Sketches by Seymour — Complete

Two days after the cricket-match, Mr. Crobble paid a visit to my master.

“Well, old fellow, d___ me me, if you ain't a trump—how's your wind?”—kindly enquired Mr. Timmis.

“Vastly better, thank'ye; how's Wallis and the other fellows?—prime sport that cricketing.”

“Yes; but, I say, you'll never have 'a run' of luck, if you stick to the wicket so.”

“True; but I made a hit or two, you must allow,” replied Mr. Crobble; “though I'm afraid I'm a sorry member.”

“A member, indeed!—no, no; you're the body, and we're the—members,” replied Mr. Timmis, laughing; “but, halloo! what's that patch on your forehead—bin a fighting?”

“No; but I've been a hunting,” said Mr. Crobble, “and this here's the fruits—You know my gray?”

“The nag you swopp'd the bay roadster for with Tom Brown?”

“Him,” answered Crobble. “Well, I took him to Hertfordshire Wednesday last—”

“He took you, you mean.”

“Well, what's the odds?”

“The odds, why, in your favour, to be sure, as I dare say the horse can witness.”

“Well, howsomever, there was a good field—and off we went. The level country was all prime; but he took a hedge, and nearly julked all the life out o' me. I lost my stirrup, and should have lost my seat, had'nt I clutched his mane—”

“And kept your seat by main force?”

“Very good.”

“Well, away we went, like Johnny Gilpin. Hunting may be sport, says I, but I'm blest if its pleasure. This infernal horse was always fond of shying, and now he's going to shy me off; and, ecod! no sooner said than done. Over his head I go, like a rocket.”

“Like a foot-ball, you mean,” interrupted Mr. Timmis.

“And, as luck would have it, tumbles into a ditch, plump with my head agin the bank.”

“By jingo! such a 'run' upon the bank was enough to break it,” cried my master, whose propensity to crack a joke overcame all feeling of sympathy for his friend.

“It broke my head though; and warn't I in a precious mess—that's all—up to my neck, and no mistake—and black as a chimney-sweep—such mud!”

“And only think of a man of your property investing his substance in mud! That is a good 'un!—Andrew,” said he, “tell Wally to come here.” I summoned his crony, and sat myself down to the books, to enjoy the sportive sallies of the two friends, who roasted the 'fat buck,' their loving companion, most unmercifully.

“You sly old badger,” cried Wallis, “why, you must have picked out the ditch.”

“No, but they picked out me, and a precious figure I cut—I can tell you—I was dripping from top to toe.”

“Very like dripping, indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Timmis, eyeing his fat friend, and bursting into an immoderate fit of laughter. The meeting ended, as usual, with a bet for a dinner at the “Plough” for themselves and their friends, which Mr. Crobble lost—as usual.

CHAPTER IX.—A Row to Blackwall.

'To be sold, warranted sound, a gray-mare, very fast, and carries a lady; likewise a bay-cob, quiet to ride or drive, and has carried a lady.'

STEAM-BOATS did not run to Greenwich and Blackwall at this period; and those who resorted to the white-bait establishments at those places, either availed themselves of a coach or a boat. Being now transformed, by a little personal merit, and a great favour, from a full-grown errand-boy to a small clerk, Mr. Timmis, at the suggestion of my good friend Mr. Wallis, offered me, as a treat, a row in the boat they had engaged for the occasion; which, as a matter of course, I did not refuse: making myself as spruce as my limited wardrobe would permit, I trotted at their heels to the foot of London-bridge, the point of embarkation.

The party, including the boatman, consisted of eight souls; the tide was in our favour, and away we went, as merry a company as ever floated on the bosom of Father Thames. Mr. Crobble was the chief mark for all their sallies, and indeed he really appeared, from his size, to have been intended by Nature for a “butt,” as Mr. Wallis wickedly remarked.

“You told, me, Crobble, of your hunting exploit in Hertfordshire,” said Mr. Wallis; “I'll tell you something as bangs that hollow; I'm sure I thought I should have split with laughter when I heard of it. You know the old frump, my Aunt Betty, Timmis?”

“To be sure—she with the ten thousand in the threes,” replied Mr. Timmis; “a worthy creature; and I'm sure you admire her principal.”

“Don't I,” cried Wallis; and he winked significantly at his friend.

“Well, what d'ye think; she, and Miss Scragg, her toady, were in the country t'other day, and must needs amuse themselves in an airing upon a couple of prads.

“Well; they were cantering along—doing the handsome—and had just come to the border of a pond, when a donkey pops his innocent nose over a fence in their rear, and began to heehaw' in a most melodious strain. The nags pricked up their ears in a twinkling, and made no more ado but bolted. Poor aunty tugged! but all in vain; her bay-cob ran into the water; and she lost both her presence of mind and her seat, and plumped swash into the pond—her riding habit spreading out into a beautiful circle—while she lay squalling and bawling out in the centre, like a little piece of beef in the middle of a large batter-pudding! Miss Scragg, meanwhile, stuck to her graymare, and went bumping along to the admiration of all beholders, and was soon out of sight: luckily a joskin, who witnessed my dear aunt's immersion, ran to her assistance, and, with the help of his pitch-fork, safely landed her; for unfortunately the pond was not above three or four feet deep! and so she missed the chance of being an angel!”

“And you the transfer of her threes!—what a pity!” said the sympathizing Mr. Timmis.

“When I heard of the accident, of course, as in duty bound, I wrote an anxious letter of affectionate enquiry and condolence. At the same period, seeing an advertisement in the Times—'To be sold, warranted sound, a gray-mare, very fast, and carries a lady; likewise a bay-cob, quiet to ride or drive, and has carried a lady'—I was so tickled with the co-incidence, that I cut it out, and sent it to her in an envelope.”

“Prime! by Jove!”—shouted Mr. Crobble—“But, I say, Wallis—you should have sent her a 'duck' too, as a symbolical memorial of her accident!”

CHAPTER X.—The Pic-Nic.

—-had just spread out their prog on a clean table-cloth, when they were alarmed by the approach of a cow.

“PEOPLE should never undertake to do a thing they don't perfectly understand,” remarked Mr. Crobble, “they're sure to make fools o' themselves in the end. There's Tom Davis, (you know Tom Davis?) he's always putting his notions into people's heads, and turning the laugh against 'em. If there's a ditch in the way, he's sure to dare some of his companions to leap it, before he overs it himself; if he finds it safe, away he springs like a greyhound.”

“Exactly him, I know him,” replied Mr. Timmis; “that's what he calls learning to shave upon other people's chins!”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Mr. Wallis.

“He's a very devil,” continued Mr. Crobble; “always proposing some fun or other: Pic-nics are his delight; but he always leaves others to bring the grub, and brings nothing but himself. I hate Pic-nics, squatting in the grass don't suit me at all; when once down, I find it no easy matter to get up again, I can tell you.”

Hereupon there was a general laugh.

“Talking of Pic-nics,” said Mr. Timmis, “reminds me of one that was held the other day in a meadow, on the banks of the Lea. The party, consisting of ladies only, and a little boy, had just spread out their prog on a clean table-cloth, when they were alarmed by the approach of a cow. They were presently on their pins, (cow'd, of course,) and sheered off to a respectful distance, while the cow walked leisurely over the table-cloth, smelling the materials of the feast, and popp'd her cloven foot plump into a currant and raspberry pie! and they had a precious deal of trouble to draw her off; for, as Tom Davis said, there were some veal-patties there, which were, no doubt, made out of one of her calves; and in her maternal solicitude, she completely demolished the plates and dishes, leaving the affrighted party nothing more than the broken victuals.”

“What a lark!” exclaimed Mr. Crobble; “I would have given a guinea to have witnessed the fun. That cow was a trojan!”

“A star in the milky way,” cried Mr. Wallis.

We now approached the 'Plough;' and Mr. Crobble having 'satisfied' the boatman, Mr. Wallis gave me half-a-crown, and bade me make the best of my way home. I pocketed the money, and resolved to 'go on the highway,' and trudge on foot.

“Andrew,” said my worthy patron, “now don't go and make a beast of yourself, but walk straight home.”

“Andrew,” said Mr. Wallis, imitating his friend's tone of admonition; “if any body asks you to treat 'em, bolt; if any body offers to treat you, retreat!”

“Andrew,” said Mr. Crobble, who was determined to put in his oar, and row in the same boat as his friends; “Andrew,”—“Yes, Sir;” and I touched my hat with due respect, while his two friends bent forward to catch his words. “Andrew,” repeated he, for the third time, “avoid evil communication, and get thee gone from Blackwall, as fast as your legs can carry you—for, there's villainous bad company just landed here—wicked enough to spoil even the immaculate Mr. Cornelius Crobble!”

CHAPTER XI.—The Journey Home.

“Starboard, Tom, starboard!”—“Aye, aye-starboard it is!”

I FOUND myself quite in a strange land upon parting with my master and his friends. It was war-time, and the place was literally swarming with jack-tars.

Taking to the road, for the footway was quite crowded, I soon reached Poplar. Here a large mob impeded my progress. They appeared all moved with extraordinary merriment. I soon distinguished the objects of their mirth. Two sailors, mounted back to back on a cart-horse, were steering for Blackwall. A large horse-cloth served them as a substitute for a saddle, and the merry fellow behind held the reins; he was smoking a short pipe, while his mate was making an observation with his spy-glass.

“Starboard, Tom, starboard!” cried the one in front.

“Aye, aye-starboard it is!” replied his companion, tugging at the rein.

“Holloo, messmate! where are you bound?” bawled a sailor in the crowd.

“To the port o' Blackwall,” replied the steersman. “But we're going quite in the wind's eye, and I'm afeared we shan't make it to-night.”

“A queer craft.”

“Werry,” replied Tom. “Don't answer the helm at all.”

“Any grog on board?” demanded the sailor.

“Not enough to wet the boatswain's whistle; for, da'e see, mate, there's no room for stowage.”

“Shiver my timbers!—no grog!” exclaimed the other; “why—you'll founder. If you don't splice the main-brace, you'll not make a knot an hour. Heave to—and let's drink success to the voyage.”

“With all my heart, mate, for I'm precious krank with tacking. Larboard, Tom—larboard.”

“Aye, aye—larboard it is.”

“Now, run her right into that 'ere spirit-shop to leeward, and let's have a bowl.”

Tom tugged away, and soon “brought up” at the door of a wine-vaults.

“Let go the anchor,” exclaimed his messmate—“that's it—coil up.”

“Here, mate—here's a picter of his royal majesty”—giving the sailor alongside a new guinea—“and now tell the steward to mix us a jorum as stiff as a nor'wester, and, let's all drink the King's health—God bless him.”

“Hooray!” shouted the delighted mob.

Their quondam friend soon did his bidding, bringing out a huge china-bowl filled with grog, which was handed round to every soul within reach, and presently dispatched;—two others followed, before they “weighed anchor and proceeded on their voyage,” cheered by the ragged multitude, among whom they lavishly scattered their change; and a most riotous and ridiculous scramble it produced.

I was much pleased with the novelty of the scene, and escaped from the crowd as quickly as I conveniently could, for I was rather apprehensive of an attempt upon my pockets.

What strange beings are these sailors! They have no care for the morrow, but spend lavishly the hard-earned wages of their adventurous life. To one like myself, who early knew the value of money, this thoughtless extravagance certainly appeared unaccountable, and nearly allied to madness; but, when I reflected that they are sometimes imprisoned in a ship for years, without touching land, and frequently in peril of losing their lives—that they have scarcely time to scatter their wages and prize-money in the short intervals which chance offers them of mixing with their fellow-men, my wonder changed to pity.

“A man in a ship,” says Dr. Johnson, “is worse than a man in a jail; for the latter has more room, better food, and commonly better company, and is in safety.”

CHAPTER XII.—Monsieur Dubois.

“I sha'nt fight with fistesses, it's wulgar!—but if he's a mind to anything like a gemman, here's my card!”

THE love-lorn Matthew had departed, no doubt unable to bear the sight of that staircase whose boards no longer resounded with the slip-slap of the slippers of that hypocritical beauty, “his Mary.” With him, the romance of the landing-place, and the squad, had evaporated; and I had no sympathies, no pursuits, in common with the remaining “boys”—my newly-acquired post, too, nearly occupied the whole of my time, while my desire of study increased with the acquisition of books, in which all my pocket-money was expended.

One day, my good friend, Mr. Wallis, entered the office, followed by a short, sharp-visaged man, with a sallow complexion; he was dressed in a shabby frock, buttoned up to the throat—a rusty black silk neckerchief supplying the place of shirt and collar.

He stood just within the threshold of the door, holding his napless hat in his hand.

“Well, Wally, my buck,” cried my master, extending his hand.

Mr. Wallis advanced close to his elbow, and spoke in a whisper; but I observed, by the direction of his eyes, that the subject of his communication was the stranger.

“Ha!” said Mr. Timmis, “it's all very well, Walley—but I hate all forriners;—why don't he go back to Frogland, and not come here, palming himself upon us. It's no go—not a scuddick. They're all a parcel o' humbugs—and no mistake!”

As he uttered this gracious opinion sufficiently loud to strike upon the tympanum of the poor fellow at the door, I could perceive his dark eyes glisten, and the blood tinge his woe-begone cheeks; his lips trembled with emotion: there was an evident struggle between offended gentility, and urgent necessity.

Pride, however, gained the mastery; and advancing the right foot, he raised his hat, and with peculiar grace bowing to the two friends—“Pardon, Monsieur Vallis,” said he, in tremulous accents, “I am 'de trop;' permit, me to visdraw”—and instantly left the office.

Mr. Timmis, startled by his sudden exit, looked at Mr. Wallis for an explanation.

“By ___!” exclaimed Mr. Wallis seriously—“you've hurt that poor fellow's feelings. I would sooner have given a guinea than he should have heard you. Dubois is a gentleman; and altho' he's completely 'stumped,' and has'nt a place to put his head in, he's tenacious of that respect which is due to every man, whether he happens to be at a premium, or a discount.”

“Go it!” cried Mr. Timmis, colouring deeply at this merited reproof—“If this ain't a reg'lar sermon! I didn't mean to hurt his feelings, d___ me; I'm a reg'lar John Bull, and he should know better than to be popped at my bluntness. D___ me, I wouldn't hurt a worm—you know I wouldn't, Wallis.”

There was a tone of contrition in this rambling apology that satisfied Mr. Wallis of its truth; and he immediately entered into an explanation on the Frenchman's situation. He had known him, he said, for several years as a tutor in the family of one of his clients, by whom he was much respected: a heavy loss had compelled them suddenly to reduce their establishment; Dubois had entreated to remain with his pupil—refused to receive any salary—and had even served his old patron in the capacity of a menial, adhering to him in all his misfortunes, and only parted with him, reluctantly, at the door of the debtor's prison!

“Did he do that?” said my master; and I saw his eyes moisten at the relation. “A French mounseer do that! Game—d___ me!”—and lifting the lid of his desk, he drew out a five pound note! “Here, Wallis, tip him this flimsey! Tell him—you know what to say—I'm no speechifier—but you know what I mean.” I almost jumped up and hugged my master, I was so excited.

The next day Monsieur Dubois again made his appearance; and Mr. Wallis had the pleasure of beholding Mr. Timmis and his gallic friend on the best terms imaginable.

As for me, I had good cause to rejoice; for it was agreed that I should take lessons in the “foreign lingo,” by way of giving him “a lift,” as Mr. Timmis expressed it. I remember him with feelings of gratitude; for I owe much more than the knowledge of the language to his kindness and instruction.

As for Mr. Timmis, he could never sufficiently appreciate his worth, although he uniformly treated him with kindness.

“Talk of refinement,” said he, one day, when discussing Dubois' merits with Mr. Wallis; “I saw a bit to-day as bangs everything. A cadger sweeping a crossing fell out with a dustman. Wasn't there some spicy jaw betwixt 'em. Well, nothing would suit, but the dustman must have a go, and pitch into the cadger.

“D___ me, what does the cove do, but he outs with a bit of dirty pasteboard, and he says, says he, “I sha'nt fight with fistesses, it's wulgar!—but if he's a mind to anything like a gemman, here's my card!” Wasn't there a roar! I lugg'd out a bob, and flung it at the vagabond for his wit.”

CHAPTER XIII.—My Talent Called into Active Service.

“Ar'n't you glad you ain't a black-a-moor?”

“I should think so,” replied his sooty brother, “they're sich ugly warmints.”

HAVING to deliver a letter, containing an account and a stock receipt, to one of Mr. Timmis's clients, residing at the west end of the town; in crossing through one of the fashionable squares, I observed a flat-faced negro servant in livery, standing at the door of one of the houses.

Two chimney sweepers who happened to be passing, showed their white teeth in a contemptuous grin at the African.

“Bob,” I overheard one remark, “ar'n't you glad you ain't a black-a-moor?”

“I should think so,” replied his sooty brother, “they're sich ugly warmints. Master's daughter, wots come from boarding school! says the sight of 'ems' enough to frighten one into conwulsions!”

Alas! for the prejudice of the world! How much this ignorant remark reminded me of my patron's unfounded hatred of all “forriners.” It was precisely the same sentiment, differently expressed, that actuated the thoughts and opinions of both.

I must, however, do Mr. Timmis the justice to say, that he made ample amends to Monsieur Dubois for the affront he had so thoughtlessly put upon the worthy Frenchman; and did all in his power to obtain him pupils.

The consequent change in his dress and manner, his amiable conduct, and gentlemanly deportment, at last completely won upon the esteem of the boisterous broker, who swore, (for that was generally his elegant manner of expressing his sincerity) that Dubois was a 'downright good'un;' and were it not for his foreign accent, he should have taken him for an Englishman born—really believing, that there was no virtue in the world but of English growth.

I had now been above twelve-months in his office, and although I had received but a moderate compensation for my services, yet the vast improvement I had made (thanks to the instruction of Monsieur Dubois,) was more valuable than gold. My father also, though but scantily furnished with book-knowledge, had, nevertheless, the good sense to appreciate and encourage my progress; he was well aware, from observation, that 'knowledge is power,' and would frequently quote the old saw, “When house, and land, and money's spent;
Then larning is most excellent”—

and spared all the money he could scrape together to purchase books for me.

One day Mr. Crobble came into the office with an open letter in his hand. “Here,”—cried he, “I've received a remittance at last from that, German fellow—two good bills on the first house in the city—but I can't make top nor tail of his rigmarole. Do you know any chap among your acquaintance who can read German?”

“Not I,” replied Mr. Timmis.

“Will you allow me, Mr. Crobble?” said I, stepping forward. “This letter is written in French, not German, Sir,” I observed.

“What's the difference to me, Master Andrew; it might as well be in wild Irish, for the matter o' that.”

“Andrew can read the lingo,” said my master.

“The devil he can!” exclaimed Mr. Crobble; “I dare say I shall be able to make it out,” said I; “and if not, Monsieur Dubois will be here; to-morrow morning, and you can have it by twelve o'clock, sir.”

“Ain't that the ticket?” exclaimed Mr. Timmis, delighted at the surprise of his friend; “you don't know how vastly clever we are, old fellow.”

Mr. Crobble, much gratified at this information, placed the letter in my hands; and, leaving me to take a lunch at Garraway's with Mr. Timmis, I eagerly sat about my task—and luckily it was not only plainly written, but the subject-matter by no means difficult, being rather complimentary than technical. By the time they returned, I had not only translated, but made a fair copy of it, in my best hand.

“Come, that is clever,” said Mr. Crobble; “let me see, now, what shall I give you?”

“Nothing, Sir,” I promptly replied; “I am Mr. Timmis's clerk—and all that I know I owe to his kindness.”

I saw, with pleasure, that this compliment was not lost upon my master.

Mr. Crobble was really a gentleman in feeling, and therefore did not persist in offering me any remuneration; but as he left the office, he said, “I thank you, Mr. Andrew—I shall not forget your services;” and departed evidently much pleased with my performance.

CHAPTER XIV.—A Dilemma.

“EE cawnt gow back, 'cause they locks the gates,”

“Well, can we go forward, then?”—“Noa, ee cawnt, 'cause the roads are under water;”

“EE cawnt gow back, 'cause they locks the gates,” said a bumpkin on the road-side to a Cockney-party in a one-horse chaise.

“Well, can we go forward, then?” demanded the anxious and wearied traveller.

“Noa, ee cawnt, 'cause the roads are under water;” replied the joskin, with a grin.

This was certainly a situation more ridiculous than interesting; and I smiled when I heard the story told, little suspecting that Fortune would one day throw me into a similar dilemina—so blindly do we mortals hug ourselves in the supposed security of our tact and foresight.

“How d'ye do, Mr. Andrew,” said Mr. Crobble, when he had seated himself, and sufficiently inflated his lungs, after the fatiguing operation of mounting the stairs.

“Where's Timmis?—tell him I want a word with him.”

I quickly summoned my patron, and followed him into the office.

“Well, old puff and blow!” exclaimed Mr. Timmis, with his usual familiarity.

“What's in the wind? Want to sell out? The fives are fallen three per cent. since Friday. All the 'Change is as busy as the devil in a high wind.”

“No—no more dabbling, Timmis,” replied Mr. Crobble; “I lost a cool hundred last account; I want a word in private with you”—and he glanced towards me; upon which I seized my hat, and took up my position at my old post on the landing. How were my feelings altered since I first loitered there, listening to the marvels of poor Matthew!

I was lost in a pleasant reverie, when the sharp voice of Mr. Timmis recalled me.

“Andrew,” said he, “my friend Crobble wants a clerk, and has cast his eye upon you. What do you say?”

I scarcely knew what to say. On one side stood my master, to whom I really owed so much—on the other his friend, who offered me a promotion, which I felt, on many accounts, was most attractive. “I should have no objection,” I replied, “but great pleasure in serving Mr. Crobble, sir—but—I have received so many favours from you, that I'm afraid I might seem ungrateful.”

The good-natured Mr. Wallis happily stepped in at this moment to my relief.

“Nonsense,” replied Mr. Timmis; “the stock is delivered to the highest bidder; here Crobble backs eighteen shillings a week against my half-a-crown-take him.”

I still felt some hesitation, although it was evident, from his expression, that Mr. Timmis valued the servant much less than the servant valued the master.

“Only look here, Wally,” cried he; “here stands Andrew, like an ass between two bundles of hay.”

“Rather like a bundle of hay between two asses, I think,” replied Mr. Wallis; and good-naturedly tapping me on the shoulder, he continued—“accept Mr. Crobble's offer, Master Andrew: you're much too good for Timmis—he can soon get a grubby half-crown boy—but you may wait a long time for such an eligible offer.”

“Eighteen shillings a week,” said Mr. Crobble; who, I must confess, without any particular stretch of self-esteem, appeared anxious to engage me—, “but I shall want security.”

That word “security” fell like an avalanche on my mounting spirit, and cast me headlong down the imaginary ascent my busy thoughts had climbed to!

“Five hundred pounds,” continued Mr. Crobble; “d'ye think—have you any friends?”

“None, sir; my father is a poor man, and quite unable.” I could scarcely speak—like the driver of the one-horse chaise, I could neither advance nor recede.

“The father,” said Mr. Timmis, “is only a poor shoe-maker—a good fellow tho'—an excellent fit!”

“You mean to say,” cried Mr. Wallis, “it were bootless to seek security of the shoe-maker.”

A laugh ensued; and, notwithstanding my agitated feelings, I could not forbear being tickled by Mr. Wallis's humour, and joining in the merriment.

This sally gave a most favourable turn to the discussion. “Come,” said Mr. Wallis, “I'll stand two hundred and fifty—and you, Timmis, must go the other.”

“No; d___ me, he may bolt with the cash-box, and let me in, perhaps,” exclaimed Mr. Timmis. I burst into tears; I felt, that from my long and faithful services, I deserved a better opinion—although I had no right to expect so great a favour.

Rude as he was, he felt some compunction at having wounded my feelings; and swore a round oath that he was only joking, and I was a fool. “Did I think, for a moment, that Wally should get the start of him; no—I was an honest chap, and he'd put his fist to double the amount to serve me;” and then bade me “sit to the books,” and make all square before I cut my stick: and thus happily concluded this most momentous change in my circumstances.

CHAPTER XV.—An Old Acquaintance.

“Only three holidays left, and still this plaguey glass says 'very wet;'—I can't bear it—I can't—and I won't.”

How impatiently did I count the minutes 'till the office was closed, for I longed to communicate the glad tidings of my good fortune to my worthy father. The old man wept with joy at the prospect, and assisted me in rearing those beautiful fabrics termed castles in the air.

His own trade, by the recommendation of the rough, ill-mannered, but good-natured Mr. Timmis, had wonderfully increased; and, by making some temporary sacrifices, he was enabled to give me an appearance more suitable to the new position in which I was so unexpectedly placed. In a narrow alley, on the south side of the Royal Exchange, on the ground-floor, I found the counting-house of Mr. Crobble. Under his directions, I quickly made myself master of the details of the business. Alas! it was but the slender fragment of a once flourishing mercantile house, of which time had gradually lopped off the correspondents, whilst his own inertness had not supplied the deficiency by a new connexion; for his father had left him such an ample fortune, that he was almost careless of the pursuit, although he could not make up his mind, as he said, to abandon the “old shop,” where his present independence had been accumulated. I consequently found plenty of leisure, uninterrupted by the continual hurry and bustle of a broker's office, to pursue my favourite studies, and went on, not only to the entire satisfaction of Mr. Crobble, but to my own, and really began to find myself a man of some importance.

In the course of business, I one day fell in with an old acquaintance.

“A parcel for Cornelius Crobble, Esq.,” said a little porter, of that peculiar stamp which is seen hanging about coach-offices—“Two and-sixpence.”

I looked at the direction, and drew out the “petty cash” to defray the demand; when, then, first looking at the man, I thought I recognised his features.

“What!” cried I, “Isn't your name—”

“Matthew,” answered he quickly.

“Matthew!—why, don't you know me?”

“No, sir,” replied he, staring vacantly at me.

“Indeed!—Have I so outgrown all knowledge? Don't you recollect Andrew Mullins?”

“Good heavins!” exclaimed he, with his well-remembered nasal twang; “are you—”

“Yes.”

“Well, I declare now you've growed into a gentleman. I should'nt—I really should'nt—” He did not say what he really “should not”—but extended his hand.—“Hope you ain't too proud to shake hands with an old friend?”

I shook him heartily by the hand, and made some enquiries touching his history.

Poor Matthew seated himself with all the ease imaginable, and laid his knot beside him, and began, after the manner of his favourite heroes, to “unbosom himself.”

“You've a father,” said he; “but I'm a horphan, without father nor mother—a houtcast!”—and he sunk his head upon his bosom; and I observed that his scrubby crop was already becoming thin and bald.

“Since I left the place in the 'lane,' I've bin a-going—down—down”—and he nearly touched the floor with his hand. “That gal, Mary, was the ruin of me—I shall never forget her.—My hopes is sunk, like the sun in the ocean, never to rise agin!” I was rather amused by this romantic, though incorrect, figure; but I let him proceed: “I've got several places, but lost 'em all. I think there's a spell upon me; and who can struggle against his fate?”

I tried to console him, and found, upon a further confession, that he had flown to spirits “now and then,” to blunt the sharp tooth of mental misery.

Here, then, was the chief cause of his want of success, which he blindly attributed to fate—the common failing of all weak minds. For my part, notwithstanding the imperial authority of the great Napoleon himself, I have no faith in Fate, believing that the effect, whether good or bad, may invariably be traced to some cause in the conduct of the individual, as certainly as the loss of a man, in a game of draughts, is the consequence of a “wrong move” by the player!—And poor Matthew's accusation of Fate put me in mind of the school-boy, who, during a wet vacation, rushed vindictively at the barometer, and struck it in the face, exclaiming—“Only three holidays left, and still this plaguey glass says 'very wet;'—I can't bear it—I can't—and I won't.”

I did all in my power to comfort the little porter, exhorting him to diligence and sobriety.

“You were always a kind friend,” said he, pathetically; “and perhaps—perhaps you will give me something to drink your health, for old-acquaintance sake.” This unexpected turn compelled me to laughter. I gave him sixpence.

Alas! Matthew, I found, was but a piece of coarse gingerbread, tricked out with the Dutch metal of false sentiment.

CHAPTER XVI.—The Loss of a Friend.

“I say, ma'am, do you happen to have the hair of 'All round my hat I vears a green villow?'”