Chapter IX - The Elephant and the Cock Lobster

Amongst the extraneous danglers of the party to Richmond, was a Mr. Wallingford, who, although he had for some time paid a certain degree of attention to Miss Temple, yet had his determination never arrived at that tangible shape which alone would render him “acceptable” in the eyes of Mrs. Temple. In other respects, the dame declared, she felt free to confess, he might do very well for one of the nine. Nay, she even contemplated the disposal of three of her girls, by means of his growing passion; for, although Maria and Jane seemed to be appropriated to the two Stapletons, she had a floating project of sending express to Lincolnshire for a reinforcement, since “the article” seemed to increase in demand. She consulted with her husband on the feasibility of transferring the title expectant of Mrs. Charles Stapleton upon Ellen, who might be sent for, and tutored to her purpose. {143}
 “For, to tell you the truth,” said she, “although I should be loth to refuse anyone of the three, yet I have somehow my suspicions that Wallingford is better worth catching than Charles Stapleton. I have lately been led to suppose, that the old merchant has picked up a notion somewhere, of making William an elder son.
 “Why he is the eldest, is he not?”
 “Yes, yes, but I mean in point of fortune, which, you know, is really a species of pride one does not exactly expect from traders. I have an idea that William will be his principal heir; and Charles, perhaps, have little beyond his profession. We know how difficult it is to get on in the law without decided talent; and, poor fellow, he is not liberally furnished in that respect; besides, appearing to me, rather unsteady than otherwise.”
 “In that case, my dear, it would hardly be a prudent marriage for either Jane or Ellen, would it?”
 “Upon my word, Mr. Temple, one would imagine you lived in the city yourself. To be, at this time of day, sporting the antediluvian expression of ‘prudent marriage.’ A match is a match - don’t you see that, Mr. Temple? and can we expect to find nine good ones?” {144}
 “But, my dear, it aoes not appear on evidence, that any, or all of these three men, have proposed yet.”
 “Not positively, my love, certainly; but, if I am not greatly mistaken, there is nothing wanting but opportunity for their so doing.’’
 “Egad! Mrs, Temple, I do not think you have stinted them in that particular, I must say.’’
 “Do you expect the young men of the present age to be knights errant? To pursue their mistresses with ardour and chivalry, and all that sort of thing? If you had the weary task of matronising through only one season, you would not be so ignorant on the subject, Mr. Temple. I have done, it is true, all that mortal mother could do, to assist the girls, yet have I not done more than is absolutely necessary, and universally practised. Moreover, Mr, Temple, if you are not a little more liberal with your champagne in the dinners of the next fortnight, I am by no means secure of success. Recollect, we are in the beginning of August; and, if matters are not arranged within this month, it involves the necessity of going to some watering-place, or retiring to Lincolnshire, and giving up all chance of everything.’’
 “You went to Brighton last autumn, if you {145} recollect, in the full persuasion that Danvers was sufficiently hooked to have followed Maria; yet neither he appeared, nor did any other.’’
 “Brighton, Mr. Temple, is not precisely the field for our girls. I have ascertained that! Their ancles are not calculated for walking the Cliff or the Steyne, and one must do that, or nothing. There is too much variety, too, at Brighton, - too much gaiety. It is but a continuation, on a smaller scale, of London. I should advocate Hastings in preference. It has, I believe, romantic walks, and in skeltered situations - But we will think farther of this, should necessity dictate it.’’
 Mrs. Temple had addressed several questions with all possible delicacy to Charles Stapleton respecting his prospects and profession. She failed in obtaining perfect satisfaction on either subject, and the urgency of the case now determined her on bolder measures. She therefore, on her next opportunity of examination, observed, - “By the bye, you are reading for the bar, I think, Stapleton. I forget whether or no you have been called to it yet.’’
 “In regard to the bar, Mrs. Temple, you know, many are called -”
 “Nay! nay. Now you are going to be prophane {145}, which is in very bad taste - completely exploded in civilized society.’’
 “Pardon me, my dear Madam; I was merely going to remark, that many are called, but hitherto I have not formed one of the number.”
 “Ah! I see. Well, but is not your dear father a little anxious on this point? For instance, now - If you were to marry, what would be your expectations?”
 “If I got the woman I liked, I should expect to be very happy and comfortable,’’ returned the youth, in apparent simplicity.
 “You are so droll! Stapleton; but you know you are a favourite of mine. Do not, however, think me impertinently inquisitive. It is no business of mine, to be sure; but young people are so careless about their future prospectis, What I meant was, in case of your profession not proving satisfactory; and the most brilliant talents, we know, are not always appreciated as they deserve. I really am anxious for your welfare, my dear young friend: in such a case, now, how could you commence housekeeping?”
 “Oh, the governor must ‘fork out,’ I fancy; that is, my father, you know, must ‘come down.’ There’s nothing else for it that I know of.”
 “You surely would satisfy yourself on so {147} important a consideration, before you actually made your proposals?”
 “Oh, yes; of course.”
 This was indefinite, but it did not deter Mrs. Temjde from her scheme of sending for Ellen, immediately, “that Cartwright might examine her teeth;” and as it not unfrequently happens, that not only the actions, but their motives, are, by every servant of the house, as well known as they are to the master and mistress of it, it came to pass that Barney became acquainted with the plan of cheating, as he considered it, the son of his first benefactor. Now whatever roguery might exist in the youth’s own composition, it rendered him not more lenient on perceiving the like vice in others. He also had, during the last few months, met with many worse, and few better men, than his worthy first master; and, after long consideration as to what he could or ought to do, in the way of opening the eyes of Mr. Charles to the designs upon him, he resolved, as in all cases of difficulty, to seek counsel from his unfailing friend, “Misthress Garatty,” whose experience and judgment he had the highest opinion of.
 Accordingly, and as usual, without any circumlocution, he burst forth, with - {148}
 “Hurrush! Misthress Garatty, an’ issent it de divil’s own dalins is goin’ on in Sout’ Audley Street, an’ all again’ my dear young masther, de heavens be his bed, Misther Charles Stapleton, so it is; an’ its what Barney’s nat de b’y to stand idle by, an’ not put himself for’ard to forewarn him of their divilries.”
 “What’s goin’ on, then, Barney, ayeh?’”
 “Why, yees remimber, Misthress Garatty, o’ my tellin’ you of Miss Fanny (God bless her, wheriver she goes, anyway) and de two brothers, of her bein’ for iver an’ always back’ard an’ for’ard wid our people, an’ nothin’ cud pass, nor nobody cud go down bud de three o’ them. Well, we sarvints knoed well enuff what de spoort was, bud in coorse we’d no manes to make nor mar. An’ so Misther Charles, as they think, falls all over, body an’ bones in luve with our Miss Jane. Well, that was all very well, an’ we all tout’ it a dead match, so we did; bud up comes, widin a week or two, a fresh spark, an’ be de blissed St. Bridget, an’ her white tooth, if Masther Charles issent to be hoisted out of his girl, ’cause this Mr, Wallin’ford bid for her, they say, an’ another o’ the breed’s to be sent up out o’ the counthree, an’ right or wrong she’s to be poked down Misther Charles’s {149} trote. Oh! bud that Mother Temple’s a bad on’.’’
 “Barney, Barney, yees shouldn’t spake so disdainful o’ your betthers; its a good place yees a got, an’ who knoes bud its oney fancyin’ yees are about the girl?”
 “I tell yees its no sich thing; an’ de porter had ordthers not to let him in of a day ’till Miss Ellen (that’s de new one) comes; an’ I hard mistess meself tell Misther Wallin’ford she’d take him to de Mart to-night, an’ Misther Charles all’a’s took afore! See that S”
 “Mart! Barney? wheere’s that at all now? an’ what’s she goin’ to buy be candle-light, anyhow?”
 “Its what we -what all we sarvints call de Mart, bud de quality calls it Almacks, - its de grand ball, shoore. -An’ we niver ses nothin’ bud Mother Temple, ayther, belo’ stairs. See that, why! An’ in regard of a good place, you was sayin’, awhile agone, tissent de likes o’ she’d make a good place, or have good sarvints ayther, for aint we all undther de noncumspection of Misthress Grindall, de houskeeper, an’ niver sees color o’ kindness, nor signs of her face, of our rale mistess, so we doesn’t; an’ instead o’ de best of ivery thing, an’ lashin’s of it, as there is {150} in Finsbury Square, arrent we scrimped an’ stinted, an’ fat flaps o’ mutton, an’ offil of all sorts, an’ dhry bread, yees might luck from Banthry to de Bay o’ Biscay widout brakin’ it, an’ such like, we’re fed wid; an’ no use in grumblin’, for then its -Valk yere vamps -at a word, an’ she all de time chargin’ masther (poor man, ’tis he’s de asy man, anyway) de best prices, an’ pocketin’ de differ. Oh, Misthress Garatty dear, its little they dhrames in sweet Blackpool o’ de divil’s Mag’s played up here in London. There’s de butcher, an’ de powltherer, an’ de fishmonger, an’ all de lave o’ de thradesmen, obleedged to give her twenty or thirty pounds a piece at Christmas, or else de custom ’ud be taken away, for she has it all her own way, an’ not one of ’em dares to say black is de white of her eye; for whin, last year, I hard say de lady’s maid had a jealousy agin her, an’ shewed her up to masther, an’ how he was chated an’ that, ses masther, ‘I tell ye what it is,’ ses he, ‘ye are all necessary deevils,’ or evils, I’m not rightly sure which was de word he used, ‘an’ I must ayther be chated be one,’ he ses, ‘or be de whole pack, an’ I prefar bein’ chated in de lump,’ ses he. So all she got was losin’ her place, so she did. Bud now, Misthress {151} Garatty, what’ll I do at all at all in regard o’ puttin’ Misther Charles up to their rigs?”
 “Deed, I’d just giv’ him the smallest hint in life, at a fair opportunity, in a quite way, mindin’ not to risk yer own place at the same time, so I ’ud .”
 “I b’lieve yere right, Misthress Garatty, an’ me thanks to yees de longest day ye has to live, for its good advice I may all’a’s bild on from yees; an’ I’m glad I cum to yees, for me blud b’iled, so it did, whin I hard misthress say somethin’ about settlin’ Ellen upon ‘that gowk, Charles Stapleton.’ Oh, she did, thin. May my black blessin’ light upon her for that same word, now an’ alw’ys’. Amen!”
 The object of Barney’s solicitude had for some time began to see through the manoeuvres of Mrs. Temple. He had awakened his brother’s perceptions on the same subject; and both had agreed, as both were yet actually heart-whole, to fight shy, as they expressed it, of the trap, but to revenge themselves, to the utmost of their ability, on the projectors of their intended captivity. While, therefore, they suffered no diminution in their visits, or outward attentions, to give suspicion of their precaution, they guardedly avoided every quicksand wherein {151} danger might be supposed to lurk. They conti nued unremitting in their morning visits, unwearied in their evening attendance; but not the strictest observation, or the minutest cross-examination of the girls, elicited a single word or tone of more peculiar import than mere politeness sanctioned.
 “’Twas abominably vexatious!” Wallingford, too, seemed to imitate their “backwardness in coming forward:” and the provoked, and almost exhausted mother, had no resource but in redoubled smiles, repeated dinners, and divers, though utterly disregarded, hints of their approaching departure from London!
 Almost in despair, and as a last resource, she once more bent her designing way towards Finsbury Square.
 “My dear Mrs. Stapleton,” said she, “I am come to make a very bold, and a very urgent request. It is that you will allow your charming daughter, and that herself will agree, to accompany us to Hastings. We have taken a charming house on the Parade for three months. I am sure the sea air would do her all the good in the world; and positively, my girls are so dotingly attached to her, that I shall have no peace of my life if I am forced to return to them {153} without your joint promise. Actually, they seem to live only in her presence; and, dear girls! I cannot bear to see them out of spirits. We will engage to do our utmost towards her amusement and comfort, and perhaps her brothers may sometimes run down to see her for a day or two: the distance is nothing: so that she will not feel quite torn from her deservedly beloved home.”
 “I must consult Mr. Stapleton and Fanny,” replied the good lady. “They are both at present out; but whatever their decision may be, I feel assured they will estimate the kindness of your invitation.”
 Mr. Stapleton had no powerful reasons against, and Fanny urged a very sufficient one, as she thought, for the measure, in the fact of her never yet having been more than ten miles from the metropolis; and having, therefore, never yet beheld the sea.
 Her simple wish would have sufficed to her indulgent parents; who parted from their treasure, with regret certainly, but leaving it unexpressed, merely directing her to expect one or both her brothers, ’“when business would permit;” and, in the meantime, if she found the sea air, or any other matter unpleasant to her, {154} to write, and they would instantly discover some necessity for her immediate return home.
 The very journey was, to Fanny, a cause of enjoyment. The roads were good: two days previous rain had effectually laid the dust; the waving corn, and the glittering flowers, were raising their refreshed stems to the influence of the cheering sun. The verdant meadows, and the richly stored hedge-rows, were all sources of astonishment and delight to this town-bred child of nature.
 Her exclamations were loud at the profusion of honey-suckle, wild, positively growing wild in the hedges! The luxurious mandrake; and the no less graceful, though deadly, nightshade, together with the ever-elegant, white-flowering bind-weed, in endless wreaths, throwing their garlands of united beauty on the pure air, had all charms for the fresh and cheerful eye of their admirer; who, happy in herself, and disposed to enjoy whatever beauties of nature or art might come within her observation, fairly wearied out herself, and her less amiable companions, by her rapturous expressions of delight and wonder.
 When, at length, they arrived in sight of the sea in its wondrous expanse, lighted up by the setting sun, like one vast sheet of molten gold, {155} Fanny was - as all must be, who, for the first time, behold this wonder of wonders, this inconceivable object of splendour and majesty - dumb, and even deaf also; for the carriage had stopped, the ladies had entered the house, the maids had vacated the rumble, and the imperials were unstrapped, before the entranced Fanny could be made to understand, she had arrived at her point of destination. Slowly she entered the house, and following her companions up stairs, placed herself at a window overlooking the magnificent sea; and, for the space of half an hour, she remained thus seated and gazing, with no other symptom of life or feeling about her, than might be perceived in the pearly drops that gently fell from her eyes.
 “You are disappointed in the situation of the house, I fear,” observed the vulgar-souled Mrs. Temple. “Breeds Place is thought more select than the Parade; and St. Leonards, I believe, is now still more fashionable, but I think this spot more sheltered, and one sees what is passing both ways; for my own part, I consider St. Leonards quite at the world’s end; at least, so it seems by the map given in the guide book.”
 “Indeed,’’ replied Fanny, rousing herself from {156} her delicious abstraction. “I assure you, I am only too much charmed with everything I see. I never heard of the streets you mention; but, if they have not this prospect, (and she pointed to the water,) I would not, for the world, make the exchange.’’
 Mrs. Temple, of course, did not explain to her visitor all the reasons of her election. She had happened, in the first place, to lay hands on an antiquated Hastings Guide, wherein the “Parade” figured conspicuously, and evidently overlooked “the two” libraries at the time of its publication, the points of attraction and congregation of the comparatively small number of the visitors. It was a grand step, in her estimation, to possess a bird’s-eye view of the libraries. It secured many a fortunate moment of dropping therein, according to observations taken judiciously. On inquiring the rents of different houses, she found, though unable to guess why, those on the Parade infinitely lower than many others the agent named to her, under names, which, not appearing in her book, she concluded to be some unfashionable suburb; and the misled lady had been nearly four-and-twenty hours in Hastings before she discovered her error. An immediate removal was indispensable; and, as they still commanded {157} a view of the sea, it was a matter of perfect indifference to her guest.
 They had not been many days settled in their new abode, before they had noticed, and mentioned, in the course of conversation, a somewhat remarkable pair, seemingly father and son, who never failed meeting them in their daily walks; and, by a certain air of half consciousness, and more than half inclination, to claim acquaintance, induced the general question, “Who can those two men be?” “They know us, I am sure; and the old man, in particular, looks so earnestly at Fanny, that he certainly some day will speak to her.’’ And so he did: to her asto nishment, and apparently to his own self-gratulation, in having achieved a task long felt to be difficult.
 The horrified Mrs. Temple could scarcely command her temper at the temerity of an accolade so contrary to all rule; and, judging from the appearance of the gentlemen, so little to be desired. It is true, she had hitherto met with no friends, and had made no acquaintances, her object being to admit only such as were decidedly eligible. Now the air, the manner, the very garb of this old man, betokened anything but refinement. There was a careless air in the {158} very cut of his snuff-brown suit, that said, - I do not aim or wish to be mistaken for a gentleman; I am, or at least was, a trader, and I don’t care who knows it. I have brought up my son here with the first nobles in the land; and perhaps I can count guineas with them too, and not be ashamed to say how I came by them.
 The son had the look of a man of education, perhaps, but not of high birth; the fear of his father’s affected carelessness hung over him like a cloud: out of his society he passed as an agreeable sort of person enough; but in it, there was a perpetual dread of some ill-bred sally, or coarse expression, from his father, coming to reflect ridicule on him. Yet did he bear all this, and with the patience of a martyr, for he was the only, and he knew himself to be the adored, son of his father, and he was a widower.
 To blow off the London smoke, to see a little of life; and, some day or other, to pick up a wife for Tom; were the avowed objects of the old man’s annual visit to the coast. He was inwardly proud of the youth; had given him an university education; and, farther, had the satisfaction of seeing him, “a well-grown, well-formed, and not ill-looking fellow.” But, although he would miss no opportunity in company, {159} of slily bringing forward Tom’s shining points, yet, if the youth ventured to differ with him, or to evince superior knowledge to his own, on any subject, the testy old man would reprimand him with an air of severity, a stranger to them would have set down as nothing short of hatred to his unfortunate son.
 In addition to this irritability of disposition, he possessed a tiresomely slow utterance of words, and invariably (no uncommon case by the way) began each sentence at least three times; and, when decidedly irate, stammered in a trifling degree. Such, to the best of our powers of description, was old Mr. Barton, formerly dry-salter in the city of London, well known upon ’Change, and some time Alderman of Portsoken; a circumstance which may account for his tenacious patronage of that forsaken beverage, port wine, and of which he felt it a matter of especial duty to swallow three bottles of daily.
 Planting himself firmly before Miss Stapleton, (his inquiries at the library having directed him in the approach,) he commenced as follows: (Mrs. Temple starting sideways, to the utmost verge of the path, resolved at least not to be drawn into the conversation, until she should have ascertained who the “ill-bred old fellow could be.”) {160}  His son on one arm, and a cotton umbrella tucked under the other, he began-
 “I - I believe - I believe, Ma’am, your name is Stapleton?”
 “It is,” replied Fanny, looking surprized.
 “You - you live - you live in Finsbury Square. I know your father very well; leastways, I did know him, when I was in business in Larrance Pountney Lane. His ware’lls jined owrn - we was back to back; and an upright, downstraight, honest Englishman he is, as ever broke bread; and that being the case, I shall - I shall be - I shall be glad to make your acquaintance, Miss; and this - this is - this is my son. Tom! don’t be pinching my arm, you villain; I know what you mean, well enough; I know better, I will speak to her, so be quiet: and he’s had - he’s had a college edication,” he continued, turning again to the perplexed Fanny, who, somewhat bewildered between her recollection of the known principles of Mrs. Temple, and her own good nature, which could not refuse to listen, especially to one who knew and praised her father, stood with a countenance as indefinite as that of Garrick, when assailed by Tragedy and Comedy. “My son -my son here. Miss Stapleton, will be proud to make acquaintance {161} with you, and escort you about; or go on the water, and that; or to the Lover’s Seat, or whatever you like. Miss, whenever you, or these ladies, are in want of a beau.”.
 “You are very good, Sir,” Fanny was beginning; when Mrs. Temple, unable to bear more, exclaimed,  “My dear Miss Stapleton, we must hasten home; there is a heavy shower coming on, I am sure.”
 “Bless your hearts - no such - no such thing, Ma’am,” cried the impenetrable Mr. Barton: but Mrs. Temple persisted in flight, and arrived at home breathless, where throwing herself into a chair, she almost screamed, “Can it be? Have I actually had such words addressed to me by a smoke dried citizen! Bless my heart! indeed; and from the lips of a dry-salter of Larrance something Lane. Oh, when shall I ever feel purified from such impertinent freedom?”
 Fanny, having proceeded to her room, was spared witnessing this scene; and therefore the less surprized, on the following day, notwithstanding Mrs. Temple’s unequivocal horror at the unceremonious approaches of the dry-salter, when she made it her first business to “step to the library,” by way of discovering if Mr. Barton was a person it was indispensable to cut, or {162} a mere eccentric. Here she learned that he was a man of immense fortune, and economical habits; careless of appearances; and with only this son Tom to inherit his thousands.
 The die was cast. Tom was very produceable in the absence of his father. Vulgarity often passed under the name of oddity, and it would be easy to avoid the father in London. Tom was exceedingly well worth looking after, and Tom she resolved to angle for. She could easily have a fourth daughter brought forward, if the three expected London lovers fulfilled her anticipations.
 Fanny did, to be sure, open her eyes a little wider than usual on beholding Mrs. Temple’s smiling recognition of the Bartons; but she placed the affair to the account of kindness towards herself, and sought for no deeper motive.
 “We are not long arrived here, Mr. Barton,” said the lady, graciously, “and have not yet discovered the amusements of the place, perhaps you can enlighten us on the subject. How do you pass your mornings?”
 “Oh, I - Oh, I have my breakfast - I have my breakfast. No, sometimes I bathe - sometimes I bathe first; and then - then I read - then I read the papers -and then I shave.” {163}
 “The barbarian!”
 “What say, Ma’am?”
 “Nothing. Pray, Sir, proceed.”
 “Then, Ma’am, I - Then, Ma’am, I and Tom - Tom and I - we go into the market, and see if - see if there’s - see if there’s any think we fancy for dinner; then we take a stroll; that’s the way we sometimes meets you. Ma’am, and these young ladies, and that fills up till dinner time. Tom! what’s o’clock?” he inquired, “for my appetite says near three.”
 “You take rather a late luncheon,” pursued Mrs. Temple, who determined to ascertain his movements, that she might be qualified to avoid him on occasion.
 “I -I never - I never take luncheon at all,” continued the dry-salter, “I dine - I dine - I dine at three. Its the proper hour. How can - how can a man - how can a man dine later, and have time to take his three bottles quietly. Three o’clock - three o’clock is the best hour for dinner. Its the only - its the only sensible - its the only sensible hour; and whoever dines later is a - whoever dines later is a fool, and a booby, and a jackanapes. Now here is my son Tom, here, pretends to say - to say, it cuts up his day; and I know not - I know not what fantastical {164} folly, as if his -his old father, didn’t know better than him; but he - he thinks - he thinks himself, forsooth, so clever, because he’d a college edication, and knows a - knows - knows an elephant from a cock lobster.”
 A cock lobster was the favourite simile of old Barton. Whenever his son displayed his learning, the elephant and cock lobster rose up in judgment on his father’s tongue. If he passed an opinion, he was told he knew no more of the matter than a cock lobster. If he looked disturbed, or annoyed, he was compared to the obnoxious fish aforesaid; and, if the word came forth stammeringly, with a co-co-co, then was Tom Barton certain his honoured father was in a rage. Oh this occasion he had sinned, in not instantaneously replying to the old man’s question respecting the hour, and he hastened “to the rescue,” in hopes of preventing farther ex posure of his father’s temper. {165}

Chapter X - Battel Abbey

 In describing his morning’s avocations, Mr. Barton had left out the trifling circumstance, that, although he invariably visited the market, and insisted on dragging his son on the same expedition, yet, although inquiring the price of every article he passed, he had never once, during their six weeks’ residence at Hastings, purchased a single thing. After touching, pricing, and cheapening, fish, fowl, and the et ceteras, exposed for sale, declaring all to be too dear, and none to be good enough, the examination ended by his customary sigh, and an observation, that there was nothing in the market fit to put upon a table, and that, after all, “Mutton chops were as good as anything else, and their landlady could get them.”
 “Here’s a beautiful turbot. Sir. I never sold a greater beauty. Look at the thickness of him. Sir: only look, Sir.”
 “Yes, and -and a - and a beautiful price, I {166} suppose, you ask. What have - what have you - what have you now the conscience to ask?’’
 “Twelve shillings, Sir.”
 “Twelve fid-fid-fiddle sticks! I could buy as - buy as good in Leadenhall market for ten.”
 “But the freshness. Sir, consider!”
 “Fresh! Wheugh! that’s the - that’s just the fault of it. There never - there never was a fish yet fit to eat fresh, unless, perhaps, a ‘Terns’ flounder. You -you - you know nothing about fish down here.”
 “Fine soles. Sir! very cheap to-day.”
 “Pooh, pooh; too large - too large to fry, and too small to boil. And what - what’s a sole good for after all? You’ve nothing here but flat fish, wouldn’t give - wouldn’t give a pin, for all the flat fish that ever were caught. What’s that turkey? Like a turkey to-day, Tom?”
 “If you like, Sir.”
 “The woman’s mad: you’ll get a finer, in Leadenhall, I tell you - I tell you, for half the - half the money.”
 “Yes, Sir, I dare say; but poultry’s scarce here. Like a chicken, Sir, or duck; here’s nice ducks.”
 “Foul feeders - foul feeders; hate ducks. Let’s see the chickens. There, take them away {167} - take them away, woman; call them ske-ke-keletons.’’
 “Law, Sir, you are so hard to please; I’m sure, if you know anything of marketing, you must say, my poultry’s not to be bettered any where.”
 “Woman, loo-loo-look at me!” cried the furious dry-salter, at this attack upon his judgment; and opening his coat, he gave to her view the entire surface of his ample waistcoat. “Do you know, woman, that I - I - I am an alderman; and dov - do - do you think, you igno- rant half-marine production, you, that this -this - this,” complacently patting his rotundity,’’ was brought to what it is, under eight and fifty years good feeding, of the best Leadenhall could produce? Come, Tom, we’ll go home, there’s nothing eatable to be had out of London; we’ll e’en to our mutton chops, and be thankful we can have a hamper of wine by the coach.”
 There are few young men who could undergo the daily duties of Tom Barton; but there is one who can, and has done so for years.
 “Now, Tom,” said Mr. Barton, “listen to me, my lad; that’s a - a very - very nice girl, that Miss Stapleton, and her father - father’s a warm man; and you have my leave to strike {168} up to her, for she’ll have a handsome -handsome fortune, my boy! and is not too full of airs -and airs -and airs, and affectation, like most of your heirisses. So follow her up, my boy, that’s all.”
 Tom Barton had formed a little idea of the same nature himself, and was not backward in acting upon his father’s advice; for although Fanny’s wealth was not entirely overlooked by him, yet he perceived other qualifications in her which rendered it but a secondary consideration. He knew that, at his father’s death, he must become possessed of abundance of that necessary article; and as he had seen it so indifferently enjoyed by his father, and others who had it at command, he was less anxious for the period to arrive than might have been expected, considering the restricted nature of his present allowance.
 A consultation between the father and son, as to the most feasible method of improving their infant intimacy with the Temple’s, ended in the very palpable idea of proposing some excursion to the “Lions,” in the vicinity of Hastings. The Lover’s Seat; the Fish Ponds; Old Roar; and Hollington, were severally proposed, and rejected by Mrs. Temple, who inwardly voted them too near, and therefore liable to observation from {169} other visitors; since she would have been shocked to find herself recognized in company with “the horrid old citizen.”
 Battel Abbey was next named, and Mrs. Temple pronounced it to be “an amendment.” She reflected, that its distance from Hastings would lessen the chances of being recognized by any of her fine friends, and then closed with the proposal, by saying, it had long been her anxious wish to behold that relic of the olden time.
 “Olden - Olden,” interrupted Mr. Barton, “Why, Tom, ain’t that the man that makes that stuff you say is so capital for shaving. You kik ki ki; what’s the name of it? Its too long, and too l-l-learned, for me to remember.”
 “Eukeirogenion, I fancy you mean. Sir, “ returned his son.

 “Eukeirogenion,
When e’er I lay eye on,
I firmly rely on,
 A capital shave;
And as for the water,
’tis not a pin matter
From whence derivater,
The well or the wave.”

 “Aye - You kerogue an’ Ion, that’s the {170} name. And ain’t he a pretty conceited chap, my s-s-son, here, Ma’am?’’ he continued, turning to Mrs. Temple, “that can’t be content with g-g-good English soap, as his father was be-f-f-fore him, but must needs send all the way to C-C-Cork, for bottles of this kicky-rogy lion.’’
 “No, not quite so far as Cork, father; I can get it at Barclay’s, in Farringdon Street, or at any perfumers. You acknowledge yourself. Sir, you never performed so luxurious a toilet in your life, as you did on the solitary occasion when I prevailed on you to try it?’’
 “May be so. Sir - may be so; and what then - what th-the-then? Is it fit that I, a citizen of London, or any but a co-co-coxcomb, should use Irish s-s-soap, with a gibberish Greek name, let the comfort of it be what it may? Shaving, Sir, sh-shaving, was invented for the p-p-punishment of sinners, and the more you - more you suffer in the operation, the greater - the greater the merit.”
 “This cannot be a very interesting subject to the ladies, father. Let us proceed to make arrangements for our excursion to Battel.”
 The ladies, it was settled, should occupy the carriage; and old Barton decreed that Tom {171} should hire a gig, in which to drive him as their escort. Mr. Temple was still in London.
 The Misses Temple were professedly accomplished young ladies. They danced pretty well; played and sung when they could not help it; and, in the country, carried sketch-books wherever they went. The climate of England is vastly favourable to sketching ladies. They may sally forth in the utmost confidence that the weather will prove too something or other to permit their using the pencil. Then, at a watering place, are always to be found prints of the neighbouring scenery, which, snugly copied, pass very well as their original sketches, “taken when no one was present.”
 The five ladies occupied the open barouche, and it was suggested that the gentlemen should precede them, as they approached the town, in order to put up their horse, and rejoin them at the Abbey. From the inn, therefore, the father and son proceeded to the Abbey gates, where they were received with the customary demand for tickets.
 “Tickets for what?” asked young Barton.
 “Of admission. Sir. They are indispensible. If you are not provided, you have merely to go to the inn, and write down your names, {172} when they will be given without farther difficulty.”
 “Now this - now this - this is - this is what I call a precious piece of foolery. So, Mr. - Mr. - Mr. What’s-your-name -”
 “I am the porter, Sir.”
 “You may be - you may be ca-ca-called porter; but, egad. Sir, you look more like small b-b-b-beer, and pretty considerably sour too. Now, Mister Swipes, do you per-perceive the folly of this piece of humbug. Here, I may jaunt back to the - to the inn; and, if I choose, write myself down Mr. - Mr. Aminadab Rattletrap, and you’ll let me in; whereas, if I - if I t-t-tell you my own name - Pshaw, Sir, you’re a - you’re a fool. Sir.”
 “The customary regulations. Sir,” returned the man, perfectly unmoved by the anger usually expressed, though not always in such plain terms, on the occasion; “Sir Godfrey’s orders. Sir: I’ve nothing to do but execute them.”
 Back to the inn they trudged, where the dry-salter’s rage again burst on the head of its landlord. “My name. Sir - my name is - Old Tom Barton, dry-salter, of Larrance Pountney Lane; may have heard it in the city, heh! And th-th-this is my son Tom here; and, to {173} save trouble, there’s f-f-five ladies a coming, in a barush, Mrs. Temple, and three Miss Temple’s, and Miss Stapleton; so put them down too: and now you - you - you have it all: no, not all; hearkee, Mr. Innkeeper, I see the drift of this here-this here, and I’ll tell you how I’ll serve you; we should all - all, the s-s-seven of us, a comed here to a snack; but, Sir, I’ll be d-d -’’
 Here his son interposed, to spare him the expression on the tip of his tongue, reminding him the ladies would be waiting for them. They proceeded to join them at the Abbey, which, having once more regained, they handed them from the carriage, and, armed with their tickets, were silently ushered through the gateway, by the aforesaid sour-visaged porter.
 Here two other men approached, to guide them, and to receive, no doubt, their fees; one of whom, pointing to the books of the ladies, ’“begged pardon, but no one was allowed to sketch the abbey or grounds.”
 “Not allowed to sketch!’’ exclaimed young Barton, who thought himself bound in gallantry to support what he innocently believed to be the real wish of his charge; “What can be the reason of so arbitrary an order?” {174}
 “Sir Godfrey says the Habby’s been drawed times anew, and there’s no occasion not for no more views to be taken on it.”
 “Gad! that’s - that’s - that’s true enough, I believe: you ca-ca-can’t blame him for that: I would d-d-do the same myself, if I were in his place. Pray, Mr. P-P-Porter, or ale, or v-v-vinegar, whichever you call yourself, what’s the lowest charge for seeing the house? for as these -these - for as these ladies and me, and my son here, has took all the trouble to come and put down our names - our names, and all that, we sha’n’t mind a t-t-trifle now we are here.”
 “Its quite hoptional. Sir: gentlefolks gives what they likes. Sir Godfrey -”
 “Damn Sir Godfrey, Sirrah; if you throw him in my - in my - in my teeth again, I’ll break your ill-looking head.”
 “Father, remember the ladies are present,” interposed the young man; “do not put yourself out of the way about such a trifle. Come, take charge of Mrs. Temple, I will settle all these matters.”
 Grumbling and chafing, at what he called “the abominable imposition of the whole concern,” Mr. Barton explained to Mrs. Temple the cause of his displeasure; and farther proceeded to {175} state, that, although contrary to his rule to eat luncheon, he had determined on ordering some refreshment at the inn; but, since it appeared means had been adopted to force them to use the house, he proposed, that they should even punish themselves by fasting, rather than be imposed upon in so bare-faced a manner; and that they should return home, allowing only an hour’s rest for their cattle. The lady, of course, could not object to the plan; but thinking it a pity the day should be entirely lost, she discovered, on emerging from the Abbey-walls, a shady lane, leading, ’“she felt certain,” to a good view of the forbidden subject; and, as Ellen was the card to be played on young Barton, the wily mother requested he would escort her for that purpose, saying, she would proceed with the others to the inn, and there await the re-assembling of the party. In their progress up the town, Mr. Barton filed off in search of a baker’s shop, as Fanny protested she was “dying of hunger, and would give anything in the world for a penny roll.”
 At the door of the inn stood a very gay equipage; three ladies and a gentleman in which, were laughing immoderately, on examining the book just brought out for the purpose of receiving their names. {176}
 “Oh, here is Mrs. Temple!” cried one of them, “and -”
 “My dear Lady Saunders, how delighted I am to see you!” (said) and “how I wish you were a thousand miles off,” (thought) Mrs. Temple,
 “Do tell us the meaning of this joke, and how your names came in such ridiculous contact with, - What is it, Sir John? give me the book. Look, Mrs. Temple, there must be some mistake, - ‘Old Tom Barton, dry-salter, (in the name of fortune, what is a dry-salter?) of Larrance Pountney Lane, and my son Tom here.’”
 Thus, indeed, the offended innkeeper had entered them, strictly adhering to the letter of the crusty old citizen’s instructions.
 “How very good!” cried Mrs. Temple, trying to laugh, “how like Mr. Barton! he is such a wag! Yes, “she continued, “we are attended by two gentlemen of that name, the elder of whom quite kills one - he is so facetious.”
 “You are going into the house?” said Lady Saunders. “We may as well alight, Sir John, and see what they can give us to eat, by and bye. Are you at Hastings?” she proceeded: “We have been there a week; that is, at St. Leonard’s. Wonder we saw nothing of you.”
 “We were not out the last few days,” Mrs. {177} Temple was beginning to answer, and “would to heaven we had staid in now,” she added to herself, when the door opened, and in bustled the dry-salter.
 “I’ve brought you some biscakes, Miss Stapleton; couldn’t git no rolls for love nor money; but I’ve found some capital ginger beer, at a little shop over the way. When my son Tom comes in, we’ll go over and make him stand treat, shall us? Servant, ladies: servant, sir,” he continued, ducking his head twice in the direction of the strangers.
 “Is this, then, a dry-salter?” asked Lady Saunders of Sir John, in a voice some degrees above a whisper. “Is this your friend, Mrs. Temple?” she added.
 “A very odd man! Quite a character!” returned that suffering person. “Mr. Barton, might I ask you to order the carriage immedi ately: I do not feel very well. I am most anxious to be at home. My dearest Lady Saunders, excuse me; we shall meet soon, I trust: do not let us detain you from visiting the Abbey.”
 At length poor Mrs. Temple was released from her unwelcome friends; and soon Ellen, with “my son Tom,” appeared. The means of escape were thus ensured; and the disappointed {178} matron spoke not until arrived at home, when summoning Ellen to her dressing-room, she began: -
 “Well! what passed - anything?”
 “Where, Mama? When?”
 “Fool! with young Barton, of course; what did he say to you?”
 “He said he would cut my pencils for me, if I liked.”
 “Pshaw! was that all?”
 “No: he told me all my lines were crooked; and that I had made the Abbey so large, I should never get in the trees.”
 “Dolt! Idiot! Oh,” groaned Mrs. Temple, “who would wish to be a mother! Tell me, simpleton, did he say nothing - look nothing tender? Come, none of your pretended simplicity; you know, well enough, what I mean.”
 “He only said it was time to go back to the inn; and I did not see how he looked, for I thought you intended Jane to have him, so I never looked at him.”
 “Was there ever such an ass! What did you - what could you think, I sent you with him for, if I had meant him for Jane?”
 “That was the thing that puzzled me; and I do believe it was thinking of that, caused me to {179} make my lines so crooked; for Mademoiselle Mullenstern says, a straight line is the only thing I can draw.”
 Mr. Temple remained in London after his family had quitted it, on business relative to Lincolnshire afiairs; whilst attending to which, he was requested by his lady to keep an eye upon Wallingford, and, if possible, to bring or send him down to Hastings. The two young Stapletons she felt certain would soon be added to her party, since she had secured their sister.
 Wallingford, however, took his head to be examined by Deville, who pronounced the organ of memory to be remarkably small, and that of philo-progenitiveness nearly undiscoverable. Farther, he perceived a bump, which he dubbed locomotiveness, and a considerable protuberance coming under the denomination of curiosity; from which symptoms he facetiously hazarded his conviction, that the patient would neither die of a broken heart, nor kill himself for love. At the same time he considered it highly probable that, following the example of other young men of fashion, his patient might visit the continent.
 On the morning after the excursion to Battel, the post brought Mrs. Temple the following letter from her husband: - {180}

 My dear Maria,
   On receipt of this, I should wish you to make immediate preparations for giving up the house at Hastings, and adjourning to Fenny Hollows. Wallingford is gone abroad for two years (he says); and the young Stapletons find that business will prevent them ac cepting your invitation to join your party this autumn. I saw their father yesterday, who de sired me to say this; and, also, that he purposes going down on Friday to fetch Fanny home, her mother being very unwell, he tells me, and the whole family quite dull for want of her. Affairs in Lincolnshire, I’m sorry to say, are consi- derably awry, and so urgently requiring my presence, that it is not impossible but I may be at Fenny Hollows before you. I also think it very probable, that the same cause may prevent our visiting London at all next year.
  I cannot say I am surprized at the failure of your Hastings scheme, since I never saw much prospect of its success; and I regret you left town so early, as it has been unusually and unexpectedly gay. Three matches, I hear, were arranged at the last party at Dunmore House. The Burfords have given two magnificent balls within the last ten days. The Pagans are gone {181} to Italy, and have taken Lord William Hendee and Captain Herbert, with them: so I suppose its a settled thing. Let your movements be as prompt, and, above all, as economical, as possible. Your bills, in this short time, must be trifling, I imagine; at least, I hope so. The Stapletons talk of going to Brighton for the winter, by way of indulging Fanny’s predilection for the sea. Brighton is ruinous, I have always understood, in the winter; however, they can afford it. Love to the girls,
                                                                            Your aflfectionate husband,
                                                                                                    John Temple.

 P.S. I met Stanley, this morning: he is going to be married, he tells me, to Lady Emma Middleton, the sister of his friend, Middleton, you know. I should think you might set out on Saturday at the latest. {182}

[End chap.]