CHAPTER XI - The Short Dinner

 Having no wish to accompany Mrs. Temple and her family in their banishment to Fenny Hollows, a region, we believe, somewhat resembling that celebrated spot on the borders of the Swan River to wit, “Squampash Flatts, near Muddiboo,” we will turn our attention to Fanny Stapleton and her father. The journey to London was one of unmixed delight to the former, having been privately informed by him, that Mrs. Stapleton’s health was by no means in that state to create any alarm; but that, having been unaccustomed to the loss of her daughter’s society, she had experienced a degree of languor, and general indisposition, which there was no manner of doubt Fanny’s return home would very speedily remove.
 “If you wish it, and if your mother approves,” said this indulgent parent, “I see no reason why we should not winter at Brighton. The distance, and modes of conveyance are now so easy {183} to that place, that there would be no difficulty in my running down to you from Saturday to Monday. Your brothers, too, might do the same; and I think it would thus be agreeable to all of us.”
 “Oh, that would be quite delightful!” replied Fanny, “I should then have nothing whatever to wish for. Certainly,” she added, “I have enjoyed this short visit to Hastings greatly. Mrs. Temple and the girls were as kind as possible to me; but still, there was the want of a feeling of home that hung over me, and would not let me be quite perfectly happy; and then Mrs. Temple seems so anxious, and, I should say, ‘fussey’ at times, although I never could tell why: it often made me quite uncomfortable to see it. I really think she has some grief, or other, on her mind, poor woman! which must be doubly hard to bear, if she has no one to confide it to.”
 “I fear the Temples have rather overstrained their means lately, in attempting to keep pace with their perhaps richer, and more fashionable friends. Temple hinted to me, that it would be absolutely necessary for them to commence a system of retrenchment; and indeed, my dear, that was one motive that hurried me to fetch you, for I {184} believe Mrs. Temple is a thoughtless, worldly-minded woman, and I did not choose that she should have the plea of your visit to them to urge for lengthening her stay in a place which, I believe, prudence would have decided her on avoiding.”
 The good merchant did not here think it necessary to add, that he had, in the most friendly manner, offered his services to Mr. Temple, should any temporary embarassment have been produced by oversight, or other circumstances. The equally honest, and plain spoken Mr. Temple, however, assured him, it was still within his own power, by resuming with a tighter hand the reins of government, to check the useless and perplexing difficulties Mrs. Temple would otherwise bring upon his head. Like most men of easy temper in trifles, he could see, and act up to important exigencies, with a degree of judicious firmness, that left no doubt on Mr. Stapleton’s mind of his easily surmounting his present difficulties.
 Barney, of course, had been discharged on the ladies leaving town, and had fortunately found an immediate service as man of all work with two old maids, and their bachelor brother, residing in Montague Place; a far better quarter {185} of the town, as his late fellow-servants told him, than the fluctuating “west end.” Where servants are just hired for a few months, to make a splash with, exposed to all kinds of temptation and wickedness, and turned adrift at the approach of winter, on the families leaving town; many of whom are so well aware of the depravity of London servants, that they will not endanger the integrity of those they have in the country, by bringing them within reach of its contaminating precincts. Barney had reason, therefore, to be thankful, in having secured a place where he might, probably, stay from year to year.
 Miss Jones, Miss Julia Jones, and Mr. James Jones, were the three remaining unmarried branches of a considerably large number of Jones’s, transmitted to the public by Mr. and Mrs. Jones, two, no doubt, very worthy personages, though boasting a name not exactly distinguishable from the Brown’s, White’s, Smith’s, and other monosyllabic cognomens, more laconic than elegant. In their own peculiar march, the elder Jones’s had signalized themselves principally by their plentiful production of little Jones’s; and in having, by the means of some honest trade or other, then acknowledged, but long since utterly forgotten by Miss Jones, Miss {186} Julia Jones, and Mr. James Jonesi left a tolerably comfortable provision for each and every of their numerous progeny.
 The Misses Jones, on demise of their parents, and subsequently on havings or nearly so, given up all hopes of marriage, had resolved to commence housekeeping in conjunction with their younger, and only single brother. They took a house, as aforesaid, in Montague Place, which, although east of Tottenham Court Road, appeared to their half-formed notions of fashion, the pink of perfection, as regarded situation; and they most unconscionably expected to be visited therein by their more fashionable friends, notwithstanding the law of that supreme dictator, Theodore Hook, had gone forth to mar such presumptuous hopes.
 No one ever heard the Misses Jones recur to the days of their juvenility, or specify their location during infancy and youth. By silence on this head they hoped, (alas! how vainly,) that a censorious, ill-natured world, could, or would, forget they had been born in the questionable neighbourhood of St. Mary Axe, and that they had received the first rudiments of education at a day school in the Minories: they had some recollection of having once been quartered at or {187} near Battle Bridge for change of air, after the scarlet fever; and they audaciously boasted, “that they had never in their lives passed a summer in London, or a winter out of it.” True it is, they now generally exchanged the autumnal dust of Montague Place, for the romantic heights of Harrow, the shades of Turnham Green, or that convenient place, Broadstairs, so situated, that persons of few friends and small incomes, may make it their professed residence, while their actual one shall be in the obscurity of some impenetrable back street, in that most unnameable of all places, Margate. Accommodating Broadstairs! thy Post-office offering colour and credibility to the deceptive visitors of cheaper Margate. Then the access so easy! By the packet to Margate. Nobody minds owning they went “by,” though hardened must the sinner be who could say “to,” Margate. “everybody goes, you know, by the steamer to Margate; so easy, so pleasant; and there you find coaches and carriages of all kinds, waiting your landing, to carry you to Broadstairs. No distance! down to dinner! all that sort of thing.”
 Most true, most undeniable; and, oh! most “imposing” does all this sound. The Jones’s {188} considered themselves well informed on points of this nature, and entertained so great a dread of committing anything contrary to taste, that, during the Easter vacation, when “everybody” ought to be, and is supposed to be out of town, they confined themselves to a back parlour, and kept closely barred every window-shutter in firont of the house. If circumstances (and they generally did) brought them to town earlier in the winter than their bug-bear fashion dictated, they resolutely kept up appearances, by having the parlour blinds enveloped in their summer garb of newspaper, still keeping the windows closed of all but the front parlour, where they, however, ventured now to domesticate, since no one had more right to be in town than themselves, and could not, therefore, profess to see them. And if gentlemen (so styled) caught a peep of their caps above the said blinds, and committed the gallantry of kissing hands, or such a thing, what did it signify, - they had only been mistaken for the maids! and it was pleasant to see, that their return was not even suspected.
 Mr. James Jones “held a situation” in one of the public offices. Blundering, common-place persons, would have styled him a clerk therein; but, to destroy all notion of this kind, it was {189} declared by himself and sisters, that he occupied the more high sounding, because less understood post, of “Reader.” His duties were asserted to be paramount to the duties of those employed in the more menial capacity of quill driving; requiring great powers of mind, and unusual exertion of thought. The creature, too, aimed at being considered literary; and accounted for having never “put out a book” under his own name, on the plea, that, “Whatever he wrote must be for the government”. Mr. James Jones was, in point of fact, a mere plodding piece of machinery, and made a far better clerk than he would have done a tradesman; and his longer headed father probably foresaw, that his abilities were not adapted to the mercantile profession, and wisely placed him at one of those never varying, mechanical desks, where perseverance and industry were the only talents required. It is ordained, however, that our self-love creates for itself gratification in the very circumstances least creditable to us; and thus it was, that Mr. James Jones felt a comforting consciousness of his employment being by many degrees more genteel than those of his money-making brothers.
 Accident had thrown him amongst a few literary men; and having no wife, nor family, to {190} engross his leisure time, he grasped at the cultivation of their society, as a means of filling up the vacuum of his evening hours. Havings somehow or other, (most probably from the contraction of his ideas,) formed a wonderful notion of the glory of authorship in general, he naturally concluded, that the next best thing to proving himself a literary man, was, to be as much as possible seen in the company of those imquestionably so considered. He might, perhaps, carry his hopes so far, as to expect a little of their learning would be transferrable by means of friction, and lost no opportunity of seizing a real living professed author by the button, if the slightest introduction had made such a proceeding at all warrantable. He travelled, too - this Mr. Jones made a point of visiting the continent every year for a month or so; making, what sailors call, “A man of war’s cruize - there and back again.” There were few cities in modern Europe he had not passed through; and it was seldom Mr. James Jones experienced the mortification of saying, (whatever place might, in conversation, happen to be named,) “I never was there.” His object in travelling not being that of gaining information, or knowledge of manners, customs, &c. of the {191} states he scampered over, it would have been unfair, in his less excursive friends, to expect he should convey to them a single idea touching these matters. Not one sous, cared Mr. James Jones, that he had entered Rome after dark, and left it before daylight He had been there: his journal proved the fact, as also the name of his abode for the few hours of sleep he enjoyed there, together, with a careful enumeration of the items composing his supper, and the price thereof. The said journal also establishing the not unfirequent circumstances, of extreme hunger having preceded, as sound sleep had followed, the arrival of Mr. James Jones, at the very hour and minute he had calculated upon, even in his own little “study” (a closet where his boots lived) in Montague Place.
 If a determined, drizzling rain chose to fall, on the morning of his ascending Mont Blanc, or any other mountain which it is expected one should ascend, it was unfortunate, certainly; but it never occurred to the traveller to postpone his journey for a single day, since that would have thrown him out in his dates. He did not even adopt the plan of shrewder Sheridan, and “say he had been there.” Mr. James Jones was too matter-of-fact a man for that; but, though something {191} deficient in sense, he was not devoid of instinct; and, by keeping a light hold of the guide’s cloak, he was enabled, as he devoutly believed, to perform the necessary pilgrimage. And, although he might not have been able to perceive his own shoe-strings, during the progress, yet he was quite convinced he had walked a very long way up, and a long way down again; and he sat comfortably to rest in his inn, to commemorate the event, with its usual contingencies of hunger, sleep, and paying of his bill: duties he never forgot, either to perform or to record.
 For some few years after the continent was thrown open to travellers, the opening phrase of “When I was in Paris,” gave a man a certain lead in conversation, and effectually closed the mouths of those who had not yet acquired the power of flourishing off, by that once imposing sentence. The provoking nonchalance with which everyone now talks of, “When I was first at Florence,” “During my second visit to Moscow,” and so on, leaves a person no chance of attracting the attention, or opening the ears of the company by anything short of, “I remember, the first time I saw Jerusalem -” or, “From the summit of the Andes, one often sees -” {193} whatever may occur to the fancy at the moment. for the chances are ten to one that no one present is qualified to enter the lists with you.
 Thus passed the life of Mr. James Jones: eleven months of his year devoted to daily attendance at his office; the remaining four weeks to the less useful, though, in his idea, far more important, “There and back again,” of whatever might be the greatest distance possibility allowed him to achieve within a given time.
 Several poets, and others, have asserted, that happiness is not an inhabitant of this earth. The assertion is as rash as it is unfounded. Let them speak of their own experience, and avoid so sweeping a clause. Mr. James Jones, in his consciousness of competence, celibacy, and continental capabilities, was a perfectly happy man.
 Miss Jones, by name Griselda, was one of those harmless, innocent insects, who apparently have no visible use assigned them in life; but, as we cannot imagine even a Miss Jones to have been created in vain, it becomes a matter of curiosity to discover for what earthly purpose she could have been suffered to exist; and, on studying the character of Miss Julia Jones, it appears perfectly evident that Grizzle, (as her {194} name indeed imports, and matarially led to this conclusion,) Grizzle Jones was born for the purpose of becoming the vehicle to receive all the ill temper of her sister, whose disposition, naturally sour and crooked, had attained a farther degree of acidity by the failure of one or two matrimonial expectations, and now vented itself in continued, though petty attacks, upon whoever had the misfortune to be near her: and as this hap pened to be Grizzle, on Grizzle, of course, the weight fell. But let no one waste their sympathies in this cause: nature had provided Miss Janes with an imperturbility that received, unfelt and harmless, the keenest shafts of envy, peevishness, and discontent, from Julia. And here, again, we are led to see and admire this disposal of affairs; the teazing, fidgetty, mean-spirited motives of Julia, were totally undiscoverable by her sister, who thus, by interposing her impenetrable person, became the unconscious receptacle of taunts, that would have pierced to the heart of anyone but a Miss Jones. The sisters were constantly together; it was necessary to one, and not irksome to the other. Their employments consisted in the regulation of their household, the arrangement of their furniture, and the paying and receiving of visits. They never declined {195} an invitation, it being their only purpose in life, to go out, and to receive company.
 Of late years, their establishment had consisted of two maids and a man; the novel acquirement of the latter being ever present to their minds, it became a point, upon which a wager of any amount might safely be adventured, that no one could pass half an hour in the presence of anyone of the three Jones’s, without hearing of some circumstance in which “Thomas, the man-servant,” was brought forward. The habit was, indeed, so inveterate, that a debate ensued, on discovering the difficulty of diverging, from the customary “Thomas,” to the less familiar “Barney;” and it ended in an appeal to the latter, whether he would submit to be addressed as Thomas; “The family,” as they most truly averred, “having been so long accustomed to that name, as to be unequal to the trouble of substituting any other in its place.”
 Barney willingly consented to the proposition, on condition of retaining that of Mahoney; for, as he very justly remarked, “Any Christian might be named Thomas, but ’twas few would choose the second appellation of Wiggins, unless obliged to it by reason of their father having borne it before them; which, he was {196} proud and thankful to say, was not the case with himself, or any of the Mahoneys, let alone the Callaghans. “So Barney Mahoney of Blackpool, in the city of Cork”, was transmogrified into “Thomas, the man-servant,” of Montague Place.
 His brogue, it is true, afflicted the ladies in some degree; but, on observing it to attract the attention of their guests, and in dread of their supposing that they had imported the “raw article,” they never failed to volunteer the information, that “Thomas, the new man-servant,” had previously lived in a very fashionable family near Grosvenor Square.
 It was admitted that the Jones’s gave very decent dinners; and they believed these, and their evening parties also, to be unique. There was no reason why they should not be so; neither means nor will were wanting to obtain so desirable an end: the deepest subject of reflection the sisters ever attempted to handle, was that of who, and what, they should have at their projected entertainment: and the pains- bestowed thereon, secured a tolerably successful result. Their family repasts, however, were not bountiful. Miss Julia took the principal part of the housekeeping affairs in hand, and scrupled {197} not to limit, or indeed nearly to abolish, all luxuries of the table, except when company were expected.
 Miss Jones was wont to confess, that if her brother James had a fault, it was that of sometimes unexpectedly bringing an odd man or two home to dine with them. As the sisters had given up all connubial speculations, it could answer no good purpose; while even to her dull perceptions, it brought the certainty of vexation to Julia, who had not the good taste to abstain from apologies on the subject, addressed to the unwelcome, though smiled-on visitor. The day following that of Barney’s instalment in office, Mr. James Jones committed this offence; and wilfully so, as Julia averred; for, to prevent accidents, she had, in the morning, warned him, they should have positively a leg of mutton only. It so chanced, however, that Mr. James Jones fell into chat with a poet that day, and whether tempted to the sin by the circumstance, of his being of the Leg of Mutton School of Poetry, or some other invincible impetus, it is vain to explain, but he actually brought him home in his hand; having, as he thought, most conscientiously limited his hopes to the said joint.
 Grizzle never apologized for any deficiency: {198} she met with no “heart-breaks” of that kind herself; and, moreover, left the business in the hands of Julia, who, happening to be dressing when James and his friend arrived, Grizzle thought to save time and words by “stating the case” as it stood.
 “I am very glad indeed to see you, Mn Hopkins,” said she, “but I hope James has told you on what expectations to ground your appetite, for Julia mentioned the circumstance to him this morning. She will be down immediately: indeed, it is seldom we are not both in the drawing-room half an hour before dinner, but we took rather a long walk to-day, and Julia was a little over-tired; however, we got through a great deal this morning,” she continued, addressing her brother, “for we had quite an accumulation on our hands; the weather has been so wet, lately, there was no getting out. I really was quite ashamed not to have been able to call on the Phillips’s, for they have been in town a week, and were sure we must know it, as their brother-in-law, you know, dined here on Monday: so we made that the first object; and luckily, not finding them at home, went to the Fraser’s, but did not go in, as they have had the influenza, but are all well now, which is a very {199} good thing. Saw the Barlows; they were at home; they have been to Leamington; looking very well indeed, particularly Maria; really, a very pretty girl growing, I think, but Julia says her eyes are too large; and then to the Regent’s Park.” “Have you seen the Pantheon, Mr. Hopkins? Don’t you think it delightful - the panoramic view from St Paul’s, especially? I really think it quite wonderful how any man could have patience to paint so many thousand little puffs of smoke all coming exactly the same way, and so exactly alike, from so many thousand chimnies. They say the painter lived three years in the ball of St Paul’s, you know, and never once came down till his picture was finished; and suffered so much from heat and cold, and all that sort of thing, as to lose three toes and two fingers: poor man, how shocking! and a pity, too, I think; for, after all, the picture is not half so good as the reality, and is quite as difficult to get at.” “Beautiful houses really, James, those in Clarence Terrace! not that I would exchange, in point of situation, with this: so far from the theatres, only the Barfords never go there, they say, which makes a difierence; and really, in the summer, what with Primrose Hill, and one thing or other, it must be very pleasant, {200} and quite equal to the country. A great deal of game, I have been told, there is in that Park; and Mr. Barford going to the city every day makes it convenient. So, in coming home, we called at the Marshalls; but the eldest son is dead. Only think, James, how sudden: only ill ten days: poor young man, - which was very lucky; for, of course, we were not let in, and just gave us time to pay the bride visit in Gower Street, which really it was distressing we had delayed so long; and very well she looked, I assure you, without a cap, though, which surprized me. Two of her sisters staying with her, but did not appear: Julia thinks they do not look well by daylight, perhaps. So its quite excusable if that is the case; and I really am so hungry, that I shall make a very furious attack upon our leg of - Oh! here comes Julia, now we shall have dinner. I have just been sayings Julia, how hungry I am, and -”
 Julia, however, was so accustomed to hear Grizzle run oh by the hour, with the relation of all she had done, or left undone, or meant to do, that she turned at once to Mr. Hopkins, with what she intended for a bewitching smile, saying, -
 “If anything could induce me to lament your appearance at any, or all times, I should {201} do so to-day. I most call upon your indulgence to forgive our blundering cook, who sent up to me five minutes ago to say, that she had quite forgotten to make the soup I ordered, and that the poulterer had omitted sending the turkey; (it is really shameful of him! such customers as we are;) and, in hopes of my coming home, she delayed ordering anything else. Stupid woman! so I had no resource but to bid her immediately to dress a leg of mutton that happened to be in the house; and which, I am sorry to say, is all we shall see to-day, excepting the usual course of pastry.”
 To stop a ship in full sail, or to turn a water-course, would have been as impossible as any attempt at arresting Julia in her inventive explanation. No time, however, was allowed for the undertaking. Barney, otherwise Thomas, the man-sarvant, entered to announce dinner at the commencement of her speech, and stood with the door in his hand, until a pause suffered him to execute his purpose. He thus became informed, as he thought, of the cook’s delinquency, which he failed not to report to her on going down for a replenishment of potatoes, (the only - solitary accompaniment of the mutton,) declaring, also, Miss Julia quite built upon the pastry, and had {202} told the gentleman she hoped he would make up his dinner with the second course.
 On re-ascending to the eating parlour, Barney deposited his dish; and going round to Miss Julia’s side, almost shouted, - “De cook, Miss, swears she niver hard a word o’ de turkey, or de soup ayther, good or bad, an’ hasn’t made no pastry, ’cause she didn’t know you expected company.”
 Manythings may be accurately described, but the smile of Miss Julia Jones is not one of the number, it being a convulsion she never willingly allowed herself to indulge in; it was a smile of the surface only, without light, life, or any symptom of nature in or about it, and consisted of a muscular extension of the mouth, almost from ear to ear, accompanied by a contraction of the forehead, a withering frown stamped upon that region, which seemed to scowl vengeance and future punishment on the recreant lips for their unwilling expansion.
 One of these smiles Miss Julia perpetrated, and sending the offender for a glass of water, tried to explain away his error, by informing the poet, that their “new man-servant” was not yet accustomed to their ways, declaring, it was so very droll! his speaking in the dining-room. {205}
 “I was obliged to send him out of the room,” she continued”, lest I should laugh. He is an Irishman, Mr. Hopkins,” she proceeded, “I dare say you did not understand a word he said; for my part, I cannot make out his dialect at all.”
 “If I mistake not, we are from the same district,” said the poet; “I was born in the county of Cork myself, and was revelling on the long-unheard accent of my country.”
 “This booby must be taught to speak only when spoken to,” said Julia, on the departure of their guest;” I really thought I should have fainted when he commenced his horrid explanations.”
 Grizzle and James were silent, for both knew it would only still more exasperate Julia, to be informed how completely she had exposed herself; and they always considered her temper quite bad enough, without any opposition on their parts to increase its bitterness. {204}

CHAPTER XII - The Lovers’ Seat

 There were two individuals whose plans were completely thwarted by the sudden departure from Hastings of the Temples. These were Mr. Barton and his son. The former of whom, having arrived at the difficult decision that Miss Stapleton would, in all respects, be acceptable as a daughter-in-law, experienced a considerable accession of his customary irritability on the failure of any event he had fixed his mind upon.
 His son, though he had been less certain of success, was even more disappointed by the circumstance which had interrupted their (as he hoped) growing intimacy. He could not be blind to the circumventing manoeuvres of Mrs. Temple to obstruct his progress with Fanny, and transfer his attentions to one of her own girls; and the observation, if it influenced him at all, rendered him more decided in his pursuit of {205} Fanny, and more sanguine of its result, since it proved to him, at least, that he was “worth catching;” a conviction by no means despicable in the eye, of a man who has mixed little in society, and is unprovided with fashionable effrontery.
 On discovering their loss, both were secretly devising the means of repairing it; a matter in some degree perplexing, and which induced a more than usually silent breakfast. The old man, indeed, had the comfort of venting his ill-humour upon the coffee, tea, rolls, and every article on the table, not excepting a plate of ex-quisite shrimps, which offended him by being too large, reminding him, as he said, “of prawns, without actually being prawns.” The coffee scalded his throat. The tea was cold. His slippers had not been aired, he should get the gout; that villain, James, intended it, he could plainly see that, by his abominable neglect in this particular; and, in addition to all this, “What the devil held the newspaper?”
 His son, who had swallowed unconsciously whatever came within his reach, without the alleviation of perceiving the faults of anything, mildly suggested his father’s watch might be too fast.
 “Oh, of course - of course - of course my watch or myself - my watch or myself must be {206} wrong. Nothing can go wrong but fathers. When I -when I -,when I lived in the city, my watch was right, and I was right, for all I never saw the - saw the inside of a college, and don’t pretend to know a co-co-cock lobster from a ca-ca-ca-camel; but young men are so - are so d-d-dev-”
 “Are you sure your watch is going. Sir? I think you perhaps forgot to wind it up last night. If you observe the hands are -”
 “Hey! Hem, going? Why it -it has stopped. Its your -your fault, Mr. Tom. What do you - what do you think - what can you suppose. Sir, I gave you a learned edication for, if I didn’t expect you’d have sense to - sense to remind me to wind my watch up?”
 “Suppose we take a stroll, Sir; you will then see the time by the church clock.”
 “What - what - what do I care about the time. Sir. Why should I go out, to see nothing - to see nothing but a set of tallow-faced mortals walking for an appetite?”
 “You will go through the market, father; surely you would not break through that good custom,” said his son, kindly hoping they might meet with something to improve the present state of his father’s temper.
 “Cus-cus-custom. Ah, there’s - there’s sense {207} in -sense in that, Tom. Nothing like customs, if they be old ones, boy. D’ye know, Tom, I - I- I sometimes think - sometimes think thou’rt not half so big a fool as I do at other times.”
 “I am very glad to hear it, Sir.”
 “You lie! you lie, Sir! You’re not glad. Sir. You don’t ca-ca-care a brass farrthing about it, nor your father-father; nor anything else. Sir. You know you’re as mad as the d-d-divil at this - this moment, and so you - so you ought to be. Sir, at letting such a girl slip through your fingers.
 “Nay, father, I do not think she was ever within my reach exactly,” replied the young man, rejoicing that his father had at length broken the ice he had feared to venture on, and hope, they would now come to some conclusion as to the most likely method of repairing their disappointment.
 At length his father was dressed; had read his newspaper, and sallied forth towards the market. They had not, however, proceeded far up the High Street, when they were met by two men carrying a basket between them, and effectually blockading the pavement, as, pointing to their merchandise, they addressed the irritable dry-salter with - {207}
 “Fine soles. Sir; fine plaice; fine plaice and soles.”
 “Damn your ‘souls’ leave the ‘place,’” roared the furious citizen, as he turned away, declaring he would not go into the market at all. That it was perfectly disgusting to see nothing but flat-fish eternally; and farther pronouncing themselves to be a couple of “flats” for staying in such a filthy, scorching, dull, dusty, disagreeable place. The only pleasant view it contained being that of the London Road; and the only desirable thing, a seat in one of the stages to town.
 “We are getting on rapidly,” said young Tom to himself. “We shall be in London within three days at the farthest;” but he knew better than to endanger the probability of this event by appearing to foresee it.
 “Since we are here, Sir, suppose we go up to Lovers’ Seat; you have never been there yet, and the day is remarkably fine.”
 “Well, well, not that - not that I - not that I expect there is anything to be seen there, for all the fuss some fools make about it.”
 “At all events you will be able to pass an opinion on it in future; and that will be something.” {208}
 “Hum, hah, well - well - well, as you say, Tom, we’ve nothing else to do, so that’s one reason for doing a fool’s trick, hey! Tom.”
 “I hope so. Sir.”
 “You hope what - you hope what? What the deuce do you hope, Sir?”
 Tom’s thoughts, at the moment, had been employed on the chances of gaining admittance in Finsbury Square. He had not heard a word of his father’s last speech; so he replied cautiously, “I hope it will not rain, Sir; nothing more.”
 “He lies again,” thought old Barton; but, for a wonder, he did not tell him so. The lanes were rather more dusty, and the way longer than young Barton had calculated upon; and it was with considerable difficulty he prevailed on his father to persevere in gaining the object of their pursuit. Arrived, after much toil, at the edge of the precipice under which this celebrated seat is placed, the old gentleman exclaimed, as he observed his son marshalling the way down the little path leading to it, (one, by the bye, certainly not well calculated for gouty pedestrians, and requiring considerable command of head and foot,) “Hollo! Sir; hollo; where -where the deuce are you going now, Sir? Do you - {210} do you suppose - suppose I am coming after you down the cliff? Do you want me to break my neck, Sir?”
 “Only just round this comer, Sir; take my arm; the seat is under the ledge you are standing upon. If you come round here you will reach it in a moment, and the view from it will, I assure you, amply repay the trouble.”
 “If I do - if I -. No, Sir, I am not quite such an ideot as you think me; and you. Sir, - you would have a fine view, too, I take it. Yes, yes, Sir, to see your old father go head-over-heels into the sea. How did you dare. Sir, to bring me up this mountain. Yes, mountain, puppy! No grinning. Sir, knowing the state of my head, and that - and that I - I never go up to the top of St. Paul’s for a prospect without being sea-sick.”
 “I am very sorry; I really forgot the giddiness of your head. Shall we turn back, Sir? or would you like to come down by Covehurst Cottage, the descent is quite easy, and home by the beach. It will be a change.”
 “anything - anything but the same way back; that’s if its shorter. Master Tom. I should never get home through those broiling lanes again.” {211}
 “It is much shorter. Sir, and good sands all the way, when the tide is down.”
 Poor Tom, however, had omitted any observation on this particular; and, on guiding his grumbling and ill-humoured father to the beach, he was dismayed to perceive it was high-water, leaving them no means of passage except close at the foot of the cliff, where the shingles and rocks afforded a most unpleasant and fatiguing footing.
 “Well, Sir! where are - where are the sands you spoke of?”
 “I fear the tide is against us, father; it appears to be high-water; otherwise the sands are as smooth and firm as a floor, it happens very unfortunately -”
 “I see. Sir - I see - see it all; I am to be -to be killed, destroyed, that’s the plan. So because I would not tumble over the cliff to please you, I am to get the gout, scrambling over these cu-cu-cursed rocks, and wet my feet. Oh, I see it all, in hopes - in hopes of flinging it into my stomach. Oh! that ever - ever I should be such a fool, such a bo-bo-booby, as to go trampoozleing out widi a co-co-co-collegian. Well, Sir, youll come into a pretty - pretty little property. I’ve made my - made my will, so {212} there’s no more occasion tor me, I suppose; but remember, Sir, I expect to be buried decently; I won’t be left here, mind that. Your poor mother lies in Shoreditch, and -, ”
 “My dear father, pray do not talk in this manner. Sit down on this rock to rest a little, and you will be able to proceed better when you have taken breath.”
 “Under this chalk cliffy not a breath of air, and the sun reflected down upon me! but I see. Sir - I see -. Did I - did I not hear you, only last Monday, telling Miss Stapleton it was enough to give a - give a person a cow di solyle to sit close under the cliffs. Oh, I’m a murdered man, that’s very clear. Go on. Sir, walk on. I’ll reach my bed, if possible. I should wish - should wish to - wish to die in bed, if its agreeable to you.”
 The walk, in itself, was assuredly toilsome enough; and the old man rendered it still more painful to both parties by his peevish murmurings; so that, on arriving at their lodgings, he was completely exhausted, and retired immediately to bed, declaring, if able to bear the journey, he would go to London the following day, that he might die creditably in his own house, and evade the fees exacted for the passing of a corpse on {213} so long a journey. Too much exasperated against his son to accept even the composing draught he recommended to him, he angrily ordered him to leave the room, and send their landlady to him.
 “I’m a -a murdered man - a murdered man, Mrs. Kilderkin. Give me a glass of cordial before I go; there, that revives me. Now sit down, Mrs. Kilderkin. I want to - want to speak to you. Tell me, now, if there really - really is such a place as ‘Lovers’ Seat,’ or if - if its all an invention of my son Tom’s.”
 “Lauk-a-day, yes. Sir! ‘Lovers’ Seat;’ sure, and certain there is, Sir. Not as ever I see it myself, though I was bred and born in Hastings, and never ha’ been out on it all my life, which its nine-and-fifty years, and over. I never was so far as Lovers’ Seat myself, but the gentlefolks all goes there, and very much its frequented in the summer; I’ve often talked of going there, but somehow I always find something better else to do.”
 “I believe you -I believe you, Mrs. Kilderkin. Well, I’m glad - I’m glad, at any rate, I have not been deceived. I really suspected - ”
 “Oh dear, no, Sir. Your son was quite correct, Sir; for my grandmother often told me {214} the whole story about it. I believe it happened in her time.”
 “What happened?”
 “The ’lopement, Sir. Did you never hear the story: its quite a romance?”
 “Not I. Oh! my foot. Ah, hugh! Another glass of the cordial, Mrs. Kilderkin. There - that seems, to compose me a little - A story is there, ah!”
 “Yes, Sir, I was going to tell you. A Captain Lion, or Lamb, the gentleman’s name was, I forget just which, but I know it was one or the other, and there aint much odds you know. Sir, between lions and lambs, not when they are gentlemen; and the lady’s name I never heard, to my knowledge; however, that don’t matter, for whatever it was, it seems she hadn’t no mind not to keep it; and her friends not approving of this here captain, she was sent down from London to Fairlight Farm here, to be out of the way in a manner, and get an opportunity of forgetting him, and that -. Howsever, some say these things is ordained, and so I think. What’s your opinion. Sir? for it came to pass, that this Captain Lamb, or Lion, whatever it was, he was a sent down a cruising round our coast; and a spying out one day after the smugglers, which {215} they had a great knack in them times hiding of their kegs up among the cliffs, and there he spies, just under the edge of the very highest of them, a lady sitting in white, and ayther a working or a reading, I can’t justly say which; but howsever he pretends to suspicion it was a ‘free trader,’ as we calls- ’em down here, and so he lands and scrambles up by Covehurst, and that way till he gets up quite to the down; but could see no sign of the lady, by reason the cliff hung over just where she was ‘a sot’. Well, he lays him down on his flat, and looks him over the edge; still he could’nt see her. So then he sets him to work ‘exploding’ the little path she’d a made for herself through the bushes, and there, sure enough, he finds her a sitting in a little hollow, like; and who should it be but his own sweetheart; and had found out this spot, where she used to come and sit, thinking, I suppose, of her lover. -Don’t you think so, Sir? So they used to meet here; and it wouldn’t be long, you’ll guess, Sir, before he carried her off in his ship; and then this seat was put up, and many a pair of lovers has sat thare since, as I’m told; and all the visitors goes up, the young ones in particular; its nat’ral you see. Sir; it’s a something like to talk on; and one thing leads to another very oft. But I can’t say I ever knowed {216} of a father and son going there together, not before. If you’d a had a lady with you. Sir, I dares for to say you wouldn’t have felt no fatigue.”
 “I dare for to say no such thing, Mrs. Kilderkin. Oh, mercy! my legs. Ah, my poor back! Is there any - any more - any more cordial in the bottle? I think another glass might send me to sleep.”
 The clock struck nine the following morning as the Bartons seated themselves in the stage-coach for London. The old man’s spirits rose with every mile they accomplished, and, on reaching his own residence, he declared himself “wonderfully well, considering,” ascribing all due merit to the revivyfying powers of London smoke; and wondering, “for the fiftieth time, “how he could ever be such a jackass as to travel beyond the sound of Bow bells.”
 It may be supposed that no very extensive period of time elapsed before Mr. Tom Barton’s card reposed on the table of Mr. Stapleton’s hall. The youth was not greatly versed in the “sowing of dinner tickets;” he was, therefore, considerably elated to find himself, in consequence, possessed of two notes of invitation for his father and himself, on an early day; a proceeding arising, in the first place, from Fanny’s representation {217} of the civilities she had received from them at Hastings; as also, perhaps, a little in fluenced by the impression her indulgent parents had, by some means, acquired, that young Barton was not absolutely disagreeable to Fanny; and as the first wish of their hearts was to see her happily and worthily married, they were anxious to become better acquainted with one to whom they saw no reasonable objection.
 Mrs. Temple had pronounced it utterly impossible to cultivate the intimacy of persons committing the atrocity of dining at three o’clock. The good-natured Mrs. Stapleton was, happily, less refined; and having ascertained the early habits of the elder Barton to be almost essential to his comfort, she ordered, for the unheard-of hour of four, the dinner they otherwise took at the equally unfashionable one of five; and the drysalter being somewhat flattered by this compromise, with avidity accepted her summons, and determined to play his “ very most agreeable.”
 How the dinner went off, and to what other engagements it led, must be left either to the imagination of the reader, or to some future chapter. At present, affairs recall us to Montague Place. {218}

CHAPTER XIII - The Cousins Pearson

 “I have been thinking, James,” said Miss Jones to her brother, “we really ought to invite out’ cousins Pearson - the girls, I mean - to town for a few weeks this winter. They were very kind to you in Swaledale, two years ago, when you went down shooting, you know: I have felt in their debt ever since, I am sure.”
 “I doubt not you would find them a great bore. Grizzle; recollect, they have never seen anything like society.”
 “That I am certain she would,” said Miss Julia. “For my part, I think it horrid to have raw cousins to lionize, particularly when, as in this case, they are decidedly worse off than ourselves.”
 “Well, now, Julia, you surprize me. I know nothing so delightful, as to witness the enjoyment and admiration of strangers in London. The Pearsons have never set foot in it, you know. I declare, I think it would be quite a {219} treat to shew them everything, which we could so well do, now that we are quite settled, and the spare bed would do for them both; and hearing all their remarks and delight - I should enjoy it amazingly.”
 “Remember, my dear Grizzle, their remarks would often be very derogatory to our feelings, and would doubtless be given at dinner, before the man-servant, and all that sort of thing. Besides, you can form no notion of the antediluvian style in which they dress; and, moreover, must expect to be perpetually addressed as cuzzin Grizzle; which, in their horrid dialect, is no joke. I am sure, I never was so tired of anything in my life, as of my own name cuzzened forth, in the uncouth accents of cousin Nancy, and cousin Betsey Pearson.”
 “Still, you know, James, we did invite them to return your visits and I do not see how we can, honourably, avoid pressing the invitation; and their mother, you know, being our mother’s sister, makes a difference.”
 “In what respect. Grizzle?”
 “Why, I do not know that one can explain it exactly; but I am sure I feel it; and so, I dare say, does Julia.”
 “Excuse me, sister, by no means: on this {220} subject I have but two feelings -those of dissent and assent: the first, most certainly, predominates in a powerful degree.”
 “Julia,” said James, “is like the little child, who, on being told her grandmother was dead, and asked what she felt in consequence of the communication, very simply inquired, ‘Is it hungry, mamma?’ ‘No, my dear, not hungry,’ returned her mother. ‘Oh, then,’ said the little girl, ‘it must be thirsty.’ Now Julia neither hungers nor thirsts for her cousins Pearson.”
 “Most assuredly I do not, James; though, perhaps, I do possess more than two feelings: however, if Grizzle and you chose to have them, I suppose I must submit, as usual.”
 The “must submit,” was a case presumptive; the “as usual,” a positive invention.
 Miss Jones argued that there could be no time more favourable to the purpose than the present, inasmuch as “Thomas, the new man, was very young, had seen but little of the world, and would not, therefore, be qualified to quiz the cousins, as too many footmen might do.” Then she really “quite longed to see Yorkshire; and, of course, if they had the Pearsons in Montague Place, they could do no less than give them, {221} return, an offer of spending the autumn in Swaledale.”
 “You little think what Swaledale is, and that they positively dine at twelve o’clock. I suppose my worthy uncle Pearson would raise the whole parish about their ears, if he did not see his dinner on the table within five minutes after twelve.”
 “How dreadful! What can they possibly do with themselves the rest of the day: they pay their visits after dinner, of course. How very odd: and eat suppers, I should not wonder. Well, I must say, it is beyond me to imagine what we are to do with them!”
 “As to visits, Julia, I believe there is not much visiting within their reach. Their nearest neighbours are three miles off, and only approachable during a long fit of dry weather, the cross road between them being unattemptable nine months of the year. They have a chapel within half a mile, to which they, and all within the distance of a walk, flock every evening, and three times on a Sunday. Then between dinner and supper, so called - but, in point of fact, the noontide and eight o’clock meals - they retire now and then to their separate rooms to ‘say a few prayers,’ as they express it.” {222}
 “Well, really now, James, you cannot object to so good a practice as that, and I dare say they are very good people; only it does seem a little odd to dine at twelve o’clock, and suppers, to be sure, are quite out; at the same time, I declare I could always make a hearty meal at twelve o’clock, or one, at any rate, and one dines at eight very frequently; so that, after all, the difference is more in name than in reality.”
 “Not if you take into consideration the huge basins of tea, and large piles of toast, they demolish in the course of what they term the afternoon. I fear, too, they would find it difficult, if not impossible, to conform to our London hours.”
 “Surely, if they are made to understand we adopt the invariable rules of fashionable life. I cannot imagine, James, any female having the hardihood to resist so conclusive an argument.”
 “Well, Grizzle, have them by all means, and you will soon know better. Do not, however, expect I can be seen with them in the Park, or anything of that kind. I should die, if the author of Pelham, or my friend Theodore Hook, made them out to be our cousins: we should inevitably see them in print next spring.”
 In spite of the resistance of brother and sister, {223} Miss Jones, for once in her life, carried her point; and so intensely did she suffer in consequence thereof, that she ever after declared she would rather have anything in the whole world than her own way.
 The Pearsons, it was settled, would come; the when - within a fortnight; the how -by means of that convenient vehicle, the mail coach, provided, as they said, their cousin Jones’s would meet them at the coach-office, for fear of pick-pockets and kidnappers.
 The Pearsons possessed, in their retreat of Swaledale, a certain uncle John, who had once, some fifty years prior to the period of this history, been very near indeed taking a journey to London. The said journey never was performed; but, as uncle John, at that time, rejoiced in numerous friends, who had not only heard of, but many of them experienced, and some few had survived, the various impositions of ring-dropping, pocket-cutting, way-laying, and other sharpish deceptions, uncle John had been so abundantly (though uselessly) fore-armed, that he considered himself fully qualified to guard his nieces against the numerous deceptions to be practised upon them.
 He made it perfectly clear to them, that they {224} would be cheated in every shop they entered, and warned them never to accept of any goods recommended as “warranted sound,” “fast colours,” &c. by the sellers. Also to remember, if they should chance to lose themselves in the streets, to go into some shop and hire a guide, and not inquire their route of any person they might meet, or they would infallibly be led into some horrible den in St. Giles’s, or Wapping, and basely murdered, only for having come out of Yorkshire. If they should go to the theatres, they were cautioned to betray neither surprize nor gratification, or they would as certainly be watched out, and their pockets would be picked on the lobby or staircase. As soon as they were safely arrived in Montague Place, their mother desired they would write, but by no means to pay the post, since, if they did so, the letter would never be delivered: “How could it be expected it should?” the good woman observed. “And tell your cousin Grizzle,” she added, “I have two fine hams curing for her, if she should hear of any private hand I could send them by; for if I sent them by the waggon they would never get there; how should they? And if either of you have anything new in the way of gowns, as most likely you must and especially {225} Nancy, as she is so very thin, be sure to have them made full large, in case of growing stouter in a year or two’s time; for whether you have it little or big, you will never see a snip come home from the mantua-maker, so you may as well have what you buy as not. Be sure to offer at least half price for everything; and never leave it to be sent home after you, or you will have an inferior article put in its place.” These, and a thousand other directions having been impressed on their minds, during ten days of preparation for their eventful expedition, the Pearsons were finally desired by the Jones’s to stop at the Angel Inn, Islington, where they would find “Thomas, the man-servant,” in attendance to escort them into town.
 “I think cousin James might have come to meet us,” said Nancy.
 “Perhaps cousin Grizzle thought it would look better to send the man-servant,” replied her more easily satisfied sister.
 “I think it was very pretty of her. I wonder how many servants they keep: we shall be quite stated, I expect.”
 “Oh! I’m determined not to be dashed, if they are ever so fine,” returned Nancy; “and I hope you will not shew you are afraid of them. {225} They are no better than ourselves: our mothers were own sisters; their father kept a shop, and ours a farm, that’s all; I can tell them, I shall soon take them down, if they overbear me.”
 Before proceeding to a farther introduction of these young farmeresses, it is expedient that the English reader should receive some insight into the peculiarity of their patoîs, which it is my intention to write as nearly as I may according to the pronunciation; at the same time premising, that “ears polite” will find it by many degrees more savage, and less intelligible, than even the brogue of Barney Mahoney.
 I have heard it argued, and with some degree of truth, as well as ingenuity, that there are but two words in our language which have justice done them in that barbarous county of York; and, moreover, that those two are pronounced there differently from the manner in which we hear them pronounced in any other part of England. The words in question are - sugar, and pear; according to the York tongue, “sewgar,” and “peer.” Now I do admit that s-u, has neither right nor title to be pronounced shu; but I think the matter more doubtful, in regard to the fruit above named, more especially since we have peers of the realm, who, though they sometimes agree to {227} “pair off,” on some parliamentary question, yet I believe they would resolutely oppose any motion for being pared in any other way.
 Leaving the adjustment of these points at the pleasure of the public, I would direct the study of my readers to other, and equally astounding peculiarities of sound, or it will be in vain that I attempt to introduce them to the Pearsons.
 In the first place, then, our little liquid pronoun I, becomes a totally different personage, to be expressed only by the letters “Agh.” Every vowel assumes a broad, drawling sounds and the abbreviations used by the Yorkites are both curious, startling, and almost incomprehensible.
 I recollect once seeing an accomplished and learned gentleman totally nonplused by a sentence which fell from the lips of a young Yorkshireman. He had been to call upon a person whom he did not find at home, and coming suddenly back, said to his friend, -
 “They’s no pessen i’ t’ hoos,” literally translated, “There’s no person in the house.” The gentleman looked at the speaker, and gravely inquired, “Pray what countryman is this; I have travelled all over Europe and America, but do not at all recognize the language.”
 Our friend Barney, or rather “Thomas the {228} man-servant” was accordingly as much puzzled to comprehend the questions of Miss Nancy Pearson, when, on descending from the carriage, with all her fears, and some of her wits about her, she began to vociferate for the delivery of her luggage, in the full persuasion that nothing but the most powerful vigilance could extract it from the hands of the coachman.
 Having succeeded in procuring a “rank and file” arrangement of the trunks, bundles, and bonnet-boxes, containing her wardrobe, with that of her sister, to accommodate the remnants of which, uncle John’s saddle-bags, of fifty years old, were enlisted, and made their first essay in travelling; she looked round for their convoy; and the guard having descended from his throne, and being the only person able to understand her, she asked him -
 “Weere’s t’ sarvant lad?”
 “Agh seere agh naw n’t,” was the reply of the native, and meaning, “I’m sure I do not know.”
 Barney’s natural intellect led him here to protrude himself; he knew he was come in quest of two elderly young ladies, who lived a long, long way from London; and Barney included every place beyond his own ken, under the convenient denomination “Abroad.” He therefore was not {229} surprized that cousin Nancy’s English should prove somewhat deficient, and accordingly endeavoured, by shouting, to render his own sentences more easy of comprehension to the lady.
 “Awe! ar’ you t’ sarvent? well, which is t’ way?”
 “Miss Jones desired I’d get a coach, Ma’am, when you’d have your luggage all ready.”
 “Awe, aye, there’s more than you can carry, agh reckon; bud cum here, me mann. Ask t’ coachman what he’ll charge before you put t’ boxes in, or else we shall hev’ a faan penny to pay, agh guess.”
 “Oh! no fear. Miss, there’s a reg’lar fare.”
 “A fair! an’ can’t we go round? Mun we go through ’t, whether or naw. Awe, Betsey! t’ lad says we mun gang through t’ fair! Awe, dearee me, agh wish uncle John was here: we shall be robbed and murthered, be werselves, to mak t’ least on’t Is it Bartelmy Fair, yon?”
 “Ma’am?”
 “Well, agh do say, cuzzen James mite a cum to meet uz. Agh nivver was in a fair bud once, and then agh skreeked for fright at t’ moontebanks. Awe, Betsey, what shall we do, bairn?”
 “Nay, agh naw n’t, agh seere, Nancy, lass!” {230}
 “Agh’s all ower of a diddher [tremble], at t’ bare thowts ont.”
 By this time Barney, in despair of coming to anything like an understanding with the “foreign ladies,” had called up a coach, into which he was busily stowing their goods and chattels, when -
 “Agh say, lad! what’s te boun’ to deye noo?” burst from the alarmed Nancy, who, determined at all hazards to share the fate of her property, jumped into the coach. Betsey instinctively followed. Barney gladly shut the door, mounted the box, and during the drive to Montague Place, the sisters cogitated and speculated on the probable, possible, and inevitable demand to be made on their purse, by reason of this extra ride. In turning out of Russell Square, the words “ Montague Place” met the eye of Nancy, who drew comfort from the certainty of their at least not having been beguiled into the dangers of Wapping, a dread that had oppressed her during the whole time of her progress from Islington.
 On the opening of the door, the Misses Jones appeared under the hall lamp: to have {231} proceeded nearer to the entrance would not have been in good taste. They had decided on saluting their visitors with entire cordiality, but their intended kisses were cooling on their lips, while Nancy and Betsey Pearson attempted an expostulation with their driver, fast approaching to a squabble, when Miss Julia prevailed on herself to advance three steps, and stretching out her long neck to the extent of three more, cried - “Pray, come in, my dears, ‘Thomas, the man-servant,’ will settle all that for you.”
 “Well, cuzzen, we’re cum. Awe, bud we’ve hed a weary ride, agh’ll assure you,” was the opening speech of cousin Nancy.
 The Jones’s did accomplish a sentence almost articulately, of words comprizing pleasure - happy - to see you, &c. They were women of uncommon presence of mind, and had determined to be amiable. The travellers were consigned to the before-named spare room, where they were exhorted to apply themselves to the refreshment of the toilet in the half hour preceding dinner-time, for which purpose (professedly) the sisters left them; but, in reality, to recover from the dismay caused by the very grotesque appearance of their cousins, the Pearsons. {232}
 “Did she say dinner, Betsey, at this taam o’day? Agh’s just deein’ for a dish o’ tea. However, well say nowt. Agh was glad you didn’t say we took a check o’ dinner at Stilton. Dress, too! Agh wondher if there’s company, and what they ’ll expect uz te put on.”
 “Agh seere agh naw n’t.”
 This was the customary answer of Miss Betsey Pearson, to the various wanderings of her elder sister.
{233}

[End chap.]