CHAPTER XIV - The Bazaar

“Are our cousins arrived?’’ was the inquiry of Mr. James Jones, on entering the drawing- room, where he found only his sisters, whose united reply, if reply it could be called, amounted to no more than -
 “Oh, James!”
 “Ah, James!”
 Even the loquacious Grizzle, for once was silenced; and her apparently inexhaustible fund of good nature proved insufficient to blind her to the awful task she had undertaken.
 “I see, I see,” said Mr. James Jones. “Well, Grizzle! it is your own affair, so make what you can of it. But where are the natives? Dressing, I suppose.”
 “We shall have dinner some time this evening, I fancy,’’ said Miss Julia; “though we need not expect it then, if we are to wait till the Miss Pearsons are humanized! Such a pair! in dark bottle green - habits, they would have been, {234} only that they scarcely reached the tops of their leather boots.”
 “Most likely they have grown taller since the habits were made, or the cloth may have shrunk, you know, Julia; it does sometimes, even in London. But I will go and summon them. Perhaps they are tired, and have lain down.”
 “Cousin Pearsons tired, Grizzle! Oh! you have much yet to learn.”
 Grizzle’s gentle tap at the door of the spare room, was received by an eager “Cum in ’’ and, on entering, she found no progress had been made beyond that of taking off the objectionable habits.
 “Aw, aghm saw glad you’ve cum upp, cuzzin Grizzle. Betsey and me was - just wondering what we’d better put on, for agh thowt, as you mentioned dressing, there must be cumpany, so, may be, we’d better put wer low topps on.”
 “Whatever you please, my dears,” their cousin replied, being quite unable to guess the meaning of topps, which she afterwards understood to constitute the distinction between revealing, or otherwise, the scraggy necks of the Misses Pearson.
 “We expect no company to-day, so that you need take no remarkable pains with your toilet. {235} In fact, the more speedy you can make it, the better, as my brother James is come in, and I believe dinner is quite ready.”
 “Aw, then, tak oot wer brown high topps, Betsey, wite’s se cauld, and the browns are laaned, you knaw. Well be doone just noo, cuzzen Grizzle.”
 In little more than half an hour, the “brown high tops” were assumed. The Misses Pearson invariably dressing alike, and the choice of their garments resting solely with Miss Nancy, who gave great part of her time, and nearly all her thoughts, to this important subject, thus rendering it unnecessary for her sister to do anything more than consult the decision of the elder one.
 “Thomas, the man-servant,” shortly after announced dinner; and Mr. James Jones, approaching Miss Nancy Pearson, (rather unceremoniously, as she felt,) linked her arm within his, and descended the staircase. She stared at the young man; but having previously resolved to be surprized at nothing, she submitted quietly to his guidance, believing it intended as a compliment on her arrival, as it was a piece of gallantry the Swaledale farmers had not acquired the practice of.
 “You call this dinner,” observed Miss Betsey, {236} “bud its more like oor supper taam; howiver, agh can’t say it cums amiss to me, for all we’ve hed naw tea: bud its all use, agh expect. Cuzzen James used oftens to laff at uz, when he was i’ Swaledale, for dining at twelve o’clock: agh can’t think, for magh part, hoow he, or any body else, can fast till this taam a day.”
 “Will you do me the favour?” interposed Mr. James Jones, grasping the white wine decanter, and fixmg his eyes inquiringly on the damsel.
 “Eagh?” proceeded from the lips of Miss Nancy.
 “You will take a glass of wine with my brother, “ explained Miss Jones.
 “Aw! naw, thank you, cuzzen Grizzle, that’s cuzzen James, agh’d as lief heve a sup o’ beer, or ayel, or ouwt o’ that sort.”
 “I am sorry to say we have no malt liquor in the house. It is seldom drank in London.”
 “Aye! why, niver heed, cuzzen Joolia, then agh’ll heve sum waane, if its nut curran waan, bud that allis disagrees we’ maa boowels.”
 “You will find that sherry pretty good, I hope,” said Miss Julia Jones, drawing up her long throat to its utmost length.
 “Ay! its niceish tipple enuff,“ observed the {237} novice, sipping repeatedly of the almost, to her, unknown beverage. “Bud is it strong? for agh’s easily fuddled.”
 “We will ring for the remove. You need not wait, Thomas.”
 “Agh seere, cuzzen James, agh thenk you for that move; agh cuddent have eat a bit waal t’ man was in t’ room, yan feels si stated.”
 “Let me recommend a little liquer after your salmon, Miss Pearson,” said Miss Jones, filling a small glass from a bottle placed at her side.
 The former received, and emptied the proffered glass, remarking -
 “Saw! you’ve been making mint wather too, cuzzen Grizzle, bud your’s is nut se strong o’ the mint as oors; may be, mint’s scarceish in Lundun.”
 “ That is marischino, you have been drinking. Pray, what is mint water?”
 “Law, Nancy! only to think of cuzzen Joolia nut knowing what peppermint is; we oft’ tack it at howam; we mak’ it werselves, and it tastes a deal like this, bud nut si sweet,” she continued; “and agh’ll tell you hoo to mak it. Tak a good handful of mint, and bruize it well, put sum wather to ’t, and bottle ’t. We mak it iverry {238} year for its awkkard to have nothing in t’ hoos when peepel calls.”
 “Oh! my choice marischino,” thought Miss Jones, “what an unworthy palate hast thou been lavished on! Was there ev’r such a pair of unproduceable creatures. They have not sense enough even to keep their mouths shut. Whatever shall we do with them?”
 The next day, however, she felt it absolutely requisite to commence doing the honours; and tremblingly requested to know, what were the principal objects of their curiosity in London.
 “Why, Nancy wants te see St. Pauls, and agh’ve rather a wish to see t’ wild beasts at t’ Tower, for a pessen agh naw said ’at it was quiet safe, and wonderful curious. Agh woiddn’t maand going to t’ play, just for once, te say we’d been there; bud t’ shop windows is what pleases me best, and you can see them for nothing, you knaw.”
 “Parade them through Oxford Street at once, before a soul is stirring, was the advice (aside) of Miss Julia Jones to her sister, producing a proposed walk to “see the town a little.”
 “Ay, we’ll put wer things on; bud what? wer habits’ll be ower warm to walk in.” {239}
 “Oh! shawls, shawls, by all means; no one walks in a habit.”
 “Law! we most oft’ walks in them in Swaledale; they’re nice and short, and keep yau oot o’ t’ mud.”
 “This is Oxford Street; plenty of shops here, you see.”
 “Odds boddikins! bud its a rare length, that’s what it is,” exclaimed, in spite of herself, Miss Pearson.
 “Look here, Betsey, lass; here’s a window all full of lace, and all t’ prices pricked on ’em, - two-and-threepence, one-and-ninepence; that can’t be dear, howiver; and here’s a chany dish full of ribbons, and it says, ‘All these remnants at fivepence a yard.’ They can’t be dear; can they, cuzzen Grizzle? Gosh! agh ’ve a good maand te buy sum. What say’st, Betsey, bairn?”
 “Eagh! agh naw n’t: lets look further on. Here’s another shop, may be they’re cheaper, here. One-and-ninepence; eagh, bud that’s grand and broad!”
 “Aye, bud its nut so faan as that i’ tother shop. Cum yer ways back, lass. Look here, cuzzen Grizzle, which do yau think’s t’ cheapest?”
 “I never buy anything in ticketed shops {340} myself,’’ replied Miss Jones. “If you wish to make any purchases, I will take you to a house in Regent Street, where I deal constantly.”
 “Heavens, Grizzle! you never could think of producing them at Howell and James’s.”
 “Dear me! I quite forgot; so I did, Julia; I am so accustomed to recommend everyone to go there. Never mind, it is so early in the day, there can be no one there.”
 “What’s t’ name of t’ shop, cuzzen?”
 “Howell and James’s, the most fashionable in’ town.”
 “Aw, then, we’re like to go there, cuzzen.”
 “You would be cozened any where else,” remarked Miss Jones, who sometimes indulged in a little playful expression of this nature; and now ventured it, in the vain hope of sweetening her sister’s aspect. It was, unfortunately, like most of Miss Jones’s observations, about as ill-judged as it was well-meaning, and the frowns gathered perceptibly on Julia’s never open brow, as they progressed through their painful pilgrimage of Oxford Street, which the Pearsons insisted on traversing to the very Park; then crossing over, they commenced an equally careful and tedious examination of every window on the opposite side, pleasantly urging, that as they did {241} not particularly want to buy anything, they could go to cousin Grizzle’s shop some other day; doubting, at the same time, if it could surpass what they at present saw.
 Four hours is a moderate allowance of time for a thorough inspection of the wonders of Oxford Street to a country cousin. Indeed, it is only by the continual remark, “We shall see better things farther on,” that it can be performed in that time. If it were possible to exert so much good nature and patience, as to be a silent attendant, the tour would end only with daylight. Nay, not even then; for gas, with all its charms, succeeds so instantaneously, and, to country eyes, so magically, that the scene becomes quite new, and even more attractive.
 “I really should like to shew them the Bazaar, Julia: we are so near, and it is not two o’clock. I declare I am fagged to death with crawling along this endless street: we might sit down and rest, while they look about and amuse themselves;, for really, I believe, as brother James says, ‘they will never tire.’”
 “It will be horrid if we should meet anyone we know there.”
 “Oh! no chance of it; it wants a quarter to two; and, besides, I positively can walk no {242} farther, and one would not like to be seen in a hackney coach. I declare, I am cery sorry hacks are gone out; for, after all, they are a great convenience, particularly to such as do not keep carriages of their own; and some of them, I am sure, are not so very dirty, - before anyone is out, - I mean, before two o’clock. I do think it a pity one cannot avail oneself -”
 “I am not going to enter a hackney coach, if you mean that, Grizzle,” said her sister snappishly.
 “Well, then, there is only the Bazaar for it. Sit down I must.”
 This grand emporium was entered; and the resolution of the Pearsons was not proof against the astonishment inseparable from the first view of the scene there displayed. Their exclamations, Julia foresaw, would soon draw a crowd around them, so she kindly pointed to their observation two chairs, at the end of a long room, where she said herself and sister would await them; Grizzle kindly adding, they were free to range from room to room, up-stairs, and down-stairs, to look at, even to touch, everything; to ask the prices of all, yet to buy nothing; for, as she justly remarked, “the most fashionable people regu- arly get rid of an hour in that way, whenever {243} they happen to have nothing else to do, so that one never feels the least ashamed of doing the same.”
 The sisters had not long remained in their retreat, before they heard peals of laughter in the room adjoining their place of refuge; they saw a rush of persons ascend the staircase: they rejoiced that the Bazaar seemed less crowded than usual. Poor things! they as yet remained in peaceful ignorance that the tide of loungers, though, perhaps, they might not be of the mdist refined class, were irresistibly impelled to swell the accompanying train of the Misses Pearson, whose unlimited and loud delight, now that they felt relieved from any restraint imposed by the presence of the Jones’s, attracted every eye and every ear. Then there was a short pause, for the scene had removed to the upper rooms. Grizzle was beginning to feel refreshed; and gazing up at a small arched gallery, which overlooked the room where she sat, she pointed out to her sister’s attention some turbans exhibited, therein, declaring they really seemed rather stylish at a distance, and wondering if they might bear a nearer inspection. She rather wanted something of the kind, and they must be cheap at the Bazaar, she was sure. Her speculations {244} were as abruptly as unpleasantly checked, by the sudden projection of Miss Pearson’s head between the two turbans on which her regard was fixed. At the same moment her suffering ears received the following words, screamed in the loudest tone, by the astonishecl Swaledaleian.
 “Eagh! Nancy, bairn, cum here; is n’t yon cuzzen Chrizzle, and cuzzen Joolia, there, by t’ fire saad?”
 “Weere, Betsey?”
 “Why, theere, lass, by t’ fire; theere, cuzzen Grizzle’s looking up. Here we are, cuzzen Grizzle! She can’t see uz, its magh belief. Cuzzen! cuzzen Chrizzle!” she repeated, as she thrust her head still farther through the opening she had made, and continued nodding to the horrorstruck Jones’s. “Haw! haw! haw! Nancy, lass! issent it for all t’ warld like Jack in a box? Aw, theere, - noo, they see uz. Here we are, cuzzen Jones, bud we han’t seen hawf yet; we’ll be doon enoo.”
 “Whatever is to become of us? We shall be hooted home; that’s the very least I expect Good gracious! I should be thankful of even a hackney coach to creep into. Do you see what a mob is following them?”  {445}
 “I declare I wish we had a coach, or anything in the world to take us home in. Do, Julia, go and try if you can send one of the porters for a coach; anything is better than walking home with these Goths, and a crowd at our heels.”
 A despised, and, truth to say, a despiseable hack was procured, into which the assembled ladies made their way, through a large concourse of spectators, who had, rather rudely, pressed to witness the interview of the four cousins, and still more rudely attended them to their very exit from the Bazaar; so that all who had ears, might hear the directions given by the porter, to drive to “Montague Place.”
 “Where is Julia?” inquired Mr. James Jones. “I have hastened home sooner than usual, in hopes of inducing her, for once, to go out without a glass coach. I had the offer of a private box for Covent Garden to-night, and thought it too good an opportunity to be neglected, of taking these girls to the theatre. Of course, they must go to both houses, and it would be impossible to do so, except under the power thus given us, of locking out all but our own party.”
 “Julia is gone to bed with a severe head ache: {246} not in a very good humour, either. I do not think she will ever be prevailed on to go out with them again; and, for my part, I am so completely fagged out with this morning’s expedition, and Julia’s ill temper in consequence of it, that I am almost ready to follow her example; only, of course, now they are here, we must make the best of it; and, as you say, James, they will expect to be taken about a little - What is the play? I suppose it is the Sumner’s box. How kind of them. I hope they Have not heard of our visitors, and will think it ne cessary to call. By the bye, we ought to have them to dinner soon; but that is out of the question now. How is old Sumner? I should have called to-day; indeed, I ought to have done so; but, oh! James, you can have no con- ception of what we have gone through with them this morning. Four hours in Oxford Street, poring into every shop window as if it had been a Museum; which, to be sure, is quite natural too, you know, as I said to Julia, never having seen anything equal to it before; and I should not have minded the fatigue the least in the world, only that I was oN thorns lest anyone we knew should see us; and indeed, I am pretty sure, (but I said nothing to Julia, of course,) {247} I am pretty sure the Martin’s, passed us as we stood staring into Dawes’s fruit shop, at the moment Nancy Pearson was inquiring, ‘if that was not Mrs. Salmon’s wax work?’ That, however, was nothing to the scene at the Bazaar. I am sure, now I think of it, I am quite glad Julia was so angry: only for the fright she put me in, I really must have fainted. However, we got into a hackney coach, and -”
 “Julia into a hackney coach! and in daylight?”
 “Oh! I believe she would have jumped into a coal wagon, or anything by way of escape; which was natural enough, when one considers how she dislikes being annoyed in anyway; and I dare say, by to-morrow, when her anger wears itself out, she will be better tempered: she often is, you Know, James. So, as she is in bed, and all that, it would be a pity, as you say, and when I have had some dinner, I shall feel better, no doubt. Besides - Oh! here they come. Well, girls, what say you to going to the Play to-night?”
 “What, noo, cuzzen?”
 “Not now, exactly, but after dinner.”
 “Aw dear, agh dawn’t naw. What, te nite?”
 “Yes, James has obtained a private box for us, so we are sure of good places.” {245}
 “Aw, bud, agh’d naw thowts of going te nite.”
 “Never mind that; there’s plenty of time now, if it requires to be thought of beforehand.”
 “Aye, bud; deare mee, agh’d naw thowts, had you, Nancy, and we ’re nut dressed. Hadn’t we better go some other time?”
 “We might not have the same privilege another night; and, in regard of dress, no one thinks of dressing for the theatre; a slouch bonnet is the most stylish thing you can go in.”
 “Nut dress to gang to t’ play; why, what i’ naem o’ goodness should yan dress for then? Agh niver hard tell o’ syke a thing. Agh niver was at t’ play myself, bud a pessen told me, ’at went once to t’ Theatre Royal, at York, ’at there was nowt less than turbums, and feathers, and t’ ladies necks as bare as t’ back o’ yer hand.”
 “That must have been some time ago, I imagine. There is nothing of the sort practised now, I assure you. By the bye, James, our new man-servant has never been to a London theatre, I understand, and I promised he should go on the first opportunity: suppose we send him into the pit; he may be useful in calling a coach for us at coming away.”
 “Well, cuzzen, agh suppaws you knaw best, {249} bud it seems saw queer to gang to t’ play in syke a minute!”
 The fact was, “the foreign ladies,” as Barney styled them, had certainly speculated on the probabiLIty of this species of amusement being offered to them; but, conscious it would form a remarkable era in their lives, they very reluctantly believed that it was a matter to be achieved upon less than three days previous expectation. To go without expressly dressing for the purpose, too, and without cousin Julia, was an arrangement they found difficult of comprehension.
 To Covent Garden they went, and much to Miss Jones’s self-gratulation, saw no one they knew, and succeeded in slipping quietly in and out of the theatre, without encountering either obstacle or adventure of any kind. {230}

Chapter XV - A Tragedy

 Not so unfruitful in events was the first visit of Barney Mahoney to the pit of Covent Garden Theatre. In the first place, he happened to be seated next the ex-butler of the Temples, who, being as knowing a man as any about town, was extremely useful in explaining to his old fellow, servant much that he saw, and all that he did not understand.
 “Death alive! Misther Screw, what’s this goin’ on now? Oh! murther, murther, see that big blagguard how terrible he looks at de iligant lady there in de green an’ gowld, an’ she cryin’ fit to brake de heart on her. Ah! the cruel villyan, bud I wish I was at him.”
 “Its all right, Barney, my lad. Its a tragedy, ye see. It would be no how at all if all the females warnt made to cry, and the men to get into furious passions. I don’t know if there’s killing in this play, but sometimes you’ll see ’em give one another sich whacks, - but its all in their {251} parts, you see. I seen a play once, that was a tragedy too, where a lady comes on and goes to bed -”
 “What, afore all de company! Oh, my, that bates all!”
 “Aye, does she, and makes a pretence of going to sleep; (’cause its in her part, you see;) and then her husband comes on, and talks a bit, and pretends he’s mortal vexed, (its in his part that,) and he takes up a pillow, and smothers her with it.”
 “He doant, shoore.”
 “Oh! be hanged if he don’t though, - and a pretty creature she was, and all about a pocket handkicher, by what I could make out.”
 “Oh! murther an’ turf! there’s a handsome lady now come on. What’s she, Misther Screw? Eh! then, may be that issent a purty little straw hat at the back of her head. Shoore, now, an’ doesn’t it shew off her complexion all to pieces?”
 “She’s what they calls the rival, I take it, to she in the green and gold. They both wants the same man, by the looks on’t. I shouldn’t wonder but one on ’em gets killed afore alls done.”
 Matters went on towards the fifth act, and a crisis; poor Barney’s were feelings often too strongly {352} excited to be mastered, except by the attentive observance of his companion, who again and again reminded him, it was merely “what was set down for them.” At length, however, one of the “iligant ladies” threw herself, in apparent agitation, at the feet of a fierce-looking, black-whiskered cavalier, who, spurning the hand she would have grasped his hand in, she fell prostrate on the stage’
 “Oh! de thief o’ de worrold! de hard-hearted, black-looking robber! Shoore, if he hasn’t kilt an’ smashed de poore gir1 now, an’ she beggin’ pardin that same time! Be de powers, Misther Screw, they may talk o’ savages, and wild Irish; bud be this, an’ be that, I’d like to know what these is, settin’ quiet by, an’ seen a man misuse a purty cratur like that Och! I’ll be goin’, Misther Screw; I can’t stand any more, so I can’t.”
 “Hold your tongue, you spooney; its all in their parts, I tell you. She ain’t a bit hurt: you’ll see her on her feet again, just now, and singing, may be, like any nightingale.”
 “Ah! no, Misther Screw! Look there, now. Look at them two futmen laying howlt on her, an’ liftin’ her body off as it might be a dead dog. Oh! an’ see at her purty head hung a one side. {253}
 Its her neck he’s broke, de murtherin’ villyan, an’ all her iligant hair sthramin’ down to de floor. Oh! ubbaboo! ullagone!”
 “Be quiet, I tell you, afore we get turned out; she’s no more killed than you are, I say; and as for her hair - bless your innocent soul - its nothink in life but a wig. If you was near enough, you’d see its tied under her chin, for fear of coming off in the scuffle. Come, the play is over now. We shall have some fun now: the pantomime will come next.”
 When the curtain drew up, a young lad was discovered sleeping at the foot of a mile stone, while, by a most admirable contrivance of scenery, a magnificent sun-rise took place, going through its paces with art and majesty more than sufficient to delight and astonish a spectator far more acquainted with stage eflect than was our novice from Blackpool. His mouth remained wide open so long, that, when he would have spoken, to question his companion, his throat had become so parched, as to leave him no powers of utterance. So he contented himself with gazing, most intently, at the progress of the hero of the piece - no less a personage than Whittington himself, whose well-known story offered as rich scope for the powers of pageantry to be exercised {254} upon, as any ever perhaps adapted to the stage: one, also, as gratifying to the beholders, as it was perfect in conception and execution. All things must end, however, and so did the pantomime. Soon after which, Barney recovered his breath, and, recollecting the directions of his miaster, hastened to attend at the spot appointed, taking a friendly leave of Mr. Screw, the ex-butler, who shook him kindly by the hand, protesting he was “a fine young chap,” and that he should be glad to see him, at any opportunity, at a public house called the “Scapegoat,” near Seven Dials, where, at present, his quarters were, being, as he expressed it, “out of commission;” consequently, a gentleman at large.
 When Barney, the following morning, carried up the tea-urn. Miss Julia Jones addressed him with:
 “So, Thomas, my sister was so good as to treat you to the play last night. How did you like it?”
 “Eh! then. Miss! I’ll niver forgit it, de longest day I have to live, so I won’t: I seen what nobody would, or could, believe, widout seein’ it, an’ not then, may be.”
 “You must have behoved what you saw with your own eyes, surely, Thomas?” {255}
 “Oh! I did. Miss. That is, I did not, for a frind o’ mine was by, an’ he tould me all their stabbin’ an’ shilleghlaing was nothin’ bud sham; an’ even whin they’d drop dead, an’ be carried off neck an’ heels, its supper they was goin’ to most like - so there! To be shoore, there was a deal too, that must ha’ been true, anyway, for there was as iligant a sun riz’ as ever came out o’ de heavens, or de say ay ther! an’ that must ha’ bin rale, anyhow; for there’s nayther man, woman, or child, nor not even Father Connor himself, could make a pertince sunrise an’ day-light, an’ all that, Miss.”
 “But did not this take place in the night time, Thomas? How could that be?”
 “Not all on it. Miss. First, we’d a deal o’ love an’ murther, an’ scrimmagin’, an’ a broken head or two, an’ I could a liked that, oney they kilt de girls, an’ that wint to me heart, so it did. Well! one way an’ de other they kept on at this all night, that’s last night - no, night afore. Miss; an’ then in de morning, just as it was beginning daylight, then they set to work to a new thing entirely. I doant remimber desactly how it was, nor all what they did, bud catchin’ mice they was, an’ all in sich iligant dresses; an’ dancin’, an’ hdlin’, an’ marryin’ {256}  (that’s some on ’em,) an’ so they kept on all day, ’till de middle o’ last night again; an’ if it had been a week I’d staid there, I never would have had a blink o’ sleep in me eyes, so I wouldn’t Oh! I nivir’ll forgit it to de day o’ judgment, an’ beyant.”
 “What was the name of the play, Thomas?”
 “’Twas a thragedy. Miss.”
 “Well, tragedy, then. Do you know what it was called?”
 Barney paused, looked puzzled, and at length replied -
 “’Twas Misthress Whittinton an’ her Chat, Miss.”
 “Indeed! Now let us have breakfast, Thomas -”
 “Thomas, the new man, seems to have been highly pleased with the theatre. Grizzle,” she continued, as her sister at this moment appeared; “he fully believes he has passed a night and a day there. How were our uncouth cousins amused?”
 “Poor Thomas. I am glad he enjoyed his treat. I like the lad, there seems so much heart about him. (If Miss Jones had omitted the two first letters of the word, she would have shewn stronger judgment in this case.) He is {257} so unlike the general run of London servants, that I am sure we shall find him quite a treasure.”
 “Humph! I hope it may prove so. But the Pearsons. Were their raptures very loudly expressed?”
 “Why, I dare say they were greatly delighted; they must have been, you know, never having seen a theatre before. But they did not seem so much astonished as I expected, certainly, which was very likely owing to their having heard so much of it in the country. Still I was surprized they did not express more admiration, but perhaps their feelings were too powerful. Some people, you know, say least when they feel most, though I cannot say it ap- pears natural to me; for if I am pleased, or vexed, or surprized, or anything indeed, I think it is such a relief to one’s mind to open it to anyone. I am sure I do not know what I should do if it so happened I had no person to speak to. At the same time, it is not very probable I should be so circumstanced, for in London you -”
 “But I want to know what these girls said. How they looked? at the pantomime, for instance.’’ {258}
 “I do not remember they said anything. Oh! yes, - and I was a little shocked, too, - only so glad you were not there, for I believe the party in the next box must have heard it. I asked Nancy how she liked the house: that was before the curtain drew up, you know, when- one always looks round at the boxes and com- pany, and all that, for I’m sure I consider it a very pretty sight, though we, you know, have seen it so often.”
 “Well, and the savage said - what?”
 “She said - ‘Aye, its part large,’ (what now could she mean by part large? such a very odd expression. I forgot to ask James; perhaps he could explain it, having been in Yorkshire.) ‘Its part large,’ she said, ‘bud agh’m sey thirsty; there’s a lass doon theere, wi’ a basket of orangers; I wish she’d cam upp here, for agh’s si dry.”
 “The wretch! That was before the performance began, however. What happened when the curtain rose.”
 “They looked interested, I thought, at first; indeed, it would have been impossible to be otherwise; and, after that, they both yawned a good deal, which was odd too, I thought; but you know it is a rather long play, and then it is {259} so affecting, that, towards the end, I really was so absorbed I did not notice them. One hates to look at people when ones eyes are red and swollen; but I heard Betsey sigh several times; and, as soon as I felt my own features a little composed, I considered it would be but kind to sympathize with her, and indeed I imagined she might be even painfully distressed, you know, being unaccustomed to stage affairs, which really are often quite harrowing to ones feelings, and - Where was I? Oh! so I turned round to her, saying, - I fear, my dear, you are sadly disturbed by this scene; but remember, it is all fiction.”
 “‘Agh naw n’t what ye call fiction,’ she answered; ‘bud agh naw agh’s just deein’ for a drink,’- only think how gross! I really was surprized; but I was glad, too, that you had not been vexed by hearing such a heartless speech; and certainly, it is just as well, if anyone can, to avoid crying at a tragedy, for, after all, it does no good, and often gives you such a head ache the next day, particularly when a panto- mime follows. I mean you look more silly, for you cannot help laughing, perhaps, and I am sure there’s little pleasure in laughing when {260} your eyes are aching, and your nose, perhaps, red, and all that. But what astonished me more than all the rest, was their impatience to get away. At least, so it appeared; though of course it must have been my mistake, somehow, for it would have been so very unnatural, you know. So I do not know what it could be, but every time the curtain fell, they jumped up, saying - ‘Now is it over, cuzzen?’ and looked so disappointed at sitting down again. At the same time, I recollect, the first time I was there, I thought the same, only I was sorry when it really was done; and instead of which, they appeared, if anything, to rejoice. I should like to know, however, what opinion they will pass this morning. So pray do you question them at breakfast.”
 If Miss Julia Jones had possessed the power of “calling spirits from the vasty deep,’’ she might have fathomed the thoughts, if thoughts they had, of the Misses Pearson. All her efforts were vain. The most stingy returns of monosyllabic replies were all she could extract from either damsel; and not chancing to be highly gifted with patience, she relinquished the task to her brother James, who, having abstained {261} from questions in public, dreading the loudness and incongruity of the answers he might draw forth, and considering the obscurity of the little back parlour, (or, as it was styled, the breakfast room,) of Montague Place, a safer position, he politely “hoped, they felt no ill effects from their dissipation;” and still farther hoped, they had been gratified by what “they had seen.”
 “Aye, agh’m glad we’ve been, it’ll be some’at to talk on i’ Swaledale.”
 “You must have found the theatre more large and splendid than you had calculated upon?”
 “Aye, its a huge spot, bud agh reckon there’s more folks here than there is i’ Yorkshire.”
 “The scenery is magnificent”
 “Aye! t’ hoos is rare and faan; bud t’ music dung through magh heead saw, agh was fain ti get oot.”
 "What thought you of our far-famed tragic actress?”
 “Her in t’ green, or t’ other wi’ a hat on.”
 “Oh, no; those were mere accessaries. The heroine was in white and silver.”
 “Aw, aye, theere was one, agh maand noo, {262} ’at went rampawging aboot, and shooted, and seemed quite i’ grief about sommut, agh naw n’t what, nut agh. Hev’ you browt doon magh netting Betsey, lass?” she continued, turning to her sister, “for agh reckon cuzzen Jones’s wawn’t want to be thralin’ t’ streets t’ mom, sae agh’ll git a bit o’ wark dun.”
 Now this really was too bad. Miss Jones thought, and Miss Julia Jones hesitated not to say, after the martyrdom they had sustained in their never-to-be-forgotten perambulation of the previous day; she nevertheless profited by their resolution of remaining at home, and paid a few visits, at which she was most happy to be excused from their attendance.
 Miss Jones had always fifty notes to write; apologies, invitations, inquiries after colds, ladies and their babies, and a thousand important trifles of this nature, which filled up all her leisure time; and to this occupation she applied herself, whilst Miss Nancy Pearson commenced operations on a long, narrow strip of weather-stained netting, destined, at some future time, as she informed her cousin, to be plaited on her cap, and with the laudable purpose of leading a credulous world to receive it as lace.
 “It seems an endless undertaking,’’ said {263} Miss Jones. “Do you not find it very tedious?”
 “Why, aye! it takes part taam,” was the complacent reply.
 “And of what use can it possibly be, after all?”
 “Nay, nut much; bud what! one ’s like to do sommut, you naw.”
 After some time spent in this manner, it occurred to the hospitable recollection of Miss Jones, that she had been deficient in catering for the amusement of her other guest, who had been so long absent from the parlor, that she found it incumbent on her manners to go in search of her. In the spare room she found Miss Betsey Pearson seated, and, with a melancholy aspect, gazing on the square allowance of sky to be commanded from the situation she had chosen.
 “What is the matter, Betsey, my dear? You do not look well.”
 “Aw, agh’m well enuff, thenk you, cuzzen Grizzle.”
 “You must be dull here, alone: let me prevail on you to come down stairs; or, if you feel indisposed, tell me if there is anything I can offer you. I am sure you are in pain, my dear.” {264} “Naw, cuzzen, agh’m nut; agh was only thinking -”
 “Ah! I was sure there was something amiss, you looked so anxious and unhappy. I do not wish, my dear, to pry impertinently into the subject of your distress; but, if there is anything I could do to alleviate, for, as I often say to Julia, though the world has always gone smoothly with us, that is no reason why we should refuse to sympathize in the griefs of others. I am sure there are few women so fortunate as we are, and in most families there will occur something or other unpleasant. So that one ought never to feel too confident in one’s own security; but perhaps, my dear, your sister would be a fitter person to comfort you. Shall I ask her to come to you?”
 “Aw, nay; it’ll do presently, agh expect. Agh was only thinking -”
 “Yes, my dear, - very true; but if you will listen to advice from an older head than your own, (for I am older by five years, I think I have heard my mother say,) and, indeed, I am never ashamed, for my part, of owning to my age; everyone cannot be young, you know, at least always young. But what I was going to observe, my dear cousin, is that I do think it {265} a wrong thing to give way to melancholy, and seclude yourself in this manner, refusing to open your heart to your own sister. Surely, if there be anyone to whom one’s thoughts may safely -”
 “ Lord sake, cuzzen! what a fuss about nowt. Agh was only thinking agh wondthered what we wer te put on te day.” {266}

CHAPTER XVI - The Siege

 Our friend and favorite, Tom Barton, must not be quite neglected, even in consideration of the cousins Pearson. He calls more especially for both notice and congratulation, since matters have proceeded so rapidly and smoothly in Finsbury Square, that nothing but the furnishing of a house, and the preparing of wedding finery, delays his marriage with Miss Stapleton. The course of this, (although a love match it might be called, waving the absence of poverty,) was so unruffled, as to bear along with its gentle current the very lawyers. No delays were practised; no difficulties started, to perplex or alarm the lovers. Fanny had not even to experience the pang of quitting a parent’s wing, for her house was taken within three doors of that in which she had been born, educated, and had spent her harmless life, and where her parents were still to reside. Notwithstanding her own unclouded prospects, Fanny did not forget the attachment for such {267} she was deceived into believing it) of the two elder daughters of Mrs. Temple; neither had she ceased to feel grateful, for the attentions of both mother and daughters to her during her visit to Hastings.
 She requested that she might be permitted to invite Jane and Maria Temple to stay in Finsbury Square for the six weeks previous to her marriage. The proposal was readily assented to by Mrs. Stapleton, and was grasped with avidity by Mrs. Temple, whose husband firmly persisted in declaring, that they could not occupy their town house until his affairs were in a far more flourishing condition than they had been since the last extravagant and expensive season. To put an end to all hope on the subject, he let the house in South Audley Street for three years, and listened immoveably to the repinings of Mrs. Temple, and her prediction of the utter ruin of every complexion in the family before the period of their exile should expire.
 The two girls, under these circumstances, were gladly dispatched to town, and exhorted to leave no pains untried to secure, if not the young Stapletons, almost any other match. “Nay, if old Barton himself should take matrimony into his head,’’ added Mrs. Temple, {268} “remember, he is not to be refused. He is a horrid savage, to be sure, but he cannot live for ever; and if he does dine at three o’clock, still, girls, a table of your own would be something gained, if even, it were in the city.”
 “I never saw the city, but it cannot be so odious as Fenny Hollows,” was the filial reply of Miss Temple.
 “And you may be very certain we shall do our best, mama, for you cannot be more anxious on the subject than ourselves,“ added Miss Maria.
 “Very well, then, my dears. All is as it should be.”
 “And Mrs. Temple, my dear, ” said her husband, “I wish, before the girls go, you would give Maria a hint to try and break herself of that conceited trick she has adopted lately, of tossing her head about. I expect it to end in St. Vitus’s dance.”
 “My dear, it is not conceit, I assure you: she is ‘only trying to get a manner.’ No, no, my girls have no affectation about them, at all events. As I said to Mr. Deacon on Sunday evening: - ‘Few persons, Mr. Deacon, give my girls credit for anything more solid than accomplishments: indeed, it is only a mother who, {269} can duly appreciate their more useful qualities, A mother, Mr. Deacon, who has devoted her care to the cultivation, not only of those outward graces we all admire, but has also, if I may say it without vanity, laboured to render them fit to superintend, with judgment and economy, a limited household, should it be so ordained that they are to marry men of narrow income.’ He is a stupid young man, I think, that Mr. Deacon. He actually said, ‘he did not know of any single men in the county, and feared my care had been thrown away.’ Its a very ridiculous thing, by the bye, his mother living with him: there’s no making anything, of even a poor curate, unless he has a solitary, comfortless home.”
 The Misses Temple resolved to recommence their attack upon the young Stapletons; but, to their dismay, they were informed that the elder son was gone to Rotterdam on mercantile affairs, and that Charles was, alternately, grouse shooting and flirting in the North, where he was on a visit to some College friends, whose charming, amiable, and accomplished sisters, were the subject of all his letters, appearing to be quite irresistible, and only perplexing to the tender-hearted youth, by reason of their multiplicity. It was regularly a {269} subject of speculation with Fanny before opening his letters- “Now! which will be the reigning deity of the hour? It was Anna, I think, the adorable Anna, whose praises filled his last dispatch. Poor Anna! her day of power is over, I suspect; I see the name of Matilda occurs most abundantly. How very amusing Charles is with his loves!”
 “Do you think he is really attached to any of these Miss Annendales?” inquired Miss Temple.
 “Oh! no doubt of it! To all of them in turn. Charles could not exist without a goddess to adore.”
 “Yes: but I mean - Do you suppose he will marry one of them?”
 “Oh, no! At least, I do not consider it likely. Charles is so changeable, and so violent in his devoirs, that I doubt if even a residence in the house of his mistress would bring him to a proposal; that is, unless she were the only female within twenty miles of him.”
 “When do you expect him home?”
 “He will be here in about a fortnight, I believe, but only for a day. He comes to take leave of me, and to rest one night before he sets out for the continent, where he intends travelling for six or eight months.” {271}
 “Oh,” said Miss Temple.
 “There’s no chance in that quarter, then,’’ thought her sister; and, on their next confidential discussion, the sisters agreed, that although Finsbury Square was decidedly more agreeable than the fens of Lincolnshire, still that they did not find any great choice of young men about the house. Perhaps it was owing to the approaching marriage; they really thought, however, that Mrs. Stapleton might, in consideration for them, call a few danglers round them; It would be too dreadful to return to Fenny Hollows with unaltered prospects! Old Barton himself would be preferable to such an alternative.
 Mrs. Stapleton, good woman, was utterly unconscious of her duties in this particular. She had felt no necessity of manoeuvring, in the simple office of establishing an only daughter with an ample fortune; and, although she had occasionally beguiled half an hour in the perusal of some of those fashionable novels, where the iarts of “mothers and daughters” are vividly pourtrayed, she was far too good natured, and vastly too matter-of-fact, to give the smallest credit to anything, but what she believed to be the very lively imagination of the writers. The {272} Stapletons, too, persisted in the old-fashioned, and nearly obsolete custom of card playing, -an amusement not yet entirely exploded in the city! When a mother feels herself justified in devoting her attention to the game of whist, she becomes blind and deaf to whatever flirtations or matri- monial plots may be forming around or flou- rishing about her, and might just as well be at home and in bed, as thus inefficiently professing to “ do chaperone.”
 The Temples were annoyed, beyond patient endurance, at the carelessness of their interests, which they angrily assured each other, was most malicious, artificial, and cruel. The doctrine they had been all their lives accustomed to hear explained, and to see acted on, could not be unknown, even in the city; and they never would believe that even fat, easy Mrs. Stapleton, was so ignorant, as she pretended to be, of the whole and sole purpose of “going into society,’’ as they denominated the profession of man-hunting. In this dearth of beaux, they resolved to commence a regular siege on old Barton, under a mutual agreement, that whichever was fortunate enough to effect a breach in the dry-salter’s citadel, should be aided and assisted in the assault by the unsuccessful besieger, who {273} should give up her individual pursuit and design upon a three o’clock dinner in Portsoken ward, and rest contented on the honourable understanding of her sister, to do the best she could for her advancement, when once she should become Mrs. Barton.
 “As for Tom and Fanny, they are a vast deal too happy, or too busy, to take any notice of our proceedings, Mrs. Stapleton foresees nothing - but her dinner; so that if we have not the address to inveigle an old citizen, we must be simpletons indeed.”
 Then, - “To cut out Mrs. Tom Barton, would be a great thing!”
 In short, operations were commenced against the innocent old man; who, delighted with his son’s success in the very quarter where he had wished him to prevail, and daily more attached to his intended daughter-in-law, was a very frequent visitor in Finsbury Square. It was seldom, to be sure, the Temples secured an open field to attack him in, for Fanny knew the testy temper of the old man, and failed not, by her presence and attentions, to cultivate his regard, and to civilize (as she felt conscious she had the power of doing,) his irritable disposition.
 For some time the advances of the enemy {274} were cautious. They complimented him on looking so “remarkably well to-day,” and wondered a little that the observation was received almost snappishly. Fanny explained to them, that Mr. Barton, though ne,er ill, wished always to be thought so, and could not, with any patience, endure to be congratulated on the subject of his health. “So that, my dear girls,’’ she added, “ if you wish to conciliate him, (and I know it is an amiable feeling towards me which prompts your attentions towards him,) condole with him as much as you please, but never tell him he looks well.”
 “He is never ill! if you observe, Maria,” said Miss Temple. “Good heavens! he will last for ever. I am sure I almost think -it quite seems desperation to attempt him.”
 “Remember Fenny Hollows! Besides, I have the greater hope, do you know, m his robust health. Those are the men that are cut off in a moment. Not that I could so patiently wait for that moment, as not to willingly allow you precedence with the crusty old curmudgeon. Let us try a different application to-morrow.”
 To-morrow came, and with it old Barton.
 “Now do you go down first, Jane, and play your card. I will follow. It will have more {275} effect, and appear more natural, if we come singly to the combat.”
 “Ah! Mr. Barton!” said Miss Temple. “I thought it was your knocks and I could not help running to see how you were to-day. I fear but indifferently,” she added, with commiseration in every look and tone. “You appear a little languid.”
 “No, Miss Temple - Miss Tem-Temple, I thank you - I thank you, Ma’am, but I’m never languid, Ma’aM.”
 “I am truly rejoiced to hear it, my dear Sir; perhaps it was my fancy, and arose from your telling me you were not quite well yesterday.”
 “Not - not - not well yesterday, Ma’am, that must have been some impudence of Master - Master Tom’s; I can t-t-tell you. Miss Temple, I was a d-d-devilish deal better yesterday than I am to-day.”
 Rather inopportunely entered Miss Maria Temple.
 “My dear Mr. Barton! I am so glad you are come. I felt quite anxious to see you, for I thought you did not look quite the thing last night, and I feared you might not be well to-day.”
 “Why, z-z-z-zounds. Madam, do you want to frighten me out of my - out of my - out of my senses? Do you - do you - do you think, Miss {276} Maria, I can spare t-t-time, to be laid up in the gout, and my son Tom - my son Tom, here, going to be married - to be married in a fort-night? Gad zounds, I would not - not - not for a thousand pounds, but be in - in d-d-dancing trim, at T-T-Tom’s wedding.”
 “Excuse me, I did not exactly apprehend a fit of the gout. That would indeed be mortifying, particularly at such a time as this. I merely apprehended a slight degree of indisposition, a little bilious attack, perhaps; which, by taking timely measures with -”
 “Madam, I - I - I never am billous; never was b-b-bilious in my life. I never have - never have anything - anything but the gout, and if I thought - Gad! ma’am, you’ve thrown me - thrown me into a fever at the bare mention of g-g-gout.”
 The ladies found themselves at fault again. Fanny pacified the terrified Mr. Barton; promising, moreover, that if such an accident should occur, she would wait his recovery; “but,” she cheerfully added, , “I do not intend you to have another fit until I have gained the privilege of nursing you; and, I am sure, the monster gout could not be so ungallant as to interfere with all our arrangements. So pray dismiss him from {277} your mindf and come with me into the new house. I hear the drawing-room carpets are put down, and I have been anxiously waiting your escort to go and inspect them.”
 “Ah! you are a - a dear - a dear little soul. A plague take those two-two croaking spinsters!’’ he continued, as they descended the stairs. “What business have they with my l-l-looks, I wonder.”
 Notwithstanding these two failures, the sisters did not abandon the siege. They felt the difficulties of the approach, and they began to fear the garrison to be too strong for them; still they ventured upon occasional flying skirmishes, whenever it so chanced the prize betrayed (or they fancied so,) a weak point. They praised the colour of the invariable snuff-brown suit: surely, that was safe ground! they thought. A man would never persist in attiring himself in the same dingy garb for ever, without some good, or fancied reasons for its adoption. Mr. Barton, however, began to suspect some sinister design was lurking under the amiable outwardness of the ladies. Tom was engaged. They could have no designs in that quarter.
 “Was it possible they wanted himself?” Such things had been, he knew. Nay, he had {278} not lived a rich widower twenty years without having been exposed to attempts of a similar nature. The admiration of the particular, not to say peculiar tint of his garments, was suffered to fall to the ground. But when they proceeded the following day to declare their partiality towards the pungent weed he was in the habit of applying in huge quantities to his nostrils, requesting the favour of “one little pinch,’’ he could no longer be blind to the truth. He had once been within an inch of capture by a wily widow, who approached under cover of his snuff-box; and his escape thus brought so forcibly to his recollection, produced a degree of alarm which impressed him with the absolute necessity of acting decisively in the business; he therefore turned fiercely upon the fair offender, vociferating -
 “By the law - by the law, and by all the snuff that ever was taken, Miss Temple, and p-p-perhaps that’s stronger than the l-l-law, if there’s - if there’s one - one thing - one thing in the whole world I hate above all others, it is - it is a - it is a snuff-taking y-y-young lady. Gad! Ma’am, I’d as soon - I’d as soon - I’d as soon - and my son Mr. Tom, there, will tell you the same, ’fore George! Miss Temple, I’d as soon sit down to dinner with a co-co-cock lobster!” {279}
 This was a decisive blow; it even shook the Temples, and they discovered they had no foundation for their building on a crusty old widower. They were not invited to extend their visit beyond the wedding-day; so, as they peevishly wrote to their mother -
 “Fenny Hollows, in all its hatefulness, ‘swamped before them,’ as Mrs. Stapleton had positively not given them the smallest chance; and, as for old Barton, he had proved himself to be a greater savage than any they had ever met with, even in Lincolnshire.” {280}

Chapter XVII - Conclusion

 The invitation of Mr. Screw to Barney had considerable temptations in the eyes of that youth. Barney had been accustomed to look up to the ex-butler as a person of wonderful sagacity and knowledge of the world. He was beginning to entertain some doubts on the eligibility of his service in Montague Place. The Jones’s kept less company than he thought incumbent on “persons of professed gentility” to entertain; and Mr. Screw had elevated his eye-brows with a strong, and disagreeable expression of surprize, on discovering that Barney had placed himself in so plebeian a quarter of the town as the neighbourhood of Russell Square.
 Barney’s restless mind again became dissatisfied, and he determined to solicit the confidential advice of Mr. Screw on the subject of a change of abode.
 The Jones’s, Barney reflected, were objectionable on many points. Their highest attempts at {281} style fell far below even his ideas and experience. Their evening parties were unhonoured by as much as a baronet, or a “mi-lady.” Their dinners were indifferent, and their general style of housekeeping only so-so. They considered it a respectable thing to sport a job equipage - per day; and, as has been shewn, were sometimes reduced to the alternative of employing a hackney coach. In short, a young man of certain expectations, was thrown away in so inferior a situation. Barney felt this, and resolved to disclose his sentiments to Mr. Screw.
 His mistresses, and their unintelligible cousins, having gone into the city, for the purpose of securing seats for the latter in a conveyance to their native wilds, was an opportunity which Barney thought too good to lose, and accordingly he set out in quest of “Seven Dials,” - a spot he found with little difficulty; but perceiving no sign by which the house he required was evidenced, he accosted a mountain of mealy man, by profession a baker, and resembling in form and colour nothing so much as one of his own unbaked loaves.
 With arm a-kimbo, his ample body fiUing up entirely the entrance to his shop, stood Mr. Dough; to whom, in his distress, Barney applied; {282} and to his question, of “Pray, Sir, where ’ud I be findin’ a place called de Scape Goat?” The man of meal answered, interrogatively -
 “You ha’n’t a got not sich a thing as never a looking-glass in your pocket; have ye, young man?”
 “I have not, then,” replied the youth, “What ’ud I do wid a lookin’ glass in me pocket Shoore, that same uddent be a convanient way o’ carrin’ furniture?”
 “Hum! I was thinking, ye see, young gentleman, it might have stood ye in some stead, put in case you wanted to see the thing you mentioned; but perhaps you aint fond of advice, and had as lief go your own way. So, if that’s the case, dy’e see them two postes’ over the way there, a little lower down the street. There! just where that ’oman’s a coming by with her barrow. Well, that’s the place you wants, I take it. Its a public house as goes by that name; and if so be, as you’ve never a been there yet; why, its what I wouldn’t say, but it may be as well for you to keep o’ the outside on it.”
 “Why, has de house a bad carackter then?”
 “I don’t mean to go for to say not that I knows nothing not again the house, young man. {283} I’m not a man to run down my neighbours an’ that. The house is a public house, and their beer’s good beer enough, ’cause I drinks it every day. All as I say is, a young chap, like you seems to be, is, most times, as well, or better, outside of a hinn; but mind me, I’m not a coming for to go for to say not nothing again’ the character of the house - but ‘a nod’s as good as a wink, may be, to a blind horse.’ You seems a stranger in London?”
 “Its not in this part on it I been livin’, bud I been in London these twelve mont’s, so I have. Shoore, I might know somethin’ of id be this time?”
 “Oh, may be so, may be so; I says nothing; I makes no remarks -”
 “Its a frind o’ me own I’m goin’ to see, lives there at prisint, and -”
 “Some servant out o’ place, hey?”
 “ It meddunt be so long, bud he’s that same at this prisint spakin’.”
 “Ayl ay! I thought as much. Its a rig-lar haunt for them gentry. I say, young man, put this in your pipe - Take you care,” he whispered mysteriously in Barney’s ear. “Take care he don’t, while he’s out o’ place, put you into one {284} you wouldn’t like, may be -that’s all. I says nothing; I makes no remarks.”
 Thus sayings and putting on his most sapient cast of countenance, the baker retreated within the sanctuary of his shop, thinking he had been sufficiently explicit to place the youth on his guard; and, at the same time, judiciously careful to draw no blame on himself.
 Barney proceeded, as directed, puzzled and pondering on what could, or might have been, the meaning of the mystifying man of meal; and entering the public house, was immediately admitted to an audience of his friend, the ex-butler, the same affecting no greater privacy than the tap-room of the “Scape Goat” afforded him.
 Although so early in the day, Mr. Screw was employed in dealing a pack of dingy cards on a table, the manifold porter stains of which proved it to be a member of general usefulness. Around it were seated four or five ill-looking, and worse-dressed fellows, some betting on the game, the others playing, and all were eagerly intent on the interesting preliminary process of Mr. Screw.
 “Ah! Barney, my boy!” exclaimed the latter, starting up to welcome our hero. “I’m glad to {285} see thee, lad; - trying to while away the tedious hours, you see! Come, take a hand, all for love, and no betting,’’ he continued, as he winked knowingly at his companions, who apparently understood the hint, and making a speedy end of their game, left the two friends tête-à-tête.
 Barney professed his concern at having broken up the party, and proceeded to lay his case and his difficulties, as he fancied than, before the consideration of the ex-butler.
 “There’s sound sense in your argument, my lad,” said Mr. Screw, after having for some time pondered on the matter. “I would not, however, be hasty. Its a matter requires thought. I’m out myself, Barney, and can help you to nothing; but it mayn’t be always so; and besides, I have friends in the same condition, and its odds but amongst us something will turn up for you. I must think it over, and when the club meets to-night, (we’ve what we calls a non-commissioned club, meets here every evenings) I’ll mention your case, and we’ll see what can be done for you. Its a sin a lad of your spirit should be thrown away among sich half an’ half’s, as we calls them.”
 “Half Sirs, it is, we calls ’em in my country,” returned Barney. {386}
 “Ha! ha! a very good name for them, upon my say so, and don’t keep the seasons I’ll engage, hey?”
 “Keep which, Mistier Screw?”
 “The seasons. Ah! I see you don’t take. Don’t know the meaning of keeping the seasons, hey. Well, my boy, live and learn. ‘Keeping the seasons,’ as we call it, that has been used to high families, is spending five months of the year in London, three months at some fashionable watering place, and the remaining four at the country estate. Now I’d lay my life these Jones’s have no country house.
 “They have not: bud I hard de cook say, they goes eight or ten miles out o’ town mostly in de summer.”
 “Aye, I thought so, I thought so. Take some miserable little hole of a cottage, I’ll be sworn, with a green door, and a whitewashed wall; a garden big enough for three rose bushes, and a pond like a washing tub in front of the parlour window; a blacksmith’s shop on one side, and a butcher’s on the other. I see the style of thing exactly. My dear fellow, you ought to have inquired into all these matters before you committed yourself to such a set. Its too late now; however, we must do what we can to {287} repair the error, - we’ll see what can be done for you amongst us. When can you attend our club? eight o’clock is our hour of meeting. To-morrow - try and come to-morrow? This evening I will broach tlje subject to the members, and we will strike out something for you, never fear.”
 Barney departed, highly satisfied with the success of his interview, and abundantly gratified by the kind interest taken in his advancement by the respected Mr. Screw. The following night he failed not to attend the’ club assembled at he Scape Goat. There he found a considerable knot of men of all ages, and of various appearances; some of whom, even in his credulous eyes, appeared to realize his imaginary idea of professed thieves, others having the more respectable bearing of unattached livery men.
 A general movement, and an expression of cordiality, received the new comer, who was no sooner admitted into the circle, than his false friend, the butler, addressed the members of the pretended club as follows:
 “Gentlemen! This here is the young man I was a recommending to your kind exertions last night. He’s a lad I can’t but say I’ve taken {288} a particular fancy to, seeing he was a fellow-servant of mine but lately. He’s a lad of spirit; and, more than that, he’s away from his friends, being an Irishman, you see, which its what you wouldn’t guess by his tongue; but, as I said before, he’s a fine-spirited lad, and its a thousand pities, I’m shot if it aint, he should be throw’d away upon people that lives in Montague Place; and, may be, get into bad company, through discontent and that. We all knows what a set there is in London; men that lives by drawing of young men into all sorts of vickedness and wice, and often bringing of them into evil courses, whereby the gallows, or transportation, is the very least they comes to. A young man can’t be too much on his guard, as I often say, in such a dangerous town as this is. I have seen something of its ways, and ought to be up to a thing or two, at my time of life.”
 “Aye! aye!” was chorussed forth by the assembly. “If you aint capable to advise the young man, why none on us aint, that’s all.”
 Barney’s gratitude increased rapidly: he inwardly congratulated himself on having made so useful an acquaintance. Poor youth! he little sus pected that the greater part of the pretended club were professed housebreakers with whom were {289} connected his friend Screw, and a few other non-commissioned officers (self-styled so,) and into whose hands they were in the habit of introducing the unwary. The “non-commissioned” advanced their interests by securing the assistance of innocent auxiliaries, who were not unfrequently entrapped in the net which ought, more justly, to have taken the older and greater sinners. A few of their nocturnal meetings were attended by Barney; much slang was spoken, of a nature requiring the science of the author of Pelham, to render palatable to the reader. Great professions were volunteered as to his advancement; and, at length, he was infomed that a most capital place could be gained for him, in a family where, as Mr. Screw figuratively expressed it, “The salary is high, and the work put out” Some difficulties, nevertheless, appeared to arise, previous to the expected certainty of this capital situation, as also some little mystery respecting its whereabouts. The novice was assured, that his friends were actively engaged for his advancement; and so indeed they were, though not exactly in a way they would have been pleased to acknowledge. Having wound up the youth’s hopes to the highest pitch of excitement, it chanced {290} one evening (quite accidentally, of course,) that a trifling service was required at his hands, on the performance of which the full possession of his promised promotion was to be unequivocally awarded to him.
 This “little act of accommodation,’’ when clearly explained, appeared to Barney’s comprehension, one of mingled danger, ingratitude, and wickedness, inasmuch as it proved to be neither more nor less, than the “loan of his assistance” and address, in gaining entrance to, and guiding the steps of a certain body of the non-commissioned officers, and their colleagues, into the intricacies of Mr. Stapleton’s house in Finsbury Square; who, it appeared, according to the liberal ideas of the gentlemen of the Scape Goat Club, was in possession of a larger quantity of plate, and other valuables, than they judged necessary to the respectability of his appearance. And they had, therefore, come to the resolution of relieving him from a part of the anxieties of life, as riches are not unaptly termed.
 The gang had received intimation, that a grand breakfast, dinner, and general merry-making, were to be the order of the day; that is, of the wedding-day; and, in the hilarity of the occasion, {291} and the fatigue it would necessarily create in the domestics, they placed their hopes of a rich and easy booty.
 They proved satisfactorily in council, and attempted to enforce the conviction on Barney, that nothing could be easier than for him to gain access to the house, either accidentally, or by a well-managed invitation from one of his old fellow-servants. That it would be still less difficult to elude the observation of the household, secrete himself in some secure comer of a house he had lived in so long and knew so welL When all that remained was, on a given signal, to admit “the professors, “ direct their way to the plate chest, the main object of attack, although they did not conceal a farther intention, of pursuing some researches in the upper chambers; but this part of their plan they did not find it expedient to particularize to their intended victim, with whom they calculated to act at pleasure, when once he had committed himself by admitting them.
 As their villany was cautiously and gradually explained to our hero, he became horrified at the enormity of the crime demanded at his hands, and by which alone he was taught to expect the reward of the “capital place of no work.” {295}
 Seeing that he very naturally demurred in acceding to their villanous proposal, some of the elder members of the community began to fear that they had been too hasty in entrusting thewhole of their scheme to a young hand, of whom they had exacted no previous trial, and who therefore would be liable to no risk in betraying them’ The urgency of the case, however, had prevented afiairs from being conducted with the usual precaution; but Mr. Screw took upon himself to vouch for the honour and spirit of his friend Barney, to any extent necessary to entitle him to the gentlemen’s confidence. And, as it would have intimated fear, to profess any doubts as to Barney’s principles; it was resolved by the gang to risk all, in hopes of gaining the rich booty they had a design upon.
 The silence of the young Irishman probably saved his life. He could not command power of either thought or speech, beyond one note of assent, which diligently and unconsciously followed every direction urged on his attention. A silence that, indeed, might have been sufficient to alarm more hardened villains than those composing the Scape Goat Gang. They fondly hoped it to be stupidity in the lad; and Screw, though equally startled by the danger he now saw they {295} were incurring, redoubled his assurances of confidence in their entire success, privately adding, that his hold upon Barney’s services was such, as to render the point secure from all doubt; and inwardly resolving to take such steps, as would save himself from too deep an implication in the plot. He requested to be left alone with his victim, as he was possessed of a certain power over his mind, which required a private conference to exert in behalf of their scheme; and, during this interview, he certainly spared no pains to render evident to Barney’s vision, the wondrous advantages to accrue from the robbery of his first master and kind benefactor.
 Had Barney’s progress in guilt been rendered gradual, it is quite possible it might have arrived at the degree of depravity required by his villanous companion; but, with all his faults, the lad had never lost sight of the principles of honesty, early implanted in him by his parents, and enforced by the admonitions of his not forgotten priest, Father Connor. The idea of committing an act that would render him a disgrace to his parents, and a reproach to his brothers and sisters, came upon his mind vrith saving power. The recollection of Mr. Stapleton’s kindness to him was the next object presented to his mind. {294}
 Though ungrateful to the best of masters, Barney undoubtedly had been, yet it was contrary to every feeling of his heart, to commit or ima,ne evil against any individual. Nor had he ever ceased to think of his darling young mistress, Miss Fanny, with the most ardent respect, admiration, and love. Who, indeed, could have received so many proofs of her goodness, her mediating kindness, without becoming attached to Fanny t Should he consent to lead these villains (as he now knew them to be) to rob, perhaps to murder, her father? This thought, as it flashed on the poor boy’s mind, appeared to come with greater force than even that of family dishonour, or personal danger. He burst into tears; instinctively he assured his false friend that he was then incapable of quaking on the subject proposed to him; and although Screw employed every argument within the powers of his eloquence, used every art of the tempter, and even distantly hinted, in a threatening way, at the impossibility of retreat, he failed in gaining more than a promise from Barney, that he would think of it, and give his answer the following evening.
 Without a friend to consult, (for “Misthress” Garatty he deemed an insufficient adviser in so {295}  difficult a case,) Barney passed the whole night in trying to discover in what way he ought to act, so as to secure Mr. Stapleton’s property, and his own safety; and after cogitating on a thousand improbable and impossible means, he arrived at the very simple conclusion, of going at once to Mr. Stapleton, unfolding to him the plot, when he would no doubt be able to devise some mode of contravention beyond the utmost powers of his own mind to arrive at.
 This was at once the wisest and easiest mode of action. The only argument against it, being, in Barney’s opinion, a breach of confidence towards the ex-butler. If this point could be compromised, he was willing the others, and the more desperate of the gang, should be brought to that justice they so richly deserved.
 Mr. Stapleton’s notions of equity, however, could not reach this point of individual favour towards one of this body of thieves. He explained to Barney, that, in order to secure their conviction, they must positively be taken upon his premises; for which purpose it became necessary that Barney should apparently consent to the office required of him.
 “If we succeed in securing the whole gang,” he continued, “all must take their trial, and be {296} dealt with according to the law. No unjust favour can be shewn to anyone, though perhaps he may, in point of fact, appear less glaringly wicked than the rest. Should it prove so in the result, his punishment will be awarded accordingly. But if we fail in the attempt, you, Barney, will be placed in a dangerous situation, exposed to the retributive malice of these rogues. To guard against which, I shall, in that case, send you abroad with my younger son, who is about to travel for two years, and sets out the morning after his sister’s marriage. You will thus escape their revenge; and, should you conduct yourself well during the period of your absence, I will receive you once more into my family on your return, for I hope and believe you have gained sufficient experience, to perceive your folly in ever having quitted it. Now go, my good lad, tell these fellows you are invited to partake of the merriment of Thursday, and agree to admit them, as they require. The rest I will arrange in the mean time, and your unexpected absence from Montague Place shall be duly explained on the following day.”
 Thursday, the important Thursday, arrived in all the splendour of a joyous spring morning. The generally impervious atmosphere of the city {297} itself was not proof against the powers of the sun on that auspicious daY. The usual, or perhaps rather more than usual allowance of white satin and lace, favours and cake, prevailed. All was gaiety and activity throughout the household. The breakfast superb. The bride (of course) charming. Even the too tall Temples shone through their envy on this occasion, rest ing on the slender hope of future visits to Mrs. Thomas Barton, as the only palliative to their sad return to Fenny Hollows.
 The elder Barton had braved gout, bile, and every besetting ill, and appeared in a new suit of the still favourite snuff brown, in the highest spirits, and without either recurring in word or look to any subject so obnoxious as that of the elephant and the cock lobster. He even carried his good humour so far as to escort the Misses Temple ten miles on their way home, taking then an almost affectionate leave, but somewhat equivocally accompanying it with the wish that they “might, some time or other, be as good, as handsome, and as happy, as his dear daughter-in-law.”
 Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Barton repaired to Hastings to spend their honey-moon, Fanny declaring, no place could be more delightful than {298} that, and promising herself to explore the beauties of the Lover’s Seat.
 It was, perhaps, fortunate for the affectionate parents, that the expected housebreakers gave them a subject of interest on this day of parting from their darling Fanny. The necessary arrangements for their capture were formed with such skill and judgment, that the whole affair was accomplished without obstruction. A considerable force stationed in the house, were so placed as to make an easy prey of the ringleaders of the gang, the moment they had penetrated beneath the lid of the plate chest. The retreat of the remainder was cut off by an efficient body which had been previously stationed in a back street, to advance on a signal given from the roof of Mr. Stapleton’s house. Thus the whole gang were secured, and in due time received their just reward. The cautious Mr. Screw, however, having been visited by certain qualms of fear, on the subject of Barney’s adherence to their cause, accepted of a service accidentally offered to him two days prior to the business, and left England (suddenly) with a young nobleman, who had not time to inquire minutely into his character, owing to some little embarrassment of his own circumstances, which rendered hasty {299} steps essential to his personal liberty, and made it particularly unpleasant to him to see two men conjointly approach him.
 This event was a relief to Barney’s mind, who gladly set out for Paris in the suite of his young master; and who, we will hope, returned to England, after his travels, a wiser and a better man.

THE END.

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 Fisher, Son, and Jackson, Newgate Street, London.