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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..63cbf7f --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #61072 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61072) diff --git a/old/61072-0.txt b/old/61072-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0e60c25..0000000 --- a/old/61072-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1660 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Our Street, by M. A. Titmarsh - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Our Street - -Author: M. A. Titmarsh - -Release Date: January 1, 2020 [EBook #61072] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR STREET *** - - - - -Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - [Illustration: THE SIREN OF OUR STREET.] - - - - - “OUR STREET.” - - BY - - MR. M. A. TITMARSH. - - [Illustration] - - LONDON: - CHAPMAN AND HALL, 186 STRAND. - MDCCCXLVIII. - - - - - OUR STREET. - - [Illustration] - - -Our Street, from the little nook which I occupy in it, and whence I and -a fellow-lodger and friend of mine cynically observe it, presents a -strange motley scene. We are in a state of transition. We are not as yet -in the town, and we have left the country where we were when I came to -lodge with Mrs. Cammysole, my excellent landlady. I then took -second-floor apartments at No. 17 Waddilove Street, and since, although -I have never moved (having various little comforts about me), I find -myself living at No. 46 A Pocklington Gardens. - -Why is this? Why am I to pay eighteen shillings instead of fifteen? I -was quite as happy in Waddilove Street; but the fact is, a great portion -of that venerable old district has passed away, and we are being -absorbed into the splendid new white-stuccoed Doric-porticoed genteel -Pocklington quarter. Sir Thomas Gibbs Pocklington, M.P. for the borough -of Lathanplaster, is the founder of the district and his own fortune. -The Pocklington Estate Office is in the Square, on a line with -Waddil--with Pocklington Gardens, I mean. The old inn, the Ram and -Magpie, where the market-gardeners used to bait, came out this year with -a new white face and title, the shield, &c. of the Pocklington Arms. -Such a shield it is! Such quarterings! Howard, Cavendish, De Ros, De la -Zouche, all mingled together. - -Even our house, 46 A, which Mrs. Cammysole has had painted white in -compliment to the Gardens of which it now forms part, is a sort of -impostor, and has no business to be called Gardens at all. Mr. Gibbs, -Sir Thomas’s agent and nephew, is furious at our daring to take the -title which belongs to our betters. The very next door (No. 46, the -Honourable Mrs. Mountnoddy) is a house of five stories, shooting up -proudly into the air, thirty feet above our old high-roofed low-roomed -old tenement. It belongs to Captain Bragg, not only the landlord but the -son-in-law of Mrs. Cammysole, who lives a couple of hundred yards down -the street, at “The Bungalow.” He was the Commander of the Ram Chunder -East Indiaman, and has quarrelled with the Pocklingtons ever since he -bought houses in the parish. - -He it is who will not sell or alter his houses to suit the spirit of -the times. He it is who, though he made the widow Cammysole change the -name of her street, will not pull down the house next door, nor the -baker’s next, nor the iron-bedstead and feather warehouse ensuing, nor -the little barber’s with the pole, nor, I am ashamed to say, the tripe -shop, still standing. The barber powders the heads of the great footmen -from Pocklington Gardens; they are so big that they can scarcely sit in -his little premises. And the old tavern, The East Indiaman, is kept by -Bragg’s ship steward, and protests against the Pocklington Arms. - -Down the road is Pocklington Chapel, Rev. Oldham Slocum--in brick, with -arched windows and a wooden belfry; sober, dingy, and hideous. In the -centre of Pocklington Gardens rises St. Waltheof’s, the Rev. Cyril -Thuryfer and assistants--a splendid Anglo-Norman edifice, vast, rich, -elaborate, bran new, and intensely old. Down Avemary Lane you may hear -the clink of the little Romish Chapel bell. And hard by is a large -broad-shouldered Ebenezer (Rev. Jonas Gronow), out of the windows of -which the hymns come booming all Sunday long. - -Going westward along the line we come presently to Comandine House (on a -part of the gardens of which Comandine Gardens is about to be erected by -his lordship); farther on, “The Pineries,” Mr. and Lady Mary Mango; and -so we get into the country, and out of Our Street altogether, as I may -say. But in the half mile, over which it may be said to extend, we find -all sorts and conditions of people--from the Right Honourable Lord -Comandine down to the present topographer; who, being of no rank, as it -were, has the fortune to be treated on almost friendly footing by all, -from his lordship down to the tradesman. - - - - -OUR HOUSE IN OUR STREET. - - -We must begin our little descriptions where, they say, Charity should -begin--at home. Mrs. Cammysole, my landlady, will be rather surprised -when she reads this, and finds that a good-natured tenant, who has never -complained of her impositions for fifteen years, understands every one -of her tricks, and treats them, not with anger, but with scorn--with -silent scorn. - -On the 18th of December, 1837, for instance, coming gently down stairs, -and before my usual wont, I saw you seated in my arm-chair, peeping into -a letter that came from my aunt in the country, just as if it had been -addressed to you, and not to “M. A. Titmarsh, Esq.” Did I make any -disturbance? far from it; I slunk back to my bed-room (being enabled to -walk silently in the beautiful pair of worsted slippers Miss Penelope -J----s worked for me; they are worn out now, dear Penelope!), and then, -rattling open the door with a great noise, descended the stairs, singing -“_Son vergin vezzosa_” at the top of my voice. You were not in my -sitting-room, Mrs. Cammysole, when I entered that apartment. - -You have been reading all my letters, papers, manuscripts, _brouillons_ -of verses, inchoate articles for the _Morning Post_ and _Morning -Chronicle_, invitations to dinner and tea--all my family letters, all -Eliza Townley’s letters, from the first, in which she declared that to -be the bride of her beloved Michelagnolo was the fondest wish of her -maiden heart, to the last, in which she announced that her Thomas was -the best of husbands, and signed herself “Eliza Slogger;” all Mary -Farmer’s letters, all Emily Delamere’s; all that poor foolish old Miss -MacWhirter’s, whom I would as soon marry as----; in a word, I know that -you, you hawk-beaked, keen-eyed, sleepless, indefatigable, old Mrs. -Cammysole, have read all my papers for these ten years. - -I know that you cast your curious old eyes over all the manuscripts -which you find in my coat pockets and those of my pantaloons, as they -hang in a drapery over the door-handle of my bed-room. - -I know that you count the money in my green and gold purse, which Lucy -Netterville gave me, and speculate on the manner in which I have laid -out the difference between to-day and yesterday. - -I know that you have an understanding with the laundress (to whom you -say that you are all-powerful with me), threatening to take away my -practice from her, unless she gets up gratis some of your fine linen. - -I know that we both have a pennyworth of cream for breakfast, which is -brought in in the same little can; and I know who has the most for her -share. - -I know how many lumps of sugar you take from each pound as it arrives. I -have counted the lumps, you old thief, and for years have never said a -word, except to Miss Clapperclaw, the first-floor lodger. Once I put a -bottle of pale brandy into that cupboard, of which you and I only have -keys, and the liquor wasted and wasted away, until it was all gone. You -drank the whole of it, you wicked old woman. You a lady, indeed! - -I know your rage when they did me the honour to elect me a member of the -Poluphloisboiothalasses Club, and I ceased consequently to dine at home. -When I _did_ dine at home, on a beefsteak, let us say, I should like to -know what you had for supper? You first amputated portions of the meat -when raw; you abstracted more when cooked. Do you think _I_ was taken in -by your flimsy pretences? I wonder how you could dare to do such things -before your maids (you, a clergyman’s daughter and widow, indeed!), whom -you yourself were always charging with roguery. - -Yes, the insolence of the old woman is unbearable, and I must break out -at last. If she goes off in a fit at reading this, I am sure I shan’t -mind. She has two unhappy wenches, against whom her old tongue is -clacking from morning till night; she pounces on them at all hours. It -was but this morning at eight, when poor Molly was brooming the steps, -and the baker paying her by no means unmerited compliments, that my -landlady came whirling out of the ground-floor front, and sent the poor -girl whimpering into the kitchen. - -Were it but for her conduct to her maids I was determined publicly to -denounce her. These poor wretches she causes to lead the lives of -demons; and not content with bullying them all day, she sleeps at night -in the same room with them, so that she may have them up before -daybreak, and scold them while they are dressing. - -Certain it is, that between her and Miss Clapperclaw, on the first -floor, the poor wenches led a dismal life. My dear Miss Clapperclaw, I -hope you will excuse me for having placed you in the title-page of my -little book, looking out of your accustomed window, and having your -eye-glasses ready to spy the whole street, which you know better than -any inhabitant of it. - -It is to you that I owe most of my knowledge of our neighbours; from you -it is that most of the facts and observations contained in these brief -pages are taken. Many a night, over our tea, have we talked amiably -about our neighbours and their little failings; and as I know that you -speak of mine pretty freely, why let me say, my dear Bessy, that if we -have not built up Our Street between us, at least we have pulled it to -pieces. - -[Illustration: A STREET COURTSHIP. - - _Baker._ How them curl papers do become you, Miss Molly. - _Miss Molly._ Git ’long now, Baker, do. -] - - - - -THE BUNGALOW--CAPTAIN AND MRS. BRAGG. - - -Long, long ago, when Our Street was the country--a stagecoach between us -and London passing four times a-day--I do not care to own that it was a -sight of Flora Cammysole’s face, under the card of her mamma’s “Lodgings -to Let,” which first caused me to become a tenant of Our Street. A fine -good-humoured lass she was then; and I gave her lessons (part out of the -rent) in French and flower-painting. She has made a fine rich marriage -since, although her eyes have often seemed to me to say, “Ah, Mr. T., -why didn’t you, when there was yet time, and we both of us were free, -propose--you know what?” “Psha! Where was the money, my dear madam?” - -Captain Bragg, then occupied in building Bungalow Lodge--Bragg, I say, -living on the first floor, and entertaining sea-captains, merchants, and -East Indian friends with his grand ship’s plate, being disappointed in a -project of marrying a director’s daughter, who was also a second-cousin -once removed of a peer, sent in a fury for Mrs. Cammysole, his landlady, -and proposed to marry Flora off-hand, and settle four hundred a-year -upon her. Flora was ordered from the back parlour (the Ground-floor -occupies the Second-floor bed-room), and was on the spot made acquainted -with the splendid offer which the First-floor had made her. She has been -Mrs. Captain Bragg these twelve years. - -You see her portrait, and that of the brute, her husband, on the -opposite side of the page. - -Bragg to this day wears anchor-buttons, and has a dress-coat with a gold -strap for epaulets, in case he should have a fancy to sport them. His -house is covered with portraits, busts, and miniatures of himself. His -wife is made to wear one of the latter. On his sideboard are pieces of -plate, presented by the passengers of the Ram Chunder to Captain Bragg. -“The Ram Chunder East Indiaman, in a gale, off Table Bay;” “The -Outward-bound Fleet, under convoy of Her Majesty’s frigate Loblollyboy, -Captain Gutch, beating off the French squadron, under Commodore Leloup -(the Ram Chunder, S.E. by E., is represented engaged with the Mirliton -corvette);” “The Ram Chunder standing into the Hooghly, with Captain -Bragg, his telescope, and speaking-trumpet, on the poop;” “Captain Bragg -presenting the Officers of the Ram Chunder to General Bonaparte at St. -Helena”--TITMARSH (this fine piece was painted by me when I was in -favour with Bragg); in a word, Bragg and the Ram Chunder are all over -the house. - -[Illustration: CAPTAIN AND MRS. BRAGG OF OUR STREET.] - -Although I have eaten scores of dinners at Captain Bragg’s charge, yet -his hospitality is so insolent that none of us who frequent his -mahogany, feel any obligation to our braggart entertainer. - -After he has given one of his great heavy dinners he always takes an -opportunity to tell you, in the most public way, how many bottles of -wine were drunk. His pleasure is to make his guests tipsy, and to tell -everybody how and when the period of inebriation arose. And Miss -Clapperclaw tells me that he often comes over laughing and giggling to -her, and pretending that he has brought _me_ into this condition--a -calumny which I fling contemptuously in his face. - -He scarcely gives any but men’s parties, and invites the whole club home -to dinner. What is the compliment of being asked, when the whole club is -asked too, I should like to know? Men’s parties are only good for boys. -I hate a dinner where there are no women. Bragg sits at the head of his -table, and bullies the solitary Mrs. Bragg. - -He entertains us with stories of storms which he, Bragg, encountered--of -dinners which he, Bragg, has received from the Governor-General of -India--of jokes which he, Bragg, has heard; and however stale or odious -they may be, poor Mrs. B. is always expected to laugh. - -Woe be to her if she doesn’t, or if she laughs at anybody else’s jokes. -I have seen Bragg go up to her and squeeze her arm with a savage grind -of his teeth, and say, with an oath, “Hang it, madam, how dare you laugh -when any man but your husband speaks to you? I forbid you to grin in -that way. I forbid you to look sulky. I forbid you to look happy, or to -look up, or to keep your eyes down to the ground. I desire you will not -be trapesing through the rooms. I order you not to sit as still as a -stone.” He curses her if the wine is corked, or if the dinner is -spoiled, or if she comes a minute too soon to the club for him, or -arrives a minute too late. He forbids her to walk, except upon his arm. -And the consequence of his ill-treatment is, that Mrs. Cammysole and -Mrs. Bragg respect him beyond measure, and think him the first of human -beings. - -“I never knew a woman who was constantly bullied by her husband who did -not like him the better for it,” Miss Clapperclaw says. And though this -speech has some of Clapp’s usual sardonic humour in it, I can’t but -think there is some truth in the remark. - -[Illustration: A STUDIO IN OUR STREET.] - - - - -LEVANT HOUSE CHAMBERS. - -MR. RUMBOLD, A.R.A., AND MISS RUMBOLD. - - -When Lord Levant quitted the country and this neighbourhood, in which -the tradesmen still deplore him, No. 56, known as Levantine House, was -let to the Pococurante Club, which was speedily bankrupt (for we are too -far from the centre of town to support a club of our own); it was -subsequently hired by the West Diddlesex Railroad; and is now divided -into sets of Chambers, superintended by an acrimonious housekeeper, and -by a porter in a sham livery, who, if you won’t find him at the door, -you may as well seek at the Grapes public-house, in the little lane -round the corner. He varnishes the japan-boots of the dandy lodgers; -reads Mr. Pinkney’s _Morning Post_ before he lets him have it; and -neglects the letters of the inmates of the Chambers generally. - -The great rooms, which were occupied as the salons of the noble Levant, -the coffee-rooms of the Pococurante (a club where the play was furious, -as I am told), and the board-room and manager’s-room of the West -Diddlesex, are tenanted now by a couple of artists; young Pinkney the -miniaturist, and George Rumbold the historical-painter. Miss Rumbold, -his sister, lives with him, by the way; but with that young lady of -course we have nothing to do. - -I knew both these gentlemen at Rome, when George wore a velvet doublet -and a beard down to his chest, and used to talk about high art at the -Café Greco. How it smelled of smoke, that velveteen doublet of his, with -which his stringy red beard was likewise perfumed! It was in his studio -that I had the honour to be introduced to his sister, the fair Miss -Clara; she had a large casque with a red horse-hair plume (I thought it -had been a wisp of her brother’s beard at first), and held a tin-headed -spear in her hand, representing a Roman warrior in the great picture of -Caractacus George was painting--a piece sixty-four feet by eighteen. The -Roman warrior blushed to be discovered in that attitude: the tin-headed -spear trembled in the whitest arm in the world. So she put it down, and -taking off the helmet also, went and sat in a far corner of the studio, -mending George’s stockings; whilst we smoked a couple of pipes, and -talked about Raphael being a good deal overrated. - -I think he is; and have never disguised my opinion about the -“Transfiguration.” And all the time we talked, there were Clara’s eyes -looking lucidly out from the dark corner in which she was sitting, -working away at the stockings. The lucky fellow! They were in a dreadful -state of bad repair when she came out to him at Rome, after the death of -their father, the Reverend Miles Rumbold. - -George while at Rome painted “Caractacus;” a picture of “Non Angli sed -Angeli,” of course; a picture of “Alfred in the Neat-herd’s Cottage,” -seventy-two feet by forty-eight; (an idea of the gigantic size and -Michael-Angelesque proportions of this picture may be formed, when I -state that the mere muffin, of which the outcast king is spoiling the -baking, is two feet three in diameter); and the deaths of Socrates, of -Remus, and of the Christians under Nero respectively. I shall never -forget how lovely Clara looked in white muslin, with her hair down, in -this latter picture, giving herself up to a ferocious Carnifex (for -which Bob Gaunter the architect sat), and refusing to listen to the mild -suggestions of an insinuating Flamen; which character was a gross -caricature of myself. - -None of George’s pictures sold. He has enough to tapestry Trafalgar -Square. He has painted since he came back to England “The flaying of -Marsyas;” “The smothering of the little boys in the Tower;” “A plague -scene during the great pestilence;” “Ugolino on the seventh day after he -was deprived of victuals,” &c. For although these pictures have great -merit, and the writhings of Marsyas, the convulsions of the little -prince, the look of agony of St. Lawrence on the gridiron, &c., are -quite true to nature, yet the subjects somehow are not agreeable; and if -he hadn’t a small patrimony, my friend George would starve. - -Fondness for art leads me a great deal to this studio. George is a -gentleman, and has very good friends, and good pluck too. When we were -at Rome there was a great row between him and young Heeltap, Lord -Boxmoor’s son, who was uncivil to Miss Rumbold; (the young -scoundrel--had I been a fighting man I should like to have shot him -myself!) Lady Betty Bulbul is very fond of Clara, and Tom Bulbul, who -took George’s message to Heeltap, is always hanging about the studio. At -least I know that I find the young jackanapes there almost every day; -bringing a new novel, or some poisonous French poetry, or a basket of -flowers, or grapes, with Lady Betty’s love to her dear Clara--a young -rascal with white kids, and his hair curled every morning. What business -has _he_ to be dangling about George Rumbold’s premises, and sticking up -his ugly pug-face as a model for all George’s pictures? - -Miss Clapperclaw says Bulbul is evidently smitten, and Clara too. What! -would she put up with such a little fribble as that, when there is a man -of intellect and taste who--but I won’t believe it. It is all the -jealousy of women. - -[Illustration: SOME OF OUR GENTLEMEN.] - - - - -SOME OF THE SERVANTS IN OUR STREET. - - -These gentlemen have two clubs in our quarter--for the butlers at the -Indiaman, and for the gents in livery at the Paddington Arms--of either -of which societies I should like to be a member. I am sure they could -not be so dull as Our Club at the Poluphloisboio, where one meets the -same neat clean respectable old fogies every day. - -But with the best wishes, it is impossible for the present writer to -join either the Plate Club or the Uniform Club (as these _réunions_ are -designated), for one could not shake hands with a friend who was -standing behind your chair--or nod a how-dye-do to the batter who was -pouring you out a glass of wine;--so that what I know about the gents in -our neighbourhood is from mere casual observation. For instance, I have -a slight acquaintance with, 1, Thomas Spavin, who commonly wears the -above air of injured innocence, and is groom to Mr. Joseph Green, of Our -Street. “_I_ tell why the Brougham oss is out of condition, and why -Desperation broke out all in a lather! Osses will this eavy weather; -and Desperation was always the most mystest hoss I ever see.--_I_ take -him out with Mr. Anderson’s ounds--I’m above it. I allis was too timid -to ride to ounds by natur; and Colonel Sprigs’ groom as says he saw me, -is a liar,” &c., &c. - -Such is the tenor of Mr. Spavin’s remarks to his master. Whereas all the -world in Our Street knows that Mr. Spavin spends at least a hundred -a-year in beer; that he keeps a betting-book; that he has lent Mr. -Green’s black Brougham horse to the omnibus driver; and at a time when -Mr. G. supposed him at the veterinary surgeon’s, has lent him to a -livery stable, which has let him out to that gentleman himself, and -actually driven him to dinner behind his own horse. - -This conduct I can understand, but I cannot excuse--Mr. Spavin may; and -I leave the matter to be settled betwixt himself and Mr. Green. - -The second is Monsieur Sinbad, Mr. Clarence Bulbul’s man, whom we all -hate Clarence for keeping. - -Mr. Sinbad is a foreigner, speaking no known language, but a mixture of -every European dialect--so that he may be an Italian brigand, or a -Tyrolese minstrel, or a Spanish smuggler, for what we know. I have heard -say that he is neither of these, but an Irish Jew. - -He wears studs, hair-oil, jewellery, and linen shirt fronts, very finely -embroidered but not particular for whiteness. He generally appears in -faded velvet waistcoats of a morning, and is always perfumed with stale -tobacco. He wears large rings on his hands, which look as if he kept -them up the chimney. - -He does not appear to do anything earthly for Clarence Bulbul, except to -smoke his cigars, and to practise on his guitar. He will not answer a -bell, nor fetch a glass of water, nor go of an errand, on which, _au -reste_, Clarence dares not send him, being entirely afraid of his -servant, and not daring to use him, or to abuse him, or to send him -away. - -3. Adams--Mr. Champignon’s man--a good old man in an old livery coat -with old worsted lace--so very old, deaf, surly, and faithful, that you -wonder how he should have got into the family at all, who never kept a -footman till last year, when they came into the street. - -Miss Clapperclaw says she believes Adams to be Mrs. Champignon’s father, -and he certainly has a look of that lady, as Miss C. pointed out to me -at dinner one night, whilst old Adams was blundering about amongst the -hired men from Gunter’s, and falling over the silver dishes. - -4. Fipps, the buttoniest page in all the street, walks behind Mrs. -Grimsby with her prayer-book, and protects her. - -“If that woman wants a protector” (a female acquaintance remarks), -“Heaven be good to us--she is as big as an ogress, and has an upper lip -which many a Cornet of the Life Guards might envy. Her poor dear -husband was a big man, and she could beat him easily, and did too. Mrs. -Grimsby, indeed! Why, my dear Mr. Titmarsh, it is Glumdalca walking with -Tom Thumb.” - -This observation of Miss C.’s is very true, and Mrs. Grimsby might carry -her prayer-book to church herself. But Miss Clapperclaw, who is pretty -well able to take care of herself too, was glad enough to have the -protection of the page when she went out in the fly to pay visits: and -before Mrs. Grimsby and she quarrelled at whist at Lady Pocklington’s. - -After this merely parenthetic observation, we come to 4, one of her -ladyship’s large men, Mr. Jeames--a gentleman of vast stature and -proportions, who is almost nose to nose with us as we pass her -ladyship’s door on the outside of the omnibus. I think Jeames has a -contempt for a man whom he witnesses in that position. I have fancied -something like that feeling showed itself (as far as it may in a -well-bred gentleman accustomed to society) in his behaviour, while -waiting behind my chair at dinner. - -But I take Jeames to be, like most giants, good-natured, lazy, stupid, -soft-hearted, and extremely fond of drink. One night, his lady being -engaged to dinner at Nightingale House, I saw Mr. Jeames resting himself -on a bench at the Pocklington Arms: where, as he had no liquor before -him, he had probably exhausted his credit. - -Little Spitfire, Mr. Clarence Bulbul’s boy, the wickedest little varlet -that ever hung on to a cab, was “chaffing” Mr. Jeames, - -[Illustration: WHY OUR NURSEMAIDS LIKE KENSINGTON GARDENS.] - -holding up to his face a pot of porter almost as big as the young -potifer himself. - -“Vill you now, Bigun, or vont you?” Spitfire said; “if you’re thursty, -vy dont you say so and squench it, old boy?” - -“Dont ago on makin fun of me--I can’t abear chaffin,” was the reply of -Mr. Jeames, and tears actually stood in his fine eyes, as he looked at -the porter and the screeching little imp before him. - -Spitfire (real name unknown) gave him some of the drink: I am happy to -say Jeames’s face wove quite a different look when it rose gasping out -of the porter; and I judge of his dispositions from the above trivial -incident. - -The last boy in the sketch, 6, need scarcely be particularized. Doctor’s -boy; was a charity boy; stripes evidently added on to a pair of the -doctor’s clothes of last year--Miss Clapperclaw pointed this out to me -with a giggle.--Nothing escapes that old woman. - -As we were walking in Kensington Gardens she pointed me out Mrs. Braggs -nursery-maid, who sings so loud at church, engaged with a Life -Guardsman, whom she was trying to convert probably. My virtuous friend -rose indignant at the sight. - -“That’s why these minxes like Kensington Gardens,” she cried. “Look at -the woman: she leaves the baby on the grass, for the giant to trample -upon; and that little wretch of a Hastings Bragg is riding on the -monster’s cane.” - -Miss C. flew up and seized the infant, waking it out of its sleep, and -causing all the gardens to echo with its squalling. “I’ll teach you to -be impudent to me,” she said to the nursery-maid, with whom my vivacious -old friend, I suppose, has had a difference; and she would not release -the infant until she had rung the bell of Bungalow Lodge, where she gave -it up to the footman. - -The giant in scarlet had slunk down toward Knightsbridge meanwhile. The -big rogues are always crossing the Park and the Gardens, and hankering -about Our Street. - -[Illustration: A STREET CEREMONY.] - - - - -WHAT SOMETIMES HAPPENS IN OUR STREET. - - -It was before old Hunkington’s house that the mutes were standing, as I -passed and saw this group at the door. The charity-boy with the hoop is -the son of the jolly-looking mute; he admires his father, who admires -himself too, in those bran-new, sables. The other infants are the spawn -of the alleys about Our Street. Only the parson and the typhus fever -visit those mysterious haunts, which lie couched about our splendid -houses like Lazarus at the threshold of Dives. - -Those little ones come crawling abroad in the sunshine, to the annoyance -of the beadles, and the horror of a number of good people in the street. -They will bring up the rear of the procession anon, when the grand -omnibus with the feathers, and the fine coaches with the long-tailed -black horses, and the gentlemen’s private carriages with the shutters -up, pass along to Saint Waltheof’s. - -You can hear the slow bell tolling clear in the sunshine already, -mingling with the crowing of Punch, who is passing down the street with -his show; and the two musics make a queer medley. - -Not near so many people, I remark, engage Punch now as in the good old -times. I suppose our quarter is growing too genteel for him. - -Miss Bridget Jones, a poor curate’s daughter in Wales, comes into all -Hunkington’s property, and will take his name, as I am told. Nobody ever -heard of her before. I am sure Captain Hunkington, and his brother -Barnwell Hunkington, must wish that the lucky young lady had never been -heard of to the present day. - -But they will have the consolation of thinking that they did their duty -by their uncle, and consoled his declining years. It was but last month -that Millwood Hunkington (the Captain) sent the old gentleman a service -of plate; and Mrs. Barnwell got a reclining carriage at a great expense, -from Hobbs and Dobbs’s, in which the old gentleman went out only once. - -“It is a punishment on those Hunkingtons,” Miss Clapperclaw remarks; -“upon those people who have been always living beyond their little -incomes, and always speculating upon what the old man would leave them, -and always coaxing him with presents which they could not afford, and he -did not want. It is a punishment upon those Hunkingtons to be so -disappointed.” - -“Think of giving him plate,” Miss C. justly says, “who had chests-full; -and sending him a carriage, who could afford to buy all Long Acre. And -everything goes to Miss Jones Hunkington. I wonder will she give the -things back?” Miss Clapperclaw asks. “I wouldn’t.” - -And indeed I don’t think Miss Clapperclaw would. - - - - -SOMEBODY WHOM NOBODY KNOWS. - - -That pretty little house, the last in Pocklington Square, was lately -occupied by a young widow lady who wore a pink bonnet, a short silk -dress, sustained by crinoline, and a light blue mantle, or over-jacket -(Miss C. is not here to tell me the name of the garment); or else a -black velvet pelisse, a yellow shawl, and a white bonnet; or else--but -never mind the dress, which seemed to be of the handsomest sort money -could buy--and who had very long glossy black ringlets, and a peculiarly -brilliant complexion,--No. 96 Pocklington Square, I say, was lately -occupied by a widow lady named Mrs. Stafford Molyneux. - -The very first day on which an intimate and valued female friend of mine -saw Mrs. Stafford Molyneux stepping into a Brougham, with a splendid bay -horse, and without a footman (mark, if you please, that delicate sign of -respectability), and after a moment’s examination of Mrs. S. M.’s -toilette, her manners, little dog, carnation-coloured parasol, &c., Miss -Elizabeth Clapperclaw clapped to the opera-glass with which she had been -regarding the new inhabitant of Our Street, came away from the window in -a great flurry, and began poking her fire in a fit of virtuous -indignation. - -“She’s very pretty,” said I, who had been looking over Miss C.’s -shoulder at the widow with the flashing eyes and drooping ringlets. - -“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Miss Clapperclaw, tossing up her virgin -head with an indignant blush on her nose. “It’s a sin and a shame that -such a creature should be riding in her carriage, forsooth, when honest -people must go on foot.” - -Subsequent observations confirmed my revered fellow-lodger’s anger and -opinion. We have watched Hansom cabs standing before that lady’s house -for hours; we have seen Broughams, with great flaring eyes, keeping -watch there in the darkness; we have seen the vans from the _comestible_ -shops drive up and discharge loads of wines, groceries, French plums, -and other articles of luxurious horror. We have seen Count Wowski’s -drag, Lord Martingale’s carriage, Mr. Deuceace’s cab drive up there time -after time; and (having remarked previously the pastry-cook’s men arrive -with the trays and _entrées_) we have known that this widow was giving -dinners at the little house in Pocklington Square--dinners such as -decent people could not hope to enjoy. - -My excellent friend has been in a perfect fury when Mrs. Stafford -Molyneux, in a black velvet riding-habit, with a hat and feather, has -come out and mounted an odious grey horse, and has cantered down the -street, followed by her groom upon a bay. - -“It won’t last long--it must end in shame and humiliation,” my dear Miss -C. has remarked, disappointed that the tiles and chimney-pots did not -fall down upon Mrs. Stafford Molyneux’s head, and crush that cantering -audacious woman. - -But it was a consolation to see her when she walked out with a French -maid, a couple of children, and a little dog hanging on to her by a blue -ribbon. She always held down her head then--her head with the drooping -black ringlets. The virtuous and well-disposed avoided her. I have seen -the Square-keeper himself look puzzled as she passed; and Lady -Kicklebury walking by with Miss K., her daughter, turn away from Mrs. -Stafford Molyneux, and fling back at her a ruthless Parthian glance that -ought to have killed any woman of decent sensibility. - -That wretched woman, meanwhile, with her rouged cheeks (for rouge it -_is_, Miss Clapperclaw swears, and who is a better judge?) has walked on -conscious, and yet somehow braving out the Street. You could read pride -of her beauty, pride of her fine clothes, shame of her position, in her -downcast black eyes. - -As for Mademoiselle Trampoline, her French maid, she would stare the sun -itself out of countenance. One day she tossed up her head as she passed -under our windows with a look - -[Illustration: THE LADY WHOM NOBODY KNOWS.] - -of scorn that drove Miss Clapperclaw back to the fire-place again. - -It was Mrs. Stafford Molyneux’s children, however, whom I pitied the -most. Once her boy, in a flaring tartan, went up to speak to Master -Roderick Lacy, whose maid was engaged ogling a policeman; and the -children were going to make friends, being united with a hoop which -Master Molyneux had, when Master Roderick’s maid, rushing up, clutched -her charge to her arms, and hurried away, leaving little Molyneux sad -and wondering. - -“Why won’t he play with me, mamma?” Master Molyneux asked--and his -mother’s face blushed purple as she walked away. - -“Ah--Heaven help us and forgive us!” said I; but Miss C. can never -forgive the mother or child; and she clapped her hands for joy one day -when we saw the shutters up, bills in the windows, a carpet hanging out -over the balcony, and a crowd of shabby Jews about the steps--giving -token that the reign of Mrs. Stafford Molyneux was over. The -pastry-cooks and their trays, the bay and the grey, the Brougham and the -groom, the noblemen and their cabs, were all gone; and the tradesmen in -the neighbourhood were crying out that they were done. - -“Serve the odious minx right!” says Miss C.; and she played at picquet -that night with more vigour than I have known her manifest for these -last ten years. - -What is it that makes certain old ladies so savage upon certain -subjects? Miss C. is a good woman; pays her rent and her tradesmen; -gives plenty to the poor; is brisk with her tongue--kind-hearted in the -main; but if Mrs. Stafford Molyneux and her children were plunged into a -cauldron of boiling vinegar, I think my revered friend would not take -her out. - - - - -THE MAN IN POSSESSION. - - -For another misfortune which occurred in Our Street we were much more -compassionate. We liked Danby Dixon, and his wife Fanny Dixon still -more. Miss C. had a paper of biscuits, and a box of preserved apricots -always in the cupboard, ready for Dixon’s children--provisions by the -way which she locked up under Mrs. Cammysole’s nose, so that our -landlady could by no possibility lay a hand on them. - -Dixon and his wife had the neatest little house possible (No. 16, -opposite 96), and were liked and respected by the whole street. He was -called Dandy Dixon when he was in the Dragoons, and was a light weight, -and rather famous as a gentleman rider. On his marriage, he sold out and -got fat; and was indeed a florid, contented, and jovial gentleman. - -His little wife was charming--to see her in pink, with some miniature -Dixons in pink too, round about her, or in that beautiful grey dress, -with the deep black lace flounces, which she wore at my Lord Comandine’s -on the night of the private theatricals, would have done any man good. -To hear her sing any of my little ballads, “Know’st thou the -Willow-tree?” for instance, or “The Rose upon my balcony,” or “The -Humming of the Honey-bee” (far superior, in _my_ judgment, and in that -of _some good judges_ likewise, to that humbug Clarence Bulbul’s -ballads)--to hear her, I say, sing these, was to be in a sort of small -Elysium. Dear, dear, little Fanny Dixon! she was like a little chirping -bird of Paradise. It was a shame that storms should ever ruffle such a -tender plumage. - -Well, never mind about sentiment.--Danby Dixon, the owner of this little -treasure, an ex-captain of dragoons, and having nothing to do, and a -small income, wisely thought he would employ his spare time, and -increase his revenue. He became a Director of the Cornaro Life Insurance -Company, of the Tregulpho tin-mines, and of four or five railroad -companies. It was amusing to see him swaggering about the City in his -clinking boots, and with his high and mighty dragoon manners. For a time -his talk about shares after dinner was perfectly intolerable; and I for -one was always glad to leave him in the company of sundry very dubious -capitalists who frequented his house, and walk up to hear Mrs. Fanny -warbling at the piano, with her little children about her knees. - -It was only last season that they set up a carriage--the modestest -little vehicle conceivable--driven by Kirby, who had - -[Illustration: THE MAN IN POSSESSION.] - -been in Dixon’s troop in the regiment, and had followed him into private -life as coachman, footman, and page. - -One day lately I went into Dixon’s house, hearing that some calamities -had befallen him, the particulars of which Miss Clapperclaw was desirous -to know. The creditors of the Tregulpho mines had got a verdict against -him as one of the directors of that company; the engineer of the Little -Diddlesex Junction had sued him for two thousand three hundred -pounds--the charges of that scientific man for six weeks’ labour in -surveying the line. His brother directors were to be discovered nowhere; -Windham, Dodgin, Mizzlington, and the rest, were all gone long ago. - -When I entered, the door was open--there was a smell of smoke in the -dining-room, where a gentleman at noon-day was seated with a pipe and a -pot of beer--a man in possession indeed, in that comfortable pretty -parlour, by that snug round table where I have so often seen Fanny -Dixon’s smiling face. - -Kirby, the ex-dragoon, was scowling at the fellow, who lay upon a little -settee reading the newspaper, with an evident desire to kill him. Mrs. -Kirby, his wife, held little Danby, poor Dixon’s son and heir. Dixon’s -portrait smiled over the sideboard still, and his wife was up stairs in -an agony of fear, with the poor little daughters of this bankrupt, -broken family. - -This poor soul had actually come down and paid a visit to the man in -possession. She had sent wine and dinner to “the gentleman down stairs,” -as she called him in her terror. She had tried to move his heart, by -representing to him how innocent Captain Dixon was, and how he had -always paid, and always remained at home when everybody else had fled. -As if her tears, and simple tales and entreaties, could move that man in -possession out of the house, or induce him to pay the costs of the -action which her husband had lost. - -Danby meanwhile was at Boulogne, sickening after his wife and children. -They sold everything in his house--all his smart furniture, and neat -little stock of plate; his wardrobe and his linen, “the property of a -gentleman gone abroad;” his carriage by the best maker; and his wine -selected without regard to expense. His house was shut up as completely -as his opposite neighbour’s; and a new tenant is just having it fresh -painted inside and out, as if poor Dixon had left an infection behind. - -Kirby and his wife went across the water with the children and Mrs. -Fanny--she has a small settlement; and I am bound to say that our mutual -friend Miss Elizabeth C. went down with Mrs. Dixon in the fly to the -Tower Stairs, and stopped in Lombard Street by the way. - -So it is that the world wags: that honest men and knaves alike are -always having ups and downs of fortune, and that we are perpetually -changing tenants in Our Street. - -[Illustration: THE LION OF THE STREET.] - - - - -THE LION OF THE STREET. - - -What people can find in Clarence Bulbul, who has lately taken upon -himself the rank and dignity of Lion of our Street, I have always been -at a loss to conjecture. - -“He has written an Eastern book of considerable merit,” Miss Clapperclaw -says; but hang it, has not everybody written an Eastern book? I should -like to meet anybody in society now who has not been up to the second -cataract. An Eastern book, forsooth! My Lord Castleroyal has done -one--an honest one; my Lord Youngent another--an amusing one; my Lord -Woolsey another--a pious one; there is “The Cutlet and the Cabob”--a -sentimental one; “Timbuctoothen”--a humorous one, all ludicrously -overrated, in my opinion, not including my own little book, of which a -copy or two is still to be had by the way. - -Well, then, Clarence Bulbul, because he has made part of the little tour -that all of us know, comes back and gives himself airs, forsooth, and -howls as if he were just out of the great Libyan desert. - -When we go and see him, that Irish Jew courier, whom I have before had -the honour to describe, looks up from the novel which he is reading in -the ante-room, and says, “Mon maitre est au Divan,” or, “Monsieur -trouvera Monsieur dans son serail,” and relapses into the Comte de -Montechristo again. - -Yes, the impudent wretch has actually a room in his apartments on the -ground-floor of his mother’s house, which he calls his harem. When Lady -Betty Bulbul (they are of the Nightingale family) or Miss Blanche comes -down to visit him, their slippers are placed at the door, and he -receives them on an ottoman, and these infatuated women will actually -light his pipe for him. - -Little Spitfire, the groom, hangs about the drawing-room, outside the -harem forsooth! so that he may be ready when Clarence Bulbul claps hands -for him to bring the pipes and coffee. - -He has coffee and pipes for everybody. I should like you to have seen -the face of old Bowly, his college-tutor, called upon to sit -cross-legged on a divan, a little cup of bitter black Mocha put into his -hand, and a large amber-muzzled pipe stuck into his mouth by Spitfire, -before he could so much as say it was a fine day. Bowly almost thought -he had compromised his principles by consenting so far to this Turkish -manner. - -Bulbul’s dinners are, I own, very good; his pilaffs and curries -excellent. He tried to make us eat rice with our fingers, it is true; -but he scalded his own hands in the business, and invariably bedizened -his shirt, so he has left off the Turkish practice, for dinner at least, -and uses a fork like a Christian. - -But it is in society that he is most remarkable; and here he would, I -own, be odious, but he becomes delightful, because all the men hate him -so. A perfect chorus of abuse is raised round about him. “Confounded -impostor,” says one; “Impudent jackass,” says another; “Miserable -puppy,” cries a third; “I’d like to wring his neck,” says Bruff, -scowling over his shoulder at him. Clarence meanwhile nods, winks, -smiles, and patronises them all with the easiest good-humour. He is a -fellow who would poke an archbishop in the apron, or clap a duke on the -shoulder, as coolly as he would address you and me. - -I saw him the other night, at Mrs. Bumpsher’s grand let off. He flung -himself down cross-legged upon a pink satin sofa, so that you could see -Mrs. Bumpsher quiver with rage in the distance, Bruff growl with fury -from the further room, and Miss Pim, on whose frock Bulbul’s feet -rested, look up like a timid fawn. - -“Fan me, Miss Pim,” said he of the cushion. “You look like a perfect -Peri to-night. You remind me of a girl I once knew in Circassia--Ameena, -the sister of Schamyle Bey. Do you know, Miss Pim, that you would fetch -twenty thousand piastres in the market at Constantinople?” - -“Law, Mr. Bulbul!” is all Miss Pim can ejaculate; and having talked over -Miss Pim, Clarence goes off to another houri, whom he fascinates in a -similar manner. He charmed Mrs. Waddy by telling her that she was the -exact figure of the Pacha of Egypt’s second wife. He gave Miss Tokely a -piece of the sack in which Zuleikah was drowned; and he actually -persuaded that poor little silly Miss Vain to turn Mahometan, and sent -her up to the Turkish Ambassador’s, to look out for a mufti. - -[Illustration: THE DOVE OF THE STREET.] - - - - -THE DOVE OF OUR STREET. - - -If Bulbul is our Lion, Young Oriel may be described as The Dove of our -Colony. He is almost as great a pasha among the ladies as Bulbul. They -crowd in flocks to see him at Saint Waltheof’s, where the immense height -of his forehead, the rigid asceticism of his surplice, the twang with -which he intones the service, and the namby-pamby mysticism of his -sermons, has turned all the dear girls’ heads for some time past. While -we were having a rubber at Mrs. Chauntry’s, whose daughters are -following the new mode, I heard the following talk (which made me revoke -by the way) going on, in what was formerly called the young lady’s room, -but is now styled the Oratory. - - - THE ORATORY. - - MISS CHAUNTRY. MISS ISABEL CHAUNTRY. - MISS DE L’AISLE. MISS PYX. - - REV. L. ORIEL. REV. O. SLOCUM--[_In the further room._] - -_Miss Chauntry_ (_sighing_).--Is it wrong to be in the Guards, dear Mr. -Oriel? - -_Miss Pyx._--She will make Frank de Boots sell out when he marries. - -_Mr. Oriel._--To be in the Guards, dear sister? The church has always -encouraged the army. Saint Martin of Tours was in the army; Saint Louis -was in the army; Saint Waltheof, our patron, Saint Witikind of -Aldermanbury, Saint Wamba, and Saint Walloff were in the army. Saint -Wapshot was captain of the guard of Queen Boadicea; and Saint Werewolf -was a major in the Danish cavalry. The holy Saint Ignatius of Loyola -carried a pike, as we know; and---- - -_Miss de l’Aisle._--Will you take some tea, dear Mr. Oriel? - -_Oriel._--This is not one of _my_ feast days, Sister Emma. It is the -feast of Saint Wagstaff of Walthamstow. - -_The Young Ladies._--And we must not even take tea! - -_Oriel._--Dear sisters, I said not so. _You_ may do as you list; but I -am strong (_with a heart-broken sigh_); don’t ply me (_he reels_). I -took a little water and a parched pea after matins. To-morrow is a flesh -day, and--and I shall be better then. - -_Rev. O. Slocum_ (_from within_).--Madam, I take your heart with my -small trump. - -_Oriel._--Yes, better! dear sister; it is only a passing--a--weakness. - -_Miss I. Chauntry._--He’s dying of fever. - -_Miss Chauntry._--I’m so glad De Boots need not leave the Blues. - -_Miss Pyx._--He wears sackcloth and cinders inside his waistcoat. - -_Miss De l’Aisle._--He’s told me to-night he is going to--to--Ro-o-ome. -[_Miss De l’Aisle bursts into tears._] - -_Rev. O. Slocum._--My lord, I have the highest club, which gives the -trick and two by honours. - - * * * * * - -Thus, you see, we have a variety of clergymen in Our Street. Mr. Oriel -is of the pointed Gothic school, while old Slocum is of the good old -tawny port-wine school; and it must be confessed that Mr. Gronow, at -Ebenezer, has a hearty abhorrence for both. - -As for Gronow, I pity him, if his future lot should fall where Mr Oriel -supposes that it will. - -And as for Oriel, he has not even the benefit of purgatory, which he -would accord to his neighbour Ebenezer; while old Slocum pronounces both -to be a couple of humbugs; and Mr. Mole, the demure little beetle-browed -chaplain of the little church of Avemary Lane, keeps his sly eyes down -to the ground when he passes any one of his black-coated brethren. - -There is only one point on which, my friends, they seem agreed. Slocum -likes port, but who ever heard that he neglected his poor? Gronow, if he -comminates his neighbour’s congregation, is the affectionate father of -his own. Oriel, if he loves pointed Gothic and parched peas for -breakfast, has a prodigious soup-kitchen for his poor; and as for little -Father Mole, who never lifts his eyes from the ground, ask our doctor at -what bedsides he finds him, and how he soothes poverty and braves misery -and infection. - - - - -THE BUMPSHERS. - - -No. 6 Pocklington Gardens (the house with the quantity of flowers in the -windows, and the awning over the entrance), George Bumpsher, Esquire, -M.P. for Humborough (and the Beaustalks, Kent). - -For some time after this gorgeous family came into our quarter, I -mistook a bald-headed stout person, whom I used to see looking through -the flowers on the upper windows, for Bumpsher himself or for the butler -of the family; whereas it was no other than Mrs. Bumpsher, without her -chesnut wig; and who is at least three times the size of her husband. - -The Bumpshers and the house of Mango at the Pineries vie together in -their desire to dominate over the neighbourhood; and each votes the -other a vulgar and purse-proud family. The fact is, both are City -people. Bumpsher, in his mercantile capacity, is a wholesale stationer -in Thames Street; and his wife was daughter of an eminent bill-broking -firm, not a thousand miles from Lombard Street. - -He does not sport a coronet and supporters upon his London plate and -carriages; but his country-house is emblazoned all over with those -heraldic decorations. He puts on an order when he goes abroad, and is -Count Bumpsher of the Roman States--which title he purchased from the -late Pope (through Prince Polonia the banker) for a couple of thousand -scudi. - -It is as good as a coronation to see him and Mrs. Bumpsher go to Court. -I wonder the carriage can hold them both. On those days Mrs. Bumpsher -holds her own drawing-room before her Majesty’s; and we are invited to -come and see her sitting in state, upon the largest sofa in her rooms. -She has need of a stout one, I promise you. Her very feathers must weigh -something considerable. The diamonds on her stomacher would embroider a -full-sized carpet-bag. She has rubies, ribbons, cameos, emeralds, gold -serpents, opals, and Valenciennes lace, as if she were an immense sample -out of Howell and James’s shop. - -She took up with little Pinkney at Rome, where he made a charming -picture of her, representing her as about eighteen, with a cherub in her -lap, who has some liking to Bryanstone Bumpsher, her enormous, vulgar -son; now a Cornet in the Blues, and anything but a cherub, as those -would say who saw him in his uniform jacket. - -I remember Pinkney when he was painting the picture, Bryanstone being -then a youth in what they call a skeleton suit - -[Illustration: VENUS AND CUPID.] - -(as if such a pig of a child could ever have been dressed in anything -resembling a skeleton)--I remember, I say, Mrs. B. sitting to Pinkney in -a sort of Egerian costume, her boy by her side, whose head the artist -turned round and directed it towards a piece of gingerbread, which he -was to have at the end of the sitting. - -Pinkney, indeed, a painter!--a contemptible little humbug, and parasite -of the great! He has painted Mrs. Bumpsher younger every year for these -last ten years--and you see in the advertisements of all her parties his -odious little name stuck in at the end of the list. I’m sure, for my -part, I’d scorn to enter her doors, or be the toady of any woman. - -[Illustration] - - - - -JOLLY NEWBOY, ESQ., M.P. - - -How different it is with the Newboys, now, where I have an -entrée--(having indeed had the honour in former days to give lessons to -both the ladies)--and where such a quack as Pinkney would never be -allowed to enter! A merrier house the whole quarter cannot furnish. It -is there you meet people of all ranks and degrees, not only from our -quarter but from the rest of the town. It is there that our great man, -the Right Honourable Lord Comandine, came up and spoke to me in so -encouraging a manner that I hope to be invited to one of his lordship’s -excellent dinners (of which I shall not fail to give a very flattering -description) before the season is over. It is there you find yourself -talking to statesmen, poets, and artists--not sham poets like Bulbul, or -quack artists like that Pinkney--but to the best members of all society. -It is there I made the sketch in the frontispiece while Miss -Chesterforth was singing a deep-toned tragic ballad, and her mother -scowling behind her. What a buzz and clack and chatter there was in the -room to be sure! When Miss Chesterforth sings everybody begins to talk. -Hicks and old Fogy were on Ireland; Bass was roaring into old Pump’s -ears (or into his horn rather) about the Navigation Laws; I was engaged -talking to the charming Mrs. Short; while Charley Bonham (a mere prig, -in whom I am surprised that the women can see anything) was pouring out -his fulsome rhapsodies in the ears of Diana White. Lovely, lovely Diana -White! were it not for three or four other engagements, I know a heart -that would suit you to a T. - -Newboy’s I pronounce to be the jolliest house in the street. He has only -of late had a rush of prosperity, and turned Parliament man; for his -distant cousin, of the ancient house of Newboy of ----shire dying, -Fred--then making believe to practice at the bar, and living with the -utmost modesty in Gray’s Inn Road--found himself master of a fortune, -and a great house in the country, of which getting tired, as in the -course of nature he should, he came up to London, and took that fine -mansion in our Gardens. He represents Mumborough in Parliament, a seat -which has been time out of mind occupied by a Newboy. - -Though he does not speak, being a great deal too rich, sensible, and -lazy, he somehow occupies himself with reading blue books, and indeed -talks a great deal too much good sense of late over his dinner-table, -where there is always a cover for the present writer. - -He falls asleep pretty assiduously too after that meal--a practice which -I can well pardon in him--for, between ourselves, his wife, Maria -Newboy, and his sister, Clarissa, are the loveliest and kindest of their -sex, and I would rather hear their innocent prattle, and lively talk -about their neighbours, than the best wisdom from the wisest man that -ever wore a beard. - -Like a wise and good man he leaves the question of his household -entirely to the woman. They like going to the play. They like going to -Greenwich. They like coming to a party at bachelor’s hall. They are up -to all sorts of fun, in a word; in which taste the good-natured Newboy -acquiesces, provided he is left to follow his own. - -It was only on the 17th of the month that, having had the honour to dine -at the house, when, after dinner, which took place at eight, we left -Newboy to his blue books, and went up stairs and sang a little to the -guitar afterwards--it was only on the 17th December, the night of Lady -Sowerby’s party, that the following dialogue took place in the boudoir, -whither Newboy, blue books in hand, had ascended. - -He was curled up with his House of Commons boots on his wife’s -arm-chair, reading his eternal blue books, when Mrs. N. entered from her -apartment, dressed for the evening. - -[Illustration: THE STREET DOOR KEY.] - -_Mrs. N._--Frederic, wont you come? - -_Mr. N._--Where? - -_Mrs. N._--To Lady Sowerby’s. - -_Mr. N._--I’d rather go to the black hole in Calcutta. Besides, this -Sanitary Report is really the most interesting--[_he begins to read._] - -_Mrs. N._ (_piqued_)--Well; Mr. Titmarsh will go with us. - -_Mr. N._--Will he? I wish him joy! - -At this puncture Miss Clarissa Newboy enters in a pink paletôt, trimmed -with swansdown--looking like an angel--and we exchange glances of--what -shall I say?--of sympathy on both parts, and consummate rapture on mine. -But this is by-play. - -_Mrs. N._--Good night, Frederic. I think we shall be late. - -_Mr. N._--You won’t wake me, I daresay; and you don’t expect a public -man to sit up. - -_Mrs. N._--It’s not you, it’s the servants. Cocker sleeps very heavily. -The maids are best in bed, and are all ill with the influenza. I say, -Frederic dear, don’t you think you had better give me YOUR CHUBB KEY? - -This astonishing proposal, which violates every recognised law of -society--this demand which alters all the existing state of things--this -fact of a woman asking for a door-key, struck me with a terror which I -cannot describe, and impressed me with the fact of the vast progress of -Our Street. The door-key! What would our grandmother, who dwelt in this -place when it was a rustic suburb, think of its condition now, when -husbands stay at home, and wives go abroad with the latch-key? - -The evening at Lady Sowerby’s was the most delicious we have spent for -long, long days. - -Thus it will be seen that everybody of any consideration in Our Street -takes a line. Mrs. Minimy (34) takes the homœopathic line, and has -_soirées_ of doctors of that faith. Lady Pocklington takes the -capitalist line; and those stupid and splendid dinners of hers are -devoured by loan-contractors, and railroad princes. Mrs. Trimmer (38) -comes out in the scientific line, and indulges us in rational evenings, -where history is the lightest subject admitted, and geology and the -sanitary condition of the metropolis form the general themes of -conversation. Mrs. Brumby plays finely on the bassoon, and has evenings -dedicated to Sebastian Bach, and enlivened with Handel. At Mrs. -Maskleyn’s they are mad for charades and theatricals. - -They performed last Christmas in a French piece, by Alexandre Dumas, I -believe--“La Duchesse de Montefiasco,” of which I forget the plot, but -everybody was in love with everybody else’s wife, except the hero, Don -Alonzo, who was ardently attached to the Duchess, who turned out to be -his grandmother. The piece was translated by Lord Fiddle-faddle, Tom -Bulbul - -[Illustration: A SCENE OF PASSION.] - -being the Don Alonzo; and Mrs. Roland Calidore (who never misses an -opportunity of acting in a piece in which she can let down her hair) was -the Duchess. - - ALONZO. - - You know how well he loves you, and you wonder - To see Alonzo suffer, Cunegunda?-- - Ask if the chamois suffer when they feel - Plunged in their panting sides the hunter’s steel? - Or when the soaring heron or eagle proud, - Pierced by my shaft, comes tumbling from the cloud, - Ask if the royal birds no anguish know, - The victims of Alonzo’s twanging bow? - Then ask him if he suffers--him who dies, - Pierced by the poisoned glance that glitters from your eyes! - [_He staggers from the effect of the poison._ - - THE DUCHESS. - - Alonzo loves--Alonzo loves! and whom? - His grandmother! O hide me gracious tomb! - [_Her Grace faints away._ - -Such acting as Tom Bulbul’s I never saw. Tom lisps atrociously, and -uttered the passage, “You athk me if I thuffer,” in the most absurd way. -Miss Clapperclaw says he acted pretty well, and that I only joke about -him because I am envious, and wanted to act a part myself.--I envious -indeed! - -But of all the assemblies, feastings, junkettings, déjeunes, soirées, -conversaziones, dinner-parties, in Our Street, I know of none pleasanter -than the banquets at Tom Fairfax’s; one of which this enormous -provision-consumer gives seven times a-week. He lives in one of the -little houses of the old Waddilove Street quarter, built long before -Pocklington Square and Pocklington Gardens and the Pocklington family -itself had made their appearance in this world. - -Tom, though he has a small income, and lives in a small house, yet sits -down one of a party of twelve to dinner every day of his life; these -twelve consisting of Mrs. Fairfax, the nine Misses Fairfax, and Master -Thomas Fairfax--the son and heir to twopence-halfpenny a-year. - -It is awkward just now to go and beg pot-luck from such a family as -this; because, though a guest is always welcome, we are thirteen at -table--an unlucky number, it is said. This evil is only temporary, and -will be remedied presently, when the family will be thirteen _without_ -the occasional guest, to judge from all appearances. - -Early in the morning Mrs. Fairfax rises, and cuts bread and butter from -six o’clock till eight; during which time the nursery operations upon -the nine little graces are going on. We only see a half dozen of them at -this present moment, and in the present authentic picture, the remainder -dwindling off upon little chairs by their mamma. - -The two on either side of Fairfax are twins--awarded to him by singular -good fortune; and he only knows Nancy from Fanny - -[Illustration: THE HAPPY FAMILY.] - -by having a piece of tape round the former’s arm. There is no need to -give you the catalogue of the others. She, in the pinafore in front, is -Elizabeth, goddaughter to Miss Clapperclaw, who has been very kind to -the whole family; that young lady with the ringlets is engaged by the -most solemn ties to the present writer, and it is agreed that we are to -be married as soon as she is as tall as my stick. - -If his wife has to rise early to cut the bread and butter, I warrant -Fairfax must be up betimes to earn it. He is a clerk in a Government -Office; to which duty he trudges daily, refusing even twopenny -omnibuses. Every time he goes to the shoemaker’s he has to order eleven -pairs of shoes, and so can’t afford to spare his own. He teaches the -children Latin every morning, and is already thinking when Tom shall he -inducted into that language. He works in his garden for an hour before -breakfast. His work over by three o’clock, he tramps home at four, and -exchanges his dapper coat for that dressing-gown in which he appears -before you,--a ragged but honourable garment in which he stood -(unconsciously) to the present designer. - -Which is the best, his old coat or Sir John’s bran new one? Which is the -most comfortable and becoming, Mrs. Fairfax’s black velvet gown, (which -she has worn at the Pocklington Square parties these twelve years, and -in which I protest she looks like a queen), or that new robe which the -milliner has has just brought home to Mrs. Bumpsher’s, and into which -she will squeeze herself on Christmas day? - -Miss Clapperclaw says that we are all so charmingly contented with -ourselves that not one of us would change with his neighbour; and so, -rich and poor, high and low, one person is about as happy as another in -Our Street. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Our Street, by M. A. 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A. Titmarsh - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Our Street - -Author: M. A. Titmarsh - -Release Date: January 1, 2020 [EBook #61072] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR STREET *** - - - - -Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/cover_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="347" height="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 406px;"> -<a href="images/frontis_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/frontis_sml.jpg" width="406" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>THE SIREN OF OUR STREET.</p></div> -</div> - -<p class="c"> -<a href="images/titlepage_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/titlepage_sml.jpg" -height="550" -alt="“OUR STREET.” - -BY - -MR. M. A. TITMARSH." -/></a></p> - -<h1>“OUR STREET.”</h1> -<p class="c">BY -<br /><br />MR. M. A. TITMARSH.<br /><br /> -LONDON:<br /> -CHAPMAN AND HALL, 186 STRAND.<br /> -MDCCCXLVIII.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span></p> - -<h1>OUR STREET.</h1> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/image001.jpg" width="125" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<p>Our Street, from the little nook which I occupy in it, and whence I and -a fellow-lodger and friend of mine cynically observe it, presents a -strange motley scene. We are in a state of transition. We are not as yet -in the town, and we have left the country where we were when I came to -lodge with Mrs. Cammysole, my excellent landlady. I then took -second-floor apartments at No. 17 Waddilove Street, and since, although -I have never moved (having various little comforts about me), I find -myself living at No. 46 <small>A</small> Pocklington Gardens.</p> - -<p>Why is this? Why am I to pay eighteen shillings instead of fifteen? I -was quite as happy in Waddilove Street; but the fact is, a great portion -of that venerable old district has passed away, and we are being -absorbed into the splendid new white-stuccoed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> Doric-porticoed genteel -Pocklington quarter. Sir Thomas Gibbs Pocklington, M.P. for the borough -of Lathanplaster, is the founder of the district and his own fortune. -The Pocklington Estate Office is in the Square, on a line with -Waddil—with Pocklington Gardens, I mean. The old inn, the Ram and -Magpie, where the market-gardeners used to bait, came out this year with -a new white face and title, the shield, &c. of the Pocklington Arms. -Such a shield it is! Such quarterings! Howard, Cavendish, De Ros, De la -Zouche, all mingled together.</p> - -<p>Even our house, 46 <small>A</small>, which Mrs. Cammysole has had painted white in -compliment to the Gardens of which it now forms part, is a sort of -impostor, and has no business to be called Gardens at all. Mr. Gibbs, -Sir Thomas’s agent and nephew, is furious at our daring to take the -title which belongs to our betters. The very next door (No. 46, the -Honourable Mrs. Mountnoddy) is a house of five stories, shooting up -proudly into the air, thirty feet above our old high-roofed low-roomed -old tenement. It belongs to Captain Bragg, not only the landlord but the -son-in-law of Mrs. Cammysole, who lives a couple of hundred yards down -the street, at “The Bungalow.” He was the Commander of the Ram Chunder -East Indiaman, and has quarrelled with the Pocklingtons ever since he -bought houses in the parish.</p> - -<p>He it is who will not sell or alter his houses to suit the spirit<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> of -the times. He it is who, though he made the widow Cammysole change the -name of her street, will not pull down the house next door, nor the -baker’s next, nor the iron-bedstead and feather warehouse ensuing, nor -the little barber’s with the pole, nor, I am ashamed to say, the tripe -shop, still standing. The barber powders the heads of the great footmen -from Pocklington Gardens; they are so big that they can scarcely sit in -his little premises. And the old tavern, The East Indiaman, is kept by -Bragg’s ship steward, and protests against the Pocklington Arms.</p> - -<p>Down the road is Pocklington Chapel, Rev. Oldham Slocum—in brick, with -arched windows and a wooden belfry; sober, dingy, and hideous. In the -centre of Pocklington Gardens rises St. Waltheof’s, the Rev. Cyril -Thuryfer and assistants—a splendid Anglo-Norman edifice, vast, rich, -elaborate, bran new, and intensely old. Down Avemary Lane you may hear -the clink of the little Romish Chapel bell. And hard by is a large -broad-shouldered Ebenezer (Rev. Jonas Gronow), out of the windows of -which the hymns come booming all Sunday long.</p> - -<p>Going westward along the line we come presently to Comandine House (on a -part of the gardens of which Comandine Gardens is about to be erected by -his lordship); farther on, “The Pineries,” Mr. and Lady Mary Mango; and -so we get into the country, and out of Our Street altogether, as I may -say. But in the half mile, over which it may be said to extend, we find -all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> sorts and conditions of people—from the Right Honourable Lord -Comandine down to the present topographer; who, being of no rank, as it -were, has the fortune to be treated on almost friendly footing by all, -from his lordship down to the tradesman.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="OUR_HOUSE_IN_OUR_STREET" id="OUR_HOUSE_IN_OUR_STREET"></a>OUR HOUSE IN OUR STREET.</h2> - -<p>We must begin our little descriptions where, they say, Charity should -begin—at home. Mrs. Cammysole, my landlady, will be rather surprised -when she reads this, and finds that a good-natured tenant, who has never -complained of her impositions for fifteen years, understands every one -of her tricks, and treats them, not with anger, but with scorn—with -silent scorn.</p> - -<p>On the 18th of December, 1837, for instance, coming gently down stairs, -and before my usual wont, I saw you seated in my arm-chair, peeping into -a letter that came from my aunt in the country, just as if it had been -addressed to you, and not to “M. A. Titmarsh, Esq.” Did I make any -disturbance? far from it; I slunk back to my bed-room (being enabled to -walk silently in the beautiful pair of worsted slippers Miss Penelope -J——s worked for me; they are worn out now, dear Penelope!), and then, -rattling open the door with a great noise, descended the stairs, singing -“<i>Son vergin vezzosa</i>” at the top of my voice. You were not in my -sitting-room, Mrs. Cammysole, when I entered that apartment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span></p> - -<p>You have been reading all my letters, papers, manuscripts, <i>brouillons</i> -of verses, inchoate articles for the <i>Morning Post</i> and <i>Morning -Chronicle</i>, invitations to dinner and tea—all my family letters, all -Eliza Townley’s letters, from the first, in which she declared that to -be the bride of her beloved Michelagnolo was the fondest wish of her -maiden heart, to the last, in which she announced that her Thomas was -the best of husbands, and signed herself “Eliza Slogger;” all Mary -Farmer’s letters, all Emily Delamere’s; all that poor foolish old Miss -MacWhirter’s, whom I would as soon marry as——; in a word, I know that -you, you hawk-beaked, keen-eyed, sleepless, indefatigable, old Mrs. -Cammysole, have read all my papers for these ten years.</p> - -<p>I know that you cast your curious old eyes over all the manuscripts -which you find in my coat pockets and those of my pantaloons, as they -hang in a drapery over the door-handle of my bed-room.</p> - -<p>I know that you count the money in my green and gold purse, which Lucy -Netterville gave me, and speculate on the manner in which I have laid -out the difference between to-day and yesterday.</p> - -<p>I know that you have an understanding with the laundress (to whom you -say that you are all-powerful with me), threatening to take away my -practice from her, unless she gets up gratis some of your fine linen.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span></p> - -<p>I know that we both have a pennyworth of cream for breakfast, which is -brought in in the same little can; and I know who has the most for her -share.</p> - -<p>I know how many lumps of sugar you take from each pound as it arrives. I -have counted the lumps, you old thief, and for years have never said a -word, except to Miss Clapperclaw, the first-floor lodger. Once I put a -bottle of pale brandy into that cupboard, of which you and I only have -keys, and the liquor wasted and wasted away, until it was all gone. You -drank the whole of it, you wicked old woman. You a lady, indeed!</p> - -<p>I know your rage when they did me the honour to elect me a member of the -Poluphloisboiothalasses Club, and I ceased consequently to dine at home. -When I <i>did</i> dine at home, on a beefsteak, let us say, I should like to -know what you had for supper? You first amputated portions of the meat -when raw; you abstracted more when cooked. Do you think <i>I</i> was taken in -by your flimsy pretences? I wonder how you could dare to do such things -before your maids (you, a clergyman’s daughter and widow, indeed!), whom -you yourself were always charging with roguery.</p> - -<p>Yes, the insolence of the old woman is unbearable, and I must break out -at last. If she goes off in a fit at reading this, I am sure I shan’t -mind. She has two unhappy wenches, against whom her old tongue is -clacking from morning till night;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> she pounces on them at all hours. It -was but this morning at eight, when poor Molly was brooming the steps, -and the baker paying her by no means unmerited compliments, that my -landlady came whirling out of the ground-floor front, and sent the poor -girl whimpering into the kitchen.</p> - -<p>Were it but for her conduct to her maids I was determined publicly to -denounce her. These poor wretches she causes to lead the lives of -demons; and not content with bullying them all day, she sleeps at night -in the same room with them, so that she may have them up before -daybreak, and scold them while they are dressing.</p> - -<p>Certain it is, that between her and Miss Clapperclaw, on the first -floor, the poor wenches led a dismal life. My dear Miss Clapperclaw, I -hope you will excuse me for having placed you in the title-page of my -little book, looking out of your accustomed window, and having your -eye-glasses ready to spy the whole street, which you know better than -any inhabitant of it.</p> - -<p>It is to you that I owe most of my knowledge of our neighbours; from you -it is that most of the facts and observations contained in these brief -pages are taken. Many a night, over our tea, have we talked amiably -about our neighbours and their little failings; and as I know that you -speak of mine pretty freely, why let me say, my dear Bessy, that if we -have not built up Our Street between us, at least we have pulled it to -pieces.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 397px;"> -<a href="images/facing008_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/facing008_sml.jpg" width="397" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>A STREET COURTSHIP.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Baker.</i> How them curl papers do become you, Miss Molly.<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Miss Molly.</i> Git ’long now, Baker, do.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_BUNGALOW_CAPTAIN_AND_MRS_BRAGG" id="THE_BUNGALOW_CAPTAIN_AND_MRS_BRAGG"></a>THE BUNGALOW—CAPTAIN AND MRS. BRAGG.</h2> - -<p>Long, long ago, when Our Street was the country—a stagecoach between us -and London passing four times a-day—I do not care to own that it was a -sight of Flora Cammysole’s face, under the card of her mamma’s “Lodgings -to Let,” which first caused me to become a tenant of Our Street. A fine -good-humoured lass she was then; and I gave her lessons (part out of the -rent) in French and flower-painting. She has made a fine rich marriage -since, although her eyes have often seemed to me to say, “Ah, Mr. T., -why didn’t you, when there was yet time, and we both of us were free, -propose—you know what?” “Psha! Where was the money, my dear madam?”</p> - -<p>Captain Bragg, then occupied in building Bungalow Lodge—Bragg, I say, -living on the first floor, and entertaining sea-captains, merchants, and -East Indian friends with his grand ship’s plate, being disappointed in a -project of marrying a director’s daughter, who was also a second-cousin -once removed of a peer, sent in a fury for Mrs. Cammysole, his landlady, -and proposed to marry Flora off-hand, and settle four hundred a-year<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> -upon her. Flora was ordered from the back parlour (the Ground-floor -occupies the Second-floor bed-room), and was on the spot made acquainted -with the splendid offer which the First-floor had made her. She has been -Mrs. Captain Bragg these twelve years.</p> - -<p>You see her portrait, and that of the brute, her husband, on the -opposite side of the page.</p> - -<p>Bragg to this day wears anchor-buttons, and has a dress-coat with a gold -strap for epaulets, in case he should have a fancy to sport them. His -house is covered with portraits, busts, and miniatures of himself. His -wife is made to wear one of the latter. On his sideboard are pieces of -plate, presented by the passengers of the Ram Chunder to Captain Bragg. -“The Ram Chunder East Indiaman, in a gale, off Table Bay;” “The -Outward-bound Fleet, under convoy of Her Majesty’s frigate Loblollyboy, -Captain Gutch, beating off the French squadron, under Commodore Leloup -(the Ram Chunder, S.E. by E., is represented engaged with the Mirliton -corvette);” “The Ram Chunder standing into the Hooghly, with Captain -Bragg, his telescope, and speaking-trumpet, on the poop;” “Captain Bragg -presenting the Officers of the Ram Chunder to General Bonaparte at St. -Helena”—<span class="smcap">Titmarsh</span> (this fine piece was painted by me when I was in -favour with Bragg); in a word, Bragg and the Ram Chunder are all over -the house.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 409px;"> -<a href="images/facing010_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/facing010_sml.jpg" width="409" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>CAPTAIN AND MRS. BRAGG OF OUR STREET.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span></p> - -<p>Although I have eaten scores of dinners at Captain Bragg’s charge, yet -his hospitality is so insolent that none of us who frequent his -mahogany, feel any obligation to our braggart entertainer.</p> - -<p>After he has given one of his great heavy dinners he always takes an -opportunity to tell you, in the most public way, how many bottles of -wine were drunk. His pleasure is to make his guests tipsy, and to tell -everybody how and when the period of inebriation arose. And Miss -Clapperclaw tells me that he often comes over laughing and giggling to -her, and pretending that he has brought <i>me</i> into this condition—a -calumny which I fling contemptuously in his face.</p> - -<p>He scarcely gives any but men’s parties, and invites the whole club home -to dinner. What is the compliment of being asked, when the whole club is -asked too, I should like to know? Men’s parties are only good for boys. -I hate a dinner where there are no women. Bragg sits at the head of his -table, and bullies the solitary Mrs. Bragg.</p> - -<p>He entertains us with stories of storms which he, Bragg, encountered—of -dinners which he, Bragg, has received from the Governor-General of -India—of jokes which he, Bragg, has heard; and however stale or odious -they may be, poor Mrs. B. is always expected to laugh.</p> - -<p>Woe be to her if she doesn’t, or if she laughs at anybody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> else’s jokes. -I have seen Bragg go up to her and squeeze her arm with a savage grind -of his teeth, and say, with an oath, “Hang it, madam, how dare you laugh -when any man but your husband speaks to you? I forbid you to grin in -that way. I forbid you to look sulky. I forbid you to look happy, or to -look up, or to keep your eyes down to the ground. I desire you will not -be trapesing through the rooms. I order you not to sit as still as a -stone.” He curses her if the wine is corked, or if the dinner is -spoiled, or if she comes a minute too soon to the club for him, or -arrives a minute too late. He forbids her to walk, except upon his arm. -And the consequence of his ill-treatment is, that Mrs. Cammysole and -Mrs. Bragg respect him beyond measure, and think him the first of human -beings.</p> - -<p>“I never knew a woman who was constantly bullied by her husband who did -not like him the better for it,” Miss Clapperclaw says. And though this -speech has some of Clapp’s usual sardonic humour in it, I can’t but -think there is some truth in the remark.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 408px;"> -<a href="images/facing013_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/facing013_sml.jpg" width="408" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>A STUDIO IN OUR STREET.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="LEVANT_HOUSE_CHAMBERS" id="LEVANT_HOUSE_CHAMBERS"></a>LEVANT HOUSE CHAMBERS.<br /><br /> -MR. RUMBOLD, A.R.A., AND MISS RUMBOLD.</h2> - -<p>When Lord Levant quitted the country and this neighbourhood, in which -the tradesmen still deplore him, No. 56, known as Levantine House, was -let to the Pococurante Club, which was speedily bankrupt (for we are too -far from the centre of town to support a club of our own); it was -subsequently hired by the West Diddlesex Railroad; and is now divided -into sets of Chambers, superintended by an acrimonious housekeeper, and -by a porter in a sham livery, who, if you won’t find him at the door, -you may as well seek at the Grapes public-house, in the little lane -round the corner. He varnishes the japan-boots of the dandy lodgers; -reads Mr. Pinkney’s <i>Morning Post</i> before he lets him have it; and -neglects the letters of the inmates of the Chambers generally.</p> - -<p>The great rooms, which were occupied as the salons of the noble Levant, -the coffee-rooms of the Pococurante (a club where the play was furious, -as I am told), and the board-room and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> manager’s-room of the West -Diddlesex, are tenanted now by a couple of artists; young Pinkney the -miniaturist, and George Rumbold the historical-painter. Miss Rumbold, -his sister, lives with him, by the way; but with that young lady of -course we have nothing to do.</p> - -<p>I knew both these gentlemen at Rome, when George wore a velvet doublet -and a beard down to his chest, and used to talk about high art at the -Café Greco. How it smelled of smoke, that velveteen doublet of his, with -which his stringy red beard was likewise perfumed! It was in his studio -that I had the honour to be introduced to his sister, the fair Miss -Clara; she had a large casque with a red horse-hair plume (I thought it -had been a wisp of her brother’s beard at first), and held a tin-headed -spear in her hand, representing a Roman warrior in the great picture of -Caractacus George was painting—a piece sixty-four feet by eighteen. The -Roman warrior blushed to be discovered in that attitude: the tin-headed -spear trembled in the whitest arm in the world. So she put it down, and -taking off the helmet also, went and sat in a far corner of the studio, -mending George’s stockings; whilst we smoked a couple of pipes, and -talked about Raphael being a good deal overrated.</p> - -<p>I think he is; and have never disguised my opinion about the -“Transfiguration.” And all the time we talked, there were Clara’s eyes -looking lucidly out from the dark corner in which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> she was sitting, -working away at the stockings. The lucky fellow! They were in a dreadful -state of bad repair when she came out to him at Rome, after the death of -their father, the Reverend Miles Rumbold.</p> - -<p>George while at Rome painted “Caractacus;” a picture of “Non Angli sed -Angeli,” of course; a picture of “Alfred in the Neat-herd’s Cottage,” -seventy-two feet by forty-eight; (an idea of the gigantic size and -Michael-Angelesque proportions of this picture may be formed, when I -state that the mere muffin, of which the outcast king is spoiling the -baking, is two feet three in diameter); and the deaths of Socrates, of -Remus, and of the Christians under Nero respectively. I shall never -forget how lovely Clara looked in white muslin, with her hair down, in -this latter picture, giving herself up to a ferocious Carnifex (for -which Bob Gaunter the architect sat), and refusing to listen to the mild -suggestions of an insinuating Flamen; which character was a gross -caricature of myself.</p> - -<p>None of George’s pictures sold. He has enough to tapestry Trafalgar -Square. He has painted since he came back to England “The flaying of -Marsyas;” “The smothering of the little boys in the Tower;” “A plague -scene during the great pestilence;” “Ugolino on the seventh day after he -was deprived of victuals,” &c. For although these pictures have great -merit, and the writhings of Marsyas, the convulsions of the little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span> -prince, the look of agony of St. Lawrence on the gridiron, &c., are -quite true to nature, yet the subjects somehow are not agreeable; and if -he hadn’t a small patrimony, my friend George would starve.</p> - -<p>Fondness for art leads me a great deal to this studio. George is a -gentleman, and has very good friends, and good pluck too. When we were -at Rome there was a great row between him and young Heeltap, Lord -Boxmoor’s son, who was uncivil to Miss Rumbold; (the young -scoundrel—had I been a fighting man I should like to have shot him -myself!) Lady Betty Bulbul is very fond of Clara, and Tom Bulbul, who -took George’s message to Heeltap, is always hanging about the studio. At -least I know that I find the young jackanapes there almost every day; -bringing a new novel, or some poisonous French poetry, or a basket of -flowers, or grapes, with Lady Betty’s love to her dear Clara—a young -rascal with white kids, and his hair curled every morning. What business -has <i>he</i> to be dangling about George Rumbold’s premises, and sticking up -his ugly pug-face as a model for all George’s pictures?</p> - -<p>Miss Clapperclaw says Bulbul is evidently smitten, and Clara too. What! -would she put up with such a little fribble as that, when there is a man -of intellect and taste who—but I won’t believe it. It is all the -jealousy of women.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 403px;"> -<a href="images/facing017_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/facing017_sml.jpg" width="403" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>SOME OF OUR GENTLEMEN.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="SOME_OF_THE_SERVANTS_IN_OUR_STREET" id="SOME_OF_THE_SERVANTS_IN_OUR_STREET"></a>SOME OF THE SERVANTS IN OUR STREET.</h2> - -<p>These gentlemen have two clubs in our quarter—for the butlers at the -Indiaman, and for the gents in livery at the Paddington Arms—of either -of which societies I should like to be a member. I am sure they could -not be so dull as Our Club at the Poluphloisboio, where one meets the -same neat clean respectable old fogies every day.</p> - -<p>But with the best wishes, it is impossible for the present writer to -join either the Plate Club or the Uniform Club (as these <i>réunions</i> are -designated), for one could not shake hands with a friend who was -standing behind your chair—or nod a how-dye-do to the batter who was -pouring you out a glass of wine;—so that what I know about the gents in -our neighbourhood is from mere casual observation. For instance, I have -a slight acquaintance with, 1, Thomas Spavin, who commonly wears the -above air of injured innocence, and is groom to Mr. Joseph Green, of Our -Street. “<i>I</i> tell why the Brougham oss is out of condition, and why -Desperation broke out all in a lather! Osses will this eavy weather; -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> Desperation was always the most mystest hoss I ever see.—<i>I</i> take -him out with Mr. Anderson’s ounds—I’m above it. I allis was too timid -to ride to ounds by natur; and Colonel Sprigs’ groom as says he saw me, -is a liar,” &c., &c.</p> - -<p>Such is the tenor of Mr. Spavin’s remarks to his master. Whereas all the -world in Our Street knows that Mr. Spavin spends at least a hundred -a-year in beer; that he keeps a betting-book; that he has lent Mr. -Green’s black Brougham horse to the omnibus driver; and at a time when -Mr. G. supposed him at the veterinary surgeon’s, has lent him to a -livery stable, which has let him out to that gentleman himself, and -actually driven him to dinner behind his own horse.</p> - -<p>This conduct I can understand, but I cannot excuse—Mr. Spavin may; and -I leave the matter to be settled betwixt himself and Mr. Green.</p> - -<p>The second is Monsieur Sinbad, Mr. Clarence Bulbul’s man, whom we all -hate Clarence for keeping.</p> - -<p>Mr. Sinbad is a foreigner, speaking no known language, but a mixture of -every European dialect—so that he may be an Italian brigand, or a -Tyrolese minstrel, or a Spanish smuggler, for what we know. I have heard -say that he is neither of these, but an Irish Jew.</p> - -<p>He wears studs, hair-oil, jewellery, and linen shirt fronts, very finely -embroidered but not particular for whiteness. He generally<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span> appears in -faded velvet waistcoats of a morning, and is always perfumed with stale -tobacco. He wears large rings on his hands, which look as if he kept -them up the chimney.</p> - -<p>He does not appear to do anything earthly for Clarence Bulbul, except to -smoke his cigars, and to practise on his guitar. He will not answer a -bell, nor fetch a glass of water, nor go of an errand, on which, <i>au -reste</i>, Clarence dares not send him, being entirely afraid of his -servant, and not daring to use him, or to abuse him, or to send him -away.</p> - -<p>3. Adams—Mr. Champignon’s man—a good old man in an old livery coat -with old worsted lace—so very old, deaf, surly, and faithful, that you -wonder how he should have got into the family at all, who never kept a -footman till last year, when they came into the street.</p> - -<p>Miss Clapperclaw says she believes Adams to be Mrs. Champignon’s father, -and he certainly has a look of that lady, as Miss C. pointed out to me -at dinner one night, whilst old Adams was blundering about amongst the -hired men from Gunter’s, and falling over the silver dishes.</p> - -<p>4. Fipps, the buttoniest page in all the street, walks behind Mrs. -Grimsby with her prayer-book, and protects her.</p> - -<p>“If that woman wants a protector” (a female acquaintance remarks), -“Heaven be good to us—she is as big as an ogress, and has an upper lip -which many a Cornet of the Life Guards might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> envy. Her poor dear -husband was a big man, and she could beat him easily, and did too. Mrs. -Grimsby, indeed! Why, my dear Mr. Titmarsh, it is Glumdalca walking with -Tom Thumb.”</p> - -<p>This observation of Miss C.’s is very true, and Mrs. Grimsby might carry -her prayer-book to church herself. But Miss Clapperclaw, who is pretty -well able to take care of herself too, was glad enough to have the -protection of the page when she went out in the fly to pay visits: and -before Mrs. Grimsby and she quarrelled at whist at Lady Pocklington’s.</p> - -<p>After this merely parenthetic observation, we come to 4, one of her -ladyship’s large men, Mr. Jeames—a gentleman of vast stature and -proportions, who is almost nose to nose with us as we pass her -ladyship’s door on the outside of the omnibus. I think Jeames has a -contempt for a man whom he witnesses in that position. I have fancied -something like that feeling showed itself (as far as it may in a -well-bred gentleman accustomed to society) in his behaviour, while -waiting behind my chair at dinner.</p> - -<p>But I take Jeames to be, like most giants, good-natured, lazy, stupid, -soft-hearted, and extremely fond of drink. One night, his lady being -engaged to dinner at Nightingale House, I saw Mr. Jeames resting himself -on a bench at the Pocklington Arms: where, as he had no liquor before -him, he had probably exhausted his credit.</p> - -<p>Little Spitfire, Mr. Clarence Bulbul’s boy, the wickedest little varlet -that ever hung on to a cab, was “chaffing” Mr. Jeames,</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 403px;"> -<a href="images/facing021_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/facing021_sml.jpg" width="403" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>WHY OUR NURSEMAIDS LIKE KENSINGTON GARDENS.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind">holding up to his face a pot of porter almost as big as the young -potifer himself.</p> - -<p>“Vill you now, Bigun, or vont you?” Spitfire said; “if you’re thursty, -vy dont you say so and squench it, old boy?”</p> - -<p>“Dont ago on makin fun of me—I can’t abear chaffin,” was the reply of -Mr. Jeames, and tears actually stood in his fine eyes, as he looked at -the porter and the screeching little imp before him.</p> - -<p>Spitfire (real name unknown) gave him some of the drink: I am happy to -say Jeames’s face wove quite a different look when it rose gasping out -of the porter; and I judge of his dispositions from the above trivial -incident.</p> - -<p>The last boy in the sketch, 6, need scarcely be particularized. Doctor’s -boy; was a charity boy; stripes evidently added on to a pair of the -doctor’s clothes of last year—Miss Clapperclaw pointed this out to me -with a giggle.—Nothing escapes that old woman.</p> - -<p>As we were walking in Kensington Gardens she pointed me out Mrs. Braggs -nursery-maid, who sings so loud at church, engaged with a Life -Guardsman, whom she was trying to convert probably. My virtuous friend -rose indignant at the sight.</p> - -<p>“That’s why these minxes like Kensington Gardens,” she cried. “Look at -the woman: she leaves the baby on the grass, for the giant to trample -upon; and that little wretch of a Hastings Bragg is riding on the -monster’s cane.”</p> - -<p>Miss C. flew up and seized the infant, waking it out of its sleep,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> and -causing all the gardens to echo with its squalling. “I’ll teach you to -be impudent to me,” she said to the nursery-maid, with whom my vivacious -old friend, I suppose, has had a difference; and she would not release -the infant until she had rung the bell of Bungalow Lodge, where she gave -it up to the footman.</p> - -<p>The giant in scarlet had slunk down toward Knightsbridge meanwhile. The -big rogues are always crossing the Park and the Gardens, and hankering -about Our Street.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 396px;"> -<a href="images/facing023_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/facing023_sml.jpg" width="396" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>A STREET CEREMONY.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="WHAT_SOMETIMES_HAPPENS_IN_OUR_STREET" id="WHAT_SOMETIMES_HAPPENS_IN_OUR_STREET"></a>WHAT SOMETIMES HAPPENS IN OUR STREET.</h2> - -<p>It was before old Hunkington’s house that the mutes were standing, as I -passed and saw this group at the door. The charity-boy with the hoop is -the son of the jolly-looking mute; he admires his father, who admires -himself too, in those bran-new, sables. The other infants are the spawn -of the alleys about Our Street. Only the parson and the typhus fever -visit those mysterious haunts, which lie couched about our splendid -houses like Lazarus at the threshold of Dives.</p> - -<p>Those little ones come crawling abroad in the sunshine, to the annoyance -of the beadles, and the horror of a number of good people in the street. -They will bring up the rear of the procession anon, when the grand -omnibus with the feathers, and the fine coaches with the long-tailed -black horses, and the gentlemen’s private carriages with the shutters -up, pass along to Saint Waltheof’s.</p> - -<p>You can hear the slow bell tolling clear in the sunshine already, -mingling with the crowing of Punch, who is passing down<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> the street with -his show; and the two musics make a queer medley.</p> - -<p>Not near so many people, I remark, engage Punch now as in the good old -times. I suppose our quarter is growing too genteel for him.</p> - -<p>Miss Bridget Jones, a poor curate’s daughter in Wales, comes into all -Hunkington’s property, and will take his name, as I am told. Nobody ever -heard of her before. I am sure Captain Hunkington, and his brother -Barnwell Hunkington, must wish that the lucky young lady had never been -heard of to the present day.</p> - -<p>But they will have the consolation of thinking that they did their duty -by their uncle, and consoled his declining years. It was but last month -that Millwood Hunkington (the Captain) sent the old gentleman a service -of plate; and Mrs. Barnwell got a reclining carriage at a great expense, -from Hobbs and Dobbs’s, in which the old gentleman went out only once.</p> - -<p>“It is a punishment on those Hunkingtons,” Miss Clapperclaw remarks; -“upon those people who have been always living beyond their little -incomes, and always speculating upon what the old man would leave them, -and always coaxing him with presents which they could not afford, and he -did not want. It is a punishment upon those Hunkingtons to be so -disappointed.”</p> - -<p>“Think of giving him plate,” Miss C. justly says, “who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> had chests-full; -and sending him a carriage, who could afford to buy all Long Acre. And -everything goes to Miss Jones Hunkington. I wonder will she give the -things back?” Miss Clapperclaw asks. “I wouldn’t.”</p> - -<p>And indeed I don’t think Miss Clapperclaw would.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="SOMEBODY_WHOM_NOBODY_KNOWS" id="SOMEBODY_WHOM_NOBODY_KNOWS"></a>SOMEBODY WHOM NOBODY KNOWS.</h2> - -<p>That pretty little house, the last in Pocklington Square, was lately -occupied by a young widow lady who wore a pink bonnet, a short silk -dress, sustained by crinoline, and a light blue mantle, or over-jacket -(Miss C. is not here to tell me the name of the garment); or else a -black velvet pelisse, a yellow shawl, and a white bonnet; or else—but -never mind the dress, which seemed to be of the handsomest sort money -could buy—and who had very long glossy black ringlets, and a peculiarly -brilliant complexion,—No. 96 Pocklington Square, I say, was lately -occupied by a widow lady named Mrs. Stafford Molyneux.</p> - -<p>The very first day on which an intimate and valued female friend of mine -saw Mrs. Stafford Molyneux stepping into a Brougham, with a splendid bay -horse, and without a footman (mark, if you please, that delicate sign of -respectability), and after a moment’s examination of Mrs. S. M.’s -toilette, her manners, little dog, carnation-coloured parasol, &c., Miss -Elizabeth Clapperclaw clapped to the opera-glass with which she had been -regarding the new inhabitant of Our Street, came away from the window in -a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span> great flurry, and began poking her fire in a fit of virtuous -indignation.</p> - -<p>“She’s very pretty,” said I, who had been looking over Miss C.’s -shoulder at the widow with the flashing eyes and drooping ringlets.</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Miss Clapperclaw, tossing up her virgin -head with an indignant blush on her nose. “It’s a sin and a shame that -such a creature should be riding in her carriage, forsooth, when honest -people must go on foot.”</p> - -<p>Subsequent observations confirmed my revered fellow-lodger’s anger and -opinion. We have watched Hansom cabs standing before that lady’s house -for hours; we have seen Broughams, with great flaring eyes, keeping -watch there in the darkness; we have seen the vans from the <i>comestible</i> -shops drive up and discharge loads of wines, groceries, French plums, -and other articles of luxurious horror. We have seen Count Wowski’s -drag, Lord Martingale’s carriage, Mr. Deuceace’s cab drive up there time -after time; and (having remarked previously the pastry-cook’s men arrive -with the trays and <i>entrées</i>) we have known that this widow was giving -dinners at the little house in Pocklington Square—dinners such as -decent people could not hope to enjoy.</p> - -<p>My excellent friend has been in a perfect fury when Mrs. Stafford -Molyneux, in a black velvet riding-habit, with a hat<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> and feather, has -come out and mounted an odious grey horse, and has cantered down the -street, followed by her groom upon a bay.</p> - -<p>“It won’t last long—it must end in shame and humiliation,” my dear Miss -C. has remarked, disappointed that the tiles and chimney-pots did not -fall down upon Mrs. Stafford Molyneux’s head, and crush that cantering -audacious woman.</p> - -<p>But it was a consolation to see her when she walked out with a French -maid, a couple of children, and a little dog hanging on to her by a blue -ribbon. She always held down her head then—her head with the drooping -black ringlets. The virtuous and well-disposed avoided her. I have seen -the Square-keeper himself look puzzled as she passed; and Lady -Kicklebury walking by with Miss K., her daughter, turn away from Mrs. -Stafford Molyneux, and fling back at her a ruthless Parthian glance that -ought to have killed any woman of decent sensibility.</p> - -<p>That wretched woman, meanwhile, with her rouged cheeks (for rouge it -<i>is</i>, Miss Clapperclaw swears, and who is a better judge?) has walked on -conscious, and yet somehow braving out the Street. You could read pride -of her beauty, pride of her fine clothes, shame of her position, in her -downcast black eyes.</p> - -<p>As for Mademoiselle Trampoline, her French maid, she would stare the sun -itself out of countenance. One day she tossed up her head as she passed -under our windows with a look</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 406px;"> -<a href="images/facing028_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/facing028_sml.jpg" width="406" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>THE LADY WHOM NOBODY KNOWS.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind">of scorn that drove Miss Clapperclaw back to the fire-place again.</p> - -<p>It was Mrs. Stafford Molyneux’s children, however, whom I pitied the -most. Once her boy, in a flaring tartan, went up to speak to Master -Roderick Lacy, whose maid was engaged ogling a policeman; and the -children were going to make friends, being united with a hoop which -Master Molyneux had, when Master Roderick’s maid, rushing up, clutched -her charge to her arms, and hurried away, leaving little Molyneux sad -and wondering.</p> - -<p>“Why won’t he play with me, mamma?” Master Molyneux asked—and his -mother’s face blushed purple as she walked away.</p> - -<p>“Ah—Heaven help us and forgive us!” said I; but Miss C. can never -forgive the mother or child; and she clapped her hands for joy one day -when we saw the shutters up, bills in the windows, a carpet hanging out -over the balcony, and a crowd of shabby Jews about the steps—giving -token that the reign of Mrs. Stafford Molyneux was over. The -pastry-cooks and their trays, the bay and the grey, the Brougham and the -groom, the noblemen and their cabs, were all gone; and the tradesmen in -the neighbourhood were crying out that they were done.</p> - -<p>“Serve the odious minx right!” says Miss C.; and she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> played at picquet -that night with more vigour than I have known her manifest for these -last ten years.</p> - -<p>What is it that makes certain old ladies so savage upon certain -subjects? Miss C. is a good woman; pays her rent and her tradesmen; -gives plenty to the poor; is brisk with her tongue—kind-hearted in the -main; but if Mrs. Stafford Molyneux and her children were plunged into a -cauldron of boiling vinegar, I think my revered friend would not take -her out.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_MAN_IN_POSSESSION" id="THE_MAN_IN_POSSESSION"></a>THE MAN IN POSSESSION.</h2> - -<p>For another misfortune which occurred in Our Street we were much more -compassionate. We liked Danby Dixon, and his wife Fanny Dixon still -more. Miss C. had a paper of biscuits, and a box of preserved apricots -always in the cupboard, ready for Dixon’s children—provisions by the -way which she locked up under Mrs. Cammysole’s nose, so that our -landlady could by no possibility lay a hand on them.</p> - -<p>Dixon and his wife had the neatest little house possible (No. 16, -opposite 96), and were liked and respected by the whole street. He was -called Dandy Dixon when he was in the Dragoons, and was a light weight, -and rather famous as a gentleman rider. On his marriage, he sold out and -got fat; and was indeed a florid, contented, and jovial gentleman.</p> - -<p>His little wife was charming—to see her in pink, with some miniature -Dixons in pink too, round about her, or in that beautiful grey dress, -with the deep black lace flounces, which she wore at my Lord Comandine’s -on the night of the private<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> theatricals, would have done any man good. -To hear her sing any of my little ballads, “Know’st thou the -Willow-tree?” for instance, or “The Rose upon my balcony,” or “The -Humming of the Honey-bee” (far superior, in <i>my</i> judgment, and in that -of <i>some good judges</i> likewise, to that humbug Clarence Bulbul’s -ballads)—to hear her, I say, sing these, was to be in a sort of small -Elysium. Dear, dear, little Fanny Dixon! she was like a little chirping -bird of Paradise. It was a shame that storms should ever ruffle such a -tender plumage.</p> - -<p>Well, never mind about sentiment.—Danby Dixon, the owner of this little -treasure, an ex-captain of dragoons, and having nothing to do, and a -small income, wisely thought he would employ his spare time, and -increase his revenue. He became a Director of the Cornaro Life Insurance -Company, of the Tregulpho tin-mines, and of four or five railroad -companies. It was amusing to see him swaggering about the City in his -clinking boots, and with his high and mighty dragoon manners. For a time -his talk about shares after dinner was perfectly intolerable; and I for -one was always glad to leave him in the company of sundry very dubious -capitalists who frequented his house, and walk up to hear Mrs. Fanny -warbling at the piano, with her little children about her knees.</p> - -<p>It was only last season that they set up a carriage—the modestest -little vehicle conceivable—driven by Kirby, who had</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 401px;"> -<a href="images/facing033_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/facing033_sml.jpg" width="401" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>THE MAN IN POSSESSION.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind">been in Dixon’s troop in the regiment, and had followed him into private -life as coachman, footman, and page.</p> - -<p>One day lately I went into Dixon’s house, hearing that some calamities -had befallen him, the particulars of which Miss Clapperclaw was desirous -to know. The creditors of the Tregulpho mines had got a verdict against -him as one of the directors of that company; the engineer of the Little -Diddlesex Junction had sued him for two thousand three hundred -pounds—the charges of that scientific man for six weeks’ labour in -surveying the line. His brother directors were to be discovered nowhere; -Windham, Dodgin, Mizzlington, and the rest, were all gone long ago.</p> - -<p>When I entered, the door was open—there was a smell of smoke in the -dining-room, where a gentleman at noon-day was seated with a pipe and a -pot of beer—a man in possession indeed, in that comfortable pretty -parlour, by that snug round table where I have so often seen Fanny -Dixon’s smiling face.</p> - -<p>Kirby, the ex-dragoon, was scowling at the fellow, who lay upon a little -settee reading the newspaper, with an evident desire to kill him. Mrs. -Kirby, his wife, held little Danby, poor Dixon’s son and heir. Dixon’s -portrait smiled over the sideboard still, and his wife was up stairs in -an agony of fear, with the poor little daughters of this bankrupt, -broken family.</p> - -<p>This poor soul had actually come down and paid a visit<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> to the man in -possession. She had sent wine and dinner to “the gentleman down stairs,” -as she called him in her terror. She had tried to move his heart, by -representing to him how innocent Captain Dixon was, and how he had -always paid, and always remained at home when everybody else had fled. -As if her tears, and simple tales and entreaties, could move that man in -possession out of the house, or induce him to pay the costs of the -action which her husband had lost.</p> - -<p>Danby meanwhile was at Boulogne, sickening after his wife and children. -They sold everything in his house—all his smart furniture, and neat -little stock of plate; his wardrobe and his linen, “the property of a -gentleman gone abroad;” his carriage by the best maker; and his wine -selected without regard to expense. His house was shut up as completely -as his opposite neighbour’s; and a new tenant is just having it fresh -painted inside and out, as if poor Dixon had left an infection behind.</p> - -<p>Kirby and his wife went across the water with the children and Mrs. -Fanny—she has a small settlement; and I am bound to say that our mutual -friend Miss Elizabeth C. went down with Mrs. Dixon in the fly to the -Tower Stairs, and stopped in Lombard Street by the way.</p> - -<p>So it is that the world wags: that honest men and knaves alike are -always having ups and downs of fortune, and that we are perpetually -changing tenants in Our Street.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 403px;"> -<a href="images/facing035_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/facing035_sml.jpg" width="403" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>THE LION OF THE STREET.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_LION_OF_THE_STREET" id="THE_LION_OF_THE_STREET"></a>THE LION OF THE STREET.</h2> - -<p>What people can find in Clarence Bulbul, who has lately taken upon -himself the rank and dignity of Lion of our Street, I have always been -at a loss to conjecture.</p> - -<p>“He has written an Eastern book of considerable merit,” Miss Clapperclaw -says; but hang it, has not everybody written an Eastern book? I should -like to meet anybody in society now who has not been up to the second -cataract. An Eastern book, forsooth! My Lord Castleroyal has done -one—an honest one; my Lord Youngent another—an amusing one; my Lord -Woolsey another—a pious one; there is “The Cutlet and the Cabob”—a -sentimental one; “Timbuctoothen”—a humorous one, all ludicrously -overrated, in my opinion, not including my own little book, of which a -copy or two is still to be had by the way.</p> - -<p>Well, then, Clarence Bulbul, because he has made part of the little tour -that all of us know, comes back and gives himself airs, forsooth, and -howls as if he were just out of the great Libyan desert.</p> - -<p>When we go and see him, that Irish Jew courier, whom I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> have before had -the honour to describe, looks up from the novel which he is reading in -the ante-room, and says, “Mon maitre est au Divan,” or, “Monsieur -trouvera Monsieur dans son serail,” and relapses into the Comte de -Montechristo again.</p> - -<p>Yes, the impudent wretch has actually a room in his apartments on the -ground-floor of his mother’s house, which he calls his harem. When Lady -Betty Bulbul (they are of the Nightingale family) or Miss Blanche comes -down to visit him, their slippers are placed at the door, and he -receives them on an ottoman, and these infatuated women will actually -light his pipe for him.</p> - -<p>Little Spitfire, the groom, hangs about the drawing-room, outside the -harem forsooth! so that he may be ready when Clarence Bulbul claps hands -for him to bring the pipes and coffee.</p> - -<p>He has coffee and pipes for everybody. I should like you to have seen -the face of old Bowly, his college-tutor, called upon to sit -cross-legged on a divan, a little cup of bitter black Mocha put into his -hand, and a large amber-muzzled pipe stuck into his mouth by Spitfire, -before he could so much as say it was a fine day. Bowly almost thought -he had compromised his principles by consenting so far to this Turkish -manner.</p> - -<p>Bulbul’s dinners are, I own, very good; his pilaffs and curries -excellent. He tried to make us eat rice with our fingers, it is true;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> -but he scalded his own hands in the business, and invariably bedizened -his shirt, so he has left off the Turkish practice, for dinner at least, -and uses a fork like a Christian.</p> - -<p>But it is in society that he is most remarkable; and here he would, I -own, be odious, but he becomes delightful, because all the men hate him -so. A perfect chorus of abuse is raised round about him. “Confounded -impostor,” says one; “Impudent jackass,” says another; “Miserable -puppy,” cries a third; “I’d like to wring his neck,” says Bruff, -scowling over his shoulder at him. Clarence meanwhile nods, winks, -smiles, and patronises them all with the easiest good-humour. He is a -fellow who would poke an archbishop in the apron, or clap a duke on the -shoulder, as coolly as he would address you and me.</p> - -<p>I saw him the other night, at Mrs. Bumpsher’s grand let off. He flung -himself down cross-legged upon a pink satin sofa, so that you could see -Mrs. Bumpsher quiver with rage in the distance, Bruff growl with fury -from the further room, and Miss Pim, on whose frock Bulbul’s feet -rested, look up like a timid fawn.</p> - -<p>“Fan me, Miss Pim,” said he of the cushion. “You look like a perfect -Peri to-night. You remind me of a girl I once knew in Circassia—Ameena, -the sister of Schamyle Bey. Do you know, Miss Pim, that you would fetch -twenty thousand piastres in the market at Constantinople?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Law, Mr. Bulbul!” is all Miss Pim can ejaculate; and having talked over -Miss Pim, Clarence goes off to another houri, whom he fascinates in a -similar manner. He charmed Mrs. Waddy by telling her that she was the -exact figure of the Pacha of Egypt’s second wife. He gave Miss Tokely a -piece of the sack in which Zuleikah was drowned; and he actually -persuaded that poor little silly Miss Vain to turn Mahometan, and sent -her up to the Turkish Ambassador’s, to look out for a mufti.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 405px;"> -<a href="images/facing039_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/facing039_sml.jpg" width="405" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>THE DOVE OF THE STREET.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_DOVE_OF_OUR_STREET" id="THE_DOVE_OF_OUR_STREET"></a>THE DOVE OF OUR STREET.</h2> - -<p>If Bulbul is our Lion, Young Oriel may be described as The Dove of our -Colony. He is almost as great a pasha among the ladies as Bulbul. They -crowd in flocks to see him at Saint Waltheof’s, where the immense height -of his forehead, the rigid asceticism of his surplice, the twang with -which he intones the service, and the namby-pamby mysticism of his -sermons, has turned all the dear girls’ heads for some time past. While -we were having a rubber at Mrs. Chauntry’s, whose daughters are -following the new mode, I heard the following talk (which made me revoke -by the way) going on, in what was formerly called the young lady’s room, -but is now styled the Oratory.</p> - -<h3>THE ORATORY.</h3> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" summary=""> - -<tr><td> MISS CHAUNTRY.<br /> - MISS DE L’AISLE.<br /></td> -<td> </td> -<td> MISS ISABEL CHAUNTRY.<br /> - MISS PYX.<br /></td></tr> - -<tr><td>REV. L. ORIEL.<br /></td><td> </td> - -<td>REV. O. SLOCUM—[<i>In the further room.</i>]</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><i>Miss Chauntry</i> (<i>sighing</i>).—Is it wrong to be in the Guards, dear Mr. -Oriel?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Miss Pyx.</i>—She will make Frank de Boots sell out when he marries.</p> - -<p><i>Mr. Oriel.</i>—To be in the Guards, dear sister? The church has always -encouraged the army. Saint Martin of Tours was in the army; Saint Louis -was in the army; Saint Waltheof, our patron, Saint Witikind of -Aldermanbury, Saint Wamba, and Saint Walloff were in the army. Saint -Wapshot was captain of the guard of Queen Boadicea; and Saint Werewolf -was a major in the Danish cavalry. The holy Saint Ignatius of Loyola -carried a pike, as we know; and——</p> - -<p><i>Miss de l’Aisle.</i>—Will you take some tea, dear Mr. Oriel?</p> - -<p><i>Oriel.</i>—This is not one of <i>my</i> feast days, Sister Emma. It is the -feast of Saint Wagstaff of Walthamstow.</p> - -<p><i>The Young Ladies.</i>—And we must not even take tea!</p> - -<p><i>Oriel.</i>—Dear sisters, I said not so. <i>You</i> may do as you list; but I -am strong (<i>with a heart-broken sigh</i>); don’t ply me (<i>he reels</i>). I -took a little water and a parched pea after matins. To-morrow is a flesh -day, and—and I shall be better then.</p> - -<p><i>Rev. O. Slocum</i> (<i>from within</i>).—Madam, I take your heart with my -small trump.</p> - -<p><i>Oriel.</i>—Yes, better! dear sister; it is only a passing—a—weakness.</p> - -<p><i>Miss I. Chauntry.</i>—He’s dying of fever.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Miss Chauntry.</i>—I’m so glad De Boots need not leave the Blues.</p> - -<p><i>Miss Pyx.</i>—He wears sackcloth and cinders inside his waistcoat.</p> - -<p><i>Miss De l’Aisle.</i>—He’s told me to-night he is going to—to—Ro-o-ome. -[<i>Miss De l’Aisle bursts into tears.</i>]</p> - -<p><i>Rev. O. Slocum.</i>—My lord, I have the highest club, which gives the -trick and two by honours.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Thus, you see, we have a variety of clergymen in Our Street. Mr. Oriel -is of the pointed Gothic school, while old Slocum is of the good old -tawny port-wine school; and it must be confessed that Mr. Gronow, at -Ebenezer, has a hearty abhorrence for both.</p> - -<p>As for Gronow, I pity him, if his future lot should fall where Mr Oriel -supposes that it will.</p> - -<p>And as for Oriel, he has not even the benefit of purgatory, which he -would accord to his neighbour Ebenezer; while old Slocum pronounces both -to be a couple of humbugs; and Mr. Mole, the demure little beetle-browed -chaplain of the little church of Avemary Lane, keeps his sly eyes down -to the ground when he passes any one of his black-coated brethren.</p> - -<p>There is only one point on which, my friends, they seem agreed. Slocum -likes port, but who ever heard that he neglected his poor? Gronow, if he -comminates his neighbour’s congrega<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span>tion, is the affectionate father of -his own. Oriel, if he loves pointed Gothic and parched peas for -breakfast, has a prodigious soup-kitchen for his poor; and as for little -Father Mole, who never lifts his eyes from the ground, ask our doctor at -what bedsides he finds him, and how he soothes poverty and braves misery -and infection.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_BUMPSHERS" id="THE_BUMPSHERS"></a>THE BUMPSHERS.</h2> - -<p>No. 6 Pocklington Gardens (the house with the quantity of flowers in the -windows, and the awning over the entrance), George Bumpsher, Esquire, -M.P. for Humborough (and the Beaustalks, Kent).</p> - -<p>For some time after this gorgeous family came into our quarter, I -mistook a bald-headed stout person, whom I used to see looking through -the flowers on the upper windows, for Bumpsher himself or for the butler -of the family; whereas it was no other than Mrs. Bumpsher, without her -chesnut wig; and who is at least three times the size of her husband.</p> - -<p>The Bumpshers and the house of Mango at the Pineries vie together in -their desire to dominate over the neighbourhood; and each votes the -other a vulgar and purse-proud family. The fact is, both are City -people. Bumpsher, in his mercantile capacity, is a wholesale stationer -in Thames Street; and his wife was daughter of an eminent bill-broking -firm, not a thousand miles from Lombard Street.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span></p> - -<p>He does not sport a coronet and supporters upon his London plate and -carriages; but his country-house is emblazoned all over with those -heraldic decorations. He puts on an order when he goes abroad, and is -Count Bumpsher of the Roman States—which title he purchased from the -late Pope (through Prince Polonia the banker) for a couple of thousand -scudi.</p> - -<p>It is as good as a coronation to see him and Mrs. Bumpsher go to Court. -I wonder the carriage can hold them both. On those days Mrs. Bumpsher -holds her own drawing-room before her Majesty’s; and we are invited to -come and see her sitting in state, upon the largest sofa in her rooms. -She has need of a stout one, I promise you. Her very feathers must weigh -something considerable. The diamonds on her stomacher would embroider a -full-sized carpet-bag. She has rubies, ribbons, cameos, emeralds, gold -serpents, opals, and Valenciennes lace, as if she were an immense sample -out of Howell and James’s shop.</p> - -<p>She took up with little Pinkney at Rome, where he made a charming -picture of her, representing her as about eighteen, with a cherub in her -lap, who has some liking to Bryanstone Bumpsher, her enormous, vulgar -son; now a Cornet in the Blues, and anything but a cherub, as those -would say who saw him in his uniform jacket.</p> - -<p>I remember Pinkney when he was painting the picture, Bryanstone being -then a youth in what they call a skeleton suit</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 414px;"> -<a href="images/facing044_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/facing044_sml.jpg" width="414" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>VENUS AND CUPID.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span></p> - -<p>(as if such a pig of a child could ever have been dressed in anything -resembling a skeleton)—I remember, I say, Mrs. B. sitting to Pinkney in -a sort of Egerian costume, her boy by her side, whose head the artist -turned round and directed it towards a piece of gingerbread, which he -was to have at the end of the sitting.</p> - -<p>Pinkney, indeed, a painter!—a contemptible little humbug, and parasite -of the great! He has painted Mrs. Bumpsher younger every year for these -last ten years—and you see in the advertisements of all her parties his -odious little name stuck in at the end of the list. I’m sure, for my -part, I’d scorn to enter her doors, or be the toady of any woman.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/image045.jpg" width="300" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="JOLLY_NEWBOY_ESQ_MP" id="JOLLY_NEWBOY_ESQ_MP"></a>JOLLY NEWBOY, ESQ., M.P.</h2> - -<p>How different it is with the Newboys, now, where I have an -entrée—(having indeed had the honour in former days to give lessons to -both the ladies)—and where such a quack as Pinkney would never be -allowed to enter! A merrier house the whole quarter cannot furnish. It -is there you meet people of all ranks and degrees, not only from our -quarter but from the rest of the town. It is there that our great man, -the Right Honourable Lord Comandine, came up and spoke to me in so -encouraging a manner that I hope to be invited to one of his lordship’s -excellent dinners (of which I shall not fail to give a very flattering -description) before the season is over. It is there you find yourself -talking to statesmen, poets, and artists—not sham poets like Bulbul, or -quack artists like that Pinkney—but to the best members of all society. -It is there I made the sketch in the frontispiece while Miss -Chesterforth was singing a deep-toned tragic ballad, and her mother -scowling behind her. What a buzz and clack and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> chatter there was in the -room to be sure! When Miss Chesterforth sings everybody begins to talk. -Hicks and old Fogy were on Ireland; Bass was roaring into old Pump’s -ears (or into his horn rather) about the Navigation Laws; I was engaged -talking to the charming Mrs. Short; while Charley Bonham (a mere prig, -in whom I am surprised that the women can see anything) was pouring out -his fulsome rhapsodies in the ears of Diana White. Lovely, lovely Diana -White! were it not for three or four other engagements, I know a heart -that would suit you to a T.</p> - -<p>Newboy’s I pronounce to be the jolliest house in the street. He has only -of late had a rush of prosperity, and turned Parliament man; for his -distant cousin, of the ancient house of Newboy of ——shire dying, -Fred—then making believe to practice at the bar, and living with the -utmost modesty in Gray’s Inn Road—found himself master of a fortune, -and a great house in the country, of which getting tired, as in the -course of nature he should, he came up to London, and took that fine -mansion in our Gardens. He represents Mumborough in Parliament, a seat -which has been time out of mind occupied by a Newboy.</p> - -<p>Though he does not speak, being a great deal too rich, sensible, and -lazy, he somehow occupies himself with reading blue books, and indeed -talks a great deal too much good sense<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> of late over his dinner-table, -where there is always a cover for the present writer.</p> - -<p>He falls asleep pretty assiduously too after that meal—a practice which -I can well pardon in him—for, between ourselves, his wife, Maria -Newboy, and his sister, Clarissa, are the loveliest and kindest of their -sex, and I would rather hear their innocent prattle, and lively talk -about their neighbours, than the best wisdom from the wisest man that -ever wore a beard.</p> - -<p>Like a wise and good man he leaves the question of his household -entirely to the woman. They like going to the play. They like going to -Greenwich. They like coming to a party at bachelor’s hall. They are up -to all sorts of fun, in a word; in which taste the good-natured Newboy -acquiesces, provided he is left to follow his own.</p> - -<p>It was only on the 17th of the month that, having had the honour to dine -at the house, when, after dinner, which took place at eight, we left -Newboy to his blue books, and went up stairs and sang a little to the -guitar afterwards—it was only on the 17th December, the night of Lady -Sowerby’s party, that the following dialogue took place in the boudoir, -whither Newboy, blue books in hand, had ascended.</p> - -<p>He was curled up with his House of Commons boots on his wife’s -arm-chair, reading his eternal blue books, when Mrs. N. entered from her -apartment, dressed for the evening.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 406px;"> -<a href="images/facing049_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/facing049_sml.jpg" width="406" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>THE STREET DOOR KEY.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Mrs. N.</i>—Frederic, wont you come?</p> - -<p><i>Mr. N.</i>—Where?</p> - -<p><i>Mrs. N.</i>—To Lady Sowerby’s.</p> - -<p><i>Mr. N.</i>—I’d rather go to the black hole in Calcutta. Besides, this -Sanitary Report is really the most interesting—[<i>he begins to read.</i>]</p> - -<p><i>Mrs. N.</i> (<i>piqued</i>)—Well; Mr. Titmarsh will go with us.</p> - -<p><i>Mr. N.</i>—Will he? I wish him joy!</p> - -<p>At this puncture Miss Clarissa Newboy enters in a pink paletôt, trimmed -with swansdown—looking like an angel—and we exchange glances of—what -shall I say?—of sympathy on both parts, and consummate rapture on mine. -But this is by-play.</p> - -<p><i>Mrs. N.</i>—Good night, Frederic. I think we shall be late.</p> - -<p><i>Mr. N.</i>—You won’t wake me, I daresay; and you don’t expect a public -man to sit up.</p> - -<p><i>Mrs. N.</i>—It’s not you, it’s the servants. Cocker sleeps very heavily. -The maids are best in bed, and are all ill with the influenza. I say, -Frederic dear, don’t you think you had better give me <small>YOUR CHUBB KEY</small>?</p> - -<p>This astonishing proposal, which violates every recognised law of -society—this demand which alters all the existing state of things—this -fact of a woman asking for a door-key, struck me with a terror which I -cannot describe, and impressed me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> with the fact of the vast progress of -Our Street. The door-key! What would our grandmother, who dwelt in this -place when it was a rustic suburb, think of its condition now, when -husbands stay at home, and wives go abroad with the latch-key?</p> - -<p>The evening at Lady Sowerby’s was the most delicious we have spent for -long, long days.</p> - -<p>Thus it will be seen that everybody of any consideration in Our Street -takes a line. Mrs. Minimy (34) takes the homœopathic line, and has -<i>soirées</i> of doctors of that faith. Lady Pocklington takes the -capitalist line; and those stupid and splendid dinners of hers are -devoured by loan-contractors, and railroad princes. Mrs. Trimmer (38) -comes out in the scientific line, and indulges us in rational evenings, -where history is the lightest subject admitted, and geology and the -sanitary condition of the metropolis form the general themes of -conversation. Mrs. Brumby plays finely on the bassoon, and has evenings -dedicated to Sebastian Bach, and enlivened with Handel. At Mrs. -Maskleyn’s they are mad for charades and theatricals.</p> - -<p>They performed last Christmas in a French piece, by Alexandre Dumas, I -believe—“La Duchesse de Montefiasco,” of which I forget the plot, but -everybody was in love with everybody else’s wife, except the hero, Don -Alonzo, who was ardently attached to the Duchess, who turned out to be -his grandmother. The piece was translated by Lord Fiddle-faddle, Tom -Bulbul</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 406px;"> -<a href="images/facing051_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/facing051_sml.jpg" width="406" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>A SCENE OF PASSION.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind">being the Don Alonzo; and Mrs. Roland Calidore (who never misses an -opportunity of acting in a piece in which she can let down her hair) was -the Duchess.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Alonzo.</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You know how well he loves you, and you wonder<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To see Alonzo suffer, Cunegunda?—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ask if the chamois suffer when they feel<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Plunged in their panting sides the hunter’s steel?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or when the soaring heron or eagle proud,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pierced by my shaft, comes tumbling from the cloud,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ask if the royal birds no anguish know,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The victims of Alonzo’s twanging bow?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then ask him if he suffers—him who dies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pierced by the poisoned glance that glitters from your eyes!<br /></span> -<span class="i8">[<i>He staggers from the effect of the poison.</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Duchess.</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Alonzo loves—Alonzo loves! and whom?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His grandmother! O hide me gracious tomb!<br /></span> -<span class="i10">[<i>Her Grace faints away.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Such acting as Tom Bulbul’s I never saw. Tom lisps atrociously, and -uttered the passage, “You athk me if I thuffer,” in the most absurd way. -Miss Clapperclaw says he acted pretty well, and that I only joke about -him because I am envious, and wanted to act a part myself.—I envious -indeed!</p> - -<p>But of all the assemblies, feastings, junkettings, déjeunes, soirées, -conversaziones, dinner-parties, in Our Street, I know of none pleasanter -than the banquets at Tom Fairfax’s; one of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> which this enormous -provision-consumer gives seven times a-week. He lives in one of the -little houses of the old Waddilove Street quarter, built long before -Pocklington Square and Pocklington Gardens and the Pocklington family -itself had made their appearance in this world.</p> - -<p>Tom, though he has a small income, and lives in a small house, yet sits -down one of a party of twelve to dinner every day of his life; these -twelve consisting of Mrs. Fairfax, the nine Misses Fairfax, and Master -Thomas Fairfax—the son and heir to twopence-halfpenny a-year.</p> - -<p>It is awkward just now to go and beg pot-luck from such a family as -this; because, though a guest is always welcome, we are thirteen at -table—an unlucky number, it is said. This evil is only temporary, and -will be remedied presently, when the family will be thirteen <i>without</i> -the occasional guest, to judge from all appearances.</p> - -<p>Early in the morning Mrs. Fairfax rises, and cuts bread and butter from -six o’clock till eight; during which time the nursery operations upon -the nine little graces are going on. We only see a half dozen of them at -this present moment, and in the present authentic picture, the remainder -dwindling off upon little chairs by their mamma.</p> - -<p>The two on either side of Fairfax are twins—awarded to him by singular -good fortune; and he only knows Nancy from Fanny</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 404px;"> -<a href="images/facing053_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/facing053_sml.jpg" width="404" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>THE HAPPY FAMILY.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind">by having a piece of tape round the former’s arm. There is no need to -give you the catalogue of the others. She, in the pinafore in front, is -Elizabeth, goddaughter to Miss Clapperclaw, who has been very kind to -the whole family; that young lady with the ringlets is engaged by the -most solemn ties to the present writer, and it is agreed that we are to -be married as soon as she is as tall as my stick.</p> - -<p>If his wife has to rise early to cut the bread and butter, I warrant -Fairfax must be up betimes to earn it. He is a clerk in a Government -Office; to which duty he trudges daily, refusing even twopenny -omnibuses. Every time he goes to the shoemaker’s he has to order eleven -pairs of shoes, and so can’t afford to spare his own. He teaches the -children Latin every morning, and is already thinking when Tom shall he -inducted into that language. He works in his garden for an hour before -breakfast. His work over by three o’clock, he tramps home at four, and -exchanges his dapper coat for that dressing-gown in which he appears -before you,—a ragged but honourable garment in which he stood -(unconsciously) to the present designer.</p> - -<p>Which is the best, his old coat or Sir John’s bran new one? Which is the -most comfortable and becoming, Mrs. Fairfax’s black velvet gown, (which -she has worn at the Pocklington Square parties these twelve years, and -in which I protest she looks like a queen), or that new robe which the -milliner has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> has just brought home to Mrs. Bumpsher’s, and into which -she will squeeze herself on Christmas day?</p> - -<p>Miss Clapperclaw says that we are all so charmingly contented with -ourselves that not one of us would change with his neighbour; and so, -rich and poor, high and low, one person is about as happy as another in -Our Street.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/backcover.jpg" width="371" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Our Street, by M. A. 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