CHAPTER VII - The Two Tall Daughters

 Before a week had passed over, Barney most bitterly repented him of the foolish step he had taken; but it was of no use to repine, and, indeed, he had no one to whom he could descant upon his sufferings, having so completely worried Mrs. Garatty with the subject, that, at length, she refused to listen to him, contenting herself with bidding him stay his month out, when she would endeavour to find him a better situation; explaining to him, that it was his only chance of receiving any part of the wages due to him. And grievously as her counsel afflicted him, he was reduced to the adoption of it by reasons that have influenced many a better man, and in many a better cause -the failure of other resource. Pride forbade his applying for Mr. Stapleton’s forgiveness, and kept him profoundly silent on the generous offer of that gentleman, which he knew Mrs. Garatty would have insisted on his availing himself of. He still entertained hopes of something wonderful turning {110} up for him, and even contemplated the chances of assistance from his brother Patrick, when he should become an officer of Excise. His only comfort was, that each night, in lying down on his unaccommodating pallet, he reminded himself that another day of his month’s penance had expired. His cheeks, however, visibly faded, and his body wasted, for it seldom happened that his numerous avocations permitted of his accepting the kind offices of Mrs. Garatty, and a difficult achievement it would have been to filch a morsel from “my Lady’s” dinner, or to penetrate that sacred depository, the chiffonier.
 Whether her ladyship perceived the inward decay and outward sulkiness of her serving man, and augured from those symptoms that “he was not long for the world of Curzon Street,” is more than I am enabled to state, although I consider it to be a reasonable surmise; since two days before the arrival (as he thought) of his release, she accosted Barney, who was at the moment placing on the little round table aforesaid, the one single-lady tea-pot, with its uncomfortable et ceteras.
 “Barney,” said she, “it is time we came to an understanding respecting the wages you will have, if you engage to stay with me.” {111}
 Now Mrs, Garatty had provided for this contingency, and had instructed her young friend as to the very lowest sum he could possibly take, so as to cover incidental expences, to feed himself on the most economical plan, and to secure the occasional luxury of clean linen. But the very smallest calculation of the prudent Irishwoman was far, very far, beyond either the ideas or means of the Lady Theodosia Livincourt to comply with. She lifted up her withered hands, in astonishment, at the enormous demand of Barney, which was one moderately in advance of Mrs. Garatty’s standard, and offered a sum so immeasurably below it, that the halfstarved and quite tired youth boldly declared he could not accept it.
 “Then you may leave my house as soon as you please,” returned her Ladyship.
 “If you plase, me Lady, me mont’s up o’ Wednesday; I don’t wish to do anything out o’ coorse, an’ it ud be more agreeable to recave me mont’s wages, afther I’d airned ’em, then to go off now for de sake of a day or two.”
 “A month’s what are you talking about?” said her Ladyship. “You forget, young man, that you came on trial; and, as I find you do not at all answer my expectations, I desire you {112} will go about your business, and that withia an hour of the present time.”
 “Och! murther, murther! its now I’m ruinated all out, root an’ branch, handle an’ blade!” muttered Barney, as he packed up his stock of wearing apparel, which certainly had gained no more than himself in improvement during his sojourn at the “west end.” How’ll ivir I shew de face o’ me to Misthress Garatty, ayther? an’ no manes to pay what I’ve borrid on her; bud face her I must, for its de oney frind I got in de world lift to me; de more fool me to be trowin’ ’em from me, as if they’d be as plinty as sclate stones. What’ll I do at all at all nowt?”
 To Lord Cork’s house he repaired, but with a very different aspect from that assumed at his first visit, when he so boldly inquired if his Lordship were “widin.” Having now attained the privilege of entrée, by means of that useful appendage, “the airy steps,” he soon made his way to his only friend, as, indeed, he had somewhat accurately designated her.
 “Now, Misthress Garatty, dear, what’ll yees be sayin’ for yer born lady, that’s brote me widin an inch o’ my life, its what she has, be starvin’, an’ pinchin’ me very inside out o’ me, an’ now turns me out upon de wide world, widout {113} so much as a charackther to me back, or a praty to put in me mout’, or de manes o’ gettin’ that same. May de devil’s blessin’ light upon her, wherever she goes, an’ all his imps fly off wid herself, for a scrimpin’, starvation, blackavised harridan as she is, wid her wig an’ her fine carriage, ayeh! An’ wearin my shoes out it is I been, an’ niver the ha’porth o’ satisfaction I got for that, nor nothin’ but oney sour looks an’ an empty stummick; an’ I s’pose that’s quality feedin’, Misthress Garatty; bud there niver was a Mahoney, let alone a Callaghan, that found it asy to fatten on that same, I’m thinkin’.”
 “Death alive! Barney alanna! is it thruth ye’re tellin’ me? an’ why didn’t yees stop yer mont’ out?”
 “I say that! Agra! mebbe I uddent be let; an’ more nor that, its my belief its niver intended to stop I was, so I wasn’t; for de cook tells me they’ve had fourteen footmen widin de twelve mont’s, so its not to be tout’ any on ’em kept their places long. An’ de cook herself oney stays becase she hasn’t exactly a charackther, an’ gets ped she does; an’ its no matther, my lady ses, about a charackther for a woman sarvent, becase she lives belo’. Bud, Misthress Garatty, {114} now,what ud harum me, bud I’d take de law on her?”
 “That’s thrue, for ye, Barney. ’tis yer mother’s son’ll make her jig in her jacket, if there’s law to be had in England, or justice ayther. How much was id yees was to have be quarther, avick?”
 “Oh, thin, divil a know meself knows that same, be rason there niver was a word betune de two on us about it at all at all, till this mornin’, I tell yees, an’ then indeed my lady didn’t justly say what she’d be expectin’ to pay me, bud oney bid me take me fut in me hand an’ lave de place. Bud in coorse, I’ll have a right to me wages, Misthress Garatty, won’t I?”
 “Its a bad look out for ye, Barney, I’m thinkin’, if ye’ve no betther hoult than me lady’s conscience for it, an’ she a duke’s daughther, to say nothin’ o’ bein’ a forriner. An’ what’s to be dun I dunnow; but yees’ll just get a half bed, or such a thing, some place, an’ I’ll see an’ move de airth itself, so I will, to get yees somethin’ or other, soonder than yees ud go back to the sod, for issent it more mout’s than Murphys they have of an odd time; an’ its yerself knoes that same, Barney, so yees does.” {115}
 For a very trifling sum our hero obtained the half of a bed, to be shared with a young carpenter, in an apartment which, although at the boasted “west end,” was even by many degrees inferior to that he had occupied in Curzon Street. A daily visit to Mrs, Garatty, in the hope of her having heard of some means of subsistence for him, and to receive such scraps of food as she could spare him, was his chief occupation: having voraciously devoured the insufficient morsels, he would spend the remainder of the day in wandering from shop to shop, repeating the wearisome and fruitless inquiry for “a situation.”
 Passing along Piccadilly one day, he stopped to refresh his ears, (the only organ to be fed gratis in London,) by listening to the conversation of a group of paviors from his native land, who were employed in the never-ending operation, of repaving that persecuted street. It was but seldom, since he had been in London, that the reminiscence of Blackpool had beea forced upon him by the voice of his countrymen; and whether it was owing to the deplorable state of his circumstances, or to some unusual accession of sentiment, would be difficult to determine; but after standing a considerable time {116} with his back against a lamp-post, greedily drinking in the once familiar sounds, he at length burst forth with a vehement Ullagone! ending in a profuse shower of tears, and the exclamation, - “Och hone! och hone I fadher an’ modher! why ’ud ye part de poor b’y, an’ sind him to a forrin land, to be starved an’ kilt wi’ could an’ hunger, so I am. Oh, ullagone! ullagone I what’ll I do at all at all?”
 The labourers paused on their pick-axes, looking with commiseration on Barney; and a gentleman at the moment passing, was also attracted by the display of grief he beheld, and wished, if possible, to assuage.
 “My poor boy,” said he, “you seem in great distress. What part of Ireland are you from?”
 “Yeh! then, I’m from all parts of it at prisent - more’s de pity!”
 “Come with me,” said the gentleman, seeing the crowd were, as usual, evincing their readiness to collect, on this, or any, the most trivial occasion. He led the boy away into a less public street; and, as they proceeded, drew from the now open heart of poor Barney, a full account of his life and misfortunes, as he tenderly named them, since his arrival in London. At the same time expressing such (apparently) sincere contrition {117} for his ungrateful desertion of Mr. Stapleton’s family, as completely won upon the pity of his auditor,
 “What Stapleton is this, who was so kind to you? I know a family of that name, residing in Finsbury Square, could it be the same?”
 “Ah, thin, it was yer honor, an’ no other; an’ its I’m the misfortunit crethur, so I am, iver since wonst I lift the kiver o’ that house, so I am. Its chated out o’ me rights I been, besides starved, an’ wearing out me bewtiful cloes, an’ de niver a know does Barney know where he’ll get another shute to his back, nor which way to turn him, so he doesn’t.”
 “You shall be taken care of in my house,” said Mr. Temple, “at all events, until I hear Mr. Stapleton’s account of you. If that should be satisfactory respecting honesty and your general principles, I will see what can be done for you.”
 “De blessed vargin an’ all de saints be about yer honor, for an honorable gentleman that ye are; an’ as like Mr. Stapleton himself, God bless him, in regard of kindness to a poor b’y, as one pig’s like anodther. Oh! bud if iver such another piece o’ luck would turn up, may be it issent Barney ’ud be de b’y to be stiddy an’ grateful, so he ’ud .” {118}
 By this time they had reached Mr. Temple’s door in South Audley Street. The youth was established in the stable offices, until a letter, immediately addressed to Mr. Stapleton, should decide Mr. Temple how to dispose of him.
 “The boy’s grief seems so genuine,” wrote the latter, “and his appearance so miserably emaciated, that I am willing to hope there is the germ of good conduct firmly implanted in him, and that protection and bread may not unworthily be bestowed upon him. I am willing to give him a trial, as under footman, if I hear from you that he is sober and honest.”
 Mr. Stapleton rejoiced in the opportunity of again serving this “prodigal son,” and the affair was very soon arranged. Mr. Temple’s family was large, and an additional man happened just at that moment to be a desideratum.
 Although possessed of a liberal fortune, yet, as it consisted of landed property, and was not subject to the ebb and flow of an income derived from mercantile speculations, (which, except in some solitary instances of an unvaried course of success, afford painful proofs of the instability of trade,) Mr. Temple was called upon this year rather to exceed his usual rate of expenditure, on the plea of the positive necessity felt by Mrs {119} Temple, to accomplish a match for one, at least, if not for two, of her daughters, before the period of their annual return to Lincolnshire. She had taken the somewhat hazardous step of introducing a second Miss Temple, notwithstanding the first had gone through the customary process of the previous season without having “succeeded,” to use the true Almack’s expression. She had, however, weighty reasons for her adoption of this plan. She had seven remaining daughters progressing in the fens of Lincolnshire, under the superintendance of a German governess; the said, “seven sisters” treading most inconveniently close upon the footsteps of the two elder (though scarcely taller) Misses Temple. Besides, the only pretension to beauty possessed by any and all of the Misses Temple, was that of complexion; and what mother is not aware, that three seasons are a “receipt in full” for claims so humble?
 It was truly provoking, nay, unfortunate, (Mrs. Temple hesitated not to declare,) that nine girls should be saddled upon one mother; and still more distressing that these nine “foolish virgins” should grow up as like each other as “peas in a pod,” and nearly as similar in size. The Temple’s were a tall race: at fourteen they had all arrived at the Temple standard, of five {120} feet eleven; and Mrs. Temple could not avoid the mortification of overhearing, as she entered a room, some one utter the standing joke of, “Here comes Mrs. Temple, and her too tall daughters.”
 There was her friend, Mrs. Barrington: who “could” pity her, although the mother of eight unportioned girls? Look at the diflference! No two of the Barrington’s were alike. Julia Barrington was a splendid blonde. Maria, a merry little brunette. Anna was short, and of delicate figure. Charlotte large, tall, robust, and firesh coloured. In fact, Mrs. Barrington might safely adventure her whole stock in trade in the market at once; and, it was well known, she had done so in one or two instances most successfully, for “everybody” remembered when first Colonel Strathspey began to dangle in their train, how “nobody” thought but it was Miss Barrington who had caught him; and Mrs. Barrington went so far as to launch out to him in praise of the “chosen one,” as she thought her, when the languid admirer, applying his glass to his eye, and levelling the same upon the indolent Caroline, who was prevailing on herself to walk through a quadrille, he uttered, with, for him, unusual spirit, - “If there’s one thing I admire, Mrs. Barrington, it is sentiment!” {119}
 “Ah! indeed, colonel!” returned the wily matron, as, following the direction of his glass she adroitly continued, - “ah! then, Caroline would be exactly to your taste. Really, that dear girl’s feelings are so acute, her sensibilities so powerful, I positively tremble for her future fate; so much, - indeed all, - Colonel Strathspey, depends on the judicious selection of a partner for life; I may candidly own to you, I am at a loss to fix upon an eligible match for Caroline. I assure you she faints at the bare recital of woe, and I am obliged to take an immense bag of change out with me in the carriage, to give the beggars, or her eyes would be absolutely spoiled by weeping, in three weeks’ time, in London. Philippa, as I was remarking to you, a little ago, Colonel Strathspey, Philippa is certainly a very fine, and a very amiable girl; but,” she added, in a lower tone, “she is not to be compared with Caroline in my opinion, Colonel. You see,” she pursued, confidentially bending towards her prey, “you have penetrated the weakness of the mother’s heart; but to tell you the, truth, the world in general have not that delicacy of taste which enables them to perceive Caroline’s superiority, and I seldom expect her to be truly appreciated.” {121}
 “We have all been quite mistaken,” said Mrs, Barrington, addressing her daughters on the morning following this discovery, of the lover’s real object of pursuit; “I am sure I thought, as we all did, it was Philippa the colonel meant to have; and, after all, it seems Caroline is to be the Honourable Mrs. Strathspey. It is no matter, my dears,” she continued, perceiving the distanced Philippa look a little crestfallen, “you may be sure, with my management, you will all be established satisfactorily, and it can be of no sort of consequence which of you go first, or to whom. Caroline, my love! Colonel Strathspey, if I am not mistaken, will call this morning, I should wish you to put on that sweet little Swiss cap you look so well in; and, remember, languor is the colonel’s passion. When he comes, Philippa, you had better give orders in the hall that no one is to be admitted; and perhaps, - I dare say, you have letters to write, or would like to walk, so you need not stay in.”
 It is for want of a little manoeuvring of this kind that many a good match is missed, causing women of no judgment or penetration again and again to perform their annual journies to town with the same load of merchandize, - the same undiminished pack. {123}
 What will you have of it? - In six weeks Caroline Barrington became Mrs. Strathspey; and, at her wedding breakfast, Philippa looked so bewitchingly lovely, that Sir Henry Manvers decided his long wavering mind on the subject of surrender, and the lucky Philippa left town Lady Manvers: so she had nothing to complain of. To be sure. Sir Henry was a profligate and a spendthrift; but, in consideration of these “peculiarities,” a liberal settlement was insisted on in her favour; thus she enjoyed the luxuries of a splendid house and equipage, during the few years it required to run through the remainder of his property, at the end of which time there remained to her a liberal jointure, and he provided himself with - a pistol.
 Few mothers, however, have the luck, or the address, which you will, of Mrs. Barrington. This was a melancholy truth frequently admitted by Mrs. Temple, as she gazed on her long string of milky faced “Templars;” and it was immediately following upon the example of Mrs. Barrington, that she formed the resolution of coming to the contest with a daughter under each wing, not saying to herself, “Thus am I doubly armed,” but, - “Thus am I doubly burthened.” {114}

CHAPTER VIII - The Water Party

 “Really, Mr. Temple, you have no more consideration than an infant, I must say! What an opportunity now was here of an introduction to the Stapletons, if you had called, instead of writing, for this boy’s character. The very people of all others, you know, I wished to cultivate.”
 “Nay, my dear, excuse me; I thought you objected to city acquaintances. I know, you used to say, you would not pay a visit to the eastward of Portland Place.”
 “That was last year, Mr. Temple, when I had but one girl out. Is it not a very different case now? I ask you, vrith two upon my hands, and this Maria’s second season. Is it a time to be fastidious about east and west, with nine such daughters as ours, Mr. Temple? When you knew, too, the Stapletons have two sons, and are rolling in riches!”
 “Which makes it the more probable, my {125} dear, that they will expect wealth with their son’s wives.”
 “That by no means follows. Do we not move in a certain circle, to which the Stapletons never could, but by marriage, gain admission? and is not our rank in life an equivalent for their money?”
 “Some merchants are apt to think otherwise, Mrs. Temple. Besides, these young Stapletons may not be marrying men.”
 “I declare you would provoke a saint! As if all were not ‘marrying’ men that can afford to be so. Or, if not, it rests with the judicious management of mothers to make them so. City youths, too, are often quite unacquainted with the game played at this end of the town, and are caught with almost no trouble.”
 “In that case, my dear, it is a pity you did not take advantage of this ‘golden opportunity,’ to have opened an intimacy with Mrs. Stapleton.”
 “I agree with you, Mr. Temple: indeed, like most other things you undertake, it was but half done, for you omitted all the questions of most importance; and, in fact, I do not consider it would be right or prudent to admit the lad into the house on the slight recommendation given by {126} his late master; and I quite feel that I ought to call upon Mrs. Stapleton, to satisfy myself on the subject. Common prudence demands it.”
 What a comfortable conclusion it is to arrive at, - that of finding ourselves imperatively called on to do the thing we wish.”
 “You may sneer, Mr, Temple; but, if you were the mother of nine unmarried daughters -”
 “Since they are so annoying to you, my love, I could willingly have dispensed with the honour of being their father. These are matters, however, it is quite in vain to complain of. So do not despond: the girls will all do very well in time, no doubt.”
 “Time is not the thing exactly to assist their well-doing, Mr. Temple. Do you observe that the delicacy of Maria’s skin is considerably diminished within the last six months? And have you happened to notice a pimple that has been on her chin these three days? I can safely assert, I have not enjoyed two hours sound sleep since I detected that pimple! Of all other things, I dread eruptions; and on skins so fair there is no palliative. Besides, you know, it is supposed to run in families, and if you produce one pimply girl, (and she the eldest,) you may as well throw up your cards. No good can {127} ensue. So that you see, if I could secure one of the Stapleton’s for Maria, Jane might run another season: though, like misfortunes, marriages seldom come single, I notice. When once a beginning is made, it is truly astonishing sometimes how girls will get pff; and I should not despair of her going this year, if her sister did so, - which would be a great thing, you will allow, my dear; for, you know, Ellen, and Catherine, and Elizabeth, are as tall as they ever will be.” (“Taller, indeed, than anyone can wish them to be,”) sighed the anxious parent. “And it would be a grand point gained, for Maria and Jane to be off the books.”
 “The carriage is at the door, my dear,” said Mr. Temple.
 “Then you advise my going to Finsbury Square, at once, my love?”
 “You know best, my dear, “ was her husband’s reply; who, at all events, felt certain she would follow her own inclination on this point, whichever side his advice might lean to, - and who was most heartily weary of the subject, of his wife, and of his nine daughters.
 The Stapletons had not adopted the fashionable subterfuge of “Not at home;” and, as they happened really to be within, Mrs. {128} Temple was admitted, without even the reference of some surly porter to his list, previous to answering the demand.
 She apologized in neat, set phrase, for the liberty she was (though consciously) taking, explained the motive of her visit, and launched forth in a high strain respecting Mr. Temple’s universal benevolence of disposition, which, she avowed, laid him open to numberless impositions, and was her only plea in extenuation for having requested to see Mrs. Stapleton; since she really did not feel herself justified, she protested, in admitting into her household the lad in question, without having satisfied herself on the minutest points respecting him.
 Mrs. Stapleton gave a slight sketch of the manner in which Barney had been received into her service; which sketch her visitor pronounced “so” satisfactory, and “so” honourable to the relater, that she should ever lament she had not sooner the pleasure of making, as, (bowing,) she flattered herself she had now done, Mrs. Stapleton’s acquaintance, concluding by “venturing to hope, she might send a card of invitation to a rout she was to give on the following Thursday.”
 Good, innocent Mrs. Stapleton, was “obliged,” {129} “flattered,” and so forth, most ingenuously; but suggested that the distance from South Audley Street almost precluded the possibility of availing herself thereof.
 “But this young lady, my dear madam, - surely you will make some little sacrifice to indulge her in the gaieties so agreeable at her age; and, pardon me, you would not, I trusty exclude from the circles of fashion, one so formed to prove their ornament. I have two daughters,” (Mrs. Temple never obtruded the seven Lincolnshire damsels, rising, as the farmers say, next grass,) “I have two daughters who will be too happy to make her acquaintance! We have engaged the first musical talent at present in England for the evening, so that I may hope it would not be time entirely thrown away. Do, my dear madam, allow me to hope, you will, on this occasion, waive your general rule, and indulge my request.”
 “You are exceedingly kind. Madam, and I am sure Fanny will be delighted to come. Should the exertion be too much for me, (for indeed I am not fond of moving after dinner,) her father, or one of her brothers, will, I am sure, escort her.”
 “You astonish me, Madam I” exclaimed Mrs. {130} Temple, elevating her hands and eye-brows with all the appearance of surprize. “Is it possible? You will pardon the freedom of the inquiry, - But can it be possible that you have sons grown up?”
 Now this was a “ruse” that might have been spared with the single-purposed Mrs. Stapleton, she might have thought of manythings, and she might have conjectured many reasons for a person’s visit, but it never would have entered her plain-spoken mind, that Mrs. Temple had come for the express purpose of “son-hunting.” She therefore replied, with the utmost simplicity, “Oh dear, yes - why not? Fanny is the youngest, to be sure; but Fanny’s nineteen, and William, my eldest son, is only twenty-one: so you see there was not much time lost between them.”
 “Miss Stapleton certainly looks much younger than the age you mention. But I confess it was the juvenility of your own appearance, which led to my surprize. However, since the case is so, I have only to add, that either, or both your sons, will be welcome in South Audley Street, and I shall not fail to send them cards for Thursday.”
 Mrs. Temple departed, highly satisfied with {131} the result of her manoeuvre; and the necessary formula having been duly gone through, Thursday evening arrived, and brought with it Fanny Stapleton, together with her two brothers, and an apology that a “severe head-ache precluded her mother the pleasure, &c.”
 “I am grieved beyond measure to hear of her indisposition. “What airs!’’ continued Mrs, Temple, aside to a confidant. “Just to show me, I suppose, that she is rich, and can afford to stay at home.”
 “She has but one daughter, you must recollect,” returned the “friend” in an admonitory tone.
 “For which reason, my dear Mrs. Job Thompson, I shall endeavour to supply her with one or two from my over-abundant stock.”
 Dinner parties, opera parties, and morning exhibitions, were soon brought into action. The Misses Temple found themselves so suddenly and powerfully attached to Fanny, that no amusement could be thought of, in which she was not included. They loudly deplored the state of Mrs. Stapleton’s health, which so frequently caused the substitution of one, or both her sons, as an attendant; but, at the same time, reminded Fanny of the obvious fact, that, as they never went {132} out without “Mama”, it was exactly the same thing “in point of propriety, and all that.”
 To their friends and rivals they descanted ou the kindness they were showing Fanny Stapleton, in “taking her about”, since her mother, they declared, was so indolent, gouty, and purse-proud, that she sacrificed poor Fanny to her own love of ease. It was therefore evident, to those who knew no better, that “poor’’ Miss Stapleton was dependant on their benevolent exertions for her chance of an “establishment.”
 Some there were, who would spitefully inquire, if those two handsome young men were related to the young lady in question.
 “Oh, yes!” was the ready reply, “her brothers. Both engaged, I understand; so Mama lets them come here whenever they like.’’
 This was an answer that answered two purposes. It sometimes blinded the world to the court both mother and daughters paid them; and often turned the tide of attack from any new speculator, who of course felt it in vain to attempt catching a man professedly “not to be had.”
 Fanny was happily unconscious of the motives of their civility, and of their designs upon her brothers. She went into society, to see, and be {133} amused. At the opera her attention was rivetted to the stage, her friends being willing she should run the risk of declared vulgarity, since her abstraction left them unobserved mistresses of the field; that is, the back of the box. With a shew of politeness she was invariably forced to the front of the same, next to Mrs. Temple, whose two tall supporters were placed immediately behind, so as to intercept and effectually baffle the attempts of any - even the most hardened man of ton, who, perchance, attracted by Fanny’s beauty, made his way to the box; and who, after sundry unsatisfactory peeps at the real object of pursuit, through the gauze sleeves of the Temples, was fain, either to commence a flirtation with their wearers, or to rush in despair into the lobby, where his mortification met the certainty of increase in the affected commiseration of his equally disappointed brethren.
 “Ah, ha! Stanley, what, have you, too, been attempting to penetrate beyond the veil of the Temple?”
 “Verily, I wish it were rent in twain, and its pillars shortened of their more than fair proportions.”
 “And thus give you a capital view of the Stapleton, eh? ’tis no use, my boy; there’s {134} nothing for it but a change of principles, if you expect to do anything in that quarter.”
 “How so, Middleton? I flatter myself my principles are very sufficient, gentlemanly-going principles; and for you to object to them is good, at all events.”
 “My dear fellow, I did not mean your morals, or any old-fashioned twaddle of that kind, but your political creed - Radical reform! you dog; nothing less. In short you must become a Pittite! No other chance I assure you. Sorry for you; but you must follow the multitude.”
 “Pshaw! Besides, I’ve tried that, and find it utterly hopeless. The beautiful idiot never takes her eyes off the stage; in fact, it is her only fault, and gives her such an air of gaucherie that, positively, one does not like to commit one’s self in the pit by seeing her. Then, in the crush-room, she is barricadoed between her two endless friends; and I ask any man if it is likely one should get to the speech of her under their voluminous wings. Perhaps you never heard the reason of the immense sleeves of the present day coming into vogue.”
 “Can’t say anything but their unreasonableness ever yet occurred to me.”
 Then you have something to learn yet, so {135} rejoice accordingly; for, in this age of intellectual perfection, it is a blessing you need not expect much longer to enjoy. For my own part, I could hug that man to my heart who had the power of favouring me with a new idea; and to anyone who could, by possibility, excite the long-exhausted, almost-forgotten, sensation of surprise! I should adjudge a handsome annuity for life to be the very least one’s gratitude could offer him.”
 “But the sleeves! These gigots, seduisantes, or whatever they are called -”
 “Spare me, my dear Stanley! Is it from the lips of one of fashion’s professed votaries I hear the long-exploded and half-forgotten names that have been unmentionable these two years at least?”
 “Well, but their purpose? whatever fantastic designation may be granted them for the season. Their purpose? for no one can imagine them of any use.”
 “I beg your pardon. Has it never, then, occurred to a man of your penetration, how completely some devilish fine girl may be screened, shrouded, nay, perfectly concealed, by the damnable drapery of her accompanying friend? Have you never witnessed the address with {136} which the perfect use of the the sleeve is practised at Almacks! Did you ever happen to attempt a conversation with the prettiest giri in the room, that this abominable engine was not put in force by some envious next neighbour? Lastly, have you not, (otherwise you’re a lucky dog,) in the vain hope of counter-march, even levied your forces upon some withering face of three seasons, by way of coming at the more attractive companion on her arm? You must, oh, you must have seen, felt, and understood all this. If not, however, I only ask you to take up a favorable position tonight in the crush room, and there you will behold the accomplishment in perfection, played off by the Misses Temple upon the unconscious Stapleton. I am credibly informed, it was one of their only schoolroom exercises: - and hence the phrase, “To laugh in one’s sleeve,’ eh?”
 If they attended exhibitions or concerts, still Fanny’s eyes or ears paid the most plebeian attention to whatever (as she vulgarly imagined) was the motive of her visit.
 A party to Richmond was proposed and formed; which, by some unaccountable contingencies of will, weather, water, and welfare, actually met with no obstruction in its execution. {137} And, notwithstanding its having been planned, boat hired, band engaged, and dinner ordered, at least a week beforehand, yet, by some almost incredible chance or other, it came to pass that the day appointed was unexceptionable. The tide favourable, wind ditto; even her majesty, the moon, congenial. And not a single , “severe cold,” or “violent head-ache,” pleaded by anyone of the intended party.
 These are things that may occur occasionally, one does not know bow, and can scarcely accept even ocular demonstration of; and the only explanation I can imagine of such an event is, that it comes to give the lie direct to a certain delightful dramatist of our times, who boldly asserted, no longer ago than last summer, upon an impromptu embarkation, that “Water parties should be managed with masonic mystery, inasmuch as rivers (that hight the Thames more especially) were to be taken only by surprize; never failing to turn their tides to the most unpropitious point; to summon the winds to their billowy aid; and call down a deluge of rain upon those injudicious wights who had published a previous intention of adventuring thereon.”
 But what availed it to Fanny’s admirers, that wind, weather, and wealth, conspired to celebrate {138} the day. Again, and as usual, she was wedged in between the two projecting columns of “the Temple”, and every shaft fell short of its aim, much to their delight, and perfectly to her satisfaction. The silvery Thames; its smiling, sunny, and beauteous banks; the clear blue sky above; and the calm, sweet air around; were all, as any of them would have been, sufficient to Fanny’s enjoyment. The languishing airs, and laced-in waists of beaux, she could see any day, and seeing, not admire; but the verdant woods and tempting banks of this far-famed river, lighted up, as they now were, with one of July’s most brilliant days; the myriads of fish she could perceive, sporting within reach of her hand; together with the summer flowers, fringing down to the very margin of the stream, were all sources of enjoyment to the unsophisticated Fanny, whose ideas of rural beauty had been formed by an occasional sojourn at Homsey, or Highgate, during the autumnal months.
 Let it not be supposed we are about to expatiate on the sylvan beauties of Richmond, the woodland charms of Petersham, or the classic claims of Twickenham. We confess that, being within the prescribed distance of ten miles from this tasteful and correct metropolis of ours, {139} they are all, and every of the said places, within the reach of cockneys, therefore cockneyfied. We would suggest that, were matters totally otherwise; that is, were these rural shades removed a hundred miles from London, or London from them, it might be permitted a person of rural perisuasion, to admire, and launch forth in praise of the same; but, existing “where” they are, and “as” we are, nothing remains but to confess that a party to Richmond once, or at most twice, in the course of the summer, is admissible; that, during its progress, flirtations may, in many cases, advance very considerably: also, that Sion House, and Richmond Hill, may severally be noticed as they appear in sight. That the intermediate objects must be passed by, during animated discourses, progressive or perspective, of the Malibran, the Taglioni, or whoever may be the reigning favourite of the day at the Italian Opera. That the Star and Garter (the ultimate, and indeed primary object of the excursion) may be voted an excellent house. Its assembly-room, with the precise number of counties it overlooks, may be safely descanted on; and, on the following Saturday, or Thursday, if it should happen to be a tolerably full night, all the real lovers of music assembled in the pit, may be annoyed, and completely disturbed {140} from all hopes of enjoyment, by an unceasing jargon, treating of nightingales, trees, lanes, hills, boats, bands, moon, and every sort of romantic et cetera, recalled to the memory of, and professed to have been enjoyed by, the bevy of loungers surrounding some box in the lower circle, and filled with their ci-devant and insensible water nymphs.
 If Fanny Stapleton’s “affairs”, as they are called, progressed not during this water party, her constant supporters were less idle. On either side, that is, “outer” side, of these flankers, were posted, first the young Stapletons; and beyond, as many agreeable and eligible men as could be collected, with a very moderate sprinkling of belles, of the second rate order, for Mrs. Temple never encouraged intimacy with what she called extinguishers, excepting in the solitary instance of Fanny Stapleton - and there, as has been shown, she had her reasons. Her play, for the day, had been self-assigned, in contriving that William and Charles Stapleton should hand Maria and Jane into the boat, a process that naturally placed them in close contiguity, and elected them their especial knights. The bye-play was to keep the adjacent, and less desirable men in chat, whenever she perceived symptoms of {141} admiration or flirtation in the wished-for quarter; as also to discover, that there was just a spare hour, between their arrival at the hotel and the time of dinner, for a saunter in the Park; and having marshalled the two pair of doves within the gates thereof, she suddenly felt the sun’s rays overpowering, and drew off the remainder of her battalion to the shades of Petersham. On meeting at dinner, all parties appeared perfectly satisfied with this “division of the house.”
 The return home was by moonlight; a delicious band lending its aid to the improvement of every gentle sentiment. William and Maria, Charles and Jane, were evidently and intently occupied by some subject connected with the natural properties, or peculiar formation, of the bed of the river, to which their regards (those of the sifters especially) were so immoveably directed, that the kind hearted parent studiously avoided breaking in upon the current of their reflexions, and laboured with redoubled energy to keep the remainder of the company in constant chat.
 On laying her wearied limbs to rest, the industrious matron had only strengthleft to say, - “Well, Mr. Temple! if things don’t come to a crisis now, I give it up.”

[End chap.]