami to ring for Netherby and Stanley ?" 
 
 "If you think they can be of any service to 
 
 you." 
 
 " Well but, Alan, have you left hor an accepted 
 suitor? Is it all right ?"
 
 126 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 
 
 " No, sir ; it is a very nasty cut indeed." 
 
 " Cut !" roared my uncle, " cut ! do you mean 
 to say she wouldn't have you ? Tell me all about 
 it. What hard hearts girls have now-a-days !" 
 
 " I assure you, Wood says she will carry the 
 mark of to-day's work to her grave." 
 
 "You don't mean to say you told that chatter- 
 box Wood about your proposal ? Why, Wood will 
 tell it to all his patients !" 
 
 " Proposal ? I really don't understand you." 
 
 " Come, come, Alan, finesse apart, of course 
 it is all right, eh? Those fellows will come up 
 directly, and we will execute the will forthwith." 
 
 "But unfortunately Miss Fluxton is still in- 
 sensible : she was flung from her horse this after- 
 noon, and her head is seriously injured." 
 
 "Whew!" said my uncle solemnly, "is she 
 very—" 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and a foot- 
 man ushered into the presence Netherby in a 
 russet garb and an awestruck countenance, and 
 Stanley, pale with terror and repeatedly stroking 
 his hair to my uncle. 
 
 "Hillo! What? I don't want you !" he 
 shouted to the unlucky fellows — "go and be
 
 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 127 
 
 hanged to you both for a couple of," &c. &c. 
 Long before he could finish, the wretched rustics 
 had fled to the servants' hall, while I shouted 
 with laughter. 
 
 The old man flung himself into his arm-chair 
 and moodily resumed : " You will have to wait 
 and try again ; meanwhile make yourself happy 
 with the pheasants. The I. F. department will 
 have to lose your valuable aid for the present." 
 
 " Unfortunately Briggs handed me a telegram 
 from Lennox as I dismounted. The Kuttack Pro- 
 vinces want a loan at once, 9Q0,0G0L ; I must 
 run back and see about it, I suppose, or else there 
 will be some terrible blunder. There are not above 
 two of the subs who know where the Kuttack Pro- 
 vinces are. I don't want the department to be 
 overhauled in the House; some fellow will be 
 proposing to give us Cape sherry. So I must at 
 once wish you good-bye." 
 
 As I spoke, the carriage passed the windows ; 
 and ere long I was once more whirled off to the 
 great Babylon. 
 
 The Kuttack loan was duly negotiated ; and 
 a month more found us busy upon the Carribcc 
 Succession Duty. Lord Mayor' s-day, with the
 
 128 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 
 
 usual raid of Whitechapel upon decent hats, had 
 just passed, when among ray correspondence ar- 
 rived two private letters. 
 
 One was directed in a hand that had heen hold 
 enough for a premier's, hut now it shook sadly 
 here and there, and the letters were occasionally 
 hlurred and smudged like the same worthy's fin- 
 gers when knotted with gout. This could be from 
 no one hut my uncle. 
 
 " Dear Alan," it began, "I thought you would 
 like some news from Ashton this dull weather. 
 Miss Fluxton has quite recovered ; young Quick- 
 speke is to marry her in a month. I do not think 
 you would have had any chance, unless she had 
 been ignorant of 3 r our proposal to Miss Gibbons. 
 Some men never know Comet port from Oxford 
 mixture. My sister Jane's boy is fond of a coun- 
 try life. I trust the new ministry will not forget 
 such devoted public servants as yourself. Ne- 
 therby and Stanley have just come in to witness 
 my signature, so I must end. Ever your affection- 
 ate uncle, C. H. Norms." 
 
 "Lambton !" I cried to my head clerk.
 
 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 129 
 
 That functionary appeared prompt as the genie 
 when Aladdin rubbed his lamp. " Oblige me by 
 putting this letter in the hottest part of the fire," 
 I observed ; and the note was consumed to ashes 
 forthwith. 
 
 Now for the other. It was written on black- 
 edged mourning paper from the "severe affliction" 
 department ; the handwriting was firm yet deli- 
 cate and ladylike. 
 
 Ship Euphrates, Gravesend, 
 Nov. 11, 186—. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Woodward, — After your kind- 
 ness to me at Ashton, and my promise to let you 
 know what my plans were, you will not be sur- 
 prised to hear that I am going to India as gover- 
 ness to the Honourable Sir R. Prynne's daugh- 
 ters. We sail in an hour. You will soon learn 
 to thank me for sparing us the bitterness of say- 
 ing farewell to one another. You carry with you 
 my loving affection and best wishes for your 
 happiness ; a kinder fate might have saved me 
 from signing myself your most sincere and sis- 
 terly friend, K. G." 
 
 " Lambton ! a hansom immediately !" 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 
 
 I reached Gravesend to hear that the Euphrates 
 sailed during the night. She might touch at Ply- 
 mouth, hut it depended on the weather. 
 
 Of course the Carribee Succession Duty Papers 
 could follow me to Plymouth ; my name could be 
 signed there as well as in London. I went down 
 by the night mail, and next morning called upon- 
 the agent of the packet line to which the Eu- 
 phrates belonged. 
 
 He informed me decisively but courteously 
 that there was not the slightest chance of her 
 touching at, or even sighting Plymouth. She 
 had discharged her pilot at Folkestone, the tele- 
 graph had that morning brought word, and was 
 rapidly .making the best of her way down Channel 
 with a favouring wind. Sometimes when pas- 
 sengers joined at Plymouth their vessels put in 
 there, but the Euphrates had shipped her full 
 complement before leaving Gravesend. 
 
 "What was to be done now ? It was certain 
 I should not see Kate again. I was chagrined 
 certainly, nay seriously grieved, I settled with 
 myself while smoking my cigar on the Hoe. My 
 affection for her was so deep that I could not all 
 at once and philosophically consign her memory
 
 A BOMANTIC INCIDENT. 131 
 
 to" that limbo of lost loves to be found at the bot- 
 tom of most men's hearts. Yet it was absurd for 
 a man of the world like myself, who hobnobbed 
 familiarly with ministers, and had the entree of 
 every house worth knowing in Mayfair — it did 
 seem absurd for me to be so hard hit at losing a 
 simple clergyman's daughter. I could not return 
 to town at once. It was to be hoped the Carri- 
 bean millionaires could wait a little longer for 
 their documents. I am not sentimental ; but it 
 would be pleasant, I fancied, for a time to live 
 "the world forgetting, by the world forgot." And 
 so I determined to pay a visit, now it was so near, 
 to the Lizard. 
 
 After a drive of about a dozen miles from 
 Helston, the little omnibus deposited me, with 
 two more passengers, inmates of the little village, 
 in an open courtyard at the back of the only inn 
 in the locality. It was dusk, and beyond two or 
 three squalid cottages and a cheery radiance of 
 the kitchen-window before me, I could see nothing 
 save moon and mist. There was not a tree, not 
 a bush, not a twig, nor had we passed any for the 
 last two miles. Heather swept by the keen breeze, 
 and a vast cloud-curtain overhanging the cliffs
 
 132 A KOMANTIC INCIDENT. 
 
 facing the sea, closecl-in the prospect. I shivered, 
 and went in to find sour cider the only beverage 
 attainable, unless I tried the landlord's wine and 
 spirit store. 
 
 " Ye see, sir, us don't often get gentlemen 
 here but in summer, and there isn't much drink- 
 ing among the men. The teetotal sect is a main 
 trouble to tavern-keepers ;" and so saying the host 
 consoled himself with a pull at cider " sharp" 
 enough to cut his throat. 
 
 I slept well, for I had the inn to myself; and 
 next day descended to the shore. There was a 
 magnificent sea rolling into the little bay under 
 a brisk south-wester, turgid and swollen on the 
 horizon, and breaking here and there into angry 
 foam, which was overwhelmed forthwith by the 
 succeeding surge — as a luckless trooper who falls 
 in a cavalry charge is trampled under foot by his 
 comrades. The coast was composed of serpentine 
 rocks, cruel and sharp, like wolf's teeth, where 
 they receded from the shore, but split into a hun- 
 dred jagged reef-like masses where the sea roared 
 and leapt and chafed in sheets of surf before me. 
 A lurid glare overhead, athwart which dirty yel- 
 lowish cloud-drifts were hurried with their ragged
 
 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 133 
 
 edges catching the gleam for a moment and then 
 swept into the mist, boded but ill, I thought, for 
 mariners who should near these ironbound coasts. 
 It was a splendid spectacle ; and as the day wore 
 on I watched with the old lighthouse -keeper the 
 waves increase and every sail seek the offing. At 
 nightfall a tremendous gale was raging, the wind 
 howled, and a legion of demons seemed disputing 
 the cliffs with the waves. Rain lashed down in 
 torrents, and surf was sent flying in sheets over 
 the moor. The old salt shrugged his shoulders, 
 wished me good-night, and went in. 
 
 About midnight I was roused by the shouts of 
 men running under my windows. I could hear 
 .their anxious voices over the roar of the storm. 
 'The landlord came to the door, knocked hurriedly, 
 and said, 
 
 " There's a large ship on the rocks off the 
 Old Head, sir ; would you like to see the life-boat 
 go out?" 
 
 I did not wait for a second invitation, but 
 soon joined him, clad in a boating-coat and a 
 sou'-wester tied well on my head. 
 
 "We were almost carried off our feet as we 
 came out upon the cliffs by the Head. It was an
 
 134 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 
 
 awful sight. By a straggling moon we could dis- 
 cern mountains of surf hurled over the rocks "be- 
 neath us and gleaming like sheets of flying silver. 
 Out to sea was a writhing, howling wilderness, 
 each surge striving to out-top its neighbour. Half 
 a mile out, lit by a couple of blue lights, lay the 
 hull of a large vessel, broadside on the waves. 
 You could hear them boom and hiss and shriek 
 as they flew over and overwhelmed her in foam. 
 Every now and then a gun was fired, and the sea, 
 cumbered with topmasts and wreckage, was vividly 
 lighted up for a moment to pass into thicker dark- 
 ness than ever as the report reached our ears. 
 
 We ran down the zigzag path to the cove. 
 Her crew were already hauling down the life-boat. 
 They wanted one to fill-up her quota. It was not 
 hatred of life now I had lost my love that im- 
 pelled me to offer my services ; it was that stir- 
 ring desire which comes over a man in serious 
 issues to lend his arm and take his life in his 
 hand if he can only save others. One who has 
 pulled in an Oxford eight-oar is sure to get at 
 home even with the ponderous oar of a lifeboat. 
 The crew hesitated, and some preferred waiting 
 for Simmons ; but he had some distance to come,
 
 A KOMANTIC INCIDENT. 135 
 
 and no one could say for certain that lie knew 
 anything about the wreck. Meanwhile the storm 
 blew in furious gusts, no more guns were fired 
 from the stranded ship, the waves were evidently 
 driving the men from below. There was no time 
 to be lost. 
 
 " Will you obey orders ?" said the coxswain. 
 
 "I'll do my very best, and drown with you, 
 my lads, if we fail." 
 
 "Hurrah!" they cried; "pat on the jacket 
 and take your place." 
 
 "Now then, easy, lads, shove her off," shouted 
 the cox ; " now's your time !" 
 
 The willing arms of the crowd pushed us down 
 the slips and ran us out well into the surf, some 
 getting knocked down, and all thoroughly drenched 
 in the operation. 
 
 "Bend to it, lads! stick to your oars, and 
 we'll soon reach her." These were the last com- 
 mands I heard. A huge roller sprang over us 
 ere we could clear the surf, filled the boat with 
 water, and half stunned me. 
 
 " Hold hard, mate," said the man who shared 
 my bench, " we sha'n't ship any more." 
 
 We did not for some time get a further wet-
 
 136 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 
 
 ting ; the difficulty was to keep one's seat, as the 
 boat rode madly up some mountainous wave to 
 shoot headlong into its trough, and then to be 
 knocked about in the broken water before the next 
 swell came and the previous movements were re- 
 peated. It was desperate work, too, laying hold 
 of the waves with the oar, such was the swiftness 
 with which they flew by, and the force with which 
 they beat upon its blade. I was exhausted before 
 we had made half the distance, while my com- 
 panion chewed his quid and pulled away with 
 supreme indifference. 
 
 " What ship is she ?" I said to him. 
 "I thought a collier at first," he returned; 
 "but Bill tells me it's the ' You-fear-at-ease.' Us 
 can't abide them furrin names. She's an Indiaman." 
 The Euphrates, I thought, and Kate in dan- 
 ger ! with clenched teeth I felt no more fatigue, 
 but pulled mechanically, amazing my neighbour 
 by my efforts. 
 
 "Look out!" roared the skipper; "grip for 
 your lives !" and with the words, a thundering 
 swell caught us obliquely on the starboard, snap- 
 ped two of the oars, and overturned the boat 
 in an avalanche of foam. In a few seconds, which
 
 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 137 
 
 seemed ages to a submerged man, gripping the 
 safety-lines for dear life's sake, she righted her- 
 self. I picked myself up from the confusion of 
 ropes and stores in which I lay, seized my oar, 
 hanging by its lanyard, took a long breath, and 
 once more we made way, the water running out of 
 the false bottom of the boat as we picked up two 
 of our mates floating along upborne by their cork 
 jackets. 
 
 Soon we gained the Euphrates, and ran as 
 far as we dared venture into the caldron or surf 
 around her ; a few sailors appeared on the deck, 
 and several women were wailing on the poop, as 
 every minute the huge seas leapt over them, 
 carrying away one occasionally in their grasp. 
 We could not help those ill-fated souls, as we 
 were lying on and off, while our cox flung the 
 sailors a rope. All the boats, bulwarks, and deck- 
 lumber had long been swept off, and evidently 
 most of her crew were lost already. While we 
 were drawing up, the end was at hand. Three 
 immense rollers in close succession riding high 
 and hissing as they came on, discharged them- 
 selves viciously on the Euphrates. There was a 
 roar, a loud cracking, and amidst the shrieks of
 
 138 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT, 
 
 the women the noble ship heeled over and went 
 all at once to pieces. "We drew out as quickly as 
 we could from the confused surges and dangerous 
 proximity of the wreckage. It is a marvel to me, 
 looking back on that frightful night, how we sur- 
 vived, considering what cross waves boarded us at 
 this time, dashing spars and hencoops over us, 
 and tossing the heavy life-boat like an eggshell 
 where they would. Each of us did his best to 
 save the poor creatures who were borne by us. 
 Eight men and three children were picked up. 
 Then we steered. right into the heart of the wreck- 
 age, and got in two ladies, but, alas ! neither 
 was Kate. The moon now shone brightly over 
 the awful waste of waters : no more bodies were to 
 be seen, and the coxswain gave the word, " Home." 
 Still I peered over every wave and scanned every 
 trough in hopes of seeing — ha ! what is that ? 
 Kate's pale, upturned face drifting by ! In an 
 instant I dropped my oar, leaped in the seething 
 chasm, with two strokes was upon her, and grasped 
 her hair ! We were borne on, a surge flew over 
 us ; I was stunned, smothered, became insensible, 
 but still I clung to my prize, and my cork jacket 
 held us both up.
 
 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 139 
 
 When the sun was high in the heavens next 
 da}*, bringing out the seagulls in strong relief 
 against the still sullen waves that chafed round 
 the Lizard Head, I awoke to find myself famous. 
 Kate was safe, and in a fair way to recover speedily 
 from her fright and immersion. The crew had 
 picked us up after a severe struggle with the cur- 
 rents that set in so strongly off the Head. Our 
 love-story had oozed out by some means or other, 
 I learned ; and Kate and myself were receiving- 
 no small amount of popular sympathy. It was 
 strange to find Rumour with her thousand tongues 
 busy in this remote corner of the land. 
 
 Then came reporters by the dozen, like birds 
 of prey which instinctively fly to their proper food. 
 I became a hero now, if I had been only a success- 
 ful financier before. He was a made man among 
 them who could only catch sight of my umbrella. 
 I was daily drawn out into numberless paragraphs, 
 headed, " A deed of daring ;" — " Noble action ;" — 
 " Gallant exploit," &c; as a small lump of gold is 
 beaten into fibres broad enough to cover a country. 
 Then, when Kate and I were married, as pri- 
 vately as we could, at Llandewednack Church (the 
 most southerly church in England and the parish
 
 140 A KOMANTIC INCIDENT. 
 
 church of the Lizard), the enthusiasm of the 
 papers knew no bounds. The "romantic inci- 
 dent," which at last gave me the "love of my 
 lifetime," was blazoned far and wide ; and many 
 a leading article in that dull time of the year 
 revelled in gushing superlatives and lost itself in 
 praises of marriage, " the perennial paradise of 
 humanity," to do us honour. 
 
 Four gratifying results followed this event : 
 
 I. I was presented with the gold medal of the 
 Koyal Humane Society, and their thanks inscribed 
 on vellum. Other men, I believe, get silver me- 
 dals, and thanks written on parchment. 
 
 II. Lord Hanaper suddenly remembered that 
 the Inspectorship of Sealing-wax and Wafers was 
 vacant — " and by Jove, sir, that industrious and 
 gallant Woodward shall have it !" It is worth 
 3000Z. per annum and a sinecure. 
 
 III. I received another letter from Mr. Norris, 
 saying he had revoked his will, and was making a 
 new one in my favour. "Excuse haste, Alan; 
 Netherby and Stanley have just come up to wit- 
 ness signature." 
 
 IV. and lastly. If anything were wanting to 
 the perfect happiness which should always wait
 
 A ROMANTIC INCIDENT. 141 
 
 upon true love aud successful heroism, this morn- 
 ing has supplied it. I have just become the 
 happy father of twins. They are to be named 
 Hero and Leander, and are at the present moment 
 going on swimmingly.
 
 WHEEE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 A REPORT TO THE EDITOR OF A POPULAR MAGAZINE, 
 
 Chapter I. Involving Questions of Companionship — Economy, 
 domestic and foreign — Morals for Travellers — Deductions 
 from the Experimental Process — Meteorological Observa- 
 tions made on the Coast — Harridge — The Grand Hotel — ■ 
 The Ferry— View of Worlton— The Signals— The Eoad to 
 Flickstow — Peculiarities of Signboards — Arrival at the Bath 
 Hotel, Flickstow. 
 
 Your Commissioner, deputed by the government 
 
 of to examine into, and to report upon 
 
 this important question, flatters himself that he 
 has done it this time, rather. The plan that your 
 Commissioner (originally " we," that is myself, 
 henceforth "I") first of all determined upon, was 
 the excellent one of examining witnesses, who, 
 by personal explanation and reference to their 
 diaries, enabled your humble servant to give the 
 public a connected and, let him hope, an interest-
 
 144 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 ing account of his carefully - managed investi- 
 gation. 
 
 The result of this protracted inquiry was to 
 raise envious thoughts in the generally placid 
 hreast of your overworked official. He heard of 
 the fresh air, hut he breathed, it not. There 
 were whispers of invigorating iodine, but far from 
 him was the sniffing thereof. He yearned for the 
 much-sounding sea ; but if anybody mentioned 
 Brighton, Margate, Scarborough, or Ramsgate to 
 him, he shook his weary head, saying, " These 
 places cannot give me what I so much need — the 
 luxury of quiet." 
 
 At length, the witnesses either came to an 
 end suddenly, or, excusing themselves from at- 
 tendance by reason of the fine weather, the heat 
 in London, or the fact that their holiday-time had 
 arrived, flatly refused to appear. What was to 
 be done? 
 
 Yes, what was to be done ? Should the pub- 
 lic suffer loss ? Perish the thought ! Are there 
 not many thirsty souls yet in the metropolis 
 gasping for iodine and the sad sea -wave? To 
 these my words may perchance come as those of 
 the oracle, and my pen be to them as the sign-
 
 WHEBE SHALL WE GO ? 145 
 
 post of destiny, directing them to what part of 
 the coast they shall betake themselves. 
 
 I have said, by way of quotation, the sad sea- 
 wave ; and if you'll allow the printer to put that 
 epithet into italics, I shall be much obliged to 
 you ; for I mean it, every bit of it. " By the sad 
 sea-waves I" did something or other, says the 
 song. Not by the wild waves that were in the 
 habit of talking sentiment to little Paul Dombey ; 
 no, nor by the "sunlit dancing waves" of the 
 happy poet ; but by the sad, the soul-subduing 
 waves, I and my public wish to sit ; and those 
 whom it may concern I will now inform, how I 
 sought out the saddest sea-wave that could be 
 found anywhere ; and I will put them also in 
 the way of going and doing likewise, if they 
 choose. 
 
 It has often occurred to me that the question 
 of, Where shall we go? is intimately mixed up 
 with that other one, With whom shall we go? 
 
 To a married man the answer is simple, if 
 dictated by his wife. She will say (and who shall 
 contradict a lady?), "What better companion can 
 you find than I am ? What relaxation more per- 
 fect than digging sandpits for your children with 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 their wooden spades on the beach, or playing at 
 being buried alive under pebbles ?" 
 
 The husband will, if he be peaceably inclined, 
 give a wary answer. His views will coincide with 
 those of his partner. But supposing him wary, 
 and longing for an entire change, he will pooh- 
 pooh the hackneyed watering places; he will 
 imagine a fever at Worthing, sigh over the great 
 expense of Brighton, deplore the distance of Scar- 
 borough, ridicule the notion of any lady of his 
 wife's quality sojourning at Margate or Kamsgate ; 
 and finally offer to make a martyr of himself for 
 the benefit of his family, by going away alone, 
 as, he will pleasantly (if he be wise) style it, an 
 avant-coiirrler, to test some hitherto unattempted 
 shore, " just to see if it will do; and if it will, 
 he'll take a place, and they can all come down 
 and join him." 
 
 Ladies, a most admirable plan, I do assure 
 you. (Gentlemen, I am not going to betray your 
 confidence.) 
 
 To this proposal Madame, not without some 
 slight misgivings, agrees; and Monsieur " regrets 
 that he must go alone on his mission," " wishes 
 she could go with him," and says to himself, says
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 147 
 
 he ... . (No, gentlemen, as I'm a man, I pro- 
 test I will not betray you). 
 
 Having thus reduced two to a unit without a 
 division, we find that the quotient gives us a 
 bachelor pro tern., and he is brought by this 
 process under that common denomination to 
 which the second question, "With whom shall 
 we go ?" is more especially applicable. 
 
 I was bemoaning my fate, which (unlike Des- 
 demona's) would not give me, this year, to the 
 moor (I allude to where the grouse are wont to 
 disport themselves), in the presence of an enter- 
 taining young friend of mine, who does me the 
 honour of dining with me at my club occasionally, 
 when he, so to speak, "up and said," "Why 
 don't you go to Flickstow ?" 
 
 "Flickstow?" said I, " where 's Flickstow?" 
 not having heard of it before. 
 
 "In Suffolk," he replied. "The quietest 
 place in the world." 
 
 "I'll go," I said decisively. "Will you come 
 too ?" 
 
 Come, of course he would. Not next week, 
 however; he couldn't manage that, as he had to 
 be at his father's next week. Well, the week
 
 148 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 after? All! the week after, let's see — no, he 
 couldn't the week after, because he was coming 
 back from his father's, and it wouldn't do, you 
 know, to — you see — in fact — in short 
 
 "Well, then," I cut in, seeing he was becom- 
 ing hazy, "the week after that? You can say 
 that for certain." 
 
 It turned out, however, that he couldn't say 
 that or anything else for certain ; he would " let 
 me know — he would see when he could manage 
 it," and so on. 
 
 I hate being put off. If he didn't want to go, 
 why didn't he say so ? I looked sternly at him 
 and asked — 
 
 "What are you going to do to-morrow?" 
 
 He was going to the theatre to-morrow, to see 
 what's his name in the new piece. 
 
 " The day after ?" 
 
 I had meshed him at last. He hesitated, but 
 feeling that my eye was upon him, had not the 
 face to keep on being engaged for ever. 
 
 " Will you go the day after to-morrow ?" 
 
 I asked him this, as if it was "money or your 
 life." He looked up half- laughing : my mouth 
 didn't move a muscle. He tried to turn the con-
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 149 
 
 versation by imitating Compton or Buckstone, I 
 am not clear which it was, in consequence of his 
 forgetting to name the specimen beforehand. He 
 generally makes me laugh by this move. His 
 drollery failed to raise a smile except on a young 
 waiter's face, who had probably heard one of these 
 comedians the night before. I said severely, 
 " Take away ;" whereupon the attendant went off 
 with the cheese, and I fancy I heard him after- 
 wards retailing Buckstone to another waiter be- 
 hind the screen. Be that as it may, I was not 
 going to laugh, and I didn't. 
 
 "Will you go down with me to Flickstow the 
 day after to-morrow ?" I asked. 
 
 "I will," said he, with the decision of a god- 
 father at a christening. 
 
 "You won't disappoint me?" I asked, know- 
 ing my man. 
 
 " Disappoint you ! Far be it from me to dis- 
 appoint you !" he returned ; as Compton this 
 time. 
 
 " Then that's settled," I said, relaxing into a 
 smile. 
 
 "Precisely." Buckstone. 
 
 We sent for a "Bradskaw," an "AB C," and
 
 150 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 a waiter. Hooper, my friend, took the "AB C," 
 I opened "Bradshaw," and we both referred to 
 the waiter. 
 
 " Can't make much out of this," observed 
 Hooper, in the character of Buckstone ; whereat 
 the waiter didn't even laugh, thinking it to be 
 his natural voice. 
 
 The waiter knew all about it — waiters always 
 do. The waiter was wrong, however, but soon 
 got on the right scent ; and having found a train 
 at Bishopsgate, ran it to earth, or rather to sea, 
 at no great distance from Flickstow. 
 
 We fixed on a mid-day train, in order, as we 
 said, to split the difference; and to prevent dis- 
 appointment, I engaged to call for Hooper. 
 
 The next day I spent in making preparations 
 for my journey; and with a view to guarding 
 against any chance of ennui at Flickstow, I se- 
 lected two or three books of such a portable size 
 as could be carried in my satchel bag, which, 
 being slung round my back by a shoulder-strap, 
 is always handy. In this I placed my note-book, 
 my pencils, my pens, my portable inkstand, paper, 
 blotting-paper, penknife, my pipes and tobacco 
 (solace of my weary hours!), and — that's all.
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 151 
 
 High were our hopes on the morning of our 
 settled departure from town. 
 
 Everything was packed, including my sponge 
 and scissors; and I had sat upon the top, mak- 
 ing myself as heavy as possible, while the maid 
 coaxed the fastenings together, and was now only 
 debating as to whether I should take my hat-box 
 or not, when the second post brought a letter. 
 
 For me : from Hooper. 
 
 I tore it open. 
 
 "Dear old Boy" (under the circumstances 
 this style of address is very trying), "I'm so 
 sorry, but what am I to do ? Our butler got 
 locked up in the police-station last night, and I 
 must go and see after the fellow. My mother 
 comes home, and will be alarmed. Must stop to 
 see her. I am so vexed. Better luck next time. 
 Adieu, yours grieved, 
 
 " T. Hooper. 
 
 " P.S. Next week I go away. See you when 
 I return." 
 
 My very natural exclamation after reading this 
 will not bear repetition.
 
 152 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 " You may unpack that portmanteau," I said, 
 gloomily, to Mary. "I sha'n't go to-day." 
 
 The idea was not abandoned entirely for this 
 day, however, on account of my disappointment. 
 
 I tried to run through a list of friends gene- 
 rally available as companions at short notice. 
 
 A cab brought me to the first of them ; he 
 had lodgings in the neigbourhood of St. James' s- 
 street. 
 
 " At home ?" I inquired. 
 
 "No, sir; Mr. Hodgson went out of town 
 this morning early." 
 
 "Do you know where he is?" was my next 
 question ; as, if he had gone on a solitary tour, 
 I would catch him up. 
 
 "Yes, sir; Mr. Hodgson's at his grand- 
 father's, in Wales." 
 
 " 0, thank you." 
 
 His grandfather's in Wales! — why hadn't I 
 a grandfather in Wales? It suddenly flashed 
 across my mind that I had an uncle in Cumber- 
 land; but I didn't know the address; and if I 
 did, as he had never asked me to come, perhaps 
 he wouldn't be best pleased to see me without an 
 invitation.
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 153 
 
 My next friend near Portland -place was at 
 home, and at a late breakfast, in a dressing- 
 gown. 
 
 "Would I have anything?" I would; just 
 a little bit to keep him company. You see I 
 wanted to show myself peculiarly jovial and so- 
 ciable, in order to be successful in my canvass. 
 With my first mouthful I told him my plan. I 
 informed him (with a slight suppression of facts, 
 and a little colouring for his particular benefit), 
 that it had suddenly struck me, being tired of 
 town, that a quiet watering-place would be most 
 enjoyable for a few days, and that I had imme- 
 diately fixed upon him as the fellow of all others 
 who would delight in a trip of this sort. I didn't 
 mention my previous failures, and said nothing 
 about Hooper. Willard (my friend at breakfast 
 in his dressing-gown) jumped at the idea, and 
 closed with it on the spot. 
 
 Willard is a capital fellow; so impulsive and 
 enthusiastic : no humbug about Willard. "Here's 
 a bit of luck, after all," thought I to myself. 
 
 I suggested that he'd better pack up at once 
 and dress, as he couldn't travel in his dressing- 
 gown.
 
 154 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 Willard jumped up. He's such an impulsive 
 fellow, is Willard. 
 
 " By Jove !" cries Willard, slapping the pocket 
 of his dressing-gown. 
 
 " What is it ?" I ask, with a slight misgiving. 
 
 "I've got no money," returns Willard; "I 
 can't go without money." 
 
 My nature is not a peculiarly generous one as 
 regards lending money ; but on this occasion the 
 man was worth it, and I offered to advance him 
 such a sum as would enable him to accompany 
 me, and then, when we were settled at our sea- 
 side quarters, he could get his remittances, and 
 reimburse his disinterested benefactor. 
 
 He thanked me : it was very kind, he said, 
 very kind; but the fact was, he couldn't well 
 leave town for a day or two, now he came to think 
 of it. On the whole, jolly as it would be, he'd 
 better not go. 
 
 To this I said "Pooh!" and was very nearly 
 getting angry with him. 
 
 There was a silence for a minute or two, which 
 I broke by expostulating with him on his con- 
 duct. 
 
 But he had made up his mind. Willard is as
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 155 
 
 obstinate as a pig, when lie has made up, what he 
 calls, his mind. 
 
 In no very good humour I quitted Willard. 
 It was now nearly four o'clock; and after five 
 there was no train to Flickstow, even if there was 
 one at five. 
 
 The question, "With whom shall we go?" is 
 not so easily answered, you see, as "Where shall 
 we go ?" 
 
 I would put it off till to-morrow, I determined, 
 and see if any one turned up in the course of the 
 evening. By a sudden inspiration, I wrote to 
 Fuzzer, in a Government-office. 
 
 Fuzzer sent word that he'd join me, if he was 
 back in time from Twickenham, whither he was 
 on the point of starting for a dinner-party. Any- 
 how, he'd follow me if I went on by myself, and 
 would write from my sea-side quarters. He wanted 
 change, he said ; and finished up his letter by a 
 quotation from some song or other, about the 
 pleasant breezes or the stormy winds. 
 
 This was to the purpose, at all events. Should 
 I wait for him ? On thinking the matter over, I 
 came to the conclusion that I had better not stop 
 in town any longer, but depart by the first train
 
 156 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 in the morning. Hope disappointed had made 
 me heartily sick of London ; and I felt so dis- 
 turbed and restless, that I scarcely got any sleep 
 all that night ; and in consequence I dropped off 
 into the soundest slumber when I ought to have 
 been geting up, thereby missing the first train in 
 the morning, and rising with a slight headache, 
 which was a pleasant state of things for a com- 
 mencement. 
 
 There was an 11.42 train, however, that just 
 suited me. 
 
 The readers I am addressing are those who, 
 fatigued by the season, anxious to get away, tired 
 of hackneyed routes, of everlasting marine par- 
 ades, of populous, popular, and much-frequented 
 places on the English or any other coast, are in. 
 search of some quiet, healthy, cheerful, out-of-the- 
 way spot, where the snobbish cease from troubling, 
 and the weary are at rest. 
 
 Such a one was I. Such a one am I still. 
 
 Tenez! I will tell you all about Flick- 
 stow. Fairly and without prejudice, I will bear 
 witness in that supreme court wherein you my 
 gentle readers sit as jury to draw your own 
 conclusions from what you shall hear, and a true
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 157 
 
 verdict find, for or against the place, according to 
 the evidence I shall give. 
 
 " That's the place for us ;" or " That's not the 
 place for us" — placet or non placet, as the Aca- 
 demical senates have it, will he the form of your 
 honest decision. 
 
 By permission of the court I will, from time 
 to time, refresh my memory from my notes and 
 diary. 
 
 " Now, sir," says the counsel engaged for the 
 public interest, after satisfying himself as to my 
 personal identity, " on what day did you go down 
 to Flickstow ?" 
 
 I gave him the date, having no reason for 
 concealment. Candidly, then, it was the 5th of 
 July. 
 
 " The 5th of July," says counsel, turning 
 slightly towards my Lord and the Gentlemen of 
 Jury. "Now, sir, will you have the kindness to 
 tell us what you did on that day ?" 
 
 " What I did?" I inquire, a little puzzled. 
 
 " Yes, sir," repeats counsel blandly, " what 
 you did." 
 
 The learned Judge explains, " What course 
 did you pursue in order to reach Flickstow ?"
 
 158 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 Ascertaining that I have permission to tell 
 my story in my own way, after the manner of a 
 Parliamentary witness before a Committee of the 
 House, I commence : 
 
 " From my note-book of that date. Something 
 written about 'packing books and pipes.' 0, I 
 recollect. Having heard of the supernatural quiet 
 of Flickstow, I ordered my servant to put up cer- 
 tain entertaining books, viz. Tennyson's Prin- 
 cess, the Emperor's Julius Ccesar" (capital oppor- 
 tunity for reading Julius Ccesar .') ; "a volume of 
 De Quincey; an elementary metaphysical work"' 
 (splendid opportunity for studying metaphysics !) ; 
 " Roderick Random" (never having read it through, 
 now was my time) ; " The Student's Hume, and 
 a compressed History of France" (so as not to 
 waste a moment). "My bag, as I have already 
 informed you, was well and carefully filled. Thus 
 was I furnished for my flight." 
 
 Counsel. " What did you then ?" 
 
 Commissioner (still witnessing). "I sent for a 
 hansom cab, and seeing my portmanteau placed 
 on the roof, and having deposited my bag at my 
 feet, was driven off for Bishopsgate Station. 
 
 " Being short of time, there were plenty of
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 159 
 
 stoppages, and the horse behaved in the most 
 aggravating manner. At the station-gate there 
 was a block, and in three minutes the train would 
 start. 
 
 " Out I jumped, seized 1113' portmanteau, which 
 the man" (after receiving sixpence over his fare, 
 because he couldn't give me' change — pooh !) 
 " handed down to me, and was up at the clerk's 
 office with a celerity that would have, at any other 
 time, been incredible to myself. 
 
 " Flickstow," said I to the clerk. 
 
 " Harridge, for Flickstow," replies the clerk. 
 I informed the porter that I'd take my portman- 
 .teau inside with me. 
 
 Having given him a threepenny -bit for no 
 other reason than that he was the porter (for he 
 hadn't helped me in the least, in fact rather the 
 contrary, having caused bother and dela} T by at- 
 tempting to wrest my baggage from me and put 
 it in the van), I jumped into the carriage, showed 
 my ticket to the guard, and sank down on a soft 
 seat, with my back to the engine, in high spirits 
 at saving my train, and getting away from smoky 
 choking London. 
 
 I find in my notes the words, "Guard whis-
 
 160 WHERE SHALL WE GO? 
 
 tling, stoker whistling, more whistling, as if to 
 encourage the engine. The engine won't he en- 
 couraged. ' All right !' The engine don't care. 
 Right or wrong, she won't move. The stoker uses 
 violence, I suppose ; for with a wild shriek of agony 
 that goes to the heart, she jerks herself painfully 
 out of the station. Probably she has become stiff 
 with standing still so long; anyhow, with a few 
 more snorts she gives up her obstinacy, and will 
 show them what she can do." 
 
 Judging from this note, I should say I was in 
 a very good humour. The next pencil-marks are 
 zigzaggy, as if the writer's hand had staggered 
 about over the paper : a sort of tipsy scribble. 
 Deciphered, it appears to be, " Confound it ! hang 
 it ! my bagpipes." 
 
 " Bagpipes" puzzles me for a moment. I 
 can't play them, I am glad to say. I certainly 
 never travelled with them. Very odd. no, 
 "bag," "pipes," two words. I'll explain. At 
 what exact moment I became aware that I had 
 sustained a severe loss, I do not recollect. I know 
 that, contrary to all the bye-laws thereto made and 
 provided, I was going to smoke a pipe, when the 
 horrid thought flashed across me that I had lost
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 161 
 
 my bag. For some time I fought against the con- 
 viction. Alas ! it was gone. I searched above, 
 and I searched below, like the servants for the 
 unfortunate young lady who paid so sad a forfeit 
 for running away from a mistletoe-bough ; but not 
 a vestige of a bag could I find. 
 
 At this point I was overwhelmed by the utter 
 helplessness of my situation. 
 
 I would ask the guard at the next station as 
 to what should be done. 
 
 We arrived at the next station. I began, from 
 the carriage - window, detailing my accumulated 
 losses to the guard, who was a stern man with 
 a sandy beard, and an impatient manner that was 
 not natural to him. I could see that it had grown 
 upon him from never stopping anywhere more than 
 five minutes, and being off directly somewhere 
 else. 
 
 He came to the point at once — "Where had I 
 left it?" 
 
 I was about to explain that this was precisely 
 what I didn't know, but it was either 
 
 "Ah!" says he, holding up his hand with such 
 suddenness that I drew in my head involuntarily, 
 thinking he was going to hit me for delaying him 
 
 VOL. i. M
 
 162 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 — "all right!" He then looked down the train, 
 and waved his hand again; then "blew a little 
 plated whistle that hung by a little plated chain 
 from his button-hole, and then, as we began to 
 move, he shook his head at me and said, "I'm 
 afraid you won't get it, sir," with which he dis- 
 appeared, into the air apparently, but really (as I 
 believe) up the side, and on to his perch on the 
 roof of the next carriage. 
 
 At the next station I stop him (much against 
 his will) to inform him that I am sure I left it in 
 the cab. 
 
 ' ' The policeman at the gate takes the numbers 
 of all the cabs that come up for each train." After 
 this information he wants to run away, but I won't 
 let him. 
 
 "But," I am obliged to tell him, "my cab didn't 
 come inside the station.' 
 
 He is evidently annoyed at what he considers 
 my waste of time, and shaking his head sharply, 
 breaks away from me, throws up his hand, whistles 
 briskly, disappears, and gets out of my way for 
 the rest of the journey. 
 
 What with the shock of this bag affair, the 
 hurry to catch the train, and the sleeplessness of
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 163 
 
 the previous night, I was fairly overcome, and 
 while endeavouring to adapt the noise of the 
 wheels to an air from Sonnamfoda, I dropped off 
 into the soundest sleep that I had enjoyed for 
 some time. 
 
 Often have I travelled hy night from Edin- 
 hurgh to London, from Boulogne to Paris, from 
 London to the Lakes, but never yet have I suc- 
 ceeded in getting what is called a comfortable 
 nap. That most disagreeable person who puts on 
 a Scotch cap, who wraps a railway rug round his 
 legs, and knows all about placing cushions in imi- 
 tation of a bed, is a man to be envied. He may 
 snore horribly and disgust his fellow travellers, 
 but he is to be envied. He boasts that he can go 
 to sleep anywhere, like Napoleon, and get up at 
 any time, like Wellington. Often have I watched 
 him during those dreary lamp -lit hours, and vainly 
 tried to imitate his proceedings. The attitude 
 which he found most conducive to sleep made me 
 more wakeful even than sitting upright. I have 
 attempted to play at it by shutting my eyes firmly, 
 in order to delude myself into the idea that I 
 am asleep, but have only woke up again more 
 wide awake than ever. Therefore for me to fall
 
 164 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 asleep in a train is an exceptional and remarkable 
 event. 
 
 When I awoke, I found that it was within fif- 
 teen minutes of the time of arrival at Harridge. 
 While congratulating myself on not having over- 
 slept myself and passed by the station, our pace 
 gradually slackened. 
 
 " KeWshun !" shouted one voice, making much 
 of the last syllable. 
 
 " ifrw/peljunsh !" shouted another, making, for 
 variety, a good deal of the first. 
 
 "Klshute!" bellowed a third, dwelling on no 
 syllables at all, and swallowing the last. 
 
 The station-master, an obliging gentleman, 
 with papers in his hand, condescended to give me 
 the correct name : it was Kapel Junction, and you 
 changed here for Melbury, Dornton, and Chilcot. 
 
 Thanking him for the information, which would 
 be most valuable at any time that I might be in- 
 clined to change at Melbury, Dornton, or Chilcot, 
 it occurred to me to ask how long it would be 
 before we reached Harridge ? 
 
 " Harridge?" says he, as if he'd not heard of 
 the place before. 
 
 " Yes, Harridge for Flickstow," I explain.
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 165 
 
 " !" he returns, "you ought to have got out 
 at Linden tree for Harridge." 
 
 " Lindentree !" I gasped. 
 
 " Two stations before this." 
 
 My hope is now solely in the station-master. 
 " What shall I do ? please, sir, what shall I do ?" 
 
 The station-master is a practical man, gifted 
 with admirable presence of mind. The consequence 
 is that the station-master says simply, 
 
 " Get out." And I got out accordingly. 
 
 " All right !" cries the guard, avoiding me in- 
 stinctively. Whistle! Shriek! Off! 
 
 "It's very lucky," I said, conversationally, to 
 the station-master, who seemed to have forgotten 
 my existence, "that I asked you." 
 
 "Very," says he, not looking at me. " Here, 
 go and take this parcel," &c; and he leaves me to 
 give orders to his merry men. 
 
 When's the next train back to Lindentree ? — ■ 
 there's no train-list that I see. Where's my 
 Bradshaw ? In my bag. dear ! Fortunate. 
 I've still got my portmanteau — eh ? This is too 
 much ! 
 
 I call myself fool and idiot. Having finished, 
 I abuse the guard, who must have seen it, and the
 
 166 WHERE SHALL WE GO? 
 
 porter in London, for having stowed it away under 
 the seat. 
 
 " Where is the station-master ?" 
 I must tell him all my woes. I began with 
 the last — the crowning misery : "I have lost my 
 portmanteau — it has gone on by the train !" I 
 tell him what was in it. He (being a practical 
 man) would rather hear what was outside it. 
 "Your name?" 
 
 "It was — it was," I say gratefully, seeing a 
 ray of hope. The moment after it strikes me that 
 my last address written on it was " Gwll, Wales," 
 where I had passed a few weeks last summer. 
 
 "You should have had it labelled," says the 
 station-master, in a tone of gentle rebuke. 
 
 "I should — I know I should," I confess plain- 
 tively. I then told him all about my bag, and my 
 going to sleep, and how (this in extenuation) no 
 one had ever warned me of the change to be made 
 at Lindentree. 
 
 " Gentlemen should always ask; it's the safest 
 way." He is more in sorrow than in anger, like 
 the Ghost of Hamlet's father. 
 
 He considers for a moment. The fate of my 
 portmanteau hangs on his lips.
 
 WHEKE SHALL WE GO ? 167 
 
 ''Telegraph," says he, "to the terminus. It'll 
 get there before the train, and the guard will 
 bring it back." 
 
 I marvelled at his wisdom, and acted upon 
 his advice. 0, the anxious two hours I spent 
 before the arrival of that up -train. At last, it 
 came, and with it my portmanteau. In it (the 
 train I mean) I went up to Lindentree ; whence, 
 having changed carriages, I proceeded to Har- 
 ridge; and, nearly three hours after my proper 
 time, at Harridge I arrived. 
 
 In my " Notes" I find this moral deduced 
 from experience : " Always ask if you change any- 
 where for anywhere else; never worry a guard, 
 lest he desert you in the hour of need; never 
 yield yourself up to sleep, until you are certain 
 that the guard will wake you at your destination. 
 For this there is a gratuity expected, at your 
 own discretion ; and well worth the money." 
 
 It is not my purpose to say anything about 
 Harridge; no one would go down there by way 
 of seaside enjoyment. As a matter of fact no 
 one docs go there to stop for amusement, only 
 on business. Pleasure-seekers come from differ- 
 ent places to Harridge, by rail or boat, by land,
 
 168 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 sea, or river, and having looked at it, depart again 
 in different directions. 
 
 At Harridge the ohjects of interest are, the 
 omnibus which takes you to the pier, the pier 
 itself, the ferryman with " Flickstow," in gold 
 letters on his tarpaulin hat, and the Grand Hotel. 
 The Grand Hotel makes up eighty beds daily, 
 that is, it would make up that number and more, 
 for aught I know, if eighty people would sleep 
 there all at once. Not but that the Grand Hotel 
 is equal to any other Grand Hotel with its regi- 
 ment of waiters, bootses, chambermaids, porters, 
 lifts, housemaids, cooks, and so forth. But that's 
 not it. The public that visits Harridge comes 
 in at one end by train, and goes out at the 
 other by boat, every hour; or else, it arrives in 
 a steamer from somewhere, and departs in an- 
 other steamer for somewhere else; so that Har- 
 ridge does not receive abiding families or so- 
 journers for a week at a time, and therefore for 
 the present the Grand Hotel has not many op- 
 portunities for displaying its grandeur. If you 
 are fond of shipping and mariners, you have 
 plenty of both from the windows of the Grand 
 Hotel. If you are fond of mariners' language, of
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 169 
 
 the choicest and most elegant description, you 
 can have that also, and no extra charge, from 
 the windows of the Grand Hotel. 
 
 What the hundred and sixty chambermaids 
 do (I put it at this number, as I never recollect 
 having seen more or less than two chambermaids 
 engaged in making up one bed) all day is a puzzle 
 to me. 
 
 Perhaps they rehearse making up beds; and 
 the waiters, no doubt, ring the bells, and answer 
 them themselves ; and to keep up the illusion, 
 they probably give imaginary dinners to one an- 
 other, and find fault with the cook. I wish the 
 Hotel every success, as being decidedly one of 
 the most comfortable that I've ever dined at, slept 
 at, or stayed at for twenty-two hours. The Flick- 
 stow ferryman will pay your halfpenny toll for 
 the pier (observe that the ticket is not transfer- 
 able), and -take you down the steps into the boat, 
 which you will find manned by another stalwart 
 ferryman, wearing a similar hat. The owner of 
 the ferry will accompany you, and steer you safely 
 across the wide river mouth, on the other side 
 of which is Worlton, where you will disembark 
 for your destination.
 
 170 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 "Is that Flickstow?" is the traveller's first 
 question to the intelligent ferryman. 
 
 No that's Worlton. 0, that's Worlton, is it ? 
 then Flickstow's beyond ? Yes, Flickstow's be- 
 yond, out of sight. Is Flickstow a large place ? 
 you ask. Well, not so large as Worlton. 0, 
 indeed ; but as there only seems to be one house 
 at Worlton — 
 
 The ferryman explains that that is his house. 
 Does the gentleman, asks the man at the stroke 
 oar, intend to walk up to Flickstow? No, he 
 doesn't, if he can be driven? If! can't he, that's 
 all. The steerer will soon show him that, and 
 forthwith hoists a flag bearing the device of three 
 stars and a crescent. The Worlton standard? 
 you inquire. No, that's an old pocket-handker- 
 chief, as his mate (the bow oar, who grins and 
 nods at this allusion) picked up at a shop ashore. 
 "You see we don't want to be like other folks," 
 explains Bow, grinning from ear to ear; whereat 
 Stroke, Steerer, and Bow all laugh heartily, and 
 you will join them out of politeness. 
 
 "They sees this ashore," Steerer says, "and 
 David, he's my son, comes down with a boat di- 
 rectly."
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 171 
 
 Steerer is eminently tickled with tins piece 
 of ingenuity. 
 
 " There's a telegraph for you," says Bow, 
 who's evidently the wag of the boat, and they 
 all laugh again. I came to the conclusion, on a 
 subsequent visit to the ferry, that these were old 
 jokes, repeated to every passenger, and laughed 
 at, as fresh, by the same crew. 
 
 "David sees it all this way off," says Steerer, 
 shaking the flag, "David does." But it appears 
 on this occasion, at all events, that David doesn't, 
 which disconcerts Steerer amazingly. 
 
 " What's come to the boy?" Steerer grumbles, 
 a,nd shakes the flag-post violently. This has no 
 effect whatever on David, of whom there is no 
 sign whatever. At last a dark speck on a white 
 line makes its appearance. 
 
 " That's David," says his father, with great 
 satisfaction. David doesn't hurry himself in the 
 least. 
 
 "What's he thinking of?" says his father, 
 seeing that the pony (a white one) doesn't go 
 out of a walk. " Hi ! come on !" 
 
 "Hi!" shouts the Stroke, turning in his 
 seat.
 
 172 WHEKE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 "Hi!" shouts the Bow, outdoing the Stroke 
 by a tone and a half. 
 
 " Hi !" shout the three in chorus. 
 
 "Hi !" comes back from shore a weak voice, 
 like that of the man in a box, or up the chimney, 
 so popular with ventriloquists. The pony trots, 
 and the boat is rowed on ; we stick in the sand, 
 so does the pony ; we can't move out of it ; the 
 pony lifts his legs daintily, and is up alongside 
 of us in a couple of minutes. 
 
 Through shady lanes, reminding one of those 
 of Devonshire in miniature, we, that is, I and 
 David, drove : David driving, of course. David's 
 knack of turning corners, and his steeple-chase 
 way of taking the deep ruts, was a thing to be 
 shuddered at. I didn't hint at my feelings to 
 David, who was a lanky young fellow of about 
 seventeen with a difficulty as to the stowage of 
 his legs, because I felt that David probably knew 
 all about it, and was confident in himself, his 
 springs and his pony. I wasn't. 
 
 A turning, and a bump that nearly sent me 
 on to the white pony's back, brought us in sight 
 of three separate signposts. One pointed to the 
 right and said %W to smith's. Another pointed
 
 WHEKE SHALL WE GO ? 173 
 
 to the left, and directed us on ^p° to brown's. 
 While the third suggested a middle course g^p 
 to the beach. We tried Smith : David knew 
 all about it, of course. The lane to Smith's, 
 however, brought us, with another bump, and a 
 jerk against David, in sight of a white board that 
 announced |$gr to the bath hotel, and a smaller 
 white board informed us that by keeping to the 
 right we should get to the south beach, all of 
 which was very gratifying as a proof of thought - 
 fulness and care on the part of the authorities at 
 Flickstow. By authorities I mean Smith, Brown, 
 the Bath and the Beaches, North and South. 
 
 The houses at Flickstow are not known by 
 their numbers, as for instance, 3 Marine-parade, 
 because there is no Marine-parade to be num- 
 bered. You go to Smith's, or Brown's, or Tho- 
 mas's, or Thompson's; to Cleaver's Cottage, or 
 Copple's property; but arithmetic as applicable to 
 house-doors, is comparatively, if not entirely, un- 
 known to the natives of Flickstow. 
 
 In lodgings you're at the mercy of your trades- 
 men, who live two miles away, and drive to Brown's 
 or Smith's, down the roads or over the sands. 
 However, it's all good, whatever it is, at Flick-
 
 174 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 stow ; only if you're going for a short time, drive 
 at once to the Bath Hotel, and don't bother your- 
 self about Brown's, Smith's, or Thomas's. 
 
 David bumps me through a plantation, with 
 an atmosphere redolent of the choicest flowers (I 
 can notice this at the time in spite of the diffi- 
 culties of giving my attention to anything except 
 the laws of gravity) ; and having risked our necks 
 down a short hill, he pulls up short, and almost 
 pitches me, like a bundle, into the door of the 
 Bath Hotel, Flickstow. 
 
 Chapter II. The Advantages of Flickstow to Families— Dis- 
 advantages to Bachelors — Advantages to ditto — Kules for 
 Nurserymaids— The Beach of Flickstow— The Children— 
 The Dogs— The Cows— The Horses— The Donkeys— The 
 Flies — Inducement to the Naturalist. 
 
 One of the many advantages that Flickstow 
 undoubtedly offers to families, is that the children 
 can disport themselves on the extensive sands 
 without fear of being run over. The benefits 
 accruing from these sands to nurses and nurse- 
 maids are to be found in the facilities thus 
 afforded for enjoying themselves in their own way, 
 without any particular reference to their respec-
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 175 
 
 tive charges. The duty of a nurse is evidently to 
 look after the children ; and how can she look 
 after them unless they stray away and require 
 looking after? From observation, I am inclined 
 to lay down the following rules for nursemaids 
 at Flickstow, or any other seaside places present- 
 ing similar conveniences : 
 
 Rule 1. The nurse must be careful to dress as 
 much like her mistress as possible ; that is, if her 
 mistress dresses well, and as a lady should, of 
 which the nurse will be, of course, the best judge ; 
 her reason for this being, 1st, her own personal 
 appearance ; 2dly, her example to others in the 
 same branch of the domestic service ; 3dly, for 
 the honour of the family of which she is an 
 adopted member; 4thly, to cut-out the nursery- 
 governess, if there be one ; 5thly, to obtain re- 
 spect from the lower classes, such as boatmen, 
 flymen, donkey-boys, and the like ; and 6thly, to 
 win admiration from the lounging bachelors, offi- 
 cers, even non-commissioned, if in uniform, and 
 failing these, to strike dumb the dapper young 
 grocer's apprentice. This last object is, perhaps, 
 included under the first head. However, I am an 
 economist, and make both ends meet.
 
 176 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 Now, at Flickstow, the nurse has only to take 
 the children on to the sands, and there she can 
 leave them ; the little things will meet lots of 
 other little things, and the amalgamated manikins 
 will go a-digging, a-burying one another in the 
 sand, a-wetting their boots, a-blowing of trumpets, 
 a-beating of drums, and a-beating of one another 
 "all for love," like the Irishmen at Donnybrook, 
 until recalled to early dinner by the charming 
 young lady, who having passed her morning en- 
 tirely to her own satisfaction, perhaps in taking 
 rather a lengthy stroll, stands in need of that 
 meal herself. 
 
 She can thus avoid being mixed up with the 
 troublesome little brats, and may be taken, by a 
 disinterested lounger, for a lady of independent 
 means, or a countess in disguise. 
 
 If subsequently seen, by her temporary adorer, 
 with the children, he may, by a very little manage- 
 ment on her part, be puzzled as to her exact rela- 
 tionship to them. Temporary adorer is advisedly 
 said; for beach-flirtations are of an evanescent 
 character; and the nurse, who may do us the 
 honour to peruse these lines while the children 
 under her care are playing about in different di-
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 177 
 
 rections, is earnestly warned not to give her heart 
 to anybody so permanent as the butcher. She 
 must be torn away after three months at the 
 longest. He remains, and the last state of that 
 poor purveyor will be pitiable. Besides, if you 
 visit the same spot next year, the butcher may be 
 married, or grown more butcherly, and, perhaps, 
 some little change may have even come over your- 
 self. Of course your master and mistress like to 
 see you enjoy yourself, and would prefer that their 
 children should learn the lesson of life early in 
 their career, by being left to shift for themselves, 
 and to make acquaintances that may be useful to 
 them hereafter. And, again, the spying system 
 which you would have to adopt, if you were so 
 peculiarly careful of the little wretches, is utterly 
 repugnant to an English education. 
 
 Final advice to Nursemaids. — By the way, 
 never speak of your masters and mistresses (espe- 
 cially the latter) with anything like respect. If 
 elderly, they are "old things," "old cats," and 
 must be considered as ever on the watch to catch 
 you tripping, or doing their best to make you 
 slaves, and to render your lives a burden. Be 
 demure in their presence ; this is a mere act of 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 Christian courtesy; but never lose any opportu- 
 nity of abusing tbem behind their backs. If they 
 aie young, you can teach them their proper posi- 
 tion, and let them learn how to manage their own 
 children themselves. 
 
 After this digression — scarcely a digression by 
 the way, so naturally does it spring out of the 
 main subject, accompany me to the beach of 
 Flickstow. 
 
 The nurses intuitively obey the above rules 
 as regards the children, and the consequence is, 
 that to a retiring middle-aged bachelor, who has 
 come down for the pleasure of sweet contempla- 
 tion and the luxury of abandoning shirt-collars, 
 the beach between the hours of nine and twelve 
 a.m. is scarcely the place most congenial to his 
 literary pursuits or plan of meditation. He will 
 at first be struck with the numbers of happy 
 laughing children on the sands. Being of a 
 contra-liberal spirit, he will with grim satisfaction 
 quote all to himself, or to the sea, or to a dog, 
 or to a post of the breakwater, where he may be 
 seated, Gray's delightful sentiment about the 
 young Etonians : 
 
 " Kegardless of their doom the little victims play."
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 179 
 
 Now, their doom being probably an interview with 
 the head-master, and a penitential attitude on 
 a sort of mediaeval headsman's block, between a 
 couple of collegers (the holders-down), this line 
 always seems to me an indication of the poet's 
 latent animosity towards sportive youth. 
 
 He will seat himself on the beach, will our 
 bachelor, and select the most comfortable attitude 
 that the shingle permits. Having got over the 
 difficulty of shingles, he will then have to make 
 an agreement between his hat and the sun. 
 Having achieved this, it is necessary that he 
 should so place his book as to be able to read 
 with perfect ease and comfort. For the attain- 
 ment of this end, he must enter into further 
 arrangements with the breeze, or else page 12 
 will be page 24, and page 24 will have changed 
 to 52 before he has got a hint of the argument, 
 or has read seventeen consecutive words. The 
 wind is a superficial student, and skips chapters 
 at a time. Having ingeniously made provision 
 for this, by putting stones on the page, he will 
 begin to enjoy himself in reality. Nay, he may 
 even remark that "the Flickstow sands are first- 
 rate for children."
 
 180 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 After a little time (the little things are shy 
 at first, and otherwise engaged), the}' will begin 
 "to take notice of you," and all their Lilliputian 
 powers of waggery and practical joking will be 
 expended upon you. 
 
 Be angry with them, show yourself averse to 
 their proceedings, and they will at once treat 
 you as an open enemy. Pretend friendship, and 
 they'll never leave you. Eoars of laughter will 
 accompany a shovelful of sand on the nape of 
 your neck. Shouts will announce the humorous 
 feat of trying to make your hat into an amateur 
 sail of the line. Your nose will be a mark for 
 the pebble of the juvenile rifleman ; your ear will 
 be startled by the drums and fifes of the infantry ; 
 until at length you give up study on the beach 
 as impracticable, and betake yourself to the coffee- 
 room, where you will spend five minutes in fidget- 
 ing, or to your bedroom, which will be occupied 
 by large flies; when you will take up Bradshaw, 
 and try to find the earliest means of quitting 
 Flickstow. 
 
 This process will induce calmer thoughts (if 
 there are no flies), and you will discover that 
 Flickstow offers, even to the bachelor, advantages
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 181 
 
 which few other quiet places can hoast. If the 
 flies do not wish you to study Bradshaw, you will 
 not be able to do it. Don't try anything against 
 the wish of these insects, or it will spoil your 
 temper for some time to come. Fly-hunting 
 will amuse a leisure hour, and provide you with 
 capital exercise. 
 
 Visitors to Flickstow should bring their own 
 fly-papers. A carpet-bag full of catch-'em-alive- 
 ohs, would be a sweet addition to the impedi- 
 menta. What an admirable word that impedi- 
 menta is ! 
 
 The Bath Hotel, Flickstow, possesses a well- 
 stocked garden, wherein you can wander undis- 
 turbed. Here few flies will annoy you ; here no 
 children are allowed, because of the wells, which 
 are generally left uncovered by the thoughtful pro- 
 prietor of the hotel. Hither take your book, and 
 note-book, and your camp-stool, if you've got one, 
 for there's only one chair in the garden, whose 
 back and seat being curiously contrived out of 
 sharp conical shells with the points sticking out, 
 is less for use than ornament. 
 
 The Beach of Flickstow further considered as 
 a place for study and comfort. — I should say no,
 
 182 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 decidedly, for many reasons. Understand me, to 
 allude to the Leach proper to Flickstow, is not to 
 mention the beach to the right of it, nor the 
 beach to the left of it; but the shingle whence 
 the middle-aged bachelor has been driven by the 
 rightful possessors, the children. 
 
 When the children are not there, the dogs are. 
 
 Such dogs ! Familiar dogs, comic dogs, 
 savage dogs, cowardly dogs, — all more or less 
 ugly dogs, or dogs of some peculiar colour un- 
 mistakable among a crowd of dogs. The fami- 
 liar dog has a grievance in his coat, and once 
 patted, will rub himself against you at short in- 
 tervals, until somebody else pats him, when he'll 
 try to rid himself of his affliction in another 
 quarter. 
 
 The comic dog plays with your boots, barks 
 and jumps at the sea, comes back with his fore- 
 paws all sandy, and wipes them on your trousers. 
 Kick at him, and he takes it for fun ; speak 
 savagely to him, and he'll growl playfully : like 
 the previous one, there's no getting rid of him 
 until he finds another playfellow. 
 
 The savage dog is black, and sniffs at you. 
 Address him, and he growls; move, and he lifts
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 183 
 
 his upper lip unpleasantly. He won't stop long, 
 but will trot off in a dignified manner. 
 
 The water-dog belongs to some one in the 
 distance. You say at a venture, " Hi ! Neptune 
 there !" and throw a bit of wood or a stone into 
 the sea. He'll bark at you until you do it again ; 
 and by threatening to jump on you (he is an un- 
 certain dog), will keep you throwing pebbles for 
 him until your arm aches. 
 
 Don't throw your stick for him to fetch. Not 
 that he won't fetch it ; no : he'll do that beau- 
 tifully; only being of a faithful instinct, he will 
 insist on carrying it after he has brought it out 
 of the water ; in which case, as he won't give it 
 up without a struggle, you will have to follow 
 him until he reaches his owner. 
 
 When the dogs are not there, the cows are. 
 Why they come, I don't know ; except that Flick- 
 stow is one of those places where the grass of the 
 verdant cliff meets the beach, and perhaps affords 
 pasturage. The cows will only smell you and 
 pass on. 
 
 If the cows are not there, the horses are. 
 They are brought down to be washed ; and their 
 drivers holloa and shout at them during the ope-
 
 184 WHERE SHALL AVE GO ? 
 
 ration. When the horses are gone, the donkeys 
 come to he watered and rest, while their drivers 
 take their dinner. 
 
 These drivers are hoys, who, having got into 
 a hahit of yelling at their animals, can't lower 
 their tone in addressing one another. 
 
 From all this you will escape hy walking over 
 the cliff and through the fields, or along the shore 
 as far as ever you can go without heing caught in 
 a storm ; for it never condescends to anything so 
 common as rain at Flickstow; it hails, it thun- 
 ders, it lightens — hut it never rains. Nor has 
 the weather any rule at Flickstow. The sun 
 shines, and down comes the hail : the sun goes 
 in, and it is lovely weather — calm, cool, and 
 serene. Even thunder and lightning don't see 
 the necessity of companionship at Flickstow : now 
 the lightning comes without the thunder, or the 
 thunder without the lightning; and everybody 
 is perfectly satisfied and contented in the happy 
 marine village of Flickstow. 
 
 The butterfly-collector and ardent naturalist 
 will be glad to learn that a curious moth, pecu- 
 liar to this part of the island, appears here in 
 the summer. By day it haunts the flowers, and
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO? 185 
 
 looks like an enormous hornet, its powers of 
 buzzing being equal to the combined efforts of 
 a swarm of wasps. By night it appears in the 
 bedrooms, where the collector may be glad of 
 having the opportunity of getting a good view of 
 it at close quarters. The non-collector will, it is 
 probable, not be so overjoyed at its appearance. 
 
 This creature's tenacity of life is remarkable : 
 after you have, as you may imagine, killed it, 
 it generally manages to crawl away on the floor, 
 and breathes its last in one of your stockings. 
 It doesn't sting ; at least so they say. The natu- 
 ralist will now have an opportunity of verifying 
 the statement. 
 
 Chapter III. Flickstow — Its Aiv — The Faculty — Tales of my 
 Landlord — The Bath-house — Isolation of Flickstow — The 
 Omnibuses — The Libraries — My quiet disturbed — An Arri- 
 val — The Syharite — The Weather — The Dinner — Going to 
 Church — Dissatisfaction — Happiness restored — The Season 
 begins — The Organ — Incursion of Hordes — Fight of the 
 Persecuted — Promises — Off to the quietest Place. 
 
 That Flickstow is most pleasantly situated, is 
 an opinion held by the Flickstowians, the visitors 
 to this quiet watering-place, and the proprietor 
 of the Bath Hotel. The last-mentioned gentle-
 
 186 WHEEE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 man lias no other name for it, when talking to 
 his customers, than a "little Paradise." Flick- 
 stow, according to his unprejudiced and disin- 
 terested view, is equally beneficial to the con- 
 valescent, the downright invalid, the lusty healthy 
 Englishman, or the consumptive delicate girl, 
 whose only apparent chance is the South of 
 France or Madeira. 
 
 The first question that anyone meditating a 
 stay at Flickstow will be likely to put to the 
 landlord, will be — " The air of Flickstow is con- 
 sidered very good, isn't it ?" 
 
 It will be given in this form as more com- 
 plimentary to the people of Flickstow than sup- 
 posing for one moment that they were accus- 
 tomed to anything of an inferior quality, even 
 in the way of air. The landlord's answer is 
 guarded. He does not yet know whether you 
 are a bachelor on the wing, a married man look- 
 ing for lodgings, or one or the other wishing for 
 apartments in his hotel. 
 
 From long practice he can, in a few minutes, 
 tell your business in these parts, as easily as a 
 naturalist can classify a peculiar beetle. This 
 talent does not render him proud, but he will
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 187 
 
 still "play" you, as it were, and his guess will 
 conclude in a certainty. 
 
 " The air of Flickstow is considered very 
 good," says he. "Yes, sir, very good." 
 
 "Not bracing?" you say half-inquiring, half- 
 asserting. 
 
 As a method for irritating the landlord into 
 a violent defence of Flickstow air, and thereby 
 exposing Flickstow's defects in the heat of his 
 partisanship, this question must be considered 
 as a failure. It elicits a most cautious reply, 
 conveyed in the very quietest tone that belongs 
 to an unruffled mind. 
 
 "Flickstow is considered decidedly bracing by 
 the Faculty, sir," answers the landlord, rubbing 
 his chin very slowly. At a glance, scarcely per- 
 ceptible, he sees that "the Faculty" has disarmed 
 you. He stoops down and plucks a blade of 
 grass with, apparently, the same amount of pur- 
 pose that guides the waiter's hand when he dusts 
 nothing on a sideboard. This action gives you 
 time for recovery, and the visitor comes up to 
 the next round smiling. "But," objects the visi- 
 tor, " there are figs, and pears, and all sorts of 
 fruits and flowers p growing luxuriantly around,
 
 188 WHEKE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 and reaching almost down to the sea. It must be 
 a soft air." 
 
 The landlord does no,t see the necessity. It 
 is the most healthy place in England ; the air is 
 most bracing; and yet in the parts where the 
 fig-trees are, as the gentleman rightly says, a 
 consumptive person might thrive and get strong. 
 This is his (the landlord's) opinion, and the 
 Faculty back him up in it. The Faculty in- 
 cludes the leading medical men of the day, who, 
 it appears, have all pronounced unanimously in 
 favour of Flickstow for everybody in every pos- 
 sible circumstance. 
 
 You may think the air somewhat soft. The 
 landlord pities you as unhappily opposed to the 
 Faculty. Well, you admit, if bracing, not suf- 
 ficiently bracing. Wrong again; the landlord is 
 almost wearied with pitying you, so perversely do 
 you put yourself in antagonism to the Faculty. 
 The Faculty have pronounced Flickstow suffici- 
 ently bracing ; so did the late Baron Alderson. 
 
 "Did he?" you say, as if this was the very 
 last thing you would have expected. 
 
 "Yes," says the landlord, slowly shaking his 
 head.
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 189 
 
 The reminiscence being to all appearance pain- 
 ful, you refrain from further inquiries concerning 
 the late lamented judge's connection with Flick- 
 stow, and the circumstances under which he in- 
 trusted the landlord with his confidence on this 
 point of Flickstow's salubrity. 
 
 The visitor, with a wholesome dread of the 
 Faculty, shifts his ground, and observes, with 
 something of a knowing manner, 
 
 " The winter must be a wretched time here." 
 
 Poor gentleman ! the landlord really does pity 
 him now. Why, if there is a time when Flick- 
 stow is only one degree less delightful than in 
 the summer, it is in the winter. 
 
 "Why, sir," the landlord exclaims, "every- 
 thing 's a' most as green as you see it now ; and 
 to walk in that av'nue of figs, you'd think as it 
 was summer ; ah, that you would." 
 
 The visitor looks down the avenue, and says 
 " Indeed !" Not that he doubts the landlord, but 
 he hasn't, at that moment, any other remark to 
 make on the subject. 
 
 The landlord will adroitly follow up his blow, 
 and settle the visitor once and for ever. 
 
 " There's capital wild-fowl shooting about here;
 
 190 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 first-rate, sir, all through the winter. The Maha- 
 rajah Mint Julip Sing stays here in the winter, a' 
 purpose for the shooting." 
 
 The visitor says, "Does he indeed?" and pro- 
 bably repeats the name of the Indian potentate 
 in a puzzled manner. "0, the Maharajah comes 
 here, does he ?" says the visitor, as much as to 
 infer that he (the visitor) had never, up till that 
 moment, been able to make out where the Maha- 
 rajah did go to in the winter; as if he was a 
 dormouse. 
 
 The landlord finds that his visitor is unac- 
 quainted with the Maharajah, and pities him 
 more than ever. 
 
 " When first the Maharajah come down here, 
 he took nearly the whole hotel for his friends and 
 his servants, and suchlike," says the landlord. 
 All his recollections of the Maharajah henceforth 
 appear as an institution of so many personal com- 
 parisons between the Maharajah and the unfor- 
 tunate visitor. The latter feels almost inclined 
 to beg his host's pardon for not immediately 
 ordering all the rooms in his hotel, and, in a 
 general way, for not being the Maharajah Mint 
 Julip Sing.
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 191 
 
 "Yes, lie took the whole house," the land- 
 lord repeats, laughing gently to himself, as if 
 the fact was some most excellent joke, as indeed 
 it was to him, " and had a yacht down here, 
 and a punt, and went out shooting every day. 
 ' Browning,' says he to me, ' Browning,' says he, 
 ' don't call me your Eoyal Highness,' says he. 
 1 Why not, your Royal Highness ?' I says to him ; 
 I used always to call the prince that. ' Because,' 
 says he — he could talk English as well as you 
 or me could, sir, — ' because,' says he, ' I'd rather 
 be a plain Suffolk squire, Browning, than all the 
 royal highnesses in the world.' That's what the 
 prince wanted. The prince says to me, ' Brown- 
 ing,' says he, 'I only wishes to be a Suffolk man, 
 and if they'd let me be it, I would.' And he would 
 too," adds the landlord, knocking a few ashes out 
 of his pipe ; " he's a most affable gentleman is 
 the Maharajah, and there ain't no nonsense about 
 him." 
 
 The visitor, in deference to Mr. Browning's 
 opinion, tries to look as affable as he can, and 
 have as little nonsense about him as possible 
 under the circumstances. In the due carrying 
 out of this attempt, he does not like to cut short
 
 192 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 the landlord's narrative by leaving him suddenly, 
 or by expressing himself to the effect that the 
 story of Julip Sing might, without any diminu- 
 tion of the interest, be carried over until to-mor- 
 row, and continued in the next evening's series 
 of Tales of my Landlord. 
 
 Mr. Browning, however, knows when he has 
 got a listener, and fixes him. 
 
 " He wanted me," continues the landlord, 
 scarcely keeping his pipe alight, so fully is he 
 enjoying the luxury of an undisturbed narration, 
 " to take him in last year. ' I'm very sorry, your 
 royal highness,' says I, — it was about this time, 
 when we're always quite full" (Flickstow quite 
 full in July, says the visitor to himself), — " 'I'm 
 very sorry,' says I, ' but I can't do it.' ' yes 
 you can,' the prince says to me. 'I can't do it,' 
 I told him; ' if you was to offer me all your jewels, 
 your highness,' says I jokingly." 
 
 The visitor supposes that the Maharajah must 
 have laughed at this humorous conceit of Mr. 
 Browning's. 
 
 " He did," says the landlord more to himself 
 than to the questioner, as if a prince's laughter 
 was not a matter for vulgar joking. "I couldn't
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 193 
 
 take him in. I was obliged to say to him, as I 
 would to anyone" (Visitor notes the landlord's 
 independence), "-'If your royal highness wants 
 rooms in the hotel, you must give us notice 
 some time beforehand, or else we're full.' " 
 
 The visitor learns the moral thus pleasantly 
 conveyed. He also learns that Flickstow at cer- 
 tain seasons is full ; and this intelligence, if he 
 really be in search of quiet, will naturally enough 
 scare him away from Flickstow. 
 
 But Flickstow might be full to suffocation, 
 and yet remain the home of the solitary, that 
 is, within certain limits. These boundaries are 
 the martello tower on the right, and the second 
 breakwater beyond the flight of steps that leads 
 up to the top of the cliff on the left. 
 
 Again, Flickstow, as a rule, dines at midday, 
 and sleeps like a boa-constrictor until the even- 
 ing, when Flickstow, being lively in the prospect 
 of tea or supper, disports itself on the beach. If 
 the lover of solitude dines at seven, and takes 
 his walks abroad during the afternoon, he will 
 be unmolested by children; and the only crea- 
 ture at all resembling his fellow man that he 
 will meet is one of the coastguard. 
 
 vol. i. o
 
 194 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 Mr. Browning's house is the Bath Hotel, so 
 called because there is a bath-house in the gar- 
 den. Were Flickstow anything but what it is, 
 the bath-house of a hotel, where hot and cold 
 baths are given, situated in a garden at ever so 
 short a distance from the house (and you have 
 to go down hill to it), would be an inconvenience. 
 
 Dress as you will, no one will see you; and if 
 they do, none will notice you, except the boys who 
 drive the goat -chaises and wallop the donkeys. 
 The latter, however, will not be astonished by 
 your appearance. 
 
 At Flickstow the world maybe soon forgotten, 
 that is, if you rise before Flickstow is out of bed, 
 sit on a part of the beach unfrequented by Flick- 
 stow, walk when Flickstow dines, and dine while 
 Flickstow walks, and be asleep before Flickstow 
 is even thinking of feeling tired. An occasional 
 tourist, or some one in search of lodgings, whom 
 you may come across in the parlour (there is no 
 coffee-room), will give you tidings of the outer 
 world, and will present you with the Times of 
 that day. The arrival of a newspaper or letters 
 at Flickstow is a matter of much excitement, on 
 account of its uncertainty.
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 195 
 
 A letter may take two days or more in reach- 
 ing London, and your paper has probably afforded 
 much amusement to several people on its journey 
 to you. 
 
 No one can get nearer to Flickstow than five 
 miles, including a ferry, on one side, and twelve 
 miles in an omnibus on the other. 
 
 The omnibuses are divided into two classes ; 
 one is pretty fair, and the other is execrably bad. 
 Both will serve your turn in fine weather, but 
 only the former when it pours, as the latter lets 
 in the rain through some cracks in the roof, and 
 the windows are of such a peculiarly ingenious con- 
 struction, that, once being let down in order to 
 obtain air for the half-stifled damp " insides," no 
 available leverage is sufficiently powerful to bring 
 them up again; so that, what with the shower- 
 bath of a roof, and the douche at your back, but 
 for the look of the thing and the cleanliness of 
 your boots, you might as well have been walking, 
 as the contented Irishman said when the bottom 
 of the sedan-chair fell out. 
 
 Both these vehicles run to and fro between 
 Flickstow and Ipswich. 
 
 Flickstow possesses a church. When you ask
 
 196 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 where it is, you are told it is " across the fields." 
 No one here has any distinct idea of distance, 
 nor of the existence of any means of conveyance 
 beyond a 'bus and a ferry-boat. Every place in- 
 land is " across the fields." 
 
 Flickstow also boasts of a circulating library 
 adjoining the tap, and situated in a corner of the 
 hotel garden, where the lending of books is com- 
 bined with a trade in wooden spades, envelopes, 
 sand-boots, and china ornaments. Mudie's list 
 of two years ago still finds favour in the eyes of 
 the higher educated classes of Flickstow. 
 
 There is another circulating library of a con- 
 servative character (the Mudie one is of liberal 
 and progressive tendencies), which is contained 
 in a wooden toyshop (itself as much like a toy 
 as anything within) on the beach. From these 
 shelves the middle-aged and elderly readers of 
 Flickstow gather their literary honey, and de- 
 nounce the other shop near the tap, Mudie and 
 all his works. Here, wishing to patronise the in- 
 digenous merchandise, the visitor may purchase 
 some stones, supposed to be "precious," and cer- 
 tainly deserving the epithet in one sense, any tin 
 ornaments that may suit his fancy, studs of a
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 197 
 
 dullish metal under a glass case, spades and 
 sand-boots in opposition to the other circulating 
 library, and by paying a penny a day he may 
 store his mind with such specimens of an elegant 
 style as The Wonderful Adventures of Mrs* 
 Seacole, The Confessor, The Albatross, Father 
 Darcey (author unknown), Aristomenes, The Idol 
 demolished by its own Priest (No. 87 in the 
 book), Incidents of Missionary Enterprise (in- 
 cluding the spelling), and Elizabeth, or the 
 Exiles of Siberia. The last was in hand when 
 we asked for it. 
 
 In ten days' time I became accustomed to the 
 dulness. I was cheerful, but subdued. A friend 
 of mine, a Sybarite, wrote to me to say that he 
 would come and spend a day or two with me, on 
 his road somewhere else. I was pleased, but not 
 excited. When he arrived he was excited, but 
 not pleased. He had travelled with eight very 
 wet peasants, some odd baskets, and a hip-bath, 
 in the miserable conveyance hereinbefore men- 
 tioned ; and had been sitting in a pool of water 
 with the impracticable window open at his back, 
 and a boy smoking bad cigars (and allowed so to 
 do by the admiring rustics within) by his side.
 
 198 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 Within two miles of Flickstow, he with four of 
 the gentler sex, and a baby, who, when it was not 
 taking suction out of a bottle, was crying bitterly, 
 was taken out of the 'bus to finish his journey in 
 a fly ; when the Sybarite was obliged to ride out- 
 side to oblige the ladies. 
 
 The Sybarite insisted upon having a view of 
 the sea, both from his sitting-room and his bed- 
 room, and, in fact, from any part of the house 
 where he might happen to be. What had I or- 
 dered for dinner ? asked the Sybarite. 
 
 Now hitherto I had, for the sake of peace and 
 quiet, left it to the landlady, who invariably ca- 
 tered for me to the very best of her ability, and 
 therewith I had been content. When, therefore, 
 I told the Sybarite that I didn't know, he evi- 
 dently began to question my sanity. "Fish, of 
 course," said he. 
 
 I said, "Yes, I hope so;" and I really did 
 hope so, for previous experience of Sybarites in- 
 forms me that an undined Sybarite is the most 
 disagreeable companion possible for one entire 
 evening. He was sitting at what it amused me 
 to call "my end of the coffee-room," at a window 
 commanding the sea. This end of the public
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 199 
 
 parlour (coffee-room by courtesy) I had, by the 
 ingenious device of getting the waitress to close 
 the folding-doors, fashioned into a private dining- 
 room for my own particular use. With this con- 
 trivance I confess to have been as much pleased 
 as was Eobinson Crusoe with his original hut. 
 
 The Sybarite found fault with it on the spot. 
 Why couldn't we have a private room ? he asked. 
 I felt that my interest, somehow or another, was 
 bound up with the landlord's. I explained to him 
 that the hotel was full. 
 
 " Full !" cried the Sybarite. " Do people 
 come here ! What's this room ?" 
 
 I explained, in order to put him in a good 
 humour, that it was my dodge — dodge was the 
 playful word I used — for being private. 
 
 My ideal privacy was somewhat unduly dis- 
 turbed by the entrance of a party of six persons 
 at least, whom we couldn't see, but could hear, 
 who had come into the adjoining compartment to 
 have some tea, and who did not possess a single 
 "h" among them. 
 
 " Very quiet," sneered my friend. 
 
 I knew it was not very quiet as well as he 
 did, but I was getting angry, and felt bound to
 
 200 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 defend the general still life of Flickstow. I told 
 him that this was not Brighton. He thanked me 
 for the information sarcastically. I explained that 
 he must expect to rough it a little at Flickstow. 
 He replied, that if he had known that, he would 
 have seen Flickstow — in fact, he'd have gone 
 elsewhere. He wished me distinctly to under- 
 stand that it was my presence at Flickstow that 
 had induced him to come out of his way, when 
 he was, in point of fact, actually on his road, 
 as he had before informed me, "elsewhere." I 
 was annoyed at his assuming this tone with me, 
 but I struggled heroically with my feelings, and 
 trusted in the emollient effects of dinner. 
 
 It came at last. 
 
 "Soles," said I, rubbing my hands; "capital!" 
 
 Of course they were the only fish he couldn't 
 touch. Never mind him, he said, in a resigned 
 tone, he would wait for the meat. In the mean 
 time, what wine was there. 
 
 Sherry ? bring some sherry, a pint. 
 
 The sherry came. The Sybarite with a sneer 
 asked me if I drank tliat muck every day. Now 
 I pride myself on being rather a judge of wine, 
 and I did not like to confess, that not only had:
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 201 
 
 I drank that muck every day since my arrival, 
 but that I had rather liked it than otherwise. So 
 I pretended not to know anything about it, and 
 laid down, as a general rule, that it was better 
 not to take sherry at such small inns as this. 
 
 "What did I drink, then?" he wanted to 
 know. 
 
 I informed him that my invariable beverage 
 was the lightest possible claret, with, I added 
 guardedly, water, or soda-water. 
 
 That wouldn't do for him. 
 
 "What meat was there ? "A nice dish of veal 
 cutlets, done on purpose for me ; come, let me 
 help you." 
 
 This I said in my cheeriest tone. 
 
 " What did I say ? Cutlets ?" 
 
 " Yes," I answered. " Yeal cutlets." 
 
 Ah ! of all the things that the Sybarite de- 
 tested, veal cutlets were the most loathsome. 
 
 His dislike almost took away my appetite. 
 Luckily they found him some cold beef, which he 
 ordered to be minced, and salad, which he mixed 
 himself. 
 
 After dinner, feeling more charitable towards 
 the world, my friend lighted his cigar. His en-
 
 202 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 joyment was of short duration. I had forgotten 
 that we were still in the public coffee-room, and 
 that through the folding-doors the smoke could 
 penetrate. And that it did this, was very soon 
 evident by the feminine coughing in the next 
 division ; and after a short duet between basso 
 and soprano, a bell was rung, and in another 
 three minutes the landlord himself came in and 
 rebuked me for allowing the Sybarite to smoke. 
 I could not plead ignorance of the rules, nor 
 the fact of the folding-doors being illicitly closed. 
 After appeasing the landlord, I beguiled my 
 wrathful friend into the greenhouse, where he 
 was bothered by the large moths, and utterly 
 losing his temper retired to bed, vowing that he 
 would be off the first thing in the morning. 
 
 The next day being Sunday (he had intended 
 staying from Saturday till Monday), he determined 
 to pick his way to church. As he generally car- 
 ries a small library with him, the proceeding was 
 somewhat tedious, seeing that the roads were in 
 some places almost impassable, on account of yes- 
 terday's heavy rains. He had heard that there 
 was to be a grand high-church service two miles 
 off at a neighbouring village ; and eschewing the
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 203 
 
 Use of Flickstow, lie took his road " across the 
 fields." 
 
 We reached the church at half-past eleven, 
 and the people were just coming out. It appeared 
 that the service had commenced at ten o'clock on 
 that Sunday, as the clergyman had to serve two 
 other parishes in the day. This visit did not 
 strike me as in any way improving the Sybarite's 
 temper. On Sunday he ordered dinner, com- 
 plained of the cooking, found the bitter beer 
 (bottled) flat, the draught beer sour, and was im- 
 patient of the claret. He subsided into brandy- 
 and-water, and an early bed. 
 
 He went away grumbling on Monday. What 
 account he gave of the place and my mode of 
 living, I am at a loss to know. 
 
 He had come like the serpent into Paradise, 
 and had left me dissatisfied with my position. 
 
 I became restless. I couldn't read ; I couldn't 
 write. I fell to complaining that the papers did 
 not arrive daily, and of the postal irregularity. 
 I ordered no more sherry, and became suspicious 
 of the lightest claret. On the third day after his 
 departure, my equanimity was partially restored. 
 On the fourth day a stranger visiting the inn,
 
 204 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 praised the sherry, and was delighted with Flick- 
 stow. He was an elderly man, and, from what 
 I gathered from his conversation, was a mem- 
 ber of the Athenaeum, and was on speaking terms 
 with five members of Parliament and a couple of 
 Bishops. Such an authority was of greater weight 
 than the Sybarite, and my placid happiness was 
 re-established. 
 
 I should have remained there, but that, alas I 
 the season began in real earnest. 
 
 An organ began it. While I was meditating 
 over a metaphysical work, and inventing a theory 
 about the complex action of memory and will, 
 I heard La mia Letizia played by a whistling 
 itinerant musician. 
 
 I shook my fist at him, and stopped my ears 
 with my fingers. He laughed at my expressive 
 pantomime, as if I was doing it to amuse him, 
 and touched his cap to me. I betake me to my 
 notes. 
 
 "Go away!" He won't: not a bit of it. 
 Children belonging to a recently-arrived family 
 are at the window, whistling, chuckling, crowing, 
 dance a baby diddy ! Ha ! ha ! Out I go, far 
 over the sands.
 
 WHEEE SHALL WE GO ? 205 
 
 Flickstow, according to matutinal custom, is 
 out on the beach. 
 
 What is this change that has come over the 
 spirit of my dream ? 
 
 What is this pop, pop, popping ? Can I be- 
 lieve my eyes? Near the circulating library is a 
 large target, and a woman making a fortune at 
 two shots a penny, and prizes in an untold heap 
 of nuts. 
 
 I hear some one say that the Volunteers will 
 meet here next week, and that there are going to 
 be fireworks on the sands. 
 
 I am a mile away from Flickstow. Quiet 
 reigns around me. (This is a note I find in my 
 pocket-book, dated on the identical day of the 
 incursion of the savage hordes.) A boatful of 
 people comes on shore. They jump out. They 
 are calling to other people somewhere else in my 
 neighbourhood. Hampers are appearing. Other 
 people from somewhere else halloo back again, 
 and exchange badinage. It appears that the lat- 
 ter party have just dined, and are consequently 
 exhilarated. Another halloo, more distant still 
 (just where I was going to walk quietly), an- 
 nounces a party actually at dinner. I see it all.
 
 206 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 I have dropped down right in the middle of a 
 pic-nic. As I continue my walk onwards, they 
 make remarks on my personal appearance. When 
 I return, two hours afterwards, they are still 
 there, dancing with a fiddle, and, as far as badin- 
 age goes, as lively as ever ; as far as practical 
 joking is concerned, livelier. 
 
 The landlord informed me that there are pic- 
 nics on the beach " a'most every day." 
 
 The next morning the proceedings were opened 
 by a brass band. I wandered into the garden ; but 
 people were beforehand with me, walking up and 
 down, looking at the sea and the ships through 
 glasses. 
 
 I went on to the beach ; there were the child- 
 ren, the donkeys, the two shots a penny for nuts, 
 two negro delineators, bathers, and further on the 
 pic-nic parties. 
 
 I walked inland by the marine cottages, and 
 working men rushed out upon me, supposing that 
 I was in search of lodgings. I was driven back 
 to my room. The band had not moved. Such a 
 band ! Five small boys, with the largest and worst 
 specimens of wind-instruments, and a drum, led 
 by an elderly fiend on a cornet.
 
 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 207 
 
 I looked at the map. To-morrow, said I, I 
 go to Suthold. 
 
 That evening, while the landlord was recount- 
 ing to me, for the twenty- second time, the doings 
 of his friend the Maharajah Julip Sing, I took 
 occasion to mention to him how much it grieved 
 me to be obliged to leave Flickstow. Flickstow 
 quiet, said I, is beyond comparison delightful ; but 
 Flickstow noisy is execrable. 
 
 Mr. Browning, albeit a landlord, owned that 
 he preferred Flickstow quiet ; although Flickstow, 
 quiet or noisy, was undeniably recommended by 
 the Faculty, I must recollect that. He begged 
 me to see it in the winter, when I might have the 
 opportunity of going out shooting wild ducks with 
 his Eoyal Highness the Prince Maharatta Mint 
 Julip Sing, with the great gun, and in the punt 
 bestowed upon our obliging landlord by that muni- 
 ficent foreigner. 
 
 If I could, I said heartily, I would. And if I 
 can, I will; for Flickstow is like ''Charley Mount, 
 a pleasant place in the glorious month of July;" 
 and in every other month, were it not for the fes- 
 tive incursions, which may delight some good 
 folks, but did not me. The ancient name of this
 
 208 WHERE SHALL WE GO ? 
 
 marine village was Felix Stow; but modern pro- 
 nunciation lias clipped it into the form Flick- 
 stow, as I have here written it. 
 
 My last moments at the hotel were rendered 
 miserable by three juvenile members of one family 
 attempting to play " Pop goes the weasel" with 
 one family finger, on the untuned notes of a 
 cabinet piano. Bedtime and nurse removed them. 
 The next morning I took — having previously 
 ordered it with much attention to detail — the best 
 phaeton that Flickstow could provide. 
 
 In this melancholy machine I made for Suth- 
 old, which was, I was told, without exception the 
 quietest place on the east coast, or, in fact, in 
 England. 
 
 So to Suthold I went. By the way, my 
 landlord didn't say that the Faculty recommended 
 Suthold.
 
 COX AND FIVE : 
 
 &ljc terrible gUbcitturc iit a |CjLailfaag Carriage. 
 
 "I say, Baby, come now, you've had your glass, 
 so don't look anxiously at the bottle ; pass it on, 
 and eat as many biscuits as you like ; Snipe ad- 
 vises them." 
 
 " Just half a glass more, Tomkins." 
 
 "No, not a drop, Baby, or hanged if I don't 
 tell Snipe. If you don't know how to take care of 
 yourself, I must look after you. Come, pass the 
 fruity at once, you silly little thing." 
 
 The " silly little thing," commonly known in 
 New College as "Baby," was a brawny, sandy- 
 whiskered, good-natured giant, weighing fourteen 
 stone to a pound, who had just gone into training 
 for the University race. Snipe, by mentioning 
 whose name Tomkins had compelled his friend 
 to pass the bottle without filling his glass, was 
 the University coxswain. Having steered the 
 
 vol. i. p
 
 210 COX AND FIVE. 
 
 dark blue in two winning races, and haying the 
 smallest person in the University, with, without 
 exception, the loudest voice, Snipe was looked 
 upon as a model of what a coxswain should he. 
 It was generally known through the University 
 that Snipe was the only man in Oxford whom the 
 captain ever condescended to consult in the selec- 
 tion of his crew, and that the training of the men 
 was left entirely to his discretion ; so his influence 
 among boating men was unbounded. 
 
 At the beginning of the week the captain, 
 together with Snipe and Hurdles, the editor of 
 a well-known sporting journal, and an old Uni- 
 versity oar, had been noticed for more than an 
 hour pacing up and down the pavement outside 
 Exeter. Hurdles had given his opinion that the 
 boat had not enough strength, and that five should 
 be turned out for a heavier man. Several men had 
 been mentioned for the new five. Snipe was 
 for Bowling of Christchurch ; but both Hurdles 
 and the captain were inclined to try Baby Smith 
 of New. 
 
 "Baby is a fine oar," said Snipe, "no doubt, 
 but won't train. Now guess, Hurdles, what that 
 fellow did last May races."
 
 COX AND FIVE. 211 
 
 " Can't guess at all," said Hurdles, lighting 
 his pipe. 
 
 " Well, you know, both of you, I am the last 
 man in the world to hurt a fellow's character, 
 especially an old schoolfellow ; but what I am 
 going to say I say for the good of the 'Varsity. 
 Smith, on the very first day of the race, ate 
 pastry in hall ! Ah ! and that's not the worst — 
 toasted cheese that fellow had for supper ! though 
 the captain of the New College boat besought him, 
 almost on his knees, to have oatmeal porridge in- 
 stead. Why, I should not have thought worse 
 of him if he had eaten a whole cucumber. My 
 faith in that fellow is shaken, and have I not 
 cause, eh?" 
 
 " Certainly, old fellow," said the captain. 
 '" Still, you know, he might turn over a new leaf. 
 Now he is more likely to be afraid of you than 
 any one else. S'pose now you trot down to New, 
 see him in private, speak solemnly and firmly to 
 him, tell him we will try him for a week, if he 
 promises to train, and not make a fool of himself 
 .any more. Eh, Hurdles, isn't that our form?" 
 
 Hurdles took a long pull at his pipe, and 
 nodded oracularly. "We'll try him; but I have
 
 212 
 
 COX AND FIVE. 
 
 not much, faith in a man who eats toasted 
 cheese." 
 
 Snipe started off at once, and found Smith in 
 an arm-chair before the fire reading BelVs Life, 
 with a pewter of beer on the floor beside him. 
 
 "Baby," he said, "I wish to have a little real 
 serious talk with you." 
 
 The Baby, who had risen from his chair as 
 Snipe entered, looked wonderingly down on the 
 earnest face of the coxswain, in his official blue 
 coat and straw hat, who scarcely reached up to 
 the third button of his waistcoat, which he had 
 taken hold of. 
 
 " Well, old fellow, what is it ?" he said. 
 
 "I say, Baby, how should you like to take 
 Sniffles' place — five — in the 'Varsity?" said Snipe, 
 with an air of supreme patronage. 
 
 " Uncommon," said Smith, whose chief ambi- 
 tion, lazy fellow as he was, was to earn his dark 
 blue. " Uncommon, Snipe. Take some beer." 
 
 "My Baby," said Snipe reproachfully, "3*011 
 must lay aside these weaknesses. Promise me, 
 before I speak more to you, for my time is pre- 
 cious, that you will train." 
 
 "Yes, Snipe, old fellow, of course I'll train."
 
 COX AND FIVE. 213 
 
 "Well then, Baby, no more beer, except a 
 pint at dinner ; a mile's run before breakfast ; 
 get up at seven ; bed at ten ; gruel previous ; no 
 more getting festive at wines ; one glass of fruity, 
 never more unless I see you are getting low, 
 then I may stick it on again. How much do 
 you weigh ?" 
 
 " Fourteen stone, to a pound. Weighed yes- 
 terday." 
 
 " How much last races ?" 
 
 " Thirteen stone five." 
 
 "Well, then, run two miles every morning 
 instead of one, put a little nitre in your gruel ; 
 and we will give you a trial, down at the boats, at 
 two. Try to get down four pounds, then tell me. 
 Come, begin at once. Adieu, mon enfant !" 
 
 As Snipe ceased speaking he took the beer 
 and emptied it into the coal-scuttle, and walked 
 across the court to Tomkins' rooms. 
 
 " Tomkins," he said, " I am going to give 
 Baby Smith a trial; keep your eye on him, and 
 see that he trains." 
 
 Tomkins promised to keep his eye on his old 
 schoolfellow Smith, whom he could remember a 
 little white-haired boy at Winchester, the smallest
 
 214 COX AND FIVE. 
 
 boy in the school, when he had gained the name 
 of "Baby," which like most names given at Win- 
 chester, clung to him for ever after. Tomkins 
 was a man who never undertook a thing without 
 thoroughly doing his duty in it. Being a reading 
 man himself, with no muscles, he took the great- 
 est pride in those of his friend : every morning 
 before seven, Tomkins made his appearance in 
 Smith's rooms, and would not leave them till he 
 saw him safe out of bed ; every night at half-past 
 nine, Tomkins was to be seen in Baby's room 
 hanging over a saucepan, where was simmering 
 the regulation feed of oatmeal porridge ; or ten- 
 derly plastering-up any raw places on the hands 
 or elsewhere, which the day's row might have 
 caused. The "Baby" was a sociable, and what 
 was commonly called at New College, rather a 
 festive man, and no exhortations of his friend 
 could induce him to take his glass of wine in 
 private, and leave his corner next the fire at the 
 end of the horseshoe table in the junior Common 
 room, where the men drank their wine after hall. 
 Tomkins, finding that nothing could keep his 
 friend from the society and merriment of the 
 Common room, although he much preferred the
 
 COX AND FIVE. 215 
 
 quiet of bis own rooms to the heavy Carbonel 
 port and noise, sacrificed himself every . night, so 
 as to be able to keep his eye on his charge. 
 
 The boat had, on the day when the conversa- 
 tion recorded at the commencement of my story 
 took place, gone for its first long row over the 
 entire course, and the Baby was unusually thirsty, 
 and inclined to break through the regime which 
 Snipe had laid down for the boat. 
 
 "Horrid fellow, that Snipe, I do think," said 
 Smith, as he took a biscuit from the dish and 
 munched it moodily, looking wistfully at the glass 
 on the opposite side of the table, which had just 
 been filled by its owner. "Horrid little fellow; 
 trains too hard; bow got a boil on his thumb. 
 Snipe sees it, tells him to take another glass; 
 * Kather too low,' says Snipe, as if he could know 
 you fellows. Wish sometimes I could get a boil. 
 Don't think much of Snipe's training, eh ?" 
 
 " Good cox'en, very," said an Exeter man 
 sitting at the end of the table. " Scarce seven 
 stone, peacoat and all; voice like a brass band; 
 keeps the boat in order well. How he sat on 
 bow just to-day, for catching that crab ; plenty of 
 cheek. Talking about cheek, do you remember
 
 216 COX AND FIVE. 
 
 Snipe's terrible railway accident, as we used to 
 call it, eh, Tomkins ?" 
 
 " Just about do remember it," said Tomkins; 
 "tell it to Scrimpton; he may not have heard it. 
 Baby, it's your particular story." 
 
 "Well," said Smith, "here goes, though tell- 
 ing stories is not training, seeing it makes one 
 so dry. Think I might eat an orange, Tom- 
 kins ?" 
 
 " Yes, Baby, I think you might ; not too much 
 sugar, and don't eat any of the peel; here is a 
 ripe one." 
 
 "Give us a catch, then ; here goes. Well, you 
 know, Scrimpton, and all you other fellows who 
 have not heard me tell the story fifty times be- 
 fore, I consider Snipe went through more in that 
 hour which I am going to tell you about, than 
 most fellows do in a lifetime. I consider a man's 
 feelings looking out of the behind third-class 
 carriage of an excursion train, and seeing the ex- 
 press spurting into it, are not to be compared 
 with Snipe's feelings. Talk about cheek, if ever 
 man required cheek, Snipe did then. Tell me 
 about people being shut up with madmen, boa- 
 constrictors, and bowie-knives in the same com-
 
 COX AND FIVE. 217 
 
 partment. I say their feelings can be nothing to 
 those of Snipe when he was shut up with an old 
 lady and her two daughters for a whole hour, 
 under the following distressing circumstances. 
 Well, you know, Snipe and I are old friends, 
 Winchester men both of us. One whole holiday 
 it was settled that we were to play a cricket-match 
 on the Durford ground — the College versus 'Dur- 
 ford Duffers.' I was captain of our eleven in 
 those days, and used to keep wickets. Snipe was 
 cover point, and as neat a batter all round as ever 
 we had in my time, though of course he was too 
 short to have much reach. Men used to laugh 
 when Snipe came in, pitched him up slows, not 
 wishing to be hard on the little fellow, as they 
 used to say. This used to rile Snipe a bit. Left- 
 handed corporal in garrison match chaffed Snipe, 
 and gave him a slow; Snipe catches the ball 
 half- volley, hits it back so sharp in the fellow's 
 face, knocks two teeth down his throat; did the 
 same thing in the Eton match once, then followed 
 it up with a sixer over the pavilion. Well, you 
 know, Durford is several stations from Winches- 
 ter. We got there at ten exactly ; when I got on 
 to the platform I counted my men. 'One short,'
 
 218 COX AND FIVE. 
 
 said I, ' and blest if it is not our cover point, 
 Snipe. Who knows anything of Snipe ?' 
 
 "No one had seen him get into the train, so 
 I knew he had missed it. 
 
 'Pretty job,' said I to the guard, as he came 
 up to me, seeing I had missed something ; ' I 
 have left my cover point behind.' 
 
 ' Your what, sir ?' asked the guard, thinking 
 I meant some sort of carpet-bag ; ' have you 
 looked into the luggage-van, and was it directed ?' 
 
 ' No,' said I, ' it's a friend I have left ; it isn't 
 likely he should be in the van. When is the 
 next train from Winchester ?' 
 
 ' Express at 10.30 stops here ; come by that, 
 no doubt, sir.' 
 
 ' I hope so,' said I, as I watched the train 
 start screaming off again. A drag was waiting at 
 the station to take us and some of the Duffers to 
 the ground, who had come by the same train as 
 we had. 
 
 'Harris,' I said, to our bowler, 'you and the 
 other fellows had better go on in the drag, as of 
 course they won't wait. I shall wait for the 
 express, and come on with Snipe. Toss up; if 
 you win, take first innings ; go in yourself with
 
 COX AND FIVE. 219 
 
 Whistles ; if they get first innings, say they must 
 wait till we come.' 
 
 " I watched the fellows drive off, and then 
 walked down into the village, where I engaged a 
 yellow post-chaise to be at the station to meet the 
 express. 
 
 "Never did an hour go slower. I tried to 
 make out a cross-road journey to Birmingham 
 on the bills on the station; read Thorley's ad- 
 vertisement over at least fifty times ; looked into 
 the box of yellow grease, and wished it was ices ; 
 asked the station-master questions about the ex- 
 pense of removing a fictitious horse to London, 
 pretending that I felt the greatest anxiety that he 
 should not catch cold. Then I went and asked 
 the porter to weigh me ; and still the time seemed, 
 with all my varied amusements, as if it would 
 never go. 
 
 "But if that hour was terrible to me, how in- 
 finitely more so was it to Snipe ! 
 
 "A new pair of patent-leather boots, which he 
 could not force on, had made him too late for the 
 'bus. As he was coming up through the Close, 
 some butcher's boy made a remark about his being 
 sixpennorth of ha'pence too short for the bat
 
 220 COX AND FIVE. 
 
 he was carrying on his shoulder, and which the 
 pads tied round it made look larger than it really 
 was. Snipe, the most touchy fellow that ever 
 lived, threw down his bat, and at once attacked the 
 boy, whom he sent howling off with two black eyes 
 in a very short time ; but, expeditious as he had 
 been, his contest made him just too late; the train 
 was off as he reached the station-doors, which were 
 barred against him. 
 
 " However, Snipe made himself comfortable at 
 the station, where there was a refreshment-room 
 and bottled beer, advantages which the Durford 
 station did not enjoy. When the express came 
 thundering in, Snipe, always a bit of a swell, gets 
 into an empty first-class carriage. After some 
 time, it occurred to him that he would be prevent- 
 ing delay on the ground if he was to put-on his 
 flannel trousers in the train, instead of waiting till 
 he got to the pavilion, which had been his first 
 intention. ' Guard,' said he, as he showed his 
 ticket, ' do you stop anywhere before you get to 
 Durford ?' 'Yes, sir, at Maldon and Melvin, that 
 is all though.' Now, it seems that Snipe fancied 
 Maldon was a station close to Durford; and so 
 believing that there was no hurry, and that the
 
 COX AND FIVE. 221 
 
 train would not stop for at least half an hour, he 
 set leisurely to work to arrange his cricketing toi- 
 let. After having removed his trousers, he pro- 
 ceeded quietly to fold them up. The carpet-bag 
 was very small, and Snipe being a neat fellow, 
 tightly tied up the garments he had removed be- 
 fore he undid the bag. 
 
 "Just as he was feeling for the key in his 
 pocket, he became aware that the train was dimin- 
 ishing its speed ; still, he felt so sure that it must 
 be another twenty minutes before Maldon could 
 be reached, that he did not feel uneasy. 
 
 "He had searched two pockets in vain for the 
 key, when the fearful fact flashed upon him that 
 the train was actually stopping. The side-pocket 
 of his coat he had not tried ; in desperation, he 
 thrust his hand into it, but only succeeded in 
 bringing out with the lining some pennies, which 
 rolled in a vague, irresolute manner, as only pen- 
 nies can roll, along the floor of the carriage. As 
 he looked up he saw the engine-sheds of Maldon 
 station, and heard the brake screaming on the 
 wheels, which had almost ceased to move. 
 
 "Feeling that it was his only chance, he 
 snatched at the trousers he had just removed, and
 
 222 
 
 COX AND FIVE. 
 
 tried to unfasten them, but the knots were tight, 
 and refused to come undone ; before he had unfas- 
 tened the first, the train stopped. In iris horror 
 and desperation — for he declares that it amounted 
 to that — he clutched at his travelling rug, and 
 wrapped it round his legs, feeling himself, at least 
 for a time, safe. He was seated on a seat nearest 
 the platform, facing the engine, and so had a view 
 of all the passengers. His spirits began to revive 
 as he saw there were no ladies on the platform, 
 only an old woman and two mechanics, who soon 
 took their seats in a second-class carriage. 
 
 "Just as the guard whistled for the engine- 
 driver to start, the door of the booking-office flew 
 open, and a stout elderly lady bearing in her arms 
 a King Charles's spaniel, and followed by her two 
 daughters, bustled on to the platform. 
 
 'Now, ma'am, what class? — make haste — the 
 train's off,' said the guard. 
 
 'First,' gasped the old lady. 'I've paid for 
 the dog; see, here is the ticket. Come along, 
 girls.' 
 
 ' This way, ladies. No luggage, you say. Now, 
 sir, would you mind moving for the ladies ?' 
 
 " It was impossible for Snipe to move without
 
 COX AND FIVE. 
 
 223 
 
 betraying his secret. He had not had time even 
 to replace his shoes; and as the stout lady hustled 
 past him, muttering something to her daughters 
 about real gentlemen being obliging, she trod on 
 his uncovered feet. 
 
 "It was as much as poor Snipe could do to 
 conceal a cry of pain. One of the young ladies 
 had noticed him wince as her mother entered, and 
 whispered to her loud enough for him to hear, that 
 she feared the poor young gentleman had some- 
 thing the matter that prevented him from moving. 
 
 "The old lady not having yet forgiven Snipe 
 for not rising to allow her to pass, grunted indig- 
 nantly, and placed the dog on the floor. What 
 should the little beast do but make an incursion 
 under the seat to where Snipe was seated. After 
 having sniffed suspiciously round his feet, making 
 an occasional dash at any place where he detected 
 a portion of his red stockings visible, he turned all 
 his attention to the boots which had been hastily 
 kicked under the seat. 
 
 " Snipe says, and I can quite believe him, that 
 he has hated the sight of a King Charles' ever 
 since. Fancy the fellow's feelings when he knew 
 the creature was biting to pieces his new patent
 
 224 COX AND FIVE. 
 
 leathers, within a few inches of his feet, which he 
 dared not move for fear of the dog laying hold of 
 them, much less attempt to kick him. 
 
 "In the course of another half hour the train 
 stopped at Melvin. Snipe was in hopes that the 
 ladies might he going to get out, as it was evi- 
 dent, from their having no luggage, that they did 
 not intend to go a very long journey. However, 
 when the train stopped they made no move ; so 
 Snipe gave himself up to despair, as he knew that 
 in a few minutes he must either get out at Dur- 
 ford, and betray the whole affair, or make up his 
 mind to miss the match and keep in his seat till 
 the ladies got out. When the train stopped, who 
 should he see on the platform hut Bunting, who 
 had been in one eleven, and had just left. ' Hallo! 
 Snipe, old fellow,' he said, referring to the Eton 
 match when Snipe had got out first hall ; ' and 
 how are you after your sad luck ? How was it ?' 
 
 ' A shooter shattered my leg stump,' answered 
 Snipe. 
 
 " As Snipe said this, the young ladies looked 
 compassionately at him. 
 
 ' 0, mamma,' the youngest whispered, ' how 
 we must have hurt him getting into the carriage !
 
 COX AND FIVE. 225 
 
 Ins leg shattered, poor fellow ; liis leg stumps by 
 a shooter ! He must have been shot before. Don't 
 you think it is the brave young officer we read of ? 
 Sharpshooters, I daresay. How sad and interest- 
 lag!' 
 
 " Snipe could hear no more; as Bunting, who 
 had gone to speak to a man in the next carriage, 
 returned, and asked him if he expected to meet 
 any one at Durford, as he was so late. 
 
 ' Baby is sure to be there,' he said. 
 
 ' Eh ? if the others go on, trust him not to 
 leave you behind.' 
 
 'How young he looks to have a baby!' whis- 
 pered one sister to another. 
 
 "Just as the train was starting, an excursionist 
 in a white hat and black band round it, who was 
 waiting for the excursion train for the Southamp- 
 ton races, looked into the carriage, and having 
 stared impudently at the ladies, turned to Snipe, 
 and asked him how his poor feet were ? 
 
 ■ ' Impudent, unfeeling wretch !' said the young- 
 est lady, no longer able to restrain her feelings, 
 her pretty face flushing with indignation. ' 0, 
 sir ! we are so sorry for you ; indeed, indeed we 
 are. And 0, why did you not tell us? I know 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 COX AND FIVE . 
 
 we must have hurt you so, getting into the car- 
 riage.' 
 
 " Then all three began talking at once, apolo- 
 gising, questioning, and pitying, till Snipe said he 
 could have cried with shame, he felt himself such 
 an impostor. Still, as he said, it put him up to 
 a dodge ; for when he reached the station, I found 
 him lying back in apparent exhaustion, with one 
 of the fair ladies holding her scent-bottle to his 
 nose, and the other, with tears running down her 
 pretty cheeks, fanning him with a Times news- 
 paper ; as the little scamp, to avoid answering the 
 questions which had grown rather searching about 
 his accident, had pretended to faint. 
 
 ' For heaven's sake, Snipe,' I said, opening the 
 door, ' what is the matter ?' 
 
 'Ah, my Baby,' he said, pretending to wake 
 up, — ' I mean, my dear medical man,' correcting 
 himself, and turning to the ladies, 'bend down 
 your ear, — I am too ill to speak almost.' 
 
 " Thinking the fellow really dying, I bent over 
 him. 
 
 'For goodness' sake,' he said, 'pretend to be 
 my medical man; — carry me out, and keep the 
 cloth tight round me.'
 
 COX AND FIVE. 227 
 
 'Now, sir,' said the guard, 'look sharp.' 
 " Without another word, I caught hold of 
 Snipe, and carried him to my yellow fly; but it 
 was not till we were out of the station-yard that 
 he seemed to revive, when he said, 
 
 ' I say, old chap, got an extra pair of flannel 
 trousers, eh ? mine are under the seat.' Then he 
 told me the whole story; and if that fellow has 
 not got cheek, I don't know who has."
 
 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRVIEW. 
 
 Cultivate the friendship of friends who have 
 houses at the seaside ! It was the advice — oft 
 repeated and gratuitously given, though hy a 
 lawyer — of my friend John Jackson, of the Outer 
 Temple. It was always the remark with which 
 he prefaced his farewell on the eve of his depar- 
 ture from town for some of the many watering- 
 places at which he was sure of a billet. On every 
 possible occasion John Jackson would escape from 
 his dingy chambers, and, as he expressed it, 
 " reinvigorate the inner and the outer man by 
 contact with Neptune's own peculiar;" and he 
 spoke of going out of town for a day or so as 
 glibly, and with as much certainty of going, as 
 the owner of a yacht and of a score of " seaside 
 places " might have done. John used to explain, 
 almost apologetically, the necessity he was under 
 of going away. He knew how many cubic feet of
 
 230 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRVIEW. 
 
 oxygen ought to pass through the lungs of a man 
 of given size in order to give that man a healthy 
 body ; he knew to a fraction of an inch how many 
 cubic feet of air were contained in his own apart- 
 ments, how many cubic feet of carbonic acid gas 
 were given off from his lungs in the four-and- 
 twenty hours ; and he reckoned, by an exceedingly 
 subtle process, which he often tried to make me 
 understand, the extent to which his system 
 suffered if for more than a given time it was 
 subjected to treatment which did not allow of 
 its getting a suitable proportion of fresh air. 
 The results of his calculations were threefold ; his 
 rooms, which for professional reasons he could 
 not give up, were declared not to admit the neces- 
 sary amount of oxygen for the support of John 
 Jackson's vitality; John Jackson vacated them 
 on every possible occasion, including Saturday to 
 Monday occasions; and John Jackson ever re- 
 turned from his jaunts the fresher and the mer- 
 rier and the better in health. 
 
 Yet John Jackson had not the wherewithal to 
 be so constantly on the tramp, and to bear the 
 cost of hotel charges — especially sea-side hotel 
 charges ; still less had he means to defray those
 
 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRVIEW. 231 
 
 numerous incidental expenses which are the in- 
 variable accompaniments of "outings," be they 
 never so short. Jackson's practice was by no 
 means large (I used to think it suffered by Jack- 
 son's wanderings, though he ever affirmed the 
 contrary), and his private means were, I had 
 reason to know, small ; how then could he man- 
 age to humour his vagabond desires, and get 
 those supplies of ozone and other exhilarating 
 things which he declared to be necessary to his 
 existence ? He acted up to the spirit and letter 
 of the advice he so generously gave to his friends 
 — he cultivated the friendship of friends who had 
 houses at the sea-side. 
 
 Yes ; but friends with houses at the seaside ! 
 How many such do you and I, reader, reckon in 
 our respective circles ? Not enough, I trow, to 
 admit of such wholesale visits as John Jackson 
 used to make without our running the risk of 
 sponging. Precisely. But that is the very point 
 on which John Jackson used to be so careful. 
 Never once did he meet the cold shoulder, or the 
 reception of the intruder ; he had far too keen an 
 eye to the proprieties of the subject, far too thin a 
 skin, to act like one who forces his way, or courts
 
 232 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRVIEW. 
 
 a hint that his room would be more acceptable 
 than his company. He had a wonderful knack 
 of picking up friends, a very genius for it. No 
 one knew better than he the necessity of first 
 catching your hare before you proceed to cook 
 him; and aware of this necessity it became an un- 
 conscious habit of Jackson's life to be picking up 
 friends on every occasion ; and by a habit which 
 he exercised almost as unconsciously he winnowed 
 friends who had seaside houses from friends who 
 had none. By a sort of instinct, mesmeric attrac- 
 tion, or what other quality you will, John Jackson 
 was ever drawn at a dinner-party towards those 
 very members of the company who had the means 
 of supplying his wants ; surely, though without 
 absolute design, he would ingratiate himself with 
 them, and the result was invariably an invitation 
 to So-and-so "whenever Mr. Jackson liked to 
 come." At this stage, if anywhere, my friend 
 Jackson was guilty of a little finessing. He knew 
 — who does not ? — that a general invitation is one 
 of those insubstantial things which rarely admit 
 of being handled ; and it was his wont, when a 
 general invitation was given, to force his inviter's 
 hand by immediately following up his acceptance
 
 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRVIEW. 233 
 
 of the kind offer, with a statement that he was 
 engaged, " he was afraid," (the hypocrite !) for this 
 week and the next, but that on Saturday fortnight 
 — naming a certain day convenient to himself, 
 and by which time the limited supply of ozone 
 in Dull Court would be exhausted — "he should 
 be exceedingly happy to present himself at Sea 
 View;" and he always clenched the matter by an 
 appeal for information as to the most suitable 
 trains, and somehow or other managed to suggest 
 the propriety of sending a carriage for him if the 
 station from Sea View happened to be far from 
 that pleasant place. 
 
 Once in a place as visitor, John Jackson was 
 sure to be asked again and again. He was a 
 charming companion, and always a great friend 
 with the children, whose horse, bear, and frog- 
 he was, and who knew he would play at sleeping 
 giant ("only pretend sleep, you know") as often 
 and as long as they pleased. Jackson was always 
 on good terms with the lady of the house ; never 
 would smoke in the dining-room, though pressed 
 to do so by his host, if he had any inkling that 
 the hostess disliked — and most hostesses do 
 dislike — the smell of stale tobacco-smoke in the
 
 234 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRVIEW. 
 
 dining-room curtains next clay. He talked well 
 at dinner, talked better after dinner ; and was 
 equally ready to sing a good song in the drawing- 
 room after that, to the accompaniment by Miss 
 Lucy, to take a hand at long — and it was often 
 very long — whist with deaf old granny. 
 
 Thus did John Jackson cultivate for many 
 years the friendship of friends who had houses at 
 the seaside : and when one morning it was found 
 that, in spite of frequent re-invigorating of the 
 inner and outer man, the quantity of ozone in 
 Dull Court was really insufficient to support the 
 cheery life of John Jackson, and that John Jack- 
 son had gone on a last, far-distant ramble, there 
 was many a sad heart in the watering-places of 
 England, in scarcely one of which were the face 
 and jolly appearance of the man unknown. 
 
 Shade of John Jackson, I apostrophise thee 
 to-night ! With shame and confusion of face I 
 penitently retract those many hard things I said 
 of thee touching thy goings out and thy comings 
 in between Saturdays and Mondays, and those 
 long sojourns thou wert wont to make with thy 
 friends who had houses at the seaside. Humbly 
 I confess that, lacking thy savoir /aire, thy bon-
 
 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRVIEW. 235 
 
 liomie, thy kindly manners, thy winning ways 
 with children, thy knack of friend-making, thy 
 many social accomplishments, I have in jealous 
 moments sneered at thy acts, set at nought thy 
 counsels, and fished-up from the envious corners 
 of my brain motives all unworthy, which I have 
 assigned to you as inducements to your kindliness, 
 and as explanations of your readiness to be all 
 things to all men. 
 
 John Jackson, on this hot evening, in stuffy 
 unozonised Dull Court, where the air is laden 
 with heat and with the unwholesome moisture 
 steamed up from the kitchens of the tavern hard 
 by yon darksome gateway, where the paint on the 
 window-frames is blistered with the anger of the 
 intemperate sun, and where the thick bindings of 
 ponderous tomes turn upwards under the influ- 
 ence of the same ; where the very ink evaporates, 
 as unwilling to remain bottled in vacation ; and 
 where no human being who can help it comes ; I 
 acknowledge the wisdom of thy counsel, and de- 
 plore the' aspersions I have cast upon thee and 
 upon it. 
 
 Lonely, very lonely, is Dull Court to-night. 
 I am the sole occupant of chambers therein.
 
 236 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRVIEW. 
 
 "All, all are gone, the old, familiar faces," and 
 on their doors, before which I present myself ex- 
 pecting, I find little labels, conveying to duns and 
 others whom it may concern the interesting in- 
 telligence that Mr. — — will be back in two 
 months from an unspecified date. 
 
 Beyond the court I have not the courage to 
 wander. The air is burnt up, the pavements are 
 untrodden, the shutters of well-known rooms are 
 closed and beginning to be encrusted with cob- 
 webs ; there is not a friend or acquaintance in 
 the place ; and silence, rarely broken, reigns su- 
 preme over one of the busiest haunts of men. 
 The night is one of those which makes "weird 
 sounds of its own stillness;" from the far-off city 
 comes up a hum of traffic, contrasting strangely 
 with the lifelessness of all around ; and heavy 
 upon the lazy air comes the boom of Big Ben, 
 and the deliberate, vacation-like strokes of a hun- 
 dred city clocks; there is a murmur of activity 
 from the river; and ever and anon there jars upon 
 the ear the clangour of brass bands, the shout of 
 a pierman, the uneuphonious scream of an engine- 
 whistle, the dull thud of steamboat-paddles strik- 
 ing the unwilling tide.
 
 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRVIEW. 237 
 
 Within the courts silence and the crickets 
 have it all to themselves ; within the chambers 
 the supremacy of Momus is disputed only by the 
 mice, who, regarding me as some unreal thing, 
 as some " false delusion, proceeding from their 
 cheese-oppressed brain," some phantom-man con- 
 trived only as a test of the steadiness of their 
 courage, come out from wainscot and panel, from 
 lumber-boxes and deed-chests, and run riot all 
 over the floor. They know it is vacation-time; 
 they assign it to the class of violent improba- 
 bilities that I should be what I seem; they are 
 aware that I ought not to be there; and they 
 conclude that my half-dressed form, recumbent 
 on three chairs, slippered as to its feet, bepiped 
 and tobacco-smoked as to its mouth, and situated 
 directly in front of the only window through which 
 a little street-disgusted air finds its way, is but a 
 mockery, an unsubstantial thing with fear of which 
 to scare young mice who should be asleep and are 
 not, into the arms of the mousey Morpheus. 
 
 Unwilling to disturb them in their gambols, 
 I muse and smoke on, and "with^the incorporal 
 air do hold discourse." No friends, no money ! 
 This is the text from which I preach to myself
 
 238 FROM DULL COUET TO FAIRVIEW. 
 
 most eloquent sermons, explaining clearly enough 
 to my own satisfaction how that it is incumbent 
 on the world as a paramount duty to provide me 
 both with money and friends. I descant griev- 
 ingly upon the merits of friends who have been 
 and are gone, upon the growing incapacity in my- 
 self to replace those friends with new ; and I rise 
 almost into eloquence as I enlarge to myself upon 
 the theme of "that want of pence which vexeth 
 public men." 
 
 Why should Lord Nowork be cruising about 
 in a yacht large enough to hold thirty as good as 
 he, while I am unable to move hand or foot to- 
 wards getting a sight of the water ! Why should 
 little Dodger, of the Southern Circuit, who works 
 not half so hard as I do, and who of course has 
 not a tithe of the great natural gifts I boast — 
 why should he be enabled, simply because some- 
 body chose to die and leave him a fortune, to go 
 upon expeditions in vacation, the eclat of which 
 goes far to make up for the differences aforesaid, 
 while I am 
 
 " Barr'd from delight by Fate's untimely hand, 
 By wealthless lot, or pitiless command" ? 
 
 Of course when I have gone far enough along
 
 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRVIEW. 239 
 
 this line of thought — one which has been travelled 
 often enough, by the way, from the time "when 
 Adam delv'd and Eve span" up to the present 
 moment — I come to the conclusion that the argu- 
 ment is capable of application downwards as well 
 as upwards, and that according to it I might be 
 called upon to share even my slender means with 
 some one — say the lighter of yonder gas-lamp — 
 blessed (?) with scantier means still. To avoid 
 this lame and impotent conclusion, which it would 
 never do to apply as the clergy invite us to apply 
 their remarks, " practically to each one of our- 
 selves," I follow the example of other politicians 
 and draw "a hard and fast line" at the place 
 where the argument becomes inconvenient, and 
 make a note in my memory that when I am in 
 a position to advance the salutary proposal for a 
 redivision of property, the proposal is to affect 
 everybody above me in wealth, but none below me. 
 The nimble mice break-in upon my reveries, and 
 show me that, at least in the meantime, my ideas 
 are not considered democratic enough, for they 
 walk off with the solitary piece of meat which was 
 to have furnished my supper. 
 
 Be off', you vagabonds ! 'Tis no excuse that I
 
 240 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRVIEW. 
 
 have what you have not, and that I want it less 
 than you do ! Be off, or I'll bring out the trap 
 which was so fatal to your "heads of houses" last 
 winter ! 
 
 " Put money in your purse !" Excellent ad- 
 vice, Iago ; fit to compare with that poor Jackson 
 gave. But how to follow it ? I know that, fol- 
 lowing it, I can do as Lord Nowork does ; that I 
 can he the more than rival of little Dodger of the 
 Southern Circuit ; that I can hear the charge and 
 carriage of a "gentleman," a class of which Sir 
 Thomas Smith tells us "they he good cheap in 
 this realm ;" that I can go whithersoever I please, 
 associate with whomsoever I like. 
 
 Have I not tried to put money in my purse ? 
 Have I not risen early, and late taken rest, eating 
 the bread of indigestibility, toiling at that immor- 
 tal work which is to be a guide to the profession 
 and a sure source of perennial income to me, only 
 as yet the rewards come not and the publishers 
 doubt and tarry ? Have I not, even here in Dull 
 Court, since the last vacationer departed from it 
 and left behind him the load of ennui and fatigue 
 which is pressing me down — have I not striven to 
 win the means of putting myself even with him ?
 
 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRYIEW. 241 
 
 But editors — a carping crew, I ween, be they — 
 sniff at my manuscript, and detect, they say, a 
 certain gloominess and deadness about it, be- 
 gotten, they venture to suggest, of weariness and 
 faggedness in the writer. They recommend, as 
 the doctors do, change of air in order to the cla- 
 rifying of one's wits ; and they withhold, as the 
 doctors do also, the means wherewith to act upon 
 their advice. 
 
 One editor I approached with an ad captan- 
 dum offer to write for his magazine accounts of the 
 various places I might visit, including a paper 
 on the natural history of Pegwell Bay, a treatise 
 on the dip of the various strata of the Scarborough 
 population, and "a succinct account of the archi- 
 tectural features of Beechy Head." The man ac- 
 tually refused the offer ; and I would not expose 
 my feelings to the injury of another refusal by 
 offering the scheme elsewhere. There was a 
 something in the expression of the editor's face 
 — the gentleman was a stranger to me — which 
 indicated a belief that I was trying to make fun 
 of him. 
 
 There ought to be a philanthropic society for 
 securing vacation outings to the weary; and by 
 
 vol. i. R
 
 242 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIR VIEW. 
 
 the weary I mean, not those good folk who get 
 tired with manual labour, and who get taken 
 down to Epping Forest twice or thrice a summer 
 in big vans, and are treated to dinner, and music, 
 and ginger-beer, and knock-em-downs, and then 
 brought back again to their work and their labour. 
 Far be it from me to begrudge them their jaunt 
 to the forest and back again, their day's plea- 
 sure, and their relaxation from daily manual toil ; 
 but seeing they are provided for by philanthropic 
 committees', with ever so many good fellows and 
 ever so many nice young ladies upon them, I 
 would confine the operations of the society to the 
 relief of those who, like myself, are beyond the 
 reach of such good fellows, and, alas ! beyond 
 the reach of the nice young ladies also. We 
 have a splendid case with which to come before 
 the public — a case founded not only on the very 
 first principles of charity, but on other claims 
 to which the visitors to Epping Forest cannot 
 pretend. Among us may be found the caterers 
 for half the popular literary amusement that 
 exists. At this very moment while I am swelter- 
 ing in Dull Court, while Jones of the Commen- 
 tator, Brown of the Highflyer, and Robinson of
 
 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRVIEW. 243 
 
 the Comet, are doing the like in their respective 
 dens, bound hand and foot by that chill penury 
 which does not repress their noble rage, the dilet- 
 tanti at fifty watering-places are amusing them- 
 selves with the results of our lucubrations done 
 in happier times. We have a claim on your 
 gratitude, most noble public ; and we will thank 
 you to acknowledge the same as speedily as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 Do not fear to hurt our feelings by the dis- 
 play of your charity. Send vans to our rooms, 
 yes, with the name of your society painted upon 
 them if you will ; make it a condition, if it so 
 please you, that we wear a distinctive dress during 
 the period we receive relief; that we smoke none 
 but the best bird's-eye, drink none other than 
 purest Bass, and never get up before 10 a.m. ; 
 make the recipients of your bounty as conspicu- 
 ous as possible, we will come, and gladly come, 
 and your beadsmen will ever pray. Verbam sap. 
 
 " You must come and see us some day," says 
 middle-aged Mrs. Watkins, for whom I draw divi- 
 dends and do other little commissions, every time 
 that she comes to my chambers or writes to ac- 
 knowledge my remittances. " With the greatest
 
 244 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRVIEW. 
 
 pleasure," say I, and have said any time these 
 five years ; but Mrs. Watkins lias not sent a speci- 
 fic invitation, and I cannot dream of going with- 
 out one. "Why not, pray? whispers the shade 
 of John Jackson. Mrs. Watkins is precisely one 
 of those who would have been on his list. She 
 has a pleasant house at Fairview, the means of 
 making a guest exceedingly comfortable, and — 
 ay, there's the rub, and perhaps the explanation 
 of the delay in her invitation — " one fair daugh- 
 ter, and no more, the which she loveth passing 
 well." 
 
 I could not find any solution to the question 
 propounded by John Jackson's ghost. I almost 
 resolved I would take Mrs. Watkins at her word 
 and present myself next day at Fairview, with 
 the announcement that I had come to stop as 
 per invitation aged five years. The postman's 
 knock on my door awoke all the echoes of Dull 
 Court, and scared at least four mice into apoplectic 
 fits behind the wainscot. I almost lacked energy 
 to see who had written to me. Slowly I rose, 
 strode my way to the door, and withdrew from 
 the cumbrous letter-box a tiny envelope. 
 
 "You have so many times promised to spend
 
 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRVIEW. 245 
 
 a few clays with us, that now I hope you will 
 not refuse." 
 
 Befuse, my clear lacly ! Here, come out, you 
 portmanteau; appear, ye hat-box and carpet-bag; 
 make yourself ready for an immediate move, 
 thou owner of the same ! and by to-morrow at 
 this time so contrive that thou mayest answer 
 the generous-hearted Mrs. Watldns's note in per- 
 son. 
 
 Fairview is a very nice place ; Mrs. Watkins 
 is a very nice person ; and the one fair daughter 
 and no more is all and more that the heart of 
 man could wish for. I sketch for her, she plays 
 on the piano to me ; and Mrs. Watkins plays 
 propriety in a way to which the most fastidious 
 man could not take exception. What the end 
 of it will be, I cannot say with certainty ; but I 
 hate the bare idea of Dull Court again, and think 
 to dispose of my interest therein to anybody who 
 likes to become a bidder. I have no wish what- 
 ever to stir away from Fairview, where I find 
 plenty of material not only for a dozen articles 
 but for at least one love-story of thrilling interest. 
 The result I shall be in a position to commum-
 
 246 FROM DULL COURT TO FAIRVTEW. 
 
 cate next year ; but my notion is, I have made the 
 best use possible of John Jackson's advice, and 
 shall not in future need to cultivate further the 
 friendship of friends who have houses at the sea- 
 side.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 
 
 The last pic-nic at which I "assisted" was in its 
 way of a very pleasant and even a memorable 
 character. It is worth while to say a word or two 
 on the locality. It was one of the most secluded 
 and picturesque districts of the southern coast. 
 There is a broad landlocked estuary, and from 
 this estuary the sea ramifies widely up the coun- 
 try, in a way that recals the dark fiords of Nor- 
 way ; in this direction and in that there are tidal 
 rivers, and in another direction the water resem- 
 bles a system and succession of lakes — sheets of 
 gold in the sunset; and in another direction, as 
 in the Scottish lakes, the sea wanders far away 
 amid woods and mountains, and its ebbing and 
 advancing waters lap the final tiny beach in some 
 far inland nook. Now this pic-nic embraced partly 
 a riding expedition, and partly a yachting excur- 
 sion ; and also our paths lay through woods and
 
 248 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 
 
 over abundant soft greensward. I felt obliged 
 to the handsome boys and girls who made me 
 join the party; for I am not young, and I am 
 not eligible, and I possess the wholesome hu- 
 mility which such radical defects should impart. 
 I have to re-echo the lyrical regret of old Bar- 
 ham of Ingoldsby fame, 
 
 " Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume, 
 Anni labuntur, lost to me, lost to me !" 
 
 I trust I did not abuse the good-nature shown 
 towards me. There was one very sumptuous 
 little girl, pretty and dewy as a star, soft and 
 gracious as a summer sunset, who purled out 
 most musical prattle, who, I believe, would at 
 any time favour me with a stroll or with a song. 
 I carefully talked with her, while that handsome 
 Lothario army man, not worth more than the 
 well-turned boots he stood in (on the favourable 
 hypothesis that they were paid for), was hovering 
 around her like a hawk o'er a dove; but I sur- 
 rendered her cheerfully to her well-mannered, 
 well-acred squire, the country gentleman who 
 will be the county member. And, remembering 
 pretty Bella, let me admonish all young ladies 
 to try and be gracious and sweet-tempered, the
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 249 
 
 proper disposition that suits the summer pie-nic 
 — a disposition which even without beauty is so 
 often successful, and with beauty is absolutely 
 irresistible. I noticed, at the outset, with the 
 eye of generalship, that the party was very ill- 
 chaperoned. Poor Lady Green was utterly weak 
 a,nd commonplace, and so far from being able to 
 exert management and influence — the dowagers 
 will tell you that both are often really necessary 
 at a pic-nic — would, at any difficulty, sink into a 
 state of the feeblest nonentity. Mrs. Totteridge, 
 on the other hand, would manage admirably till 
 sunset, and if she could then bring her brood 
 into covert, all would be well ; but she would not 
 encounter any evening breeze that might threaten 
 rheumatism or lumbago. AYe had a glorious day 
 and a magnificent feed ; and then the little loves, 
 who were obviously ignorant of the fact that they 
 possessed digestive organs, commenced their play- 
 ful terpsichorean preludes. Dancing is not in 
 my line ; and I stroll away with that worthy man 
 and well-known historic character, Dr. Dryasdust, 
 to look at some curious Roman remains that 
 had lately been disinterred a few miles oft*. The 
 music of voices lessened and grew still as we
 
 250 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 
 
 boated up the river, and soon we only heard the 
 ripple of the stream and the gentle swaying of 
 houghs. We worked away at the ruins, when I 
 think I satisfactorily demonstrated the site of the 
 old atrium; and, let it be recorded to the im- 
 mortal honour of Dryasdust, that he had surrep- 
 titiously conveyed some bottles of claret into the 
 boat, which, cooled in the stream, formed a truly 
 refreshing beverage. 
 
 The shadows were gathering as we rejoined 
 the party. Some ingenious wretch had disco- 
 vered an adjacent barn, which had been extem- 
 porised into a ballroom. Tea was being handed 
 about, and an intimation was conveyed to me 
 that there would be supper in a few hours' time. 
 But we found Mrs. Totteridge compassed about 
 with wraps, and complaining of premonitory symp- 
 toms of lumbago. She immediately ordered her 
 cariage, into which Dr. Dryasdust incontinently 
 sneaked. Let me confess that I followed his 
 example ; for, alas ! I am no longer young, and I 
 begin dimly to perceive the advantage of regular 
 hours. My last glance at Lady Green revealed 
 her simpering, insipid, and somnolent. I got 
 home, staying at a house which had furnished
 
 KECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 251 
 
 a considerable contingent to a party. I retired 
 to rest, and soon in my dreams Dr. Dryasdust 
 was dancing a reel with Mrs. Totteridge over 
 the Roman atrium, and standing on his head 
 afterwards. I had omitted to close the shutters, 
 and I was aroused, cheerful and refreshed, by the 
 powerful rays of the morning sun. I quickly 
 dressed; and was coming downstairs, when I 
 heard a tumult of multitudinous voices in the 
 garden. It was seven o'clock in the bright 
 morning, and the pic-nic party was only just re- 
 turning home. Some excuse was alleged on the 
 ground that it was low water, and they could 
 only get the yacht off with the tide. All the re- 
 sponsibility was of course attached to that help- 
 less Lady Green, who was utterly crushed by 
 sea-sickness, and unable to give any lucid ac- 
 count either of herself or of things in general. 
 But since then I have heard astonishing ac- 
 counts of the love-makings which went on in 
 the charmed summer night, and various " ad- 
 ventures which the liberal stars have winked at;" 
 three several marriages are properly attributable 
 to this particular pic-nic. Among the rest, my 
 gracious little maiden became engaged to the
 
 252 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 
 
 right man, and threw over that Lothario, whom 
 any chaperone except that feeble-minded Lady 
 Green would condemn as bad style. 
 
 That pic-nic was very well in its way. Indeed, 
 I have given it the place of honour. That little 
 love-affair of sweet-natured Bella makes it a kind 
 of landmark for me. But, 0, my young friends, 
 what pic-nics are those which came to pass when 
 I was young ! The girls are as pretty as ever, 
 but not so stately now as they were then ; and 
 as for the men, the old cavalier traits and touches 
 are each day becoming fainter and rarer. "When 
 the summer revellers had gone to their repose, 
 I took my dip in the sea, and then strolled along 
 the beach. I came shortly to a cave which I 
 knew and loved well. In its recess I was shel- 
 tered from the scorching sun, and the sea-breeze 
 blew towards me with a gentle violence. The 
 water, even at the highest tide, would hardly 
 come up to the first foot of ground within the 
 cavern; but to those who did not know the place 
 it would seem intercepted by the sea. There I 
 sat down in secure loneliness and mused. First 
 of all, doubtless, about the cavern and its be- 
 longings — the stalagmite and the stalactites, the
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 253 
 
 osseous remains, the Celtic drift, the flint instru- 
 ments, &c. ; and speculated whether Adam ever 
 really had a grandfather, who must have lived in 
 such a cavern, and what sort of a grandfather 
 he might be likely to be. And then my mind, 
 by a natural association, wandered away to old 
 pic-nics, forgotten long, but which now recurred 
 with only too faithful recollection. Again old gar- 
 dens bloomed; again the lilies and roses revived 
 on now faded cheeks ; again the corridors of old 
 castles rang with merriment and music ; again we 
 trod softly on the lone shrine of a dismantled 
 abbey, or wandered in leafy woods, or sat down, 
 as in this cavern, by the lone remote sea. 
 
 In the scheme and construction of a pic-nic 
 the choice of a locality is of great importance. 
 For there are those whom, like Hamlet, man 
 delights not, nor woman either; those who, like 
 Barzillai, care not for the voice of singing men 
 or singing women; who have yet an educated 
 and attuned sense of scenic loveliness, and can 
 appreciate, with a mind stored with associations, 
 every fragment of historical ruins. Looking back 
 upon my pic-nics, some are conspicuous for per- 
 sonages and incidents ; and some, with a less
 
 254 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 
 
 chequered interest, for their locality. It is a 
 lone, sequestered glen, gradually narrowing to 
 a rocky defile, and a waterfall makes its bold 
 leap and shout at the further extremity, and 
 not far off is the sleeping blue of a mountain - 
 shadowed lake ; and it is not alone the voice of 
 waters that we hear, but the songs of great poets, 
 who have loved and frequented this scene ; men 
 of pure hearts and almost inspired intellects, 
 seem to arise in mystic unison of melody. It 
 is an ancient castle; the keep crowns the crag; 
 the circumvallation of wall is still perfect ; still 
 perfect are the gateway and portcullis : the long 
 broad fosse is around it, where the peaceful cattle 
 are now knee-deep in the summer grass. We 
 mark the places where the beeves were roasted 
 whole in the great kitchen ; the narrow apertures 
 where the watchers watched for any coming lances 
 glimmering through the cloud of dust ; the bat- 
 tlements, manned by the garrison to repulse the 
 escalade ; the long corridors, the subterranean 
 chambers, the hidden dungeon, the secret spring 
 of water, which will enable the keep to hold out 
 even if the inner court be taken. Here, we say, 
 was the retiring-room of the ladies, whence they
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. %55 
 
 gazed upon the broad prospect from the moun- 
 tains to the sea ; here the pleasaunce, where, in 
 the summer afternoons of long ago, they tried 
 feats of archery, or listened to the song or tale 
 of the minstrel, or watched deeds of prowess 
 among the knights. And now we tell how the 
 castle held out for so many days or weeks against 
 the rude cannon of our ancestors, and was only 
 subdued when some traitor revealed the secret 
 of the spring. Here, too, was the unfortunate 
 earl or prince confined ; long years he was con- 
 fined, and at last he severed the bars of his dun- 
 geon and emerged into the sunlight, but only to 
 be cut down by the remorseless guards. Those 
 of our pic-nic party who are familiar with all the 
 pages of Sir Walter — and commend me to those 
 lads and maidens who, in these days of sensa- 
 tional literature, know and love their Scott ! — 
 will recall all manner of real and imaginary scenes 
 for which the castle might form a stage. The 
 scene is now an ancient abbey; and we have 
 all lingered late, that we may see the moonlight 
 play upon the buttresses and pillars, according 
 to Sir Walter's fine notion. Many an ancient 
 abbey has looked down upon our revels — rather
 
 256 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 
 
 frowningly perhaps, but not frowning too severely, 
 and with even something of sadness in its impas- 
 sive gaze. We try to summon up the vanished 
 picture of the past ; the Lord Abbot, the Sub- 
 Prior, the Sacristan, and all the sacred train ; 
 the resounding music of the chapel choir, gladly 
 heard afar by wandering pilgrim or belated tra- 
 veller ; the good cheer in the refectory ; the holy 
 penances in the cells ; the crowd of poor or ailing 
 people at the monastery-gate, relieved by hospit- 
 able hands, and cheered by godly counsel. And 
 now the king's messengers approach the monas- 
 tery, and the tramp of armed men is heard in 
 the cloisters, and for the last time, amid tears 
 and sobs, the holy brotherhood hear vespers in 
 their stately choir, before they are driven away 
 into a forgotten and heartless world, and rude 
 hands are laid upon the holy vessels, and dis- 
 mantle the soaring roof; and the unwilling rus- 
 tics, who have lost their friends and gained a 
 poor-law, bear away the sacred stones for any 
 sordid purpose; and the hallowed site, with its 
 fertile gardens and sunny meadows, low woods 
 and whispering streams, are conferred on some 
 fawning atheist courtier, or gambled away by a
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 257 
 
 tyrant king at a throw of the dice. He is a 
 happy man who can explain to pensive Jane, or 
 imaginative Constance, something of the history 
 and architecture ; can trace out each compartment 
 of the old religious house, and can he learned 
 ahout pillars and arches, triforia and sedilia. 
 Then again, it is the stately modern palace. A 
 river runs through the lawn-like park, over which 
 are arched the ornamental bridges, and the wide 
 parterre is gorgeous with blooms, and the air 
 heavy-laden with scents, and the vast conserva- 
 tory is close hj, down whose central aisle the 
 Duchess regularly drives her ■ four pet ponies ; 
 and there are flower-filled urns, and fountains 
 and cascades, and ornamental waters, with their 
 mimic buildings and miniature fleet ; and within 
 the palace is the corridor filled with lines of 
 statues; the gallery, crowded with tiers of pic- 
 tures ; all that affluence and pride of modern life 
 which English wealth and taste can bring to- 
 gether. Then again, once more, a gay water- 
 party, we stand upon the margin of the summer 
 sea, that is now all smiles and dimples, about 
 to launch forth to yonder fairy island, where the 
 basaltic mural precipices make an impregnable 
 vol. i, s
 
 258 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 
 
 fortress, save one inlet strewn with varied shells, 
 on whose sands our keel may grate, where they 
 point a hermit's ruined chapel, where the vast 
 swarms of seafowl cover the rocks, where the 
 lighthouse sheds illumination over the dangerous 
 lee-shore ; where again the dance and song and 
 crowned goblets, until the westering sun bids us 
 take to the boat, crowned with flags and flowers, 
 
 " Youth at the prow, and Pleasure at the helni, 
 Unheeding of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, 
 That hush'd in grim repose awaits its evening prey." 
 
 These are recollections of some old pic-nics, 
 where the localities possessed a beauty and in- 
 terest of their own, independent of human com- 
 panionship, and, indeed, possess an undying 
 interest when associated with incidents and 
 characters worthy of such associations. Ah ! 
 those old days of courting, in the glad pic-nic 
 times, to which many an honest couple will 
 look back as the very flush and flower of ex- 
 istence in the spring of life and hope ! I think 
 there is a freemasonry and honourable under- 
 standing at all pic-nics that the pairing lovers 
 are not to be molested and intruded upon by 
 third parties, but rather to be helped and aided by
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 259 
 
 ■any chance kindnesses we may do theni. Some- 
 times there are such happy and contented eyes 
 that it is not difficult to guess that a favourable 
 eclaircissement has come off in some "bowery 
 hollows," and the world hears afterwards that 
 matters were made up at such and such a pic- 
 nic. The experienced will detect how matters 
 stand in the happy silence, in the long drive 
 homewards in the gloaming ; or even obtain 
 ocular evidence by spying out a clasped and un- 
 resisting hand. I am strongly of opinion, how- 
 ever, that on such charmed evenings the dowagers 
 ought to keep their eyes to themselves, and allow 
 for a little natural abandon. But sometimes 
 there is a reverse side to this : the lady has been 
 •coy, and the stars unpropitious. I cannot forget 
 how young De Burgh swore, and madly called 
 for his horse one afternoon, and galloped off, 
 refused or jilted, and never saw his lady-love 
 again ; and Laura looked preternaturally grave 
 the whole evening, and a gloom settled upon all 
 our party. As I have said something of the in- 
 terest of scenery, let me say something of the 
 human interest, which ranks still higher ; and 
 especially let me recal one pic-nic, signalised in
 
 260 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 
 
 a remarkable way, and in which I was not myself 
 altogether unconcerned. 
 
 That was the memorable pic-nic in which Kate 
 Russell eloped with young Lawrence. But there 
 are always two sides to the view we may take of 
 an elopement. It seems at the time very jolly to 
 the lovers ; whether it really was so in the long 
 issue is a very different matter ; but it was full of 
 consternation to the badly -treated and terrified 
 chaperones, who received on their luckless heads 
 the full vials of parental wrath. It caused also con- 
 siderable consternation among some very pretty 
 girls, who were promptly interdicted by their 
 mammas from attending any more pic-nics that 
 season ; and, generally speaking, the glorious insti- 
 tution of the pic-nic was widely discredited among 
 that set for a long time afterwards, and received 
 a great blow and discouragement. It was very 
 much the fault of the elderly Eussells. They 
 allowed young Lawrence to be as intimate as 
 possible at their house, though they knew that 
 he was only an idle law-student, with very pro- 
 blematical chances of getting on at the bar. And 
 when, in the dusk of the autumn afternoon, 
 a little before dinner-time, old Paissell, coming
 
 EECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 261 
 
 home from his office, and letting himself in 
 quietly by his latch-key, had ascended into the 
 drawing-room, he could hardly believe his stolid 
 eyes that they saw young Lawrence's arm care- 
 lessly flung round his daughter's neck, with other 
 symptoms of their being on the most confidential 
 terms. Old Kussell was in a Government office 
 — pretty high up the tree also, — where, like any 
 other donkey, he had worked mechanically and 
 regularly at the mill, and certainly received 
 abundant fodder in the way of pecuniary oats 
 and hay. If there was one thing he most espe- 
 cially dreaded, it was a young man with uncer- 
 tain prospects, and destitute of any permanent 
 employment. What was his dismay, therefore, 
 when a remote cousinship had brought to pass 
 an amatory complication at his own home ! I 
 certainly think that he failed to make the best 
 of things. Nature intended young men to love 
 and marry, because they are young men, and not 
 because they happen to be clerks in Government 
 offices. Though a long engagement may not, on 
 a priori grounds, be desirable, yet, when the 
 mischief is done, it is not a bad plan to try 
 and make the best of it. Such an engagement
 
 262 EECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 
 
 will steady a fellow ; and if the young woman re- 
 quires steadying, it will steady her as well. As a 
 rule, even the most hopeless engagements, when 
 maintained with honourahle persistence, generally 
 end in a fairly happy marriage. Now old Russell, 
 having naturally a sordid and unhopeful soul, 
 interdicted the love-aifair, and forbade Lawrence 
 the house ; but what can an old man, with his 
 time and thoughts devoted to the public, do 
 against a young man with his time and thoughts 
 entirely devoted to his lady-love ? 
 
 He continued to meet Kate very often in the 
 neighbourhood of the Regent's Park. There are 
 those blissful institutions the Zoological and the 
 Botanical, which, cleverly managed, can prove to 
 be very useful on occasions of emergency. With 
 all the parental vigilance, it was not possible to 
 prevent young Lawrence from turning up at some 
 evening parties, and interchanging words, looks, 
 and notes on staircase and balcony. At this con- 
 juncture of affairs it so happened that Arthur 
 Lawrence suddenly came into possession of a 
 stray five hundred pounds. I feel bound to say 
 that he went, in a most honourable way, to old 
 Russell, and tried to make the most of this sud-
 
 KE COLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 263 
 
 den flush of affluence. The old gentleman ironi- 
 cally congratulated him, and inquired whether 
 twenty pounds a year, which he pompously de- 
 scribed as the "approximate revenue to he derived 
 from the capitalised sum," would he sufficient to 
 keep him in cab-hire. He bowed him out with a 
 kind of grin, unpleasant to contemplate. Then 
 young Lawrence boiled over with rage, and he 
 declared he would marry the girl, and that his 
 despised little fortune should help him to do it. 
 
 There was a pleasant pic-nic to come off in 
 the pleasantest of Kentish woods. It was joy and 
 luxury to leave the dusty London streets for those 
 shaded, overarched lanes of sweet Kent. Colonel 
 and Mrs. Brinckman gave the pic-nic, and invited 
 Miss Russell. Mr. Russell casually asked the 
 Brinckmans if Mr. Arthur Lawrence, of the Tem- 
 ple, was going, and was informed that they were 
 not even aware of the existence of such a young 
 gentleman. Now I myself was to go to this pic- 
 nic and bring my friend Wreford with me. But 
 Wreford did not turn up, as he had had a day's 
 shooting offered him, and, showing himself a 
 being unfit to live, preferred the shooting to the 
 pic-nic. I happened casually to mention this to
 
 264 EECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 
 
 Lawrence, for the sake of vituperating Wreford, 
 and I noticed that he brightened up immensely 
 when I mentioned the Brinckmans and the pic- 
 nic. He declared that a pic-nic was the ne plus 
 ultra of human enjoyment, and asked if I could 
 get him an invitation. He vaunted his prowess in 
 the composition of lobster salad, and said that he 
 should give himself the pleasure of purveying a 
 salad and a few dozen of champagne to carry out 
 the idea. He was evidently very flush of cash 
 about this time, and insisted on this notion, 
 although I gave very little countenance to it. I 
 was very intimate with Mrs. Brinckman, the 
 dearest of creatures, and wrote her a note, to 
 which I supposed that no answer would be neces- 
 sary, stating that Wreford had flung me over, but 
 that, relying on her kindness, I proposed to sub- 
 stitute in his place a certain Mr. Arthur Law- 
 rence. Having despatched my missive, I deserted 
 my chambers for ten days and went down to 
 Brighton ; but if I had not left them I should 
 have found an answer from dear Mrs. Brinckman, 
 by return of post, saying that any friend of mine 
 in the world would be perfectly welcome, with 
 the solitary and unfortunate exception of Mr.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 265 
 
 Arthur Lawrence. But this important letter, for 
 such it really was, lay unopened in my London 
 chambers for nearly a fortnight. I returned to 
 town, staying for the night at an hotel in Jermyn 
 Street, where next day Lawrence picked me up, 
 in a remarkably neat chaise and pair, which he 
 insisted on providing, with his normal extrava- 
 gance, as I considered. Gaily and pleasantly we 
 rattled out of town, and soon emerged on the 
 lovely Kentish landscape. My companion seemed 
 in high spirits, and yet a little excited and ner- 
 vous. Once or twice it seemed to me that he had 
 something on his mind which he felt half-disposed 
 to confide to me, and once he rather abruptly 
 asked " whether he could rely upon me ?" But I 
 do not care for confidences, especially from a man 
 whom I did not really know very well, and merely 
 answered that I was afraid I was not a very re- 
 liable kind of individual. We found no difficulty 
 in finding our way to the rendezvous. There 
 were some carriages and a small bucolic group 
 gazing thereupon. I noticed that Mrs. Brinck- 
 man changed colour and looked a little surprised 
 when I introduced Arthur Lawrence to her. "Did 
 you not get my note, Mr. Smith ?" she quietly
 
 266 RECOLLECTIONS OP PIC-NICS. 
 
 asked, with the sweetest of smiles, which never- 
 theless had some little meaning in it. " No, 
 Mrs. Brinckman," I answered. "Brighton was 
 so tempting, that no consideration, except your 
 party, could draw me from it, and I have not 
 found time to go to my chambers yet. I hope it 
 was nothing important." "0, nothing very par- 
 ticular," answered my hostess. " There is a little 
 matter I will speak to you about by and by. But 
 it will do at any time." 
 
 Our dinner in the woods was glorious. The 
 lobster salad, elaborated by Mr. Lawrence, and 
 produced from his chaise, was perfection. The 
 Brinckmans gave us champagne, but the cham- 
 pagne produced by Mr. Lawrence must have stood 
 him, at least, in a hundred and twenty shillings a 
 dozen. I do not know that the young ladies were 
 much the wiser, for they chiefly consumed tarts 
 and custards, and were satisfied with any wine 
 that had sparkle and foam. Now we were to have 
 tea by and by, and it was voted it would be most 
 charming to light a fire in the open air, and boil 
 water, and to do things in a genuine Kobinson- 
 Crusoe fashion. Presently Mr. Lawrence sug- 
 gested that the party had better disperse into the
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 267 
 
 woods and gather sticks, to make a really good 
 blaze. With great audacity he offered to indicate 
 to Miss Eussell a locality where probably fuel 
 might be found in abundance. I noticed that Mrs. 
 Brinckman observed him rather narrowly, and that 
 she accompanied the young pair in their first stroll 
 through the park. She could not, however, do that 
 sort of thing the whole of the afternoon. Indeed 
 her vigilant eye was wanted in one or two other 
 directions. I recollect, especially, one young 
 couple, who made a reappearance some hours 
 later on, and with great composure proffered two 
 small sticks and a handful of dry leaves as their 
 contribution "towards making the kettle boil." 
 
 But Lawrence gently drew Kate Bussell away 
 into the wood, and penetrated still deeper and 
 deeper into its recesses. I have reason to believe 
 that there were some little love-passages between 
 them, but Kate could hardly have been prepared 
 for what was to come. For Arthur told her that 
 he had some very pretty little things to show her, 
 and she was to make her choice of one of them. 
 Then a small jeweller's case was produced, velvet}* 
 and filled up with much soft padding ; whereupon 
 Kate's taper fingers elicited a select assortment
 
 268 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 
 
 of wedding-rings. You may be sure that Kate 
 called Arthur a silly boy, and also, in a sweet 
 moment of reverie, was induced to make trial of 
 the rings, and, as is usually the case, one of 
 them fitted as perfectly as if made on purpose. 
 I wonder if Kate noticed that all the other rings 
 were returned to the case, but that this one was 
 carefully laid aside and deposited in her hero's 
 pocket-book. By and by Arthur asked her if she 
 had any knowledge of law documents, and Kate 
 candidly pleaded ignorance. Lawrence asked her 
 if she would look at one of those wretched parch- 
 ments among which his life was doomed to be 
 passed at the Inner Temple. Kate, willing to 
 amuse and be amused, said she would like no- 
 thing better, and a mystic document was pro- 
 duced, to which a huge seal was appended by a 
 narrow parchment slip, and Kate played with this 
 seal, regarding it in the light of a novel work of 
 art. Then Lawrence insisted that Kate should 
 peruse the document, which she unexpectedly 
 found to be a warm personal greeting from a most 
 reverend prelate to his well-beloved Arthur Law- 
 rence and Katharine Russell. Then the colour 
 mounted rapidly into Kate's face, and "0, Ar-
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 269 
 
 thur!" she cried, "what is this — and what have 
 you done?" Arthur, with a good deal of apparent 
 contrition, owned that he had actually "been to 
 Doctors' Commons and procured a marriage li- 
 cense on speculation. At this point I am given 
 to helieve that Kate certainly manifested some 
 little resentment. " Was she actually to believe," 
 she asked, "that Mr. Lawrence had gone to a 
 public office, and, without her knowledge or con- 
 sent, had actually filled -in her name to a legal 
 document?" But Arthur soothed her with ca- 
 resses, and bewildered her mind with his sophist- 
 ries. Had she not promised him, and was she 
 going to deny it now, that she would really be his 
 wife ? and was he so greatly to blame if he had 
 acted in simple and entire dependence upon her 
 word ? If she would act so ungenerously, he was 
 willing to tear up the license into a thousand 
 pieces. Kate ordered him to tear it up, but rather 
 languidly, and not in that peremptory manner 
 which might perhaps have insured obedience. But 
 she cried a good deal notwithstanding, and gra- 
 dually this little difficulty was got over. By this 
 time Lawrence had brought her the shortest path 
 through the wood where it abutted on another line
 
 270 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 
 
 of highway distinct from the London road ; it ap- 
 peared afterwards that he had carefully studied the 
 locality. There his carriage and pair were in wait- 
 ing for him, according to the directions which he 
 had given. "And now, Kate," he said, "jump 
 into this carriage, and come off to he married." 
 Kate nearly fainted away. She was fairly over- 
 powered. She had hardly any capacity of resist- 
 ance left in her. It would not do, she foolishly 
 thought, to have any altercation hefore the ser- 
 vants who had charge of the carriage. That pass- 
 age of arms about the license had almost ex- 
 hausted her. Lawrence had carried out the maxim 
 frappez fort ct frappcz vite. Napoleon said that 
 there was a momentous ten minutes in every 
 hattle which actually settled the result ; and that 
 ten minutes went against poor Kate, during which 
 she was tempted to forgive her lover's unparalleled 
 audacity in procuring the license. She was partly 
 lifted into the carriage, and driven off to a small 
 station, where they caught the express to London. 
 Having purchased a special license, which cost a 
 good deal of money, the marriage could he cele- 
 brated almost anywhere or anyhow. Lawrence 
 had arranged every detail with the utmost clever-
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 271 
 
 ness and forethought. He afterwards declared that 
 the pic-nic, or something like it, was a necessary- 
 part of the arrangement, and that the champagne 
 lunch, with its charming guests, was in reality the 
 wedding breakfast. 
 
 I think it may be granted that the whole plan 
 of this elopement was unusually bold and success- 
 ful. But still I am not prepared to say that Mr. 
 and Mrs. Lawrence really had the best of things : 
 I think she would have been happier if she had 
 been given away by her father instead of by the 
 beadle, in consideration of half-a-crown of beer- 
 money. And I think the bride sadly missed the 
 lace veil and the orange-blossoms and the bevy 
 of bridesmaids. And this surreptitious breakfast, 
 taken, in fact, under false colours, was not so good 
 as the real thing, with the throng of rejoicing 
 friends, the speeches and bumpers, the prayers, 
 salutations, and ovation, and the old shoes thrown 
 after the white-favoured horses. And that honey- 
 moon at the seaside was, after all, a doubtful and 
 perplexed season; at home anxiety instead of peace, 
 and instead of congratulations and blessings from 
 relations, angry reproaches and recriminations. 
 
 I need hardly say how terribly nervous we got
 
 272 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 
 
 at teatime, when Kate did not appear. It was 
 speedily observed that that very amusing Law- 
 rence did not turn up either; and then a very 
 natural solution suggested itself to the female 
 mind, which was fully confirmed a little later by 
 the arrival of a polite missive to Mrs. Brinckman, 
 and another to myself, both of which Lawrence 
 had thoughtfully composed the night before. Mrs. 
 Brinckman had a great deal too much justice and 
 kindness to be very angry with myself, who might 
 be regarded as an innocent accomplice in the mat- 
 ter (although I found afterwards that some people 
 of a suspicious turn of mind regarded me as a 
 wilful accessory before the fact) ; but there was a 
 total cessation of all friendly intercourse between 
 themselves and the Eussells. Of course I cut Law- 
 rence ; but, equally of course, the cut was of no 
 long continuance after he besought me to come 
 and see Mrs. Lawrence at their lodgings in Pim- 
 lico. I thought the young lady looked as lovely 
 as that day when she wandered through the Kent- 
 ish woods. My further intercourse supplied me 
 with further arguments against those] doctrinaires 
 who maintain the theory of elopements. That five 
 hundred pounds rather melted at the outset by an
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 273 
 
 expensive marriage, underwent successive throes 
 of dissolution. Not till it was well-nigh gone, and 
 thoughts of a charcoal fire had passed through 
 Lawrence's romantic brain, did the stony heart of 
 the elderly Russell in any way relent. He then 
 allowed the young pair a hundred a year. Lawrence 
 is now a barrister, too poor to go circuit, doing a 
 little Old Bailey and Sessions business, and mak- 
 ing convulsive efforts to effect a standing in the 
 Westminster Courts. You should see how won- 
 derfully polite he is to the solicitors in criminal 
 business — men to whom, at one time of the day, 
 he would not have condescended to speak — and 
 how assiduously he tries to get hold of some of 
 the crown prosecutions. They have children of 
 their own now, which better enables them to take 
 in all the bearings of such a case ; and though I 
 do not think that Mr. Lawrence regrets his mar- 
 riage, I also do not think that he will ever advise 
 his young Arthur, or that Mrs. Lawrence will 
 ever advise her young Kate, to perpetrate an elope- 
 ment. 
 
 Thus I mused in my sea-girt cavern over the 
 old bygone pic-nics, especially this one, which was 
 more momentous in its personal bearings than any 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 
 
 other which I could recollect. To you, my friends, 
 the pleasure of the pic-nic lies chiefly iu the anti- 
 cipation ; hut to others among us the charm is in 
 the retrospect. I could quote Aristotle's interpre- 
 tation of this feeling in his Rhetoric — and indeed 
 his remarks would sound grand enough in Greek. 
 I saunter homewards, with a vague sort of idea 
 that I must put that story of Lawrence's on paper, 
 and thinking that hy this time the revellers of 
 last night must have slept off their fatigue. I 
 meet the charming Bella, with her tangled golden 
 hair like a mermaid's, fresh from her hath in the 
 sea, like an Aphrodite Anadyomene. And though 
 she is to "belong to that wealthy squire, she tells 
 me, with laughing lips and eyes, of all the dissi- 
 pation of the night hefore, whereat she professes 
 to he greatly horrified. I leave her to set ahout 
 concocting an article, and to pay a call on Dr. 
 Dryasdust. 
 
 Now I hope the fine ethical aim of this paper 
 will not he overlooked. It has a moral for parents, 
 that they should he lenient, and for chaperones, 
 that they should be vigilant; a moral to young 
 men, not to he rash, and to young ladies, not to he 
 weak; a moral to all, that when anticipations yield
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF PIC-NICS. 275 
 
 to recollections, they should be as pure and un- 
 alloyed and unselfish as may be. If the little 
 loves approve of my moralising page, 
 
 " Let it go with you, 
 And hear your music on the summer waters."
 
 WHAT " CAME OFF " AT CODLINGHAM 
 REGATTA. 
 
 It would be hard to find a pleasanter place to 
 spend an idle hour on a midsummer afternoon 
 than the slope of one of the cluster of low sand- 
 hills which end off the strip of barren land sepa- 
 rating the channel of Kakeston harbour from the 
 open sea. By the time that you have passed the 
 pilot-house on the beach, and skated for two or 
 three miles across the slippery, mud flats, with an 
 August sun overhead, you feel that you can lay 
 your gun down among the bent, and throw your- 
 self on your back with a clear conscience, and 
 look straight up through your hands at the 
 little troubled tern as they skim backwards and 
 forwards above you. The very sea seems to go to 
 sleep. It is deep water, quite up to the shingle 
 bank ; but the lazy rollers run too gently on 
 the beach to break noisily. The colours, like
 
 278 WHAT CAME OFF AT CODLINGHAM REGATTA. 
 
 everything else, are subdued. The sky is paler, 
 and has more rose madder mixed with its blue 
 than it has elsewhere, and the sea is hardly a dif- 
 ferent shade of the same tint ; scarcely darker 
 than the backs of the kittlewakes which float on 
 it : or the long line of shingle which stretches 
 away towards the three wooded hills and the 
 purple cliffs of Codlingham, six miles away to the 
 right. The dry bent-grass which covers the hills 
 forms a colour-link between the pale yellow sand 
 which half buries it everywhere, and the sky 
 above. Eakeston itself can be seen a mile and a 
 half off, with its double-towered church on the 
 slopes above the town. A flag flies from the 
 tallest tower at high tide, when there is water 
 enough for the little coasting vessels which can 
 come up to take the bar; and the Thames at 
 London Bridge does not look half so imposing as 
 the channel at such times, though at low water 
 there is no difficulty in wading across it a quarter 
 of a mile above the sea. The whole air of the 
 land above the town is remarkable, and in many 
 respects not unlike some of the vineyards in the 
 valley of the Ehone. Indeed, if a good light soil 
 and extremes of heat and cold are, as they say,
 
 WHAT CAME OFF AT CODLINGHAM REGATTA. 279 
 
 the chief requisites for grape-growing, the experi- 
 ment might, I have often thought, be worth trying 
 there. 
 
 The strawberries grown there are celebrated, 
 and so seductive, that it generally becomes a 
 serious thing to have to run a sixer in the second 
 innings of a cricket match at Eakeston when the 
 British Queens are on. 
 
 But when a long spell of hard weather has 
 frozen up the ditches and ponds inland, and 
 driven the wild fowl in from the open sea ; when 
 the channel is half choked with floating blocks of 
 ice, and the fields of saltwort and sea lavender 
 above high-water mark are snowed over, and the 
 cutting wind across the marsh through which the 
 last mile of the road runs, gets at your marrow, 
 through three flannel shirts and any number of 
 greatcoats and rugs, then is the time to see 
 Eakeston to perfection. The soft flats, as the 
 tide leaves them, are alive with fowlers and 
 whistling birds of twenty sorts. Immense flocks 
 of knots and sandpipers wheel about in front, like 
 dark clouds one moment, almost dazzling the 
 next, as their white breasts and bellies flash into 
 sight ; and geese and ducks keep passing up in
 
 280 WHAT CAME OFF AT CODLINGHAM KEGATTA. 
 
 long lines, or toss about out of shot in the black 
 water. 
 
 Some years ago, Captain Henry Rowland, a 
 smart young officer, and capital company, came 
 down to Codlingham to take command of the 
 coastguard. He had chosen the station himself 
 as a good shelf for a year or two after his mar- 
 riage ; and as smuggling was still not quite ex- 
 tinct thereabouts, expected to find enough work 
 to keep himself going, and showed every intention 
 not to let the men under him go to sleep if he 
 could help it. One frosty morning in October, 
 not very long after his arrival, he and I went over 
 together to Rakeston ; and, leaving orders for Old 
 Jockey West to be sent to meet us with his boat 
 and some provender, started off over the muds 
 to visit the Preventive Station, and see whether 
 there were any birds to be shot. 
 
 Old Jockey, as he was always called, was about 
 the best-known character in the place. He kept 
 a punt, and big gun, and was always ready to 
 attend shooting-parties with his boat, or lend a 
 hand at loading vessels, or any other odd jobs 
 about the harbour. He stood a good six foot two 
 in his " mesh boots," and looked as strong as a
 
 WHAT CAME OFF AT CODLINGHAM EEGATTA. 281 
 
 steam-tug ; but appearances are deceitful ; and, 
 according to his own pitiful account, lie was a 
 martyr to bilious attacks, which made him so 
 weak, that, " if a little lamb ran agin him, it 
 knocked him down" at times. He was a dead 
 shot with his old rusty single barrel ; and in a 
 harmless way, without exception, the biggest liar 
 I ever knew. 
 
 He was at the meeting-place before us, and 
 saluted us as we came up with, " H'ain't got over- 
 much sport to-day, gentlemen, I doubt ; a'most 
 too airly for a wery great sight o' fowl." 
 
 " Captain [Rowland kicked up an old mallard 
 among the ditches," I said, "and I have got a 
 couple of shanks and a plover. How are you ? I 
 have not seen you since I came back from Ireland. 
 I had my big punt gun over there, and rare sport 
 it was. Forty widgeon one shot, and twenty-six 
 another ! What do you think of that ? Cuts out 
 Rakeston, eh ! Jockey ?" 
 
 " Lawk bless yer, there ain't nothin' here 
 now. It ain't the same place as it was afore 
 these here meshes was drained; there was fowl 
 enough then. I remember being down here once 
 when I was a boy, arter some teal as was on a
 
 282 WHAT CAME OFF AT CODLINGHAM REGATTA. 
 
 bit o' water over there among the sandhills. I 
 got three on 'em, and was loading again, and had 
 just put in the powder and was ramming it down, 
 when I seed a string of fowl flying up the channel 
 right straight for where I was a-squatting. I had 
 not no time to shove in the shot ; so I pulled off 
 the cap off the ramrod and let fly just as they was 
 coming on all of a line. Three couple and a half 
 o' mallard was strung right through the head, 
 and another was knocked over wery badly bruised 
 in the heye. By Gor, there wor a splash as they 
 all on 'em tumbled into a pit ! They splashed out 
 such a lot o' water, that I might have got a'most 
 a bushel of eels, only I hadn't nothin' to carry 
 'em away in. Lawk, there was a sight o' ducks 
 in those times ; that there was. Ah, them was 
 the days for the poor folk. 'Bacca was wery cheap 
 too hereabouts then. Grog too ! and lace for the 
 ladies, bless 'em !" 
 
 I forgot to say that, in his younger days, 
 Jockey had been up before the magistrates more 
 than once for smuggling ; and though of late 
 years he had managed to keep out of trouble, I 
 believe he had never very materially changed his 
 old creed, that if a man bought honestly with his
 
 WHAT CAME OFF AT CODLINGHAM REGATTA. 283 
 
 own money and landed on his own responsibility, 
 in his own boat, no one could reasonably blame 
 him if his views on the question of free trade 
 happened to be a trifle more advanced than those 
 of her Majesty's government. 
 
 Knowing what I did of the old fellow, I was 
 amused to see him look Rowland over, when he 
 caught his name, in much the same way that a 
 superannuated fox might be supposed to take 
 stock of a new huntsman out for a Sunday walk 
 through his pet cover. The inspection seemed 
 to be satisfactory on the whole. Jockey was un- 
 usually talkative at lunch, and when we lit our 
 pipes drew the conversation on to smuggling 
 generally. 
 
 ''Lawk! yes, sir. I have knowed sights of 
 things brought ashore here right o' the middle o' 
 the day, scores of times." 
 
 "How used they to manage it?" asked Row- 
 land, with an eye to business. "What were the 
 coastguard up to ?" 
 
 " Coastguard ! Lawk bless yer ! they ain't no 
 good. One way was when there was a regatta, 
 mayhap two or three boats would have a kind o' 
 a race right out to a wessel they knewed and
 
 284 WHAT CAME OFF AT CODLINGHAM REGATTA. 
 
 back ; and just as some on 'em was a rounding, 
 there would be a Bight o' things hulled in, and 
 back again all of a muck sweat, with 'em all 
 stowed snug under a sail or summut, and run the 
 boat right up on to the beach : preventive men, 
 and gentlemen and ladies too, mayhap, looking 
 on and screeching and hollering like mad; for 
 them is almost allust the closest races, mayhap 
 the captain hisself giving 'em summut to drink 
 his health with — Preventive captains is allust 
 regular gentlemen." 
 
 " I like your old friend Jockey," said Rowland, 
 as we drove home. " He is quite a character in 
 his way : he tells me he has known that boatrace 
 dodge tried successfully often. It's worth know- 
 ing." 
 
 " A regular old smuggler. The stories he 
 was telling you were personal experiences, in all 
 probability. By the bye, your Codlingham regatta 
 is next week, isn't it ?" 
 
 " Yes ; on Tuesday. I wish you would come 
 over to us for a couple of nights on Monday for 
 it. Do, if you have not got anything better to 
 do : you won't mind a small room ?" 
 
 I accepted his invitation, and we agreed to
 
 WHAT CAME OFF AT CODLINGHAM EEGATTA. 285 
 
 meet in the morning at the " Dun Cow," a public 
 not far from Eakeston, and have another clay on 
 the sands. 
 
 When I got there, soon after the time fixed, 
 Rowland was waiting for me, in a state of great 
 excitement. 
 
 " That's all right," he said, as soon as we had 
 shaken hands. " I am glad you have turned up, 
 for I expect some fun to-morrow. You remember 
 Old Jockey's smuggling dodge. Well, from what 
 I hear, I suspect they are going to try it on at the 
 regatta. I am going to order all the men over 
 from Rakeston quietly; so we will walk over to 
 the preventive houses, if you don't mind, first." 
 
 The weather next morning was splendid. 
 Codlingham looked so gay and picturesque, with 
 flags flying everywhere, that one almost forgot 
 the smells. 
 
 * There was a fresh breeze blowing, and by one 
 the beach was crowded with visitors. The coast- 
 guard were there in unusual force. Captain Row- 
 land was starter, and had always a sailor or two 
 with him to help : and several other navy uni- 
 forms were dotted among the crowd not far away. 
 The programme began with swimming-races
 
 286 WHAT CAME OFF AT CODLINGHAM EEGATTA. 
 
 for men and bo} r s; then came sailing and pair- 
 oar matches, and — the great event of the day — a 
 grand life-hoat race, with three entries. 
 
 The match which had awakened Kowland's 
 suspicions came next. Three boats, two belong- 
 ing to Codlingham and one from Kakeston, were 
 to sail round a twenty-foot boat, which had been 
 lying all day a couple of miles out to sea, and to 
 row back again. They were to be started from 
 the top of the shingle -bank under the cliff, and 
 the race won by the boat which was first in its 
 place again. Each was to carry four men and a 
 boy to steer. 
 
 " Now for the fun !" said Eowland, as the men 
 stood in their places ready for a start. 
 
 It was evident that a bold attempt was to be 
 made to land something; and I was specially 
 commissioned to make all the use I could of my 
 eyes. Certainly I thought I had never seen four 
 men who looked more up to a bit of smuggling of 
 any sort than the Kakeston crew. They were all 
 young men, with the exception of one old white- 
 haired fellow with one eye, which twinkled through 
 its half-closed lids with the most comical expres- 
 sion of mixed fun and suspicion.
 
 WHAT CAME OFF AT CODLINGHAM REGATTA. 287 
 
 " My men know something of that old beggar," 
 whispered Rowland, as he passed me just before 
 the start. " Here, take my glass ; I daren't use 
 it myself. Now then, my men, are you ready ? — ■ 
 one, two, three !" — bang ! And off they all rat- 
 tled across the shingle, amid tremendous excite- 
 ment. 
 
 The two Codlingham boats knocked over an 
 old woman, and fouled half way down to the sea ; 
 and the Rakeston men were well into their seats, 
 Avith their sail hoisted before either of the others, 
 were off the stones. They were leading, as nearly 
 as I could see, by a good half-dozen lengths, when 
 the boat they were to round was reached; but 
 there, as it seemed, some mistake or other was 
 made, for when the sails were lowered and the 
 three could be distinguished again, the Rakeston 
 boat was some way behind the others. 
 
 "Not badly done that," said Rowland, put- 
 ting down the glass which he had snatched from 
 me just before the boats turned. " Jockey shall 
 have half-a-crown next time I come across him. 
 Look out ; we are to have a race of it !" 
 
 The Codlingham boats still led, and were row- 
 ing splendidly together, but did not seem to be
 
 288 WHAT CAME OFF AT CODLINGHAM REGATTA. 
 
 making very much way, and the Kakeston men 
 gained on them at every stroke. Though as fully 
 persuaded as Rowland himself that the race was 
 only part of the old smuggling dodge Jockey had 
 been telling us of a few days before, I found it 
 impossible to help catching the general excite- 
 ment, and shouted as loud as anyone, as, almost 
 at the same moment, the three boats grounded, 
 and the steaming crews splashed into the shal- 
 low water, and, in less time far than it takes me 
 to write it, were straining and panting up the 
 shingle. The Kakeston men were first at the 
 bottom of the last ridge, where one of them 
 slipped on a rotten dogfish, and one of the Cod- 
 lingham crews wrenched their boat past, and, 
 amid such cheering as one does not often hear, 
 won by a nose. There seemed to be a pretty 
 general notion that something was up. The crowd 
 closed in round the boats so thickly and quickly 
 that I found myself shut out, and the broad- 
 shouldered fishermen, over whose sou'-westers I 
 had to peep at what was going on as best I could, 
 were evidently in full enjoyment of some excellent 
 joke or other. 
 
 " Capital race," said Rowland. "You Rake-
 
 WHAT CAME OFF AT CODLINGHAM REGATTA. 289 
 
 ston fellows lost too • much time rounding, eh ? 
 Your boat seemed a trifle heavy in the bows, I 
 thought, as she came in. Couldn't have light- 
 ened her, I suppose ? Holloa ! what have you got 
 here under the sail ? Nets, eh ? Queer ballast 
 that, isn't it? Here, Jones, come and lift this out." 
 
 " Don't be too hard on us, Captain," said 
 the one-eyed scamp, in the most dolorous voice ; 
 "poor wife and children !" 
 
 A roar of laughter followed, as the suspicious 
 nets were lifted out by a sailor, and displayed — 
 nothing. The whole thing was a sell, and the 
 boat empty. 
 
 Poor Rowland, he was very sore about it. A 
 good dinner, and a strong natural sense of the 
 ridiculous, did a good deal towards restoring his 
 equanimity ; and, under the influence of a pipe in 
 the garden, he was quite recovering, when a ser- 
 vant-girl came out to say that some one wished to 
 see him. It was Jockey West, who was standing 
 by a mysterious little keg, looking very serious. 
 He took off his hat when he saw us. 
 
 " Servant, sir; servant, yer honour." 
 
 1 ' Nothing wrong, I hope," said Rowland. ' ' Do 
 you want me ?" 
 
 vol. i. u
 
 290 WHAT CAME OFF AT CODLINGHAM REGATTA. 
 
 " Yer honour hain't heard, then, I doubt." 
 
 "Heard what? What is it?" 
 
 " Two boat-loads o' things brought ashore at 
 Kakeston this arternoon, and gone right away ! 
 Most onfortinate, there weren't not a prewentive- 
 man about the place — all on 'em gone to Codling- 
 ham. Bacca and brandy, mostly, I doubt. Two 
 o' my boats'-loads." 
 
 "Your boat's? What! do you mean to say 
 you let them have your boat ?" 
 
 " 'Tworn't my fault; you hain't no call to 
 speak to me o' that manner. I corned to tell 
 yer." 
 
 "Well, well, go on, then; let us hear about 
 it." 
 
 "Well, sir, my boy" (Jockey's boy was about 
 thirty, and a size larger than himself), "my boy 
 seed them a hailing, and rowed out to ax what 
 they wanted ; there was right a big boat ; and 
 blowed if they didn't tie his harms and his legs, 
 and took two lots ashore afore they let him 
 go." 
 
 " Well,, hang it all ! did you see them?" 
 
 " Seed 'em, in course I seed 'em, and spoke to 
 'em."
 
 WHAT CAME OFF AT CODLINGHAM REGATTA. 291 
 
 " Then you will know them again ?" 
 
 "Lor, sir! I was that bilious that I couldn't 
 see nothing but yaller and green. They was fur- 
 riners, owdacious furriners, but my eyes swam 
 that, that I couldn't make out no more." 
 
 " Your son could tell them again, of course ?" 
 
 "It's wery distressing sir; they made him 
 that drunk that he can't mind nothing about it. 
 I says to him, You young warmint ! says I, told 
 you not to go out — leastwise, I would have told 
 you if I had happ'ed to ha' seed yer ; but, Lawk, 
 sir ! he fears right of a muddle like. That's a 
 long time since I ha' knowed such a sight o' 
 things come in and no one to ax a ques- 
 tion." 
 
 "You said you spoke to them. What did 
 they say ?" 
 
 " One on 'em corned up with this here little 
 keg, and said, 'Here, old chap, send this to the 
 Captain for his good lady, and say as how she'll 
 find it particular calculated for cherry-brandy.' " 
 
 " You confounded old scamp !" said Eowland. 
 " Go into the kitchen, and tell them to give you 
 some supper, if you're not too bilious ; and don't 
 let me catch you out in a hurry, or you shall know
 
 292 WHAT CAME OFF AT CODLINGHAM REGATTA. 
 
 it. I'll be even with you yet. Confounded old 
 scoundrel ! I shouldn't have thought I was fool 
 enough to be done like that. I owe him one, any- 
 how. Come and have a cup of coffee." 
 
 END OF VOL. I, 
 
 LONDON : 
 llOBSOX AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRaS ROAD, N.W.