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64https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/64'<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 1, Seven Dials'Published in <em>Bell's Life in London </em>(27 September 1835).Dickens, Charles<em>The British Newspaper Archive,</em> <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000355/18350927/001/0001" class="waffle-rich-text-link" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000355/18350927/001/0001</a>.<span></span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1835-09-27">1835-09-27</a><p><em>The British Newspaper Archive. </em>Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</p><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+Story">Short Story</a>1835-09-27_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No1_Seven_DialsDickens, Charles. 'Scenes and Characters, No. 1, Seven Dials' (27 September 1835). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-09-27_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No1_Seven_Dials">https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-09-27_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No1_Seven_Dials</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1835-09-27_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No1_Seven_Dials.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Scenes and Characters, No. 1, Seven Dials.' <em>Bell's Life in London </em>(27 September 1835).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EBell%27s+Life+in+London%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>Bell's Life in London</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=TIBBS">TIBBS</a>SEVEN DIALS.—We have always been of opinion that if Tom King and the Frenchman had not immortalised Seven Dials, Seven Dials would have immortalised itself. Seven Dials! the region of song and poetry—first effusions, and last dying speeches: hallowed by the names of Catnac and of Pitts—names that will entwine themselves with costermongers, and barrel organs, when penny magazines shall have superseded penny yards of song, and capital punishment be unknown! Look at the construction of the place. The gordian knot was all very well in its way: so was the maze of Hampton Court: so is the maze at the Beulah Spa: so were the ties of stiff white neckcloths, when the difficulty of getting one on was only to be equalled by the apparent impossibility of ever getting it off again. But what involutions can compare with those of Seven Dials—where is there such another maze of streets, courts, lanes, and alleys—where such a pure mixture of Englishmen and Irishmen, as in this complicated part of London? We boldly aver that we doubt the veracity of the legend to which we have adverted. We can suppose a man rash enough to inquire at random—at a house with lodgers too—for a Mr. Thompson, with all but the certainty before his eyes, of finding at least two or three Thompsons in any house of moderate dimensions; but a Frenchman—a Frenchman—in Seven Dials! Pooh! He was an Irishman. Tom King&#039;s education had been neglected in his infancy, and as he couldn&#039;t understand half the man said, he took it for granted he was talking French. The stranger who finds himself in &quot;The Dials&quot; for the first time, and stands Belzoni-like, at the entrance of seven obscure passages, uncertain which to take, will see enough around him to keep his curiosity and attention awake for no inconsiderable time. From the irregular square into which he has emerged, streets and courts dart in all directions, until they are lost in the unwholesome vapour which hangs over the house-tops, and renders the dirty perspective uncertain and confined; and lounging at every corner, as if they came there to take a few gasps of such fresh air as has found its way so far, but is too much exhausted already to be enabled to force itself into the narrow alleys around, are groups of people, whose appearance and dwellings would fill any mind but a regular Londoner&#039;s with astonishment. On one side a little crowd has collected round a couple of ladies, who having imbibed the contents of various &quot;three-outs&quot; of gin and cloves in the course of the morning, have at length differed on some point of domestic arrangement, and are on the eve of settling the quarrel satisfactorily by an appeal to blows, greatly to the interest of other ladies who live in the same house, and tenements adjoining, and who are all partisans on one side or other. &quot;Vy don&#039;t you pitch into her Sarah?&quot; exclaims one half-dressed matron, by way of encouragement. &quot;S&#039;elp me God, if my &#039;usband had treated her vith a drain last night, unbeknown to me, I&#039;d tear her precious eyes out—a wixen!&quot; &quot;What&#039;s the matter, ma&#039;am?&quot; inquires another old woman, who has just bustled up to the spot. &quot;Matter!&quot; replies the first speaker, talking at the obnoxious combatant, &quot;matter! Here&#039;s poor dear Mrs. Sulliwin, as has five blessed children of her own, can&#039;t go out a charing for one arternoon, but what hussies must be a comin and ticing avay her oun &#039;usband, as she&#039;s been married to twelve year come next Easter Monday, for I see the certificate ven I was a drinkin a cup o&#039; tea vith her only the wery last blessed Ven&#039;sday as ever vos sent. I appen&#039;d to say promiscuously &#039;Mrs Sulliwin,&#039; says I—&quot; &quot;What do you mean by hussies?&quot; interrupts a champion of the other party, who has evinced a strong inclination throughout to get up a branch fight on her own account (&quot;Hoo-roar,&quot; ejaculates a pot-boy in a parenthesis, &#039;put the kye-bosh on her, Mary.&quot;) &quot;What do you mean by hussies?&quot; reiterates the champion. &quot;Niver mind,&quot; replies the opposition expressively, &quot;niver mind; you go home, and, ven you&#039;re quite sober, mend your stockings.&quot; This somewhat personal allusion, not only to the lady&#039;s habits of intemperance, but also to the state of her wardrobe, rouses her utmost ire, and she accordingly complies with the urgent request of the by-standers to &quot;pitch in,&quot; with considerable alacrity. The scuffle became general, and terminates, in minor play-bill phraseology, with &quot;arrival of the policemen—interior of the station-house, and impressive denouement.&quot; In addition to the numerous groups who are idling about the gin shops, and squabbling in the centre of the road, every post in the open space has its occupant, who leans against it for hours, with listless perseverance. It is odd enough that one class of men in London appear to have no enjoyment beyond leaning against posts. We never saw a regular bricklayer&#039;s labourer take any other recreation—fighting excepted. Pass through St. Giles&#039;s in the evening of a week day—there they are in their fustian dresses, spotted with brick-dust and whitewash—leaning against posts. Walk through Seven Dials on Sunday morning: there they are again—drab or light corduroy trousers, blucher boots, blue coats, and great yellow waistcoats—leaning against posts. The idea of a man dressing himself in his best clothes, to lean against a post all day! The peculiar character of these streets, and the close resemblance each one bears to its neighbour, by no means tends to decrease the bewilderment in which the unexperienced wayfarer through &quot;the Dials&quot; finds himself involved. He traverses streets of dirty, straggling houses, with here and there an unexpected court, composed of buildings as ill-proportioned and deformed as the half naked children that wallow in the kennels. Now and then, is a little dark chandler&#039;s shop, with a cracked bell hung up behind the door, to announce the entrance of a customer, or betray the presence of some young gentleman in whom a passion for shop tills has developed itself at an early age. Handsome, lofty buildings usurp the places of low dingy public-houses; long rows of broken and patched windows expose plants that may have flourished when &quot;the Dials&quot; were built, in vessels as dirty as &quot;the Dials&quot; themselves; and shops for the purchase of rags, bones, old iron, and kitchen stuff, vie in cleanliness with the bird-fanciers&#039; and rabbit-dealers&#039;, which one might fancy so many arks, but for the irresistible conviction that no bird in its proper senses, who was permitted to leave one of them, would ever come back again. Brokers&#039; shops, which would seem to have been established by humane individuals as refuges for destitute bugs, interspersed with announcements of day schools, penny theatres, petition-writers, mangles, and music for balls or routs, complete the &quot;still life&quot; of the subject; and dirty men, filthy women, squalid children, fluttering shuttlecocks, noisy battledores, reeking pipes, bad fruit, more than doubtful oysters, attenuated cats, depressed dogs, and anatomical fowls, are its cheerful accompaniments. If the external appearance of the houses, or a glance at their inhabitants, presents but few attractions, a closer acquaintance with either is little calculated to alter one&#039;s first impression. Every room has its separate tenant, and every tenant is—by the same mysterious dispensation which causes a country curate to &quot;increase and multiply&quot; most marvellously—generally the head of a numerous family. The man in the shop, perhaps, is in the baked &quot;jemmy&quot; line, or the fire-wood and hearth-stone line, or any other line which requires a floating capital of eighteen-pence or thereabouts; and he and his family live in the shop, and the small back parlour behind it. Then there is an Irish labourer and his family in the back kitchen; and a jobbing man—carpet-beater and so forth—with his family in the front one. In the front one-pair there&#039;s another man with another wife and family, and in the back one-pair, there&#039;s &quot;a young ooman as takes in tambour-work, and dresses quite genteel,&quot; who talks a good deal about &quot;my friend,&quot; and &quot;can&#039;t abear anything low.&quot; The second floor front, and the rest of the lodgers, are just a second edition of the people below, except a shabby-genteel man in the back attic, who has his half-pint of coffee every morning from the coffee-shop next door but one, which boasts a little front den called a coffee-room, with a fire-place, over which is an inscription, politely requesting that, &quot;to prevent mistakes,&quot; customers will &quot;please to pay on delivery.&quot; The shabby-genteel man is an object of some mystery, but as he leads a life of seclusion, and never was known to buy anything beyond an occasional pen, except half-pints of coffee, penny loaves, and ha&#039;porths of ink, his fellow-lodgers very naturally suppose him to be an author; and rumours are current in the Dials, that he writes poems—for Mr Warren. Now anybody who passed through the Dials on a hot summer&#039;s evening, and saw the different women in the house gossiping on the steps, would be apt to think that all was harmony among them, and that a more primitive set of people than the native Diallers could not be imagined. Alas! the man in the shop ill-treats his family; the carpet-beater extends his professional pursuits to his wife; the one-pair front has an undying feud with the two pair front, in consequence of the two-pair front persisting in dancing over his (the one-pair front&#039;s) head, when he and his family have retired for the night; the two-pair back will interfere with the front kitchen&#039;s children; the Irishman comes home drunk every other night, and attacks everybody; and the one-pair back screams at everything. Animosities spring up between floor and floor; the very cellar asserts his equality. Mrs A. smacks Mrs B.&#039;s child for &quot;making faces.&quot; Mrs B. forthwith throws cold water over Mrs A.&#039;s child for &quot;calling names.&quot; The husbands are embroiled—the quarrel becomes general—an assault is the consequence, and a police-office the result.18350927https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Scenes_and_Characters_No._1_Seven_Dials/1835-09-27_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No1__Seven_Dials.pdf
104https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/104'<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 10, Christmas Festivities'Published in <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (27 December 1835).Dickens, Charles<em>The British Newspaper Archive,</em> <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351227/001/0001" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351227/001/0001</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1835-12-27">1835-12-27</a><p><em>The British Newspaper Archive. </em>Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</p><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+Story">Short Story</a>1835-12-27_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No10_Christmas_FestivitiesDickens, Charles. '<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 10, Christmas Festivities' (27 December 1835). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-12-27_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No10_Christmas_Festivities">https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-12-27_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No10_Christmas_Festivities</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1835-12-27_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No10_Christmas_Festivities.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Scenes and Characters, No. 10, Christmas Festivities.' <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (27 December 1835).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EBell%27s+Life+in+London%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>Bell's Life in London</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=TIBBS">TIBBS</a>Christmas time! That man must be a misanthrope indeed in whose breast something like a jovial feeling is not roused—in whose mind some pleasant associations are not awakened—by the recurrence of Christmas. There are people who will tell you that Christmas is not to them what it used to be—that each succeeding Christmas has found some cherished hope or happy prospect of the year before dimmed or passed away —and that the present only serves to remind them of reduced circumstances and straitened incomes—of the feasts they once bestowed on hollow friends, and of the cold looks that meet them now, in adversity and misfortune. Never heed such dismal reminiscences. There are few men who have lived long enough in the world who cannot call up such thoughts any day in the year. Then do not select the merriest of the three hundred and sixty-five for your doleful recollections, but draw your chair nearer the blazing fire—till the glass, aud send round the song—and, if your room be smaller than it was a dozen years ago, or if your glass is filled with reeking punch instead of sparkling wine, put a good face on the matter, and empty it off-hand, and fill another, and troll off the old ditty you used to sing, and thank God it&#039;s no worse. Look on the merry faces of your children as they sit round the fire. One little seat may be empty—one slight form that gladdened the father&#039;s heart and rouse the mother&#039;s pride to look upon may not be there. Dwell not upon the past—think not that, one short year ago, the fair child now fast resolving into dust sat before you, with the bloom of health upon its cheek, and the gay unconsciousness of infancy in its joyous eye. Reflect upon your present blessings—of which all man have some. Fill your glass again, with a merry face and a contented heart. Our life on it but your Christmas shall be merry, and your new year a happy one. Who can be insensible to the outpourings of good feeling, and the honest interchange of affectionate attachment, which abound at this season of the year? A Christmas family party! We know nothing in nature more delightful! There seems a magic in the very name of Christmas. Petty jealousies and discords are forgotten: social feelings are awakened in bosoms to which they have long been strangers; father and son, or brother and sister, who have met and passed with averted gaze, or a look of cold recognition for months before, proffer and return the cordial embrace, and bury their past animosities in their present happiness. Kindly hearts that have yearned towards each other but have been withheld by false notions of pride and self dignity, are again united, and all is kindness and benevolence! Would that Christmas lasted the whole year through, and that the prejudices and passions which deform our better nature were never called into action among those to whom, at least, they should ever be strangers! The Christmas Family Party that we mean is not a mere assemblage of relations, got up at a week or two&#039;s notice, originating this year, having no family precedent in the last, and not likely to be repeated in the next. It is an annual gathering of all the accessible members of the family, young or old, rich or poor, and all the children look forward to it for some two months beforehand in a fever of anticipation. Formerly it was always held at grandpapa&#039;s, but grandpapa getting old, and grandmamma getting old too, and rather infirm, they have given up housekeeping, and domesticated themselves with uncle George: so the party always takes place at uncle George&#039;s house, but grandmamma sends in most of the good things, and grandpapa always will toddle down all the way to Newgate-market to buy the turkey, which he engages a porter to bring home behind him in triumph, always insisting on the man&#039;s being rewarded with a glass of spirits, over and above his hire, to drink &quot;a merry Christmas and a happy new year&quot; to aunt George; as to grandma she is very secret and mysterious for two or three days beforehand, but not sufficiently so to prevent rumours getting afloat that she has purchased a beautiful new cap with pink ribbons for each of the servants, together with sundry books, and penknives, and pencil-cases for the young branches—to say nothing of divers secret additions to the order originally given by aunt George at the pastry-cook&#039;s, such as another dozen of mince pies for the dinner, and a large plum-cake for the children. On Christmas-eve, grandma is always in excellent spirits, and after employing all the children during the day in stoning the plumbs and all that, insists regularly every year on uncle George coming down into the kitchen, taking off his coat, and stirring the pudding for half an hour or so, which uncle George good humouredly does, to the vociferous delight of the children and servants; and the evening concludes with a glorious game of blind man&#039;s buff, in an early stage of which grandpa takes great care to be caught, in order that he may have an opportunity of displaying his dexterity. On the following morning the old couple, with as many of the children as the pew will hold, go to church in great state, leaving aunt George at home dusting decanters and filling castors, and uncle George carrying bottles into the dining parlour, and calling for corkscrews, and getting into everybody&#039;s way. When the church party return to lunch, grandpapa produces a small spring of mistletoe from his pocket, and temps the boys to kiss their little cousins under it —a proceeding which affords both the boys and the old gentleman unlimited satisfaction, but which rather outrages grandma&#039;s ideas of decorum, until grandpa says that when he was just thirteen years and three months old he kissed grandma under a mistletoe too, on which the children clap their hands and laugh very heartily, as do aunt George and uncle George; and grandma looks pleased, and says with a benevolent smile that grandpa always was an impudent dog, on which the children laugh very heartily again, and grandpa more heartily than any of them. But all these diversions are nothing to the subsequent excitement, when grandmamma in a high cap and slate-coloured silk gown, and grandpapa with a beautifully plaited shirt frill and white neckerchief, seat themselves on one side of the drawing-room fire with uncle George&#039;s children and little cousins innumerable, seated in the front, waiting the arrival of the anxiously-expected visitors. Suddenly a hackney coach is heard to stop, and uncle George, who has been looking out of the window, exclaims &quot;Here&#039;s Jane!&quot; on which the children rush to the door, and scamper helter-skelter down stairs; and uncle Robert and aunt Jane, and the dear little baby and the nurse, and the whole party, are ushered up stairs amidst tumultuous shouts of &quot;Oh, my!&quot; from the children, and frequently repeated warnings not to hurt baby from the nurse; and grandpapa takes the child, and grandmamma kisses her daughter, and the confusion of this first entry has scarcely subsided, when some other aunts and uncles with more cousins arrive, and the grown-up cousins flirt with each other, and so do the little cousins too for that matter, and nothing is to be heard but a confused din of talking, laughing, and merriment. A hesitating double knock at the street door, heard during a momentary pause in the conversation, excites a general inquiry of &quot;Who&#039;s that?&quot; and two or three children, who have been standing at the window, announce in a low voice, that it&#039;s &quot;poor aunt Margaret.&quot; Upon which aunt George leaves the room to welcome the new comer and grandmamma draws herself up rather stiff and stately, for Margaret married a poor man without her consent, and poverty not being a sufficiently weighty punishment for her offence has been discarded by her friends, and debarred the society of her dearest relatives. But Christmas has come round, and the unkind feelings that have struggled against better dispositions during the year, have melted away before its genial influence, like half-formed ice beneath the morning sun. It is not difficult in a moment of angry feeling for a parent to denounce a disobedient child; but to banish her at a period of general good-will and hilarity from the hearty, round which she has sat on so many anniversaries of the same day; expanding by slow degrees from infancy to girlhood, and then bursting, almost imperceptibly, into the high-spirited and beautiful woman, is widely different. The air of conscious rectitude and cold forgiveness, which the old lady has assumed, sits ill upon her; and when the poor girl is led in by her sister—pale in looks and broken in spirit—not from poverty, for that she could bear; but from the consciousness of undeserved neglect, and unmerited unkindness—it is easy to see how much of it is assumed. A momentary pause succeeds; the girl breaks suddenly from her sister, and throws herself, sobbing, on her mother&#039;s neck. The father steps hastily forward, and grasps her husband&#039;s hand. Friends crowd round to offer their hearty congratulations, and happiness and harmony again prevail. As to the dinner, its perfectly delightful—nothing goes wrong, and everybody is in the very best of spirits, and disposed to please and be pleased. Grandpapa relates a circumstantial account of the purchase of the turkey, with a slight digression relative to the purchase of previous turkeys on former Christmas Days, which grandmamma corroborates in the minutest particular: Uncle George tells stories, and carves poultry, and takes wine, and jokes with the children at the side-table, and winks at the cousins that are making love, or being made love to, and exhilarates everybody with his good humour and hospitality; and when at last a stout servant staggers in with a gigantic pudding, with a sprig of holly in the top, there is such a laughing, and shouting, and clapping of little chubby hands, and kicking up of fat dumpy legs, as can only be equalled by the applause with which the astonishing feat of pouring lighted brandy into mince pies is received by the younger visitors. Then the dessert!—and the wine!—and the fun! Such beautiful speeches, and such songs, from Aunt Margaret&#039;s husband, who turns out to be such a nice man, and so attentive to grandmamma! Even grandpapa not only sings his annual song with unprecedented vigour, but, on being honoured with an unanimous encore, according to annual custom; actually comes out with a new one, which nobody but grandmamma ever heard before, and a young scape-grace of a cousin, who has been in some disgrace with the old people, for certain heinous sins of omission and commission—neglecting to call, and persisting in drinking Burton ale—astonishes everybody into convulsions of laughter by volunteering the most extraordinary comic songs that were ever heard. And thus the evening passes in a strain of national good-will and cheerfulness, doing more to awaken the sympathies of every member of the party in behalf of his neighbour, and to perpetuate their good feeling during the ensuing year, than all the homilies that have ever been written, by all the Divines that have ever lived. There are a hundred associations connected with Christmas which we should very much like to recall to the minds of our readers; there are a hundred comicalities inseparable from the period, on which it would give us equal pleasure to dilate. We have attained our ordinary limits, however, and cannot better conclude than by wishing each and all of them, individually &amp; collectively, &quot;a merry Christmas happy new year.&quot;18351227https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Scenes_and_Characters_No._10_Christmas_Festivities/1835-12-27_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No10_Christmas_Festivities.pdf
105https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/105'<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 11, The New Year'Published in <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (3 January 1836).Dickens, Charles<em>The British Newspaper Archive,</em> <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18360103/001/0001" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18360103/001/0001</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1836-01-03">1836-01-03</a><p><em>The British Newspaper Archive. </em>Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</p><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+Story">Short Story</a>1836-01-03_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No11_The_New_YearDickens, Charles. '<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No.11, The New Year' (3 January 1836). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1836-01-03_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No11_The_New_Year">https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1836-01-03_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No11_The_New_Year</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1836-01-03_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No11_The_New_Year.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Scenes and Characters, No. 11, The New Year.' <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (3 January 1836).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EBell%27s+Life+in+London%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>Bell's Life in London</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=TIBBS">TIBBS</a>Next to Christmas-day, the most pleasant annual epoch in existence is the advent of the New Year. There are a lachrymose set of people who usher in the New Year with watching and fasting, as if they were bound to attend as chief mourners at the obsequies of the old one. Now, we cannot but think it a great deal more complimentary, both to the old year that has rolled away, and to the new year that is just beginning to dawn upon us, to see the old fellow out, and the new one in, with gaiety and glee. There must have been some few occurrences in the past year to which we can look back, with a smile of cheerful recollection, if not with a feeling of heartfelt thankfulness; and we are bound by every rule of justice and equity to give the new year credit for being a good one, until he proves himself unworthy the confidence we repose in him. This is our view of the matter; and entertaining it, notwithstanding our respect for the old year, one of the few remaining moments of whose existence passes away with every word we write, here we are, seated by our fireside on this last night of the old year, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-five, penning this article, and drinking our grog with as jolly a face as if nothing extraordinary had happened, or was about to happen, to disturb our equanimity. Hackney coaches and carriages keep rattling up the street and down the street in rapid succession, conveying, doubtless, smartly-dressed coachfulls to crowded parties; loud and repeated double knocks at the house with green blinds opposite, announce to the whole neighbourhood that there&#039;s one large party in the street at all events; and we saw through the window—and through the fog too, till it grew so thick that we rung for candles, and drew our curtains—pastry-cooks&#039; men with green boxes on their heads, and rout furniture—warehouse carts, with cane seats and French lamps, hurrying to the numerous houses where an annual festival is held in honour of the occasion. We can fancy one of these parties, we think, as well as if we were duly dress-coated and pumped, and had just been announced at the drawing-room door. Take the house with the green blinds for instance. We know its a quadrille party, because we saw some men taking up the front drawing-room carpet while we sat at breakfast this morning; and if further evidence be required, and we must tell the truth, we just now saw one of the young ladies &quot;doing&quot; another of the young ladies&#039; hair, near one of the bedroom windows, in an unusual style of splendour, which nothing less than a quadrille party could possibly justify. The master of the house with the green blinds is in a public office—we know the fact by the cut of his coat, the tie of his neckcloth, and the self-satisfaction of his gait—the very green blinds themselves have a Somerset-house air about them. Hark!—a cab! That&#039;s a junior clerk in the same office—a tidy sort of young man, with a tendency to cold and corns, who comes with a pair of boots with black cloth fronts, and his shoes in his coat pocket, which shoes he is at this very moment putting on in the hall. Now he is announced by the man in the passage to another man in a blue coat—who is a disguised messenger from the office—on the first landing; and the man on the first landing precedes him to the drawing-room door. &quot;Mr. Winkles!&quot;shouts the messenger. &quot;How are you, Winkles?&quot; says the master of the house, advancing from the fire, before which he has been standing, talking politics and airing himself. &quot;My dear, this is Mr Winkles (a courteous salute from the lady of the house). &quot;Winkles, my eldest daughter Julia, my dear, Mr. Winkles; Mr. Winkles, my other daughters—my son, Sir;&quot; and Winkles rubs his hands very hard, and smiles as if it were all capital fun, and keeps constantly bowing and turning himself round, till the whole family have been introduced, when he glides into a chair at the corner of the sofa, and opens a miscellaneous conversation with the young ladies upon the weather and the theatres, and the old year and its lions—Captain Ross and the silent system—O&#039;Connell and Mr. Balfe—the voluntary principle and the comet—the Jewess and the Orange Lodges. More double knocks! What an extensive party! what an incessant hum of conversation and general sipping of coffee! We see Winkles now in our mind&#039;s eye, in the height of his glory. He has just handed that stout old lady&#039;s cup to the servant, and now, he dives among the crowd of young men by the door, to intercept the other servant, and secure the muffin-plate for the old lady&#039;s daughter, before he leaves the room; and now, as he passes the sofa on his way back, he bestows a glance of recognition and patronage upon the young ladies, as condescending and familiar as if he had known them from infancy. Charming person that Mr. Winkles —perfect ladies&#039; man. Such a delightful companion, too! Laugh!—nobody ever understood Pa&#039;s jokes half so well as Mr. Winkles, who laughs himself into convulsions at every fresh burst of facetiousness. Most delightful partner!—talks through the whole set; and although he does seem at first rather gay and frivolous, so romantic and with so much feeling!—quite a love. No great favourite with the young men, certainly, who sneer at, and affect to despise him; but everybody knows that&#039;s only envy, and they needn&#039;t give themselves the trouble of attempting to depreciate his merits at any rate; for Ma says he shall be asked to every future dinner-party, if it&#039;s only to talk to people between the courses, and distract their attention when there&#039;s any unexpected delay in the kitchen. At supper, Mr Winkles shows to still greater advantage than he has done throughout the evening, and when Pa requests every one to fill their glasses for the purpose of drinking happiness throughout the year, Mr. Winkles is so droll, insisting on all the young ladies having their glasses filled, notwithstanding their repeated assurances that they never can, by any possibility, think of emptying them and subsequently begging permission to say a few words on the sentiment which has just been uttered by Pa, when he makes one of the most brilliant and poetical speeches that can possibly be imagined, about the old year and the new one. After the toast has been drunk, and when the ladies have retired, Mr. Winkles requests that every gentleman will do him the favour of filling his glass, for he has a toast to propose; on which all the gentlemen cry &quot;hear! hear!&quot; and pass the decanters accordingly, and Mr. Winkles being informed by the master of the house that they are all charged, and waiting for his toast, rises, and begs to remind the gentlemen present how much they have been delighted by the dazzling array of elegance and beauty which the drawing-room has exhibited that night, and how their senses have been charmed, and their hearts captivated by the bewitching concentration of female loveliness which that very room has so recently displayed [loud cries of hear!]. Much as he (Winkles) would be disposed to deplore the absence of the ladies, on other grounds, he cannot but derive some consolation from the reflection that the very circumstance of their not being present enables him to propose a toast which he would have otherwise been prevented from giving—that toast he begs to say is—&quot;The Ladies!&#039;&quot;[great applause].—The ladies, among whom the fascinating daughters of their excellent host are alike conspicuous for their beauty, their accomplishments, and their elegance. He begs them to drain a bumper to &quot;The Ladies,&quot; and a happy new year to them [prolonged approbation, above which the noise of the ladies dancing the Spanish dance among themselves, over head, is distinctly audible]. The applause consequent on this toast has scarcely subsided when a young gentleman in a pink under waistcoat, towards the bottom of the table, is observed to grow very restless and fidgetty, and to evince strong indications of some latent desire to give vent to his feelings in a speech, which the wary Winkles at once perceiving determines to forestal by speaking himself. He, therefore, rises again, with an air of solemn importance, and trusts he may be permitted to propose another toast [unqualified approbation, and Mr. Winkles proceeds]. He is sure they must all be deeply impressed with the hospitality—he may say the splendour—with which they have been that night received by their worthy host and hostess [unbounded applause]. Although this is the first occasion on which he has had the pleasure and delight of sitting at that board, he has known his friend Dobble long and intimately; he has been connected with him in business—he wishes everybody present knew Dobble as well as he does [a cough from the host]. He (Winkles) can lay his hand upon his (Winkles) heart, and declare his confident belief that a better man, a better husband, a better father, a better brother, a better son, a better relation in any relation of life, than Dobble, never existed [loud cries of &quot;Hear!&quot;]. They have seen him to-night in the peaceful bosom of his family; they should see him in the morning, in the trying duties of his office. Calm in the perusal of the Morning Paper, uncompromising in the signature of his name, dignified in his replies to the inquiries of stranger applicants, deferential in his behaviour to his superiors—majestic in his deportment to the messengers [cheers]. When he bears this merited testimony to the excellent qualities of his friend Dobble, what can he say in approaching such a subject as Mrs Dobble? Is it requisite for him to expatiate on the qualities of that amiable woman? No; he will spare his friend Dobble&#039;s feelings; he will spare the feelings of his friend—if he will allow him to have the honour of calling him so—Mr Dobble, Junior. [Here Mr Dobble Junior, who has been previously distending his mouth to a considerable width, by thrusting a particularly fine orange into that feature, suspends operations, and assumes a proper appearance of intense melancholy]. He will simply say—and he is quite certain it is a sentiment in which all who hear him will readily concur—that his friend Dobble is as superior to any man he ever knew, as Mrs. Dobble is far beyond any woman he ever saw (except her daughters), and he will conclude by proposing their &quot;worthy host and hostess, and may they live to enjoy many more new years.&quot; The toast is drunk with acclamation—Dobble returns thanks—and the whole party rejoin the ladies in the drawing-room. Young men who were too bashful to dance before supper, find tongues and partners; the musicians exhibit unequivocal symptoms of having drunk the new year in, while the company were out; and dancing is kept up until far in the first morning of the new year. We have scarcely written the last word of the previous sentence, when the first stroke of twelve peals from the neighbouring churches; there is something awful in the sound. Strictly speaking, it may not be more impressive now than at any other time, for the hours steal as swiftly on at other periods, and their flight is little heeded. But, we measure man&#039;s life by years, and it is a solemn knell that warns us we have passed another of the boundaries which stand between us and the grave; disguise it as we may, the reflection will force itself on our minds that when next that bell announces the arrival of a new year, we may be insensible alike of the timely warning we have so often neglected, and of all the warm feelings that glow within us now. But twelve has struck, and the bells ring merrily out which welcome the new year. Away with all gloomy reflections. We were happy and merry in the last one, and will be, please God, in this. So as we are alone, and can neither dance it in, nor sing it in, here goes our glass to our lips, and a hearty welcome to the year one thousand eight hundred and thirty-six say we.18360103https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Scenes_and_Characters_No._11_The_New_Year/1836-01-03_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No.11_The_New_Year.pdf
106https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/106'<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 12, The Streets at Night'Published in <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (17 January 1836).Dickens, Charles<em>The British Newspaper Archive,</em> <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18360117/001/0001" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18360117/001/0001</a>. <em>Source is faded and illegible in places.</em><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1836-01-17">1836-01-17</a><em>The British Newspaper Archive.</em> Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+Story">Short Story</a>1836-01-17_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No12_The_Streets_at_NightDickens, Charles. '<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 12, The Streets at Night' (17 January 1836). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1836-01-17_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No12_The_Streets_at_Night">https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1836-01-17_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No12_The_Streets_at_Night</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1836-01-17_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No12_The_Streets_at_Night.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Scenes and Characters, No. 12, The Streets at Night.' Published in <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (17 January 1836).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EBell%27s+Life+in+London%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>Bell's Life in London</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=TIBBS">TIBBS</a>The streets of London, to be beheld in the very height of their glory, should be seen on a dark, dull, murky, winter’s night, when there is just enough damp gently stealing down to make the pavement greasy, without cleaning it of any of its impurities, and when the heavy lazy mist, which hangs over every object around makes the gas lamps look brighter, and the brilliantly lighted shops more splendid, from the contrast they present. Everybody who is in-doors on such a night as this, seem disposed to make themselves as snug and comfortable as possible. In the larger and better kind of streets dining parlour curtains are closely drawn, kitchen fires blaze brightly up, and savoury steams of hot dinners salute the nostrils of the hungry wayfarer, as he plods wearily by the area railings. In the suburbs, the muffin-boy rings his way down the little street much more slowly than he is wont to do, for Mrs. Macklin at number four has no sooner opened her little street-door and screamed out &quot;Muffins!&quot; with all her might, than Mrs. Walker at number five puts her head out of the parlour window, and screams &quot;Muffins!&quot; too, and Mrs. Walker has scarcely got the word out of her lips, than Mrs. Peplow over the way lets loose Master Peplow, who darts down the street with a velocity which nothing but buttered muffins in perspective could possibly inspire, and drags the boy back by main force, whereupon Mrs. Macklin and Mrs. Walker, just to save the boy trouble, and to say a few neighbourly words to Mrs. Peplow at the same time, run over the way and buy their muffins at Mrs. Peplow’s door, when it appears from the voluntary statement of Mrs. Walker, that her kittle’s just a-biling, and the cups and sarsers ready laid, and that, as it was such a wretched night out o’ doors, she’d made up her mind to have a nice hot comfortable cup o’ tea—a determination at which, by the most singular coincidence, the other two ladies had simultaneously arrived. After a little conversation about the wretchedness of the weather and the merits of tea, with a digression relative to the viciousness of boys as a rule, and the amiability of Master Peplow as an exception, Mrs. Walker sees her husband coming down the street, and as he must want his tea, poor man, after his dirty walk from the docks, she instantly runs across, muffins in hand, and Mrs. Macklin does the same, and after a few words to Mrs. Walker, they all pop into their little houses, and slam their little street-doors, which are not opened again for the remainder of the evening, except to the nine o’clock beer, who comes round with a lantern in front of his tray, and says, as he lends Mrs. Walker &quot;yesterday’s &#039;Tiser,&quot; that he’s blessed if he can hardly hold the pot, much less feel the paper, for it’s one of the bitterest nights he ever felt, ’cept the night when the man was frozen to death in the Brick-field. After a little prophetic conversation with the policeman at the street-corner, touching a probable change in the weather, and the setting-in of a hard frost, the nine o’clock beer returns to his master’s house, and employs himself for the remainder of the evening, in assiduously stirring the tap-room fire, and deferentially taking part in the conversation of the worthies assembled round it. The streets in the vicinity of the Marsh-gate and Victoria Theatre present an appearance of dirt and discomfort on such a night, which the groups who lounge about them in no degree tend to diminish. Even the little block-tin temple sacred to &quot;baked &#039;taturs,&quot; surmounted by a splendid design in variegated lamp, looks less gay than usual; and as to the kidney-pie stand, its glory has quite departed, for the candle in the transparent lamp, manufactured of oiled paper, embellished with &quot;characters,&quot; has been blown out fifty times, so the kidney-pie merchant, tired with running backwards and forwards to the next wine-vaults to get a light, has given up the idea of illumination in despair, and the only signs of his whereabout are the bright sparks, of which, a long irregular train is whirled down the street every time he opens his portable oven to hand a hot kidney-pie to a customer. Flat-fish, oyster, and fruit-vendors linger hopelessly in the kennel, in vain endeavouring to attract customers; and the ragged boys who usually disport themselves about the streets, stand crouched in little knots in some projecting door-way, or under the canvass window-blind of a cheesemonger’s, where great flaring gas lights, unshaded by any glass, display huge piles of bright red, and pale yellow cheeses, mingled with little fivepenny dabs of dingy bacon, various tubs of weekly Dorset, and cloudy rolls of &quot;best fresh.&quot; Here they amuse themselves with theatrical converse arising out of their last half-price visit to the Victoria gallery, admire the terrific combat which is nightly encored, and expatiate on the inimitable manner in which Bill Thompson can come the double monkey, or go through the mysterious involutions of a sailor’s hornpipe. It is nearly eleven o’clock, and the cold thin rain which has been drizzling so long, is beginning to pour down in good earnest; the baked-&#039;tatur man has departed—the kidney-pie man has just taken his warehouse on his arm with the same object—the cheesemonger has drawn in his blind—&amp;amp; the boys have dispersed. The constant clicking of pattens on the slippy and uneven pavement, &amp;amp; the rustling of umbrellas as the wind blows against the shop windows, bear testimony to the inclemency of the night; and the policeman, with his oil skin cape butoned closely round him, seems, as he holds his hat on his head, and turns round to avoid the gust of wind and rain which drives against him at the street corner, to be very far from congratulating himself on the prospect before him. The little chandler’s shop, with the cracked bell behind the door, whose melancholy tinkling has been regulated by the demand for quarterns of sugar, and half ounces of coffee, is shutting up; the crowds which have been passing to and fro during the whole day, are rapidly dwindling away; and the noise of shouting and quarrelling which issues from the public-houses, is almost the only sound that breaks the melancholy stillness. There was another, but it has ceased. That wretched woman with the infant in her arms, round whose meagre form the remnant of her own scanty shawl is carefully wrapped, has been attempting to sing some popular ballad, in the hope of wringing a few pence from the compassionate passer by—a brutal laugh at her weak voice is all she has gained. The tears fall thick and fast down her worn pale face; the child is cold and hungry, and its low half-stifled wailing adds to the misery of its wretched mother, as she moans aloud, and sinks despairingly down on a cold damp door-step. Singing! How few of those who pass such a miserable creature as this think of the anguish of heart, the sinking of soul and spirit, which the very effort of singing produces. What a bitter mockery! Disease, neglect, and starvation, faintly articulating the words of the joyous ditty that has enlivened your hours of feasting and merriment, God knows how often! It is no subject for jeering. The weak tremulous voice tells a fearful tale of want and famishing, and the feeble singer of this roaring song may turn away only to die of cold and hunger. One o’clock! Parties returning from the different theatres foot it through the muddy streets; cabs, hackney coaches, carriages, and theatre-omnibuses, roll swiftly by; watermen, with dim dirty lanterns in their hands, and large brass plates upon their breasts, who have been shouting and rushing about for the last two hours, retire to their watering-houses, to solace themselves with the creature comforts of pipes and purl; the half-price pit and box frequenters of the theatres throng to the different houses of refreshment; and chops, kidneys, rabbits, oysters, stout, cigars, and &quot;goes&quot; innumerable, are served up amidst a noise and confusion of smoking, running, knife-clattering, and waiter-chattering, perfectly indescribable. The more musical portion of the play-going community betake themselves to some harmonic meeting; and, as a matter of curiosity, we will follow them thither for a few moments. In a lofty room, of spacious dimensions, sit some eighty or a hundred guests, knocking little pewter measures on the tables, and hammering away with the handles of their knives, as if they were so many trunk makers. They are applauding a glee, which has just been executed by the three &quot;professional gentlemen&quot; at the top of the centre table, one of whom is in the chair—the little pompous man, with the bald head just emerging from the collar of his green coat. The others are seated on either side of him—the stout man with the small voice, and the thin-faced dark man in black. The little man in the chair is a most amusing personage—such condescending grandeur, and such a voice! &quot;Bass!&quot; as the young gentleman near us with the blue stock forcibly remarks to his companion, &quot;bass! I b’lieve you. He can go down lower than any man: so low sometimes that you can’t hear him.&quot; And so he does. To hear him growling away, gradually lower and lower down, till he can’t get back again, is the most delightful thing in the world, and it is quite impossible to witness unmoved the impressive solemnity with which he pours forth his soul in &quot;My ’Art’s in the Ilands,&quot;’ or &quot;The Brave Old Hoak.&quot; The stout man is also addicted to sentimentality, and warbles &quot;Fly fly from the World, my Bessy with me,&quot; or some such song, with lady-like sweetness, and in the most seductive tones imaginable. &quot;Pray give your orders gen’l’m’n—pray give your orders&quot;—says a pale-faced man with a red-head; and demands for &quot;goes&quot; of gin, and &quot;goes&quot; of brandy, and pints of stout, and cigars of peculiar mildness, are vociferously made from all parts of the room. The &quot;professional gentlemen&quot; are in the very height of their glory, and bestow condescending nods, or even a word or two of recognition on the better-known frequenters of the room, in the most bland and patronising manner possible. The little round-faced man with the small brown surtout, white stockings, and shoes, is in the comic line; the mixed air of self denial, and mental consciousness of his own powers with which he acknowledges the call of the chair, is particularly gratifying.—&quot;Gentlemen,&quot; says the little pompous man, accompanying the word with a knock of the president’s hammer on the table—&quot;‘Gentlemen, allow me to claim your attention—Our friend Mr. Smuggins will oblige.&quot;— &quot;Bravo!&quot; shout the company; and Smuggins, after a considerable quantity of coughing, by way of symphony, and a most facetious sniff or two, which afford general delight, sings a comic song with a fal-de-ral tol-de-ral chorus at the end of every verse, much longer than the verse itself. It is received with unbounded applause, and after some aspiring genius has volunteered a recitation, and failed dismally therein, the little pompous man gives another knock, and says &quot;Gentlemen, we will attempt a glee, if you please.&quot; This announcement calls forth tumultuous applause, and the more energetic spirits express the unqualified approbation it affords them by knocking one or two stout glasses off their legs—a humorous device, but one which frequently occasions some slight altercation when the form of paying the damage is proposed to be gone through by the waiter. Scenes like these are continued until three or four o’clock in the morning; and even when they close, fresh ones open to the inquisitive novice. But as a description of all of them, however slight, would require a volume, we make our bow and drop the curtain.18360117https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Scenes_and_Characters_No._12_The_Streets_at_Night/1836-01-17_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No12_The_Streets_at_Night.pdf
65https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/65'<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 2, Miss Evans and "The Eagle"'Published in <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (4 October 1835).Dickens, Charles<em>The British Newspaper Archive,</em> <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351004/009/0001?browse=true" class="waffle-rich-text-link" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351004/009/0001.</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1835-10-04">1835-10-04</a><p><em>The British Newspaper Archive. </em>Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</p><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+Story">Short Story</a>1835-10-04_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No2_Miss_Evans_and_The_EagleDickens, Charles. 'Scenes and Characters, No. 2, Miss Evans and The Eagle (04 October 1835). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-10-04_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No2_Miss_Evans_and_The_Eagle">https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-10-04_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No2_Miss_Evans_and_The_Eagle</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1835-10-04_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No2_Miss_Evans_and_The_Eagle.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><span>'Scenes and Characters, No. 2, Miss Evans and "The Eagle".' <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (4 October 1835).</span></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EBell%27s+Life+in+London%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>Bell's Life in London</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=TIBBS">TIBBS</a>Mr. Samuel Wilkins was a carpenter—a journeyman carpenter, of small dimensions; decidedly below the middle size—bordering perhaps upon the dwarfish. His face was round and shiny, &amp; his hair carefully twisted into the outer corner of each eye, till it formed a variety of that description of semi-curls, usually known as &quot;haggerawators.&quot; His earnings were all-sufficient for his wants—varying from eighteen shillings to one pound five, weekly; his manner undeniable—his sabbath waistcoats dazzling. No wonder that with these qualifications Samuel Wilkins found favour in the eyes of the other sex; many women have been captivated by far less substantial qualifications. But Samuel was proof against their blandishments, until at length his eyes rested on those of a being for whom from that time forth he felt fate had destined him. He came and conquered—proposed and was accepted —loved and was beloved. Mr. Wilkins &quot;kept company&quot; with Jemima Evans. Miss Evans (or Ivins, to adopt the pronunciation most in vogue with her circle of acquaintance) had adopted in early life the harmless pursuit of shoe-binding, to which she had afterwards superadded the occupation of a straw-bonnet maker. Herself, her maternal parent, and two sisters, formed an harmonious quartett in the most secluded portion of Camden-town; and here it was that Mr. Wilkins presented himself one Monday afternoon in his best attire, with his face more shiny and his waistcoat more bright than either had ever appeared before. The family were just going to tea, and were so glad to see him. It was quite a little feast; two ounces of seven and sixpenny green, and a quarter of a pound of the best fresh; and Mr. Wilkins had brought a pint of shrimps, neatly folded up in a clean belcher, to give a zest to the meal, and propitiate Mrs. Ivins. Jemima was &quot;cleaning herself&quot; up-stairs: so Mr. Samuel Wilkins sat down, and talked domestic economy with Mrs. Ivins, whilst the two youngest Miss Ivins&#039;s poked bits of lighted brown paper between the bars, under the kettle, to make the water boil for tea. &quot;I vos thinkin&#039;&quot; said Mr. Samuel Wilkins, during a pause in the conversation, &quot;I vos a thinkin&#039; of takin&#039; J’mima to the Eagle to-night.&quot; &quot;O my!&quot; exclaimed Mrs. Ivins. &quot;Lor! how nice!&quot; said the youngest Miss Ivins. &quot;Well; I declare!&quot; added the youngest Miss Ivins but one. &quot;Tell J’mima to put on her white muslin, Tilly,&quot; screamed Mrs. Ivins, with motherly anxiety; and down came J’mima herself soon afterwards in a white muslin gown, carefully hook-and-eyed, and little red shawl plentifully pinned, and white straw bonnet trimmed with red ribbons, and a small necklace and large pair of bracelets, and Denmark satin shoes, and open-work stockings, white cotton gloves on her fingers, and a cambric pocket-handkerchief carefully folded up in her hand—all quite genteel and ladylike. And away went Miss Jemima Ivins, and Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and a dress cane, with a gilt knob at the top, to the admiration and envy of the street in general, and to the high gratification of Mrs. Ivins, and the two youngest Miss Ivinses in particular. They had no sooner turned into the Pancras-road, than who should Miss Jemima Ivins stumble upon by the most fortunate accident in the world, but a young lady as she knew, with her young man, and—it is so strange how things do turn out sometimes—they were actually going to the Eagle too. So Mr. Samuel Wilkins was introduced to Miss Jemima Ivins’s friend’s young man, and they all walked on together, talking, and laughing and joking away like anything; and when they got as far as Pentonville, Miss Ivins’s friend’s young man would have the ladies go into the Crown to taste some shrub, which, after a great blushing and giggling, and hiding of faces in elaborate pocket-handkerchiefs, they consented to do. Having tasted it once, they were easily prevailed upon to taste it again; and they sat out in the garden tasting shrub, and looking at the Busses alternately &#039;till it was just the proper time to go to the Eagle; and then they resumed their journey, and walked on very fast, for fear they should lose the beginning of the concert in the Rotunda.<br /> <br /> &quot;How ev’nly!&quot; said Miss J’mima Ivins and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend both at once, when they had passed the gate, and were fairly inside the gardens. There were the walks beautifully gravelled and planted; and the refreshment boxes painted and ornamented like so many snuff-boxes, and the variegated lamps shedding their rich light upon the company’s heads, and the place for dancing ready chalked for the company’s feet, and a Moorish band playing at one end of the gardens, and an opposition military band playing away at the other. Then the waiters were rushing to and fro with glasses of negus, and glasses of brandy and water, and bottles of ale and bottles of stout; and ginger-beer was going off in one place, and practical jokes were going on in another; and people were crowding to the door of the rotunda, and in short the whole scene was, as Miss J’mima Ivins, inspired by the novelty, or the shrub, or both, observed— &quot;one of dazzlin excitement.&quot; As to the concert room, never was anything half so splendid. There was an orchestra for the singers, all paint, gilding, and plate glass; and such an organ! Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man whispered it had cost &quot;four hundred pound,&quot; which Mr. Samuel Wilkins said was &quot;not dear neither&quot;—an opinion in which the ladies perfectly coincided. The audience were seated on elevated benches round the room, and crowded into every part of it, and every body was eating and drinking as comfortably as possible. Just before the concert commenced, Mr. Samuel Wilkins ordered two glasses of rum-and-water &quot;warm with,&quot; and two slices of lemon, for himself and the other young man, together with &quot;a pint o’ sherry wine for the ladies, and some sweet carraway-seed biscuits;&quot; and they would have been quite comfortable and happy, only one gentleman with large whiskers would stare at Miss J’mima Ivins, and another gentleman in a plaid waistcoat would wink at Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend; on which Miss Jemima Ivins’s friend’s young man exhibited symptoms of boiling over, and began to mutter about &quot;people’s imperence&quot; and &quot;swells out o’ luck,&quot; and to intimate in oblique terms a vague intention of knocking somebody’s head off, which he was only prevented from announcing more emphatically by both Miss J’mima Ivins and her friend, threatening to faint away on the spot if he said another word. The concert commenced—overture on the organ. &quot;How solemn!&quot; exclaimed Miss J’mima Ivins, glancing, perhaps unconsciously, at the gentleman with the whiskers. Mr. Samuel Wilkins, who had been muttering apart for some time past, as if he were holding a confidential conversation with the gilt knob of the dress-cane, breathed very hard;—breathing vengeance perhaps, but said nothing. &quot;The Soldier tired,&quot; Miss somebody, in white satin. &quot;Ancore!&quot; cried Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend. &quot;Ancore!&#039; shouted the gentleman in the plaid waistcoat immediately, hammering the table with a stout bottle. Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man eyed the man behind the waistcoat from head to foot, and cast a look of interrogative contempt towards Mr. Samuel Wilkins. Comic song, accompanied on the organ. Miss J’mima Ivins was convulsed with laughter—so was the man with the whiskers. Everything the ladies did, the plaid waistcoat and whiskers did, by way of expressing a unity of sentiment and congeniality of soul; and Miss J’mima Ivins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend grew lively and talkative, as Mr. George Wilkins and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man grew morose, and surly in inverse proportion.<br /> <br /> Now, if the matter had ended here, the little party might soon have recovered their former equanimity; but Mr. Samuel Wilkins and his friend began to throw looks of defiance upon the waistcoat and whiskers; and the waistcoat and whiskers, by way of intimating the slight degree in which they were affected by the looks aforesaid, bestowed glances of increased admiration on Miss J’mima Ivins and friend. The concert and vaudeville concluded—they promenaded the gardens. The waistcoat and whiskers did the same, and made divers remarks complimentary to the ancles of Miss J’mima Ivins and friend, in an audible tone. At length, not satisfied with these numerous atrocities, they actually came up, and asked Miss J’mima Ivins and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend to dance, without taking no more notice of Mr. Samuel Wilkins and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man, than if they was nobody! &quot;What do you mean by that, scoundrel?&quot; exclaimed Mr. Samuel Wilkins, grasping the gilt-knobbed dress cane firmly in his right hand. &quot;What’s the devil&#039;s the matter with you, you little humbug?&quot; replied the whiskers. &quot;How dare you insult me and my friend?&quot; inquired the friend’s young man. &quot;You and your friend be damned,&quot; responded the waistcoat. &quot;Take that!&quot; exclaimed Mr. Samuel Wilkins. The ferrule of the gilt-knobbed dress cane was visible for an instant, and then the light of the variegated lamps shone brightly upon it, as it whirled into the air, cane and all. &quot;Give it him,&quot; said the waistcoat. &quot;Luller-li-e-te,&quot; shouted the whiskers. &quot;Horficer!&quot; screamed the ladies. It was too late. Miss J’mima Ivins’s beau and the friend’s young man, lay gasping on the gravel, and the waistcoat and whiskers were seen no more. Miss J’mima Ivins and friend, being conscious that the affray was in no slight degree attributable to themselves, of course went into hysterics forthwith; declared themselves the most injured of women; exclaimed, in incoherent ravings, that they had been suspected—wrongfully suspected—oh, that they should ever have lived to see the day, &amp;c.; suffered a relapse every time they opened their eyes, and saw their unfortunate little admirers; and were carried to their respective abodes in a hackney-coach in a state of insensibility, compounded of shrub, sherry, and excitement.18351004https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Scenes_and_Characters_No._2_Miss_Evans_and_The_Eagle/1835-10-04_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No2_Miss_Evans_and_The_Eagle.pdf
66https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/66'<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 3, The Dancing Academy'Published in <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (11 October 1835).Dickens, Charles<em>The British Newspaper Archive,</em> <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351011/001/0001" class="waffle-rich-text-link" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351011/001/0001</a>.<span></span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1835-10-11">1835-10-11</a><p><em>The British Newspaper Archive. </em>Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</p><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+Story">Short Story</a>1835-10-11_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No3_The_Dancing_AcademyDickens, Charles. 'Scenes and Characters, No. 3, The Dancing Academy' (11 October 1835). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-10-04_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No2_Miss_Evans_and_The_Eagle">https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-10-11_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No3_The_Dancing_Academy</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1835-10-11_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No3_The_Dancing_Academy.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><span>'Scenes and Characters, No. 3, The Dancing Academy.' <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (11 October 1835).</span></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EBell%27s+Life+in+London%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>Bell's Life in London</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=TIBBS">TIBBS</a>Of all the dancing academies that ever were established, there never was one more popular in its immediate vicinity than Signor Billsmethi’s, of the &quot;King’s Theatre.&quot; It wasn&#039;t in Spring Gardens, or Newman-street, or Berner&#039;s-street, or Gower-street, or Charlotte-street, or Percy street, or any other of the numerous streets which have been devoted time out of mind to professional people, dispensaries, and boarding-houses; it was not in the West-end at all, it rather approximated to the eastern portion of London, being situated in the populous and improving neighbourhood of Gray’s-inn-lane. &quot;It wasn&#039;t a dear dancing academy—four and sixpence a quarter is decidedly cheap upon the whole. It was very select, the number of pupils being strictly limited to seventy-five; and a quarter’s payment in advance being rigidly exacted. There was public tuition and private tuition—an assembly-room and a parlour. Signor Billsmethi’s family were always thrown in with the parlour, and included in parlour price; that is to say, a private pupil had Signor Billsmethi’s parlour to dance in, and Signor Billsmethi’s family to dance with; and when he had been sufficiently broken in, in the parlour, he began to run in couples in the Assembly-room. Such was the dancing academy of Signor Billsmethi when Mr. Augustus Cooper of Fetter-lane, first saw an unstamped advertisement, walking leisurely down Holborn-hill, announcing to the world that Signor Billsmethi of the King’s Theatre intended opening for the season with a Grand Ball. Now, Mr. Augustus Cooper was in the oil and colour line—just of age, with a little money, a little business, and a little mother, who having managed her husband and his business in his lifetime, took to managing her son and his business after his decease; and so somehow or other he had been cooped up in the little back parlour behind the shop on week days, and in a little deal box without a lid (called by courtesy a pew) at Bethel Chapel on Sundays; and had seen no more of the world than if he had been an infant all his days, whereas Young White, at the Gas Fitter’s over the way, three years younger than him, had been flaring away like winkin’—going to the theatre—supping at harmonic meetings—eating oysters by the barrel, drinking stout by the gallon—even stopping out all night, and coming home as cool in the morning as if nothing had happened. So Mr. Augustus Cooper made up his mind that he would not stand it any longer, and had that very morning expressed to his mother a firm determination to be blowed, in the event of his not being instantly provided with a street door key. And he was walking down Holborn-hill thinking about all these things, and wondering how he could manage to get introduced into genteel society for the first time, when his eyes rested on Signor Billsmethi’s announcement, which it immediately struck him was just the very thing he wanted; for he should not only be able to select a genteel circle of acquaintance at once, out of the five and seventy pupils, at four and sixpence a quarter, but should qualify himself at the same time to go through a hornpipe in private society, with perfect ease to himself, and great delight to his friends. So he stopped the unstamped advertisement—an animated sandwich, composed of a boy between two boards—and having procured a very small card, with the Signor’s address indented thereon, walked straight at once to the Signor’s house—and very fast he walked too, for fear the list should be filled up, and the five and seventy completed, before he got there. The Signor was at home, and what was still more gratifying, he was an Englishman! Such a nice man—so polite; really so much more than one has any right to expect from a perfect stranger! The list wasn&#039;t full, but it was a most extraordinary circumstance that there was only just one vacancy, and even that one would have been filled up that very morning, only Signor Billsmethi was dissatisfied with the reference, and being very much afraid that the lady wasn’t select, wouldn’t take her. &quot;And very much delighted I am, Mr. Cooper,&quot; said Signor Billsmethi, &quot;that I did not take her. I assure you, Mr. Cooper,—I don’t say it to flatter you, for I know you’re above it;—that I consider myself extremely fortunate in having a gentleman of your manners and appearance, Sir.&quot; &quot;I am very glad of it too, Sir,&quot; said Augustus Cooper. &quot;And I hope we shall be better acquainted, Sir,&quot; said Signor Billsmethi. &quot;And I’m sure I hope we shall too, Sir,&quot; responded Augustus Cooper; and just then the door opened, and in came a young lady with her hair curled in a crop all over her head, and her shoes tied in sandals all over her legs. &quot;Don’t run away my dear,&quot; said Signor Billsmethi;&quot; for the young lady didn’t know Mr. Cooper was there when she ran in, and was going to run out again in her modesty, all in confusion-like. &quot;Don’t run away, my dear,&quot; said Signor Billsmethi, &quot;this is Mr. Cooper. Mr. Cooper, of Fetter-lane. Mr. Cooper, my daughter, Sir, Miss Billsmethi, Sir, who, I hope, will have the pleasure of dancing many a quadrille, reel, minuet, gavotte, country dance, fandango, double hornpipe, and farinagholkajingo with you, Sir. She dances them all, Sir; and so shall you, Sir, before you’re a quarter older,&quot; Sir &amp;amp; Signor Bellsmethi slapped Mr. Augustus Cooper on the back, as if he had known him a dozen years, so friendly; and Mr. Cooper bowed to the young lady, and the young lady curtseyed to him; and Signor Billsmethi said they were as handsome a pair as ever he’d wish to see, upon which the young lady exclaimed, &quot;Lor, Pa!&quot; and blushed as red as Mr. Cooper himself—you might have thought they were both standing under a red lamp at a chemist’s shop; and before Mr. Cooper went away it was settled that he should join the family circle that very night—taking &#039;em just as they were: no ceremony, nor nonsense of that kind—and learn his positions, in order that he might lose no time, and be able to come out at the forthcoming ball. Well, Mr. Augustus Cooper went away to one of the cheap shoemakers’ shops in Holborn, where gentlemen’s dress-pumps are seven and sixpence, and men’s strong walking just nothing at all, and bought a pair of the regular seven-and-sixpenny, long-quartered, town-mades, in which he astonished himself quite as much as his mother, and sallied forth to Signor Billsmethi’s. There were four other private pupils in the parlour, two ladies and two gentlemen. Such nice people! Not a bit of pride about &#039;em. One of: he ladies in particular, who was in training for a Columbine, was remarkably affable, and she and Miss Billsmethi took such an interest in Mr. Augustus Cooper, and joked, and smiled, and looked so bewitching, that he got quite at home, and learnt his steps in no time. After the practising was over Signor Billsmethi and Miss Billsmethi, and Master Billsmethi, and a young lady, and the two ladies and the two gentlemen, danced a quadrille—none of your slipping and sliding about, but regular warm work; flying into corners, and diving among chairs, and shooting out at the door, something like dancing. Signor Billsmethi in particular, notwithstanding his having a little fiddle to play all the time, was out on the landing every figure; and Master Billsmethi, when everybody else was breathless, danced a hornpipe with a cane in his hand, and a cheese-plate on his head, to the unqualified admiration of the whole company. Then Signor Billsmethi insisted, as they were so happy, that they should all stay to supper; and proposed sending Master Billsmethi for the beer and spirits, whereupon the two gentlemen swore, &quot;strike ’em wulgar if they’d stand that;&quot; and they were just going to quarrel who should pay for it, when Mr. Augustus Cooper said he would, if they’d have the kindness to allow him—and they had the kindness to allow him; and Master Billsmethi brought the beer in a can, and the rum in a quart pot; they had a regular night of it; and Miss Billsmethi squeezed Mr. Augustus Cooper’s hand under the table; and Mr. Augustus Cooper returned the squeeze, and returned home too, at something to six o’clock in the morning, when he was put to bed by main force by the apprentice, after repeatedly expressing an uncontroullable desire to pitch his revered parent out of the second-floor window, and to throttle the apprentice with his own neck-handkerchief. Weeks had worn on, and the seven-and-sixpenny town-mades had nearly worn out, when the night arrived for the grand dress-ball, at which the whole of the five-and-seventy pupils were to meet together for the first time that season, and to take out some portion of their respective four-and-sixpences in lamp-oil and fiddlers. Mr. Augustus Cooper had ordered a new coat for the occasion—a two-pound-tenner from Turnstile. It was his first appearance in public; and after a grand Sicilian shawl-dance by fourteen young ladies in character, he was to open the quadrille department with Miss Billsmethi herself, with whom he had become quite intimate since his first introduction. It was a night! Everything was admirably arranged. The Sandwich boy took the hats and bonnets at the street-door; there was a turn-up bedstead in the back parlour, on which Miss Billsmethi made tea and coffee for such of the gentlemen as chose to pay for it, and such of the ladies as the gentlemen treated; red port wine negus and lemonade were handed round at eighteen-pence a head; and in pursuance of a previous engagement with the public-house at the corner of the street, an extra pot-boy was laid on for the occasion. In short nothing could exceed the arrangements, except the company. Such ladies! Such pink silk stockings! Such artificial flowers! Such a number of cabs! No sooner had one cab set down a couple of ladies, than another cab drove up, and set down another couple of ladies, and they all knew, not only one another but the majority of the gentlemen into the bargain, which made it all as pleasant and lively as could be. Signor Billsmethi in black tights, with a large blue bow in his button-hole, introduced the ladies to such of the gentlemen as were strangers; and the ladies talked away - and laughed they did—it was delightful to see &#039;em. As to the shawl-dance, it was the most exciting thing that ever was beheld. Such a whisking, and rustling, and fanning, and getting ladies into a tangle with artificial flowers, &amp;amp; then disentangling &#039;em again; and as to Mr. Augustus Cooper’s share in the quadrille, he got through it admirably; he was missing from his partner now and then certainly, and discovered on such occasions to be either dancing with laudable perseverance in another set, or sliding about in perspective, apparently without any definite object; but, generally speaking, they managed to shove him through the figure, till he turned up in the right place. Be this as it may, when he had finished, a great many ladies and gentlemen came up and complimented him very much, and said they had never seen a beginner do anything like it before; and Mr. Augustus Cooper was perfectly satisfied with himself, and everybody else into the bargain, and &quot;stood&quot; considerable quantities of spirits and water, negus, and compounds, for the use and behoof of two or three dozen very particular friends, selected from the select circle of five-and-seventy pupils. Now, whether it was the strength of the compounds, or the beauty of the ladies, or what not, it did so happen that Mr. Augustus Cooper encouraged rather than repelled the very flattering attentions of a young lady in brown gauze over white calico, who had appeared particularly struck with him from the first; and when the encouragements had been prolonged for some time, Miss Billsmethi betrayed her spite and jealousy thereat, by calling the young lady in brown gauze a &quot;creeter,&quot; which induced the young lady in brown gauze to retort, in certain sentences containing a taunt founded on the payment of four-and-sixpence a quarter, and some indistinct reference to a &quot;fancy man,&quot; which reference Mr. Augustus Cooper, being then and there in a state of considerable bewilderment, expressed his entire concurrence in. Miss Billsmethi, thus renounced, forthwith began screaming in the loudest key of her voice, at the rate of fourteen screams a minute; and being unsuccessful, in an onslaught on the eyes and face, first of the lady in gauze, and then of Mr. Augustus Cooper, called distractedly on the other three-and-seventy pupils to furnish her with oxalic acid for her own private drinking, and, the call not being honoured, made another rush at Mr. Cooper, and then had her stay-lace cut, and was carried off to bed. Mr. Augustus Cooper, not being remarkable for quickness of apprehension, was at a loss to understand what all this meant, till Signor Billsmethi explained it in a most satisfactory manner, by stating to the pupils that Mr. Augustus Cooper had made and confirmed divers promises of marriage to his daughter on divers occasions, and had now basely deserted her, on which, the indignation of the pupils became universal; and as several chivalrous gentlemen inquired rather pressingly of Mr. Augustus Cooper, whether he required anything for his own use, or, in other words, whether he &quot;wanted anything for himself,&quot; he deemed it prudent to make a precipitate retreat. And the upshot of the matter was, that a lawyer’s letter came next day, and an action was commenced next week; and that Mr. Augustus Cooper, after walking twice to the Serpentine for the purpose of drowning himself, and coming twice back without doing it, made a confidante of his mother, who compromised the matter with twenty pounds from the till, which made twenty pounds four shillings and sixpence paid to Signor Billsmethi, exclusive of treats and pumps: and Mr. Augustus Cooper went back and lived with his mother, and there he lives to this day; and as he has lost his ambition for society, and never goes into the world, he will never see this account of himself, and will never be any the wiser.18351011https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Scenes_and_Characters_No._3_The_Dancing_Academy/1835-10-11_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No3_The_Dancing_Academy.pdf
67https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/67'<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 4, Making a Night of It'Published in <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (18 October 1835).Dickens, Charles<em>The British Newspaper Archive,<br /></em><a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351018/001/0001" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351018/001/0001</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1835-10-18">1835-10-18</a><p><em>The British Newspaper Archive. </em>Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</p><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+Story">Short Story</a>1835-10-18_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No4_Making_a_Night_of_ItDickens, Charles. 'Scenes and Characters, No. 4, Making a Night of It' (18 October 1835). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-10-18_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No4_Making_a_Night_of_It">https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-10-18_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No4_Making_a_Night_of_It</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1835-10-18_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No4_Making_a_Night_of_It.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Scenes and Characters, No. 4, Making a Night of It.' Published in <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (18 October 1835).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EBell%27s+Life+in+London%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>Bell's Life in London</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=TIBBS">TIBBS</a>Damon and Pythias were undoubtedly very good fellows in their way: the former for his extreme readiness to put in special bail for a friend, and the latter for a certain trump-like punctuality in turning up just in the very nick of time, scarcely less remarkable. Many points in their character have now obsolete. Damons are rather hard to find, in these days of imprisonment for debt (except for sham ones, and they cost half a crown); and, as to the Pythiases, the few that have existed in these degenerate times have had an unfortunate knack of making themselves scarce, at the very moment when their appearance would have been strictly classical. If the actions of these heroes, however, can find no parallel in modern times, their friendship can. We have Damon and Pythias on the one hand—Potter and Smithers on the other; and lest the two last-mentioned names should never have reached the ears of our unenlightened readers, we can do no better than make them acquainted with the owners thereof. Mr. Thomas Potter, then, was a clerk in the city, and Mr. Robert Smithers was a ditto in the same; their incomes were limited, but their friendship was unbounded. They lived in the same street, walked into town every morning at the same hour, dined at the same slap-bang every day, and revelled in each other’s company very night. They were knit together by the closest ties of intimacy and friendship; or, as Mr. Thomas Potter touchingly observed, they were &quot;thick-and-thin pals, and nothing but it.&quot; There was a spice of romance in Mr. Smithers’s disposition—a ray of poetry—a gleam of misery;—a sort of consciousness of he didn’t exactly know what coming across him, he didn’t precisely know why—which stood out in fine relief against the off hand, dashing, &quot;come up to the scratch&quot; kind of manner, which distinguished Mr. Potter in an eminent degree. The peculiarity of their respective dispositions, extended itself to their individual costume. Mr. Smithers generally appeared in public in a surtout and shoes, with a narrow black neckerchief, and a brown hat, very much turned up at the sides—peculiarities which Mr. Potter wholly eschewed: for it was his ambition to do something in the celebrated &quot;kiddy&quot; or stage-coach way, and he had even gone so far as to invest capital in the purchase of a rough blue coat with wooden buttons, made upon the fireman’s principle, in which, with the addition of a low-crowned, flower-pot, saucer-shaped hat, he had created no inconsiderable sensation at the Albion, and divers other places of public resort. Mr. Potter and Mr. Smithers had mutually agreed that, on the receipt of their quarter’s salary, they would jointly and in company &quot;spend the evening&quot;—an evident misnomer—the spending applying, as everybody knows, not to the evening itself, but to all the money the individual may chance to be possessed of on the occasion to which reference is made; and they had likewise agreed that, on the evening aforesaid, they would &quot;make a night of it&quot;—an expressive term, implying the borrowing of several hours from to-morrow morning, adding them to the night before, and manufacturing a compound night of the whole. The quarter-day arrived at last—we say at last, because quarter-days are as eccentric as comets, moving wonderfully quick when you&#039;ve a good deal to pay, and marvellously slow when you have a little to receive: and Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers met by appointment to begin the evening with a dinner, and a nice, snug, comfortable dinner they had, consisting of a little procession of four chops and four kidneys, following each other, supported on either side by a pot of the real draught stout, and attended by divers cushions of bread, and wedges of cheese. When the cloth was removed, Mr. Thomas Potter ordered the waiter to bring in two goes of his best Scotch whiskey, with warm water and sugar, and a couple of his very mildest Havannahs, which the waiter did. Mr. Thomas Potter mixed his grog, and lit his cigar; Mr. Robert Smithers did the same; and then Mr. Thomas Potter jocularly proposed as the first toast, &quot;the abolition of all offices whatsomever&quot; (not sinecures, but counting-houses), which was immediately drank by Mr. Robert Smithers, with enthusiastic applause; and then they went on talking politics, puffing cigars, and sipping whiskey and water, until the &quot;goes&quot;—most appropriately so called—were both gone, which Mr. Robert Smithers forthwith perceiving, immediately ordered in two more goes of the best Scotch whiskey, and two more of the very mildest Havannahs; and the goes kept coming in, and the mild Havannahs kept going out, until what with the drinking, and lighting, and puffing, and the stale ashes on the table, and the tallow-grease on the cigars, Mr. Robert Smithers began to doubt the mildness of the Havannahs, and to feel very much as if he had been sitting in a hackney-coach, with his back to the horses. As to Mr. Thomas Potter, he would keep laughing out loud, and volunteering inarticulate declarations that he was &quot;all right,&quot; in proof of which he feebly bespoke the evening paper after the next gentleman, but finding it a matter of some difficulty to discover any news in its columns, or to ascertain distinctly whether it had any columns at all, he walked slowly out to look for the comet, and after coming back quite pale with looking up at the sky so long, and attempting to express mirth at Mr. Robert Smithers having fallen asleep, by various galvanic chuckles, he laid his head on his arm, and went to sleep also; and when he awoke again, Mr. Robert Smithers woke too, and they both very gravely agreed that it was extremely unwise to eat so many pickled walnuts with the chops, as it was a notorious fact that they always made people queer and sleepy; indeed, if it hadn&#039;t been for the whiskey and cigars, there was no knowing what harm they mightn’t have done ’em. So they took some coffee, and after paying the bill, twelve and two-pence the dinner, and the odd ten-pence for the waiter, thirteen shillings, started out on their expedition to manufacture a night. It was just half-past eight, so they thought they couldn’t do better than go half-price to the slips at the City Theatre, which they did, accordingly. Mr. Robert Smithers, who had become extremely poetical after the settlement of the bill, enlivening the walk by informing Mr. Thomas Potter, in confidence, that he felt an inward presentiment of approaching dissolution, and subsequently embellishing the theatre by falling asleep with his head and both arms gracefully drooping over the front of the boxes. Such was the quiet demeanour of the unassuming Smithers, and such were the happy effects of Scotch whiskey and Havannahs on that interesting person; but Mr. Thomas Potter, whose great aim it was to be considered as a &quot;knowing card,&quot; a &quot;fast-goer,&quot; and so forth, conducted himself in a very different manner, and commenced going very fast indeed—rather too fast at last for the patience of the audience to keep pace with. On his first entry he contented himself by earnestly calling upon the gentlemen in the gallery to &quot;flare up,&quot; accompanying the demand with another request expressive of his wish that they would instantaneously &quot;form a union,&quot; both which requisitions were responded to in the manner most in vogue on such occasions. &quot;Give that dog a bone,&quot; cried one gentleman in his shirt sleeves. &quot;Vere have you been having half a pint of intermediate?&quot; cried a second. &quot;Tailor!&quot; screamed a third. &quot;Barber’s clerk!&quot; shouted a fourth. &quot;Throw him o-ver,&quot; roared a fifth, while numerous voices concurred in desiring Mr. Thomas Potter to return to the arms of his maternal parent, or in common parlance to &quot;go home to his mother.&quot; All these taunts Mr. Thomas Potter received with supreme contempt, cocking the low-crowned hat a little more on one side, whenever any reference was made to his personal appearance; and standing up with his arms a-kimbo, expressing defiance most melodramatically. The overture—to which these various sounds had been an ad libitum accompaniment—concluded: the second piece began, and Mr. Thomas Potter emboldened by impunity, proceeded to behave in a most unprecedented and outrageous manner. First of all he imitated the shake of the principal female singer; then, groaned at the blue fire, then affected to be frightened into convulsions of terror at the appearance of the ghost; and lastly, not only made a running commentary in an audible voice upon the dialogue on the stage, but actually woke Mr. Robert Smithers, who hearing his companion making a noise, and having a very indistinct notion of where he was, or what was required of him, immediately by way of imitating a good example, set up the most unearthly, unremitting, and appalling howling that ever audience heard. It was too much. &quot;Turn &#039;em out,&quot; was the general cry. A noise as if shuffling of feet, and men being knocked up with violence against wainscoting, was heard: a hurried dialogue of &quot;come out&quot;—&quot;I won’t&quot;—&quot;You shall&quot;—&quot;I shan’t&quot;—&quot;Give me your card Sir&quot;—&quot;Punch his head,&quot; and so forth succeeded; a round of applause betokened the approbation of the audience; and Mr. Robert Smithers and Mr. Thomas Potter found themselves shot with astonishing swiftness into the road without having had the trouble of once putting foot to ground during the whole progress of their rapid descent. Mr. Robert Smithers being constitutionally one of the slow-goers, and having had quite enough of fast going, in the course of his recent expulsion, to last &#039;til the quarter-day then next ensuing at the very least, had no sooner emerged with his companion from the precincts of Milton-street, than he proceeded to indulge in circuitous references to the beauties of sleep, mingled with distant allusions to the propriety of returning to Islington, and testing the influence of their patent Bramahs over the street door locks to which they respectively belonged. Mr. Thomas Potter, however, was valorous and peremptory. They had come out to make a night of it; and a night must be made. So Mr. Robert Smithers, who was three parts dull and the other dismal, despairingly assented: and they went into a wine-vaults to get materials for assisting them in making a night, where they found a good many young ladies, and various old gentlemen, &amp;amp; a plentiful sprinkling of hackney-coachmen &amp;amp; cab-drivers, all drinking &amp;amp; talking together; &amp;amp; Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers drank small glasses of brandy, and large glasses of soda, till they began to have a very confused idea either of things in general or anything in particular, and when they had done treating themselves they began to treat everybody else; and the rest of the entertainment was a confused mixture of heads and heels, black eyes and blue uniforms, mud and gas-lights, thick doors, and stone paving. Then, as standard novelists expressively inform us—&quot;all was a blank,&quot; and in the morning the blank was filled up with the words &quot;Station-house,&quot; and the station-house was filled up with Mr. Thomas Potter, Mr. Robert Smithers, and the major part of their wine-vault companions of the preceding night, with a comparatively small portion of clothing of any kind. And it was disclosed at the Police-office, to the indignation of the Bench, and the astonishment of the spectators, how one Robert Smithers, aided and abetted by one Thomas Potter, had knocked down and beaten, in divers streets at different times, five men, four boys, &amp;amp; three women; how the said Thomas Potter had feloniously obtained possession of five door-knockers, two bell-handles, and a bonnet; how Robert Smithers, his friend, had sworn, at least forty pounds’ worth of oaths at the rate of five shillings apiece, terrified whole streets-full of his Majesty’s liege subjects with awful shrieks, and alarms of fire, destroyed the uniforms of five policemen, and committed various other atrocities too numerous to recapitulate; and the Magistrates after an appropriate reprimand of considerable length, fined Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Thomas Smithers five shillings each for being, what the law vulgarly terms &quot;drunk,&quot; with the trifling addition of thirty-four pounds for seventeen assaults, at forty shillings a-head, with leave to speak to the prosecutors. The prosecutors were spoken to; and Messrs. Potter and Smithers lived on credit for a quarter as best they could; and although the prosecutors expressed their readiness to be assaulted twice a week on the same terms, they have never since been detected &quot;making a night of it.&quot;18351018https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Scenes_and_Characters_No._4_Making_a_Night_of_It/1835-10-18_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No4_Making_a_Night_of_It.pdf
68https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/68'<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 5, Love and Oysters'Published in <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (25 October 1835).Dickens, Charles<em>The British Newspaper Archive,</em> <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351025/001/0001" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351025/001/0001</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1835-10-25">1835-10-25</a><p><em>The British Newspaper Archive. </em>Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</p><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+Story">Short Story</a>1835-10-25_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No5_Love_and_OystersDickens, Charles. 'Scenes and Characters, No. 5, Love and Oysters' (25 October 1835). <em>Dickens Search</em>. Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-10-25_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No5_Love_and_Oysters">https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-10-25_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No5_Love_and_Oysters</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1835-10-25_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No5_Love_and_Oysters.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Scenes and Characters, No. 5, Love and Oysters.' <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (25 October 1835).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EBell%27s+Life+in+London%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>Bell's Life in London</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=TIBBS">TIBBS</a>If we had to make a classification of society, there are a particular kind of men whom we should immediately set down under the head of &quot;Old Boys;&quot; and a column of most extensive dimensions the old boys would require. To what precise causes the rapid advance of old boy population is to be traced, we are unable to determine; it would be an interesting and curious speculation, but, as we have not sufficient space to devote to it here, we simply state the fact that the numbers of the old boys have been gradually augmenting within the last few years, and are at this moment alarmingly on the increase. Upon a general review of the subject, and without considering it minutely in detail, we should be disposed to subdivide the old boys into two distinct classes—the gay old boys, and the steady old boys; the gay old boys, are punchy old men in the disguise of young ones, who frequent the Quadrant and Regent-street in the day-time, and the theatres (especially theatres under lady management) at night, assuming all the foppishness and levity of boys, without the excuse of youth or inexperience: the steady old boys are certain stout old gentlemen of clean appearance, who are always to be seen in the same taverns, at the same hours every evening, smoking and drinking in the same company. There was once a fine collection of old boys to be seen round the circular table at Offley’s every night, between the hours of half-past eight and half-past eleven. We have lost sight of them for some time, but there are still two splendid specimens in full blossom at the Rainbow, who always sit in the box nearest the fire-place, and smoke immense long cherry-stick pipes, which go under the table, with the bowls resting upon the floor. Grand old boys these are—fat, red-faced, white-headed old fellows, always there—one on one side the table, and the other opposite—puffing and drinking away like regular good ones, and never a bit the worse for it— everybody knows &#039;em, and it is supposed by some people that they&#039;re both immortal. Mr. John Dounce was an old boy of the latter class (we don’t mean immortal, but steady)—a retired glove and brace-maker, a widower, resident with three daughters—all grown up, and all unmarried—in Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane. He was a short, round, large-faced, tubbish sort of a man with a broad-brimmed hat, and a square coat; and had that grave, but confident, kind of roll peculiar to old boys in general. Regular as clock-work—breakfast at nine—dress &amp;amp; tittivate a little—down to the Sir Somebody’s Head—glass of ale and the paper—come back again and take the daughters out for a walk—dinner at three—glass of grog and a pipe—nap—tea—little walk—Sir Somebody’s Head again—capital house;—delightful evenings! There were Mr. Harris, the law-stationer, and Mr. Jennings, the robe-maker (two jolly young fellows like himself), and Jones, the barrister’s clerk—a rum fellow that Jones—capital company—full of anecdote; and there they sat every night till just ten minutes before twelve, drinking their brandy and water, and smoking their pipes, and telling stories, and enjoying themselves with a kind of solemn joviality, particularly edifying. Sometimes Jones would propose a half-price visit to Drury Lane or Covent Garden, to see two acts of a five-act play, &amp;amp; a new farce, perhaps, or a ballet, on which occasions the whole four of them went together: none of your hurrying and nonsense, but having their brandy and water first, comfortably, and ordering a steak and some oysters for their supper against they came back, and then walking coolly into the pit, when the &quot;rush&quot; had gone in, as all sensible people do, and did when Mr. Dounce was a young man, except when the celebrated Master Betty was at the height of his popularity, and then, Sir,—then, Mr. Dounce perfectly well remembered getting a holiday from business, and going to the pit doors at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, and waiting there till six in the afternoon, with some sandwiches in a pocket-handkerchief, and some wine in a phial, and fainting after all with the heat and fatigue before the play began, in which situation he was lifted out of the pit into one of the dress boxes, Sir, by five of the finest women of that day, Sir, who compassionated his situation and administered restoratives, and sent a black servant, six foot high, in blue and silver livery, next morning with their compliments, and to know how he found himself, Sir—by God! Between the acts Mr. Dounce, and Mr. Harris, and Mr. Jennings used to stand up, and look round the house, and Jones—knowing fellow that Jones—knew every body—pointed ou the fashionable and celebrated Lady So-and-So in the boxes, at the mention of whose name Mr. Dounce, after brushing up his hair, and adjusting his neck-handkerchief, would inspect the aforesaid Lady So-and-So through an immense glass, and remark, either, that she was a &quot;fine woman—very fine woman, indeed,&quot; or that &quot;there might be a little more of her —Eh, Jones? just as the case might happen to be. When the dancing began, John Dounce, and the other old boys, were particularly anxious to see what was going forward on the stage, and Jones—wicked dog that Jones—whispered little critical remarks into the ears of John Dounce, which John Dounce retailed to Mr. Harris and Mr. Harris to Mr. Jennings; and then they all three laughed, &#039;till the tears ran out of their eyes. When the curtain fell they walked back together, two and two, to the steaks and oysters, and when they came to the second glass of brandy and water, Jones— hoaxing scamp, that Jones—used to recount how he had observed a lady in white feathers in one of the pit boxes, gazing intently on Mr. Dounce all the evening, and how he had caught Mr. Dounce, whenever he thought no one was looking at him, bestowing ardent looks of intense devotion on the lady in return; on which Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings used to laugh very heartily, and John Dounce more heartily than either of &#039;em, acknowledging, however, that the time had been when he might have done such things; upon which Mr. Jones used to poke him in the ribs, and tell him he had been a sad dog in his time, which John Dounce, with chuckles, confessed. And after Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings had preferred their claims to the character of having been sad dogs too, they separated harmoniously, &amp;amp; trotted home. The decrees of Fate, and the means by which they are brought about, are mysterious and inscrutable. John Dounce had led this life for twenty years and upwards, without wish for change, or care for variety, when his whole social system was suddenly upset and turned completely topsy-turvy—not by an earthquake, or some other dreadful convulsion of nature, as the reader would be inclined to suppose, but by the simple agency of an oyster, and thus it happened. Mr. John Dounce was returning one night from the Sir Somebody’s Head, to his residence in Cursitor-street—not tipsy, but rather excited, for it was Mr. Jennings’s birth-day, and they had had a brace of partridges for supper, and a brace of extra glasses afterwards, and Jones had been more than ordinarily amusing—when his eyes rested on a newly-opened oyster shop on a magnificent scale, with natives laid one deep in circular marble basins in the windows, together with little round barrels of oysters directed to Lords and Baronets, and Colonels and Captains, in every part of the habitable globe. Behind the natives were the barrels, and behind the barrels was a young lady of about five-and-twenty, all in blue, and all alone—splendid creature, charming face, and lovely figure. It is difficult to say whether Mr. John Dounce’s red countenance, illuminated as it was by the flickering gas-light in the window before which he paused, excited the lady’s risibility, or whether a natural exuberance of animal spirits proved too much for that staidness of demeanour which the forms of society rather dictatorially prescribe; certain it is, that the lady smiled, then put her finger upon her lip, with a striking recollection of what was due to herself; and finally retired, in oyster-like bashfulness to the very back of the counter. The sad-dog sort of feeling came strongly upon John Dounce: he lingered —the lady in blue made no sign. He coughed—still she came not. He entered the shop—&quot;Can you open me an oyster, my dear?&quot; said Mr. John Dounce. &quot;Dare say I can, Sir,&quot; replied the lady in blue, with enchanting playfulness. And Mr. John Dounce eat one oyster, and then looked at the young lady, and then eat another, and then squeezed the young lady’s hand as she was opening the third, and so forth, until he had devoured a dozen of those at eight-pence in less than no time. &quot;Can you open me half a dozen more, my dear?&quot; inquired Mr. John Dounce. &quot;I’ll see what I can do for you, Sir,&quot; replied the young lady in blue, even more bewitchingly than before; and Mr. John Dounce eat half-a-dozen more of those at eight-pence and felt his gallantry increasing every minute. &quot;You couldn’t manage to get me a glass of brandy and water, my dear, I suppose?&quot; said Mr. John Dounce, when he had finished the oysters, in a tone which clearly implied his supposition that she could. &quot;I’ll see, Sir,&quot; said the young lady; and away she ran out of the shop, and down the street, her long auburn ringlets shaking in the wind in the most enchanting manner; and back she came again, tripping over the coal-places like a whipping top, with a tumbler of brandy and water, which Mr. John Dounce insisted on her taking a share of, as it was regular ladies’ grog—hot, strong, sweet, and plenty of it. So the young lady sat down with Mr. John Dounce, in a little red box with a green curtain, and took a small sip of the brandy and water, and a small look at Mr. John Dounce, and then turned her head away, and went through various other serio-pantomimic fascinations, which forcibly reminded Mr. John Dounce of the first time he courted his first wife, and which, taken conjointly with the hot brandy and water and the oysters, made him feel more affectionate than ever; in pursuance of which affection, and actuated by which feeling, Mr. John Dounce sounded the young lady on her matrimonial engagements, when the young lady denied having formed any such engagements at all—she couldn’t abear the men, they were such deceivers; thereupon Mr. John Dounce inquired whether this sweeping condemnation was meant to include other than very young men; on which the young lady blushed deeply—at least she turned away her head, and said Mr. John Dounce had made her blush, so of course she did blush—and Mr. John Dounce was a long time drinking the brandy and water; and the young lady said &quot;Ha&#039; done, Sir,&quot; very often; and at last John Dounce went home to bed, and dreamt of his first wife, and his second wife, and the young lady, and partridges, and oysters, and brandy and water, and disinterested attachments. The next morning John Dounce was rather feverish with the extra brandy and water of the previous night; and, partly in the hope of cooling himself with an oyster, and partly with the view of ascertaining whether he owed the young lady anything, or not, went back to the oyster-shop. If the young lady had appeared beautiful by night, she was perfectly irresistible by day; and, from this time forward a change came over the spirit of John Dounce’s dream. He bought shirt-pins; wore a ring on his third finger; read poetry; bribed a cheap miniature-painter to perpetrate a faint resemblance to a youthful face, with a curtain over his head, six large books in the background, and an open country in the distance (this he called his portrait); &quot;went on&quot; altogether in such an uproarious manner, that the three Miss Dounces went off on small pensions, he having made the tenement in Cursitor-street too warm to contain them; and in short, comported and demeaned himself in every respect like an unmitigated old Saracen, as he was. As to his ancient friends, the other old boys, at the Sir Somebody’s Head, he dropped off from them by gradual degrees; for, even when he did go there, Jones—vulgar fellow that Jones—persisted in asking &quot;when it was to be?&quot; and &quot;whether he was to have any gloves?&quot; together with other inquiries of an equally offensive nature, at which not only Harris laughed, but Jennings too; so he cut the two altogether, and attached himself solely to the blue young lady at the smart oyster-shop. Now comes the moral of the story—for it has a moral after all. The last mentioned young lady, having derived sufficient profit and emolument from John Dounce’s attachment, not only refused, when matters came to a crisis, to take him for better for worse, but expressly declared, to use her own forcible words, that she wouldn’t have him at no price; and John Dounce, having lost his old friends, alienated his relations, and rendered himself ridiculous to every body, made offers successively to a schoolmistress, a landlady, a feminine tobacconist, and a housekeeper; and, being directly rejected by each and every of them, was accepted by his cook, with whom he lives now, a hen-pecked husband, a melancholy monument of antiquated misery, and a living warning to all uxorious old boys.18351025https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Scenes_and_Characters_No._5_Love_and_Oysters/1835-10-25_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No5_Love_and_Oysters.pdf
87https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/87'<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 6, Some Account of an Omnibus Cad'Published in <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (1 November 1835).Dickens, Charles<em>The British Newspaper Archive,</em> <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351101/001/0001" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351101/001/0001</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1835-11-01">1835-11-01</a><p><em>The British Newspaper Archive. </em>Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</p><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+Story">Short Story</a>1835-11-01_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No6_Some_Account_of_an_Omnibus_CadDickens, Charles. 'Scenes and Characters, No. 6, Some Account of an Omnibus Cad' (1 November 1835). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-11-01_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No6_Some_Account_of_an_Omnibus_Cad">https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-11-01_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No6_Some_Account_of_an_Omnibus_Cad</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1835-11-01_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No6_Some_Account_of_an_Omnibus_Cad.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Scenes and Characters, No. 6, Some Account of an Omnibus Cad.'&nbsp;<em>Bell's Life in London</em> (1 November 1835).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EBell%27s+Life+in+London%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>Bell's Life in London</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=TIBBS">TIBBS</a>Mr. William Barker was born;—but why need we recount where Mr. William Barker was born, or when? Why scrutinize the entries in personal ledgers, why penetrate into the Luxinian mysteries of lying-in in hospitals? Mr. William Barker was born, or he had never been. There was a father— there is a son. There was a cause—there is an effect. Surely this is sufficient information for the most Fatima-like curiosity; and, if it be not, we regret our inability to supply any further evidence on the point. Can there be a more satisfactory, or more strictly parliamentary course? Impossible. We at once avoid a similar inability to record at what precise period, or by what particular process, this gentleman&#039;s patronymic, of William Barker, became corrupted into &quot;Bill Boorker.&quot; Mr. Barker has required a high standing, and no inconsiderable reputation among the members of that profession to which he has more peculiarly devoted his energies; and to them he is generally known, either by the familiar appellation of &quot;Bill Boorker,&quot; or the flattering designation of &quot;Aggerawatin Bill&quot;—the latter being a playful and expressive sobriquet, illustrative of Mr. Barker&#039;s great talent in &quot;aggerawatin&quot; and rendering wild such subjects of her Majesty as are conveyed from place to place, through the instrumentality of omnibuses. Of the early life of Mr. Barker little is known, and even that little is involved in considerable doubt and obscurity. A want of application, a restlessness of purpose, a thirsting after porter, a love of all that is roving and cadger-like in nature, shared in common with many other great geniuses, appear to have been his leading characteristics. The busy hum of a parochial free-school, and the shady repose of a county gaol, were alike inefficacious in producing the slightest alteration in Mr. Barker&#039;s disposition - his feverish attachment to change and variety nothing could repress; his native daring no punishment could subdue. If Mr. Barker can be fairly said to have had any weakness in his earlier years, it was an amiable one—Love; Love in its most comprehensive form—a love of ladies, liquids, and pocket-handkerchiefs. It was no selfish feeling; it was not confined to his own possessions, which but too many men regard with exclusive complacency. No: it was a nobler love—a general principle; it extended itself with equal force to the property of other people. There is something very affecting in this: it is still more affecting to know, that such philanthropy is but imperfectly rewarded. Bow street, Newgate, and Millbank, are a poor return for general benevolence, evincing itself in an irrepressible love of all created objects. Mr. Barker felt it so—after a lengthened interview with the highest legal authorities, he quitted his ungrateful country with the consent, and at the expense, of its Government, proceeded to a distant shore, and there employed himself like another Cincinnatus in clearing and cultivating the soil—a peaceful pursuit, in which a term of seven years glided almost imperceptibly away. Whether, at the expiration of the period we have just mentioned, the British Government required Mr. Barker&#039;s presence here, or did not require his residence abroad, we have no distinct means of ascertaining. We should be inclined, however, to favour the latter position, inasmuch as we do not find that he was advanced to any other public post on his return, than the post at the corner of the Haymarket, where he officiated as assistant-waterman to the hackney-coach stand. Seated, in this capacity, on a couple of tubs near the kerb-stone, with a brass plate and number suspended round his neck by a massive chain, and his ancles curiously enveloped in haybands, he is supposed to have made those observations on human nature which exercised so material an influence over all his proceedings in later life, and the results of which we shall proceed very briefly to lay before our readers. Mr. Barker had not officiated for many months in this capacity, when the appearance of the first omnibus caused the public mind to go in a new direction, and prevented a great many hackney coaches from going in any direction at all. The genius of Mr. Barker at once perceived the whole extent of the injury that would be eventually inflicted on cab and coach stands, and, by consequence, on watermen also, by the progress of the system of which the first omnibus was a part. He saw, too, the necessity of adopting the persuits of some more profitable profession, and his active mind at once perceived how much might be done in the way of enticing the youthful and unwary, and shoving the old and helpless, into the wrong buss, and carrying them off, until, reduced to despair, they ransomed themselves by the payment of six-pence a head, or, to adopt his own figurative expression in all its native beauty, &quot;till they was rig&#039;larly done over, and forked out the stumpy.&quot; An opportunity for realising his fondest anticipations soon presented itself. Rumours were rife on the hackney-coach stands, that a buss was building to run from Lisson-grove to the Bank, down Oxford-street and Holborn, and the rapid increase of busses on the Paddington-road encouraged the idea. Mr. Barker secretly and cautiously inquired in the proper quarters. The report was correct—the &quot;Royal William&quot; was to make his first journey on the following Monday. It was a crack affair altogether. An enterprising young cabman, of established reputation as a dashing whip—for he had compromised with the parents of three scrunched children, and just &quot;worked out&quot; his fine for knocking down an old lady—was the driver; and the spirited proprietor, knowing Mr. Barker&#039;s qualifications, appointed him to the vacant office of cad on the very first application. The buss began to run, and Mr. Barker entered into a new suit of clothes, and on a new sphere of action. To recapitulate all the improvements introduced by this extraordinary man into the omnibus system - gradually, indeed, but surely—would occupy a far greater space than we are enabled to devote to this imperfect memoir. To him is universally assigned the original suggestion of the practice which afterwards became so general—of the driver of a second buss keeping constantly behind the first one, and driving the pole of his vehicle either into the door of the other, every time it was opened, or through the body of any lady or gentleman who might make an attempt to get into it—a humorous and pleasant invention, exhibiting all that originality of idea, and fine bold flow of spirits, so conspicuous in every action of this great man. He has opponents of course; for what man in public life has not? but even his worst enemies cannot deny that he has taken more old ladies and gentlemen to Paddington who wanted to go to the Bank, and more old ladies and gentlemen to the Bank who wanted to go to Paddington, than any three men on the road: and however much malevolent spirits may pretend to doubt the accuracy of the statement, they well know it to be an established fact, that he has forcibly conveyed a variety of ancient persons of either sex, to both places, who had not the slightest or most distant intention of going anywhere at all. Mr. Barker was the identical cad who nobly distinguished himself, sometime since by keeping a tradesman on the step—the omnibus going at full speed all the time—till he had thrashed him to his entire satisfaction, and finally throwing him away when he had quite done with him. Mr. Barker it ought to have been who honestly indignant at being ignominiously ejected from a house of public entertainment, kicked the landlord in the knee, and thereby caused his death. We say it ought to have been Mr. Barker, because the action was not a common one, and could have emanated from no ordinary mind. We regret being compelled to state that it was not he—would, for the family credit, that we could add it was his brother! It is in the exercise of the nicer details of his profession, that Mr. Barker&#039;s knowledge of human nature is beautifully displayed. He can tell at a glance where a passenger wants to go to, and shouts the name of the place accordingly, without the slightest reference to the real destination of the buss; he knows exactly the sort of old lady that will be too much flurried by the process of pushing in, and pulling out of the caravan, to discover where she has been set down until too late; has an intuitive perception of what is passing in a passenger&#039;s mind when he inwardly resolves to &quot;pull that cad up to-morrow morning;&quot; &amp;amp; never fails to make himself agreeable to female servants whom, if he can place next the door, he talks to all the way. Human judgment is never infallible, and it has occasionally happened that Mr. Barker has experimentalised with the timidity or forbearance of the wrong sort of person, in which case a summons to a Police-office, has been the consequence, and a committal the finish. It is not for trifles such as these, however, to subdue a spirit like that which swells beneath the waistcoat of this heroic man. You may confine the body between four stone walls, or between four brick walls and a stone coping, which is much the same in effect—he cares not—you may cramp his body by confinement, or to prevent his body&#039;s getting the cramp, you may exercise his legs upon the mill—he defies your tyranny: he appeals from your oppressive enactments to the Paddington committee: and flies back to his profession with an ardour which persecution and involuntary abstinence have in no wise diminished. Like many other great men, Mr. Barker is a rigid predestinarian, or to advert once again to his own pointed and eloquent form of speech, he resons thus:—&quot;If I am to get into trouble for this here consarn, I may as vell get into trouble for somethink as for nothink.&quot;—and acting upon this logical mode of reasoning, he sacrifices at the altar of philosophy any little scruples he might otherwise entertain, and gets into trouble with great ease and coolness getting out of it as well as he can; and losing no opportunity of getting into it again. Such are a few traits in the character—such are a few incidents in the chequered life—of this remarkable man. Would that we could have conscientientiously entitled this hasty sketch a full account of his amiable existence up to the moment at which we are writing. We cannot do so. With &quot;Some Account of an Omnibus Cad&quot; we must be contented, and we hope our readers may be so too.18351101https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Scenes_and_Characters_No._6_Some_Account_of_an_Omnibus_Cad/1835-11-01_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No6_Some_Account_of_an_Omnibus_Cad.pdf
101https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/101'<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 7, The Vocal Dressmaker'Published in <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (22 November 1835).<span><br /></span>Dickens, Charles<em>The British Newspaper Archive,</em> <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351122/001/0001" class="waffle-rich-text-link" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351122/001/0001</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1835-11-22">1835-11-22</a><p><em>The British Newspaper Archive. </em>Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</p><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+Story">Short Story</a>1835-11-22_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No7_The_Vocal_DressmakerDickens, Charles. 'Scenes and Characters, No. 7, The Vocal Dressmaker' (22 November 1835). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-11-22_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No.7_The_Vocal_Dressmaker">https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-11-22_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No7_The_Vocal_Dressmaker.</a><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1835-11-22_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No7_The_Vocal_Dressmaker.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Scenes and Characters, No. 7, The Vocal Dressmaker.' <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (22 November 1835).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EBell%27s+Life+in+London%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>Bell's Life in London</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=TIBBS">TIBBS</a>Miss Amelia Martin was pale, tallish, thin, and two-and-thirty—what ill-natured people would call plain, and police reports interesting. She was a milliner and dressmaker, living on her business, and not above it. If you had been a young lady in service, and wanted Miss Martin, as a great many young ladies in service did, you&#039;d just have stepped up in the evening to number forty-seven, Drummond-street, George-street, Euston-square, and after casting your eye on a brass door-plate, one foot ten, by one and a half, ornamented with a great brass knob at each of the four corners, and bearing the inscription &quot;Miss Martin; millinery and dressmaking in all its branches;&quot; you’d just have knocked two loud knocks at the street door, and down would have come Miss Martin herself, in a merino gown of the newest fashion, black velvet bracelets on the genteelest principle, and other little elegancies, of the most approved description. If Miss Martin know&#039;d the young lady as called, or if the young lady as called had been recommended by any other young lady as Miss Martin knew, Miss Martin would forthwith show her up-stairs into the two-pair front, and chat she would—so kind, and so comfortable—it really wasn’t like a matter of business, she was so friendly; and, then Miss Martin, after contemplating the figure and general appearance of the young lady in service with great apparent admiration, would say how well she would look, to-be-sure, in a low dress with short sleeve, made very full in the skirts, with four tucks in the bottom, to which the young lady in service would reply in terms expressive of her entire concurrence in the notion, and the virtuous indignation with which she reflected on the tyranny of &quot;Missis,&quot; who wouldn’t allow a young girl to wear a short sleeve of an ar&#039;ternoon—no, nor nothing smart, not even a pair of ear-rings, let alone hiding people’s heads of hair under them frightful caps; at the termination of which complaint, Miss Amelia Martin would distantly suggest certain dark suspicions that some people were jealous on account of their own daughters, and was obliged to keep their servants’ charms under, for fear they should get married first, which was no uncommon circumstance—leastways she had known two or three young ladies in service as had married a great deal better than their missises, and they was not very good-looking either; and then the young lady would inform Miss Martin, in confidence, that how one of their young ladies was engaged to a young man, and was a-going to be married, and Missis was so proud about it there was no bearing her; but she needn’t hold her head quite so high neither, for, after all, he was only a clerk; and, after expressing a due contempt for clerks in general, and the engaged clerk in particular, and the highest opinion possible of themselves and each other, Miss Martin and the young lady in service would bid each other good night, in a friendly but perfectly genteel manner, and the one went back to her &quot;place,&quot; and the other to her room on the second floor front. There is no saying how long Miss Amelia Martin might have continued this course of life; how extensive a connection she might have established among young ladies in service, or what amount her demands upon their quarterly receipts might have ultimately attained, had not an unforeseen train of circumstances directed her thoughts to a sphere of action very different from dress-making or millinery. A friend of Miss Martin’s who had long been keeping company with an ornamental painter and decorator’s journeyman, at last consented (on being at last asked to do so) to name the day which would make the aforesaid journeyman a happy husband. It was a Monday that was appointed for the celebration of the nuptials, and Miss Amelia Martin was invited, among others, to honour the wedding dinner with her presence. It was a charming party; Somers-town the locality, and a front parlour the apartment. The ornamental painter and decorator’s journeyman had taken a house—no lodgings or vulgarity of that kind, but a house—four beautiful rooms and a delightful little wash-house at the end of the passage— most convenient thing in the world; for the bridesmaids could sit in the front parlour and receive the company, and then run into the little wash-house and see how the pudding and boiled pork were getting on in the copper, &amp;amp; then pop back into the parlour again as snug and comfortable as possible. And such a parlour as it was too! beautiful Kidderminster carpet–six bran new caned bottomed stained chairs—a pink shell, and three wine glasses on each sideboard—a farmer’s girl and a farmer’s boy on the mantel-piece: one tumbling over a stile and the other spitting himself on the handle of a pitch-fork—long white dimity curtains in the window—and, in short, every thing on the most genteel scale imaginable. Then, the dinner—baked leg of mutton at the top—boiled leg of mutton at the bottom—pair of fowls and leg of pork in the middle—porter pots at the corners—pepper, mustard, and vinegar in the centre—vegetables on the floor—and plum-pudding and apple-pie, and tartlets without number, to say nothing of cheese and celery and water-cresses, and all that sort of thing. As to the company! Miss Amelia Martin herself declared on a subsequent occasion, that much as she had heard of the ornamental painters&#039; journeyman’s connexion, she never could have supposed it was half so genteel. There was his father, such a funny old gentleman—and his mother, such a dear old lady—and his sister, such a charming girl—and his brother, such a manly-looking young man—with such a eye! But even all these were as nothing when compared with his musical friends, Mr. &amp;amp; Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, from White Conduit, with whom the ornamental painter’s journeyman had been fortunate enough to contract an intimacy, while engaged in decorating the concert-room of that noble institution. To hear them sing separately was divine, but when they went through the tragic duet of &quot;Red Ruffian, retire!&quot; it was, as Miss Martin afterwards remarked, &quot;thrilling;&quot; and why (as Mr. Jennings Rodolph observed) - why were they not engaged at one of the patent theatres? If he was to be told that their voices were not powerful enough to fill the house, his only reply was, that he&#039;d back himself for any amount to fill Russell-square—a statement in which the company, after hearing the duet, expressed their full belief; so they all said it was shameful treatment; and both Mr. and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph said it was shameful too, and Mr. Jennings Rodolph looked very serious, and said he knew who his malignant opponents were, but they had better take care how far they went, for if they irritated him too much, he had not quite made up his mind whether he wouldn’t bring the subject before Parliament; and they all agreed that it ”ud serve ’em quite right, and it was very proper that such people should be made an example of;&quot; and Mr. Jennings Rodolph said he’d think of it. When the conversation resumed its former tone, Mr. Jennings Rodolph claimed his right to call upon a lady, and the right being conceded, trusted Miss Martin would favour the company—a proposal which met with unanimous approbation, whereupon Miss Martin, after sundry hesitatings and coughings, with a preparatory choke or two, and an introductory declaration that she was frightened to death to attempt it before such great judges of the art, commenced a species of treble chirruping containing constant allusions to some young gentleman of the name of Hen-e-ry, with an occasional reference to madness, and broken hearts. Mr. Jennings Rodolph frequently interrupted the progress of the song, by ejaculating &quot;beautiful;&quot;—&quot;charming!&quot;— &quot;brilliant!&quot;—&quot;oh! splendid,&quot; &amp;amp;c. and at its close the admiration of himself and his lady knew no bounds. &quot;Did you ever hear so sweet a voice, my dear?&quot; inquired Mr. Jennings Rodolph of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. &quot;Never; indeed I never did, love;&quot; replied Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. &quot;Don’t you think Miss Martin with a little cultivation would be very like Signora Marra Boni, my dear?&quot; asked Mr. Jennings Rodolph. &quot;Just exactly the very thing that struck me, my love,&quot; answered Mrs. Jennings Rodolph; and thus the time passed away; first one sang, and then another; Mr. Jennings Rodolph played tunes on a walking stick, and then went behind the parlour-door and gave his celebrated imitations of actors, edge-tools, and animals; Miss Martin sang several other songs with increased admiration every time, and even the funny old gentleman began singing; his song had properly seven verses, but as he couldn’t recollect more than the first one, he sang that over seven times, apparently very much to his own personal gratification. And then all the company sang the national anthem with national independence—each for himself, without reference to the other—and finally separated, all declaring that they never had spent so pleasant an evening; and Miss Martin inwardly resolving to adopt the advice of Mr. Jennings Rodolph, and to &quot;come out&quot; without delay. Now, &quot;coming out,&quot; either in acting, or singing, or society, or facetiousness, or anything else, is all very well, and remarkably pleasant to the individual principally concerned, if he or she can but manage to come out with a burst, and being out to keep out, and not go in again; but it does unfortunately happen that both consummations are extremely difficult to accomplish, and that the difficulties of getting out at all in the first instance, and if you surmount them of keeping out in the second, are pretty much on a par, and no slight ones either. And so Miss Amelia Martin shortly discovered. It is a singular fact (there being ladies in the case) that Miss Amelia Martin’s principal foible was vanity, and the leading characteristic of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph an attachment to dress. Dismal wailings were heard to issue from the second-floor front of number forty-seven, Drummond-street, George-street, Euston-square; it was Miss Martin practising. Half suppressed murmurs disturbed the calm dignity of the White Conduit orchestra at the commencement of the season. It was the appearance of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph in full dress that occasioned them. Miss Martin studied incessantly—the practising was the consequence. Mrs. Jennings Rodolph taught gratuitously now and then—the dresses were the result. Weeks passed away; the White Conduit season had begun, had progressed, and was more than half over. The dress-making business had fallen off from neglect, and its profits had dwindled away almost imperceptibly. A benefit-night approached; Mr. Jennings Rodolph yielded to the earnest solicitations of Miss Amelia Martin, and introduced her personally to the &quot;comic gentleman&quot; whose benefit it was. The comic gentleman was all smiles and blandness—he had composed a duet, expressly for the occasion, and Miss Martin should sing it with him. The night arrived; there was an immense room—ninety-seven goes of gin, thirty-two small glasses of brandy and water, five-and-twenty bottled ales, and forty-one neguses; and the ornamental painters&#039; journeyman with his wife, and a select circle of acquaintance were seated at one of the side-tables near the orchestra. The concert began. Song-sentimental–by a light-haired young gentleman in a blue coat, and bright basket buttons [applause]. Another song, doubtful, by another gentleman in another blue coat, and more bright basket buttons - increased applause. Duet, Mr. Jennings Rodolph and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, &quot;Red Ruffian, retire!&quot;— [great applause.] Solo Miss Julia Montague (positively on this occasion only)—&quot;I am a Friar&quot;—[enthusiasm.] Original duet, comic—Mr. H. Taplin (the comic gentleman) and Miss Martin— &quot;The Time of Day&quot;—&quot;Brayvo!—Brayvo!&quot; cried the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s party, as Miss Martin was gracefully led in by the comic gentleman. &quot;Go to work Harry,&quot; cried the comic gentleman’s personal friends. &quot;Tap-tap-tap,&quot; went the leader’s bow on the music-desk. The symphony began, and was soon afterwards followed by a faint kind of ventriloquial chirping, proceeding apparently from the deepest recesses of the interior of Miss Amelia Martin—&quot;‘Sing out&quot;—shouted one gentleman in a white great coat. &quot;Don’t be afraid to put the steam on, old gal,&quot; exclaimed another. &quot;S-s-s-s-s-s&quot;—went the five-and-twenty bottled ales. &quot;Shame, shame!&quot; remonstrated the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s party— &quot;S-s-s&quot; went the bottled ales again, accompanied by all the gins and a majority of the brandies.—&quot;Turn them geese out,&quot; cried the ornamental painters’ journeyman’s party, with great indignation. &quot;Sing out,&quot; whispered Mr. Jennings Rodolph.—&quot;So I do,&quot; responded Miss Amelia Martin. &quot;Sing louder,&quot; said Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. &quot;I can’t,&quot; replied Miss Amelia Martin—&quot;Off, off, off,&quot; cried the rest of the audience. &quot;Bray-vo!&quot; shouted the painter’s party. It wouldn’t do—Miss Amelia Martin left the orchestra, with much less ceremony than she had entered it, and as she couldn’t sing out, never came out. The general good humour was not restored until Mr. Jennings Rodolph had become purple in the face, by imitating divers quadrupeds for half an hour without being able to render himself audible; and, to this day, neither has Miss Amelia Martin’s good humour been restored, nor the dresses made for and presented to, Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, nor the vocal abilities which Mr. Jennings Rodolph once staked his professional reputation she possessed.18351122https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Scenes_and_Characters_No._7_The_Vocal_Dressmaker/1835-11-22_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No.7_The_Vocal_Dressmaker.pdf
102https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/102'<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 8, The Prisoners' Van'Published in <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (29 November 1835).Dickens, Charles<em>The British Newspaper Archive,</em> <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351129/001/0001" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351129/001/0001</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1835-11-29">1835-11-29</a><p><em>The British Newspaper Archive. </em>Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</p><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+Story">Short Story</a>1835-11-29_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No8_The_Prisoners_VanDickens, Charles. '<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 8, The Prisoners' Van (29 November 1835). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-11-29_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No8_The_Prisoners_Van">https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-11-29_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No8_The_Prisoners_Van</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1835-11-29_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No8_The_Prisoners_Van.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Scenes and Characters, No. 8, The Prisoners' Van.' <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (29 November 1835).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EBell%27s+Life+in+London%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>Bell's Life in London</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=TIBBS">TIBBS</a>We have a most extraordinary partiality for lounging about the streets. Whenever we have an hour or two to spare, there is nothing we enjoy more than a little amateur vagrancy—walking up one street and down another, and staring into shop windows, and gazing about us as if, instead of being on intimate terms with every shop and house in Holburn, the Strand, Fleet-street, and Cheapside, the whole were an unknown region to our wondering mind. We revel in a crowd of any kind—a street &quot;row&quot; is our delight—even a woman in a fit is by no means to be despised, especially in a fourth-rate street, where all the female inhabitants run out of their houses, and discharge large jugs of cold water over the patient, as if she were dying of spontaneous combustion, and wanted putting out. Then a drunken man—what can be more charming than a regular drunken man, who sits in a door-way for half an hour, holding a dialogue with the crowd, of which his portion is generally limited to repeated inquiries of &quot;I say—I&#039;m all right, an&#039;t I?&quot; and then suddenly gets up, without any ostensible cause or inducement, and runs down the street with tremendous swiftness for a hundred yards or so, when he falls into another door-way, where the first feeble words he imperfectly articulates to the policeman who lifts him up are &quot;Let&#039;s av—drop—somethin&#039; to drink?&quot;—we say again, can anything be more charming than this sort of thing? And what, we ask, can be expected but popular discontent, when Temperance Societies interfere with the amusements of the people? There is one kind of street quarrel which is of very common occurrence, but infinitely amusing—we mean where a little crowd has collected round three or four angry disputants, and no one single person, not even among the parties principally concerned, appears to have a very distinct notion of what it&#039;s all about. The place is—Long-Acre, say, or Saint Martin&#039;s-lane—time, half-past eleven at night. Some twenty people have collected round a bow-legged, under-sized young gentleman, in a brown coat and bright buttons, who has upon his arm a small young woman in a straw bonnet, with one shawl on, and another folded up over her arm. Opposed to the under-sized pair is a tall young fellow, in a brownish white hat, and flash attire; and you arrive in time to hear some such dialogue as the following:—&quot;Who said anythin&#039; to you?&quot; (in a tone of great contempt, from the long gentleman, turning round with his hands in his pockets). &quot;Vy you did, Sir&quot; (from the small individual, in a towering passion). &quot;Oh! do come away, George&quot; (from the young lady, accompanied with a tug at the coat-tail, and a whimper). &quot;Never mind him, he an&#039;t worth your notice.&quot; &quot;Ah! take him home&quot;—sneers the tall gentleman as they turn away—&quot;and tell his mother to take care on him, and not let him out arter dark, fear he should catch a cold in his ed. Go on.&quot; Here the small young man breaks from the small young woman, and stepping up close to the adverse party, valourously ejaculates in an under-tone, &quot;Now, what have you got to say.&quot; &quot;Niver mind,&quot; replies the long gentleman with considerable brevity. &quot;What do you mean by insulting this &#039;ere young &#039;ooman, Sir?&quot; enquires the short man. &quot;Who insulted the young &#039;ooman,&quot; replies the long one. &quot;Vy you did, Sir,&quot; responds the short one, waxing specially wroth—&quot;You shoved again her, Sir.&quot; &quot;You&#039;re a liar,&quot; growls the long gentleman fiercely; and hereupon the short gentleman dashes his hat on the ground with a reckless disregard of expense, jerks off his coat, doubles his fists, works his arms about like a labourer warming himself; darts backwards and forwards on the pavement with the motion of an automaton, and exclaims between his set teeth—&quot;Come on, I an&#039;t afeard on you—come on,&quot;—and the long gentleman might come on, and the fight might come off, only the young lady rushed upon the small man, forces his hat over his eyes, and the tails of his coat round his neck, and screams like a peacock, till a policeman arrives. After great squabbling, considerably persuasion, and some threatening, the short man consents to go one way, and the long man another; and the answer of all the bystanders who had seen the whole, to the urgent inquiry from a new comer up, &quot;Do you know what&#039;s the matter, Sir?&quot; invariably is—&quot;No, Sir, I really can&#039;t make out.&quot; We were passing the corner of Bow-street, on our return from a lounging excursion the other afternoon, when a crowd, assembled round the door of the Police Office, attracted our attention, and we turned up the street accordingly. There were thirty or forty people standing on the pavement and half across the road, and a few stragglers were patiently stationed on the opposite side of the way—all evidently waiting in expectation of some arrival. We waited too a few minutes, but nothing occurred: so we turned round to an unshaved sallow-looking cobbler who was standing next us, with his hands under the bib of his apron, and put the usual question of &quot;What’s the matter?&quot; The cobbler eyed us from head to foot, with superlative contempt, and laconically replied &quot;Nuffin.&quot; Now we were perfectly aware that if two men stop in the street to look at any given object, or even to gaze in the air, two hundred men will be assembled in no time; but as we knew very well that no crowd of people could by possibility remain in a street for five minutes without getting up a little amusement among themselves, unless they had some absorbing object in view, the natural inquiry next in order was, &quot;What are all these people waiting here for?&quot;— &quot;His Majesty’s carriage,&quot; replied the cobbler. This was still more extraordinary. We couldn&#039;t imagine what earthly business his Majesty’s carriage could have at the Public Office, Bow-street, and we were beginning to ruminate on the possibility of the Duke of Cumberland being brought up on a warrant for assaulting the Princess Victoria, when a general exclamation from all the boys in the crowd of &quot;Here’s the wan!&quot; caused us to raise our head and look up the street. The covered vehicle, in which prisoners are conveyed from the police offices to the different prisons, was coming along at full speed, and it then occurred to us for the first time that his Majesty’s carriage was merely another name for the prisoners’ van, conferred upon it not only by reason of the superior gentility of the term, but because the aforesaid van is maintained at his Majesty’s expence, having been originally started for the exclusive accommodation of ladies and gentlemen under the necessity of visiting the various houses of call known by the general denomination of &quot;his Majesty’s Gaols.&quot; The van drew up at the office door: the people thronged round the steps, just leaving a little alley for the prisoners to pass through. Our friend the cobbler and the other stragglers crossed over, and we followed their example. The driver, and another man who had been seated by his side in front of the vehicle, dismounted, and were admitted into the office. The office door was closed after them, and the crowd were on the tip-toe of expectation. After a few minutes delay, the door again opened, and the two first prisoners appeared. They were a couple of girls, of whom the elder could not be more than sixteen, and the younger of whom had certainly not attained her fourteenth year. That they were sisters was evident from the resemblance which still subsisted between them, though two additional years of depravity had fixed their brand upon the elder girl’s features as legibly as if a red-hot iron had seared them. They were both gaudily dressed, the younger one especially, and although there was a strong similarity between them in both respects, which was rendered the more obvious by their being handcuffed together, it is impossible to conceive a greater contrast than the demeanour of the two presented. The younger girl was weeping bitterly—not for display or in the hope of producing effect, but for very shame; her face was buried in her handkerchief, and her whole manner was but too expressive of bitter and unavailing sorrow. &quot;How long are you for, Emily?&quot; screamed a red-faced woman in the crowd. &quot;Six weeks, and labour,&quot; replied the elder girl, with a flaunting laugh; &quot;and that’s better than the Stone Jug any how; the mill’s a d—d sight better than the Sessions; and here’s Bella a-going too for the first time. Hold up your head, you chicken,&quot; she continued, boisterously tearing the other girl’s handkerchief away; &quot;Hold up your head, and show ’em your face. I an’t jealous, but I’m blessed if I an’t game!&quot;— &quot;That’s right, old gal,&quot; exclaimed a man in a paper cap, who, in common with the greater part of the crowd, had been inexpressibly delighted with this little incident.—&quot;Right!&quot; replied the girl; &quot;ah, to be sure; what’s the odds, so long as you&#039;re happy.&quot;—&quot;Come, in with you,&quot; interrupted the driver.— &quot;Don’t you be in a hurry, Coachman,&quot; replied the girl; &quot;and recollect I want to be set down in Cold-Bath Fields—large house with a high garden wall in front; you can’t mistake it. Hallo, Belle, where are you going to—you’ll pull my precious arm off?&quot; This was addressed to the younger girl, who, in her anxiety to hide herself in the caravan, had ascended the steps first, and forgotten the strain upon the handcuff. &quot;Come down, and let’s show you the way.&quot; And after jerking the miserable girl down with a force which made her stagger on the pavement, she got into the vehicle, and was followed by her wretched companion. These two girls had been thrown upon London streets, their vices and debauchery, by a sordid and rapacious mother. What the younger girl was then the elder had been once; and what the elder then was, she must soon become. A melancholy prospect, but how surely to be realised; a tragic drama, but how often acted! Turn to the prisons and police-offices of London—nay, look into the very streets themselves. These things pass before our eyes, day after day, and hour after hour—they have become such matters of course, that they are utterly disregarded. The progress of these girls in crime will be as rapid as the flight of a pestilence, resembling it too in its baneful influence and wide-spreading infection. Step by step how many wretched females, within the sphere of every man’s observation, have become involved in a career of vice frightful to contemplate: hopeless at its commencement, loathsome and repulsive in its course, friendless, forlorn, and unpitied, at its miserable conclusion! There were other prisoners—boys of ten, as hardened in vice as men of fifty—a houseless vagrant going joyfully to prison as a place of food and shelter handcuffed to a man whose prospects were ruined, character lost, and family rendered destitute by his first offence.—Our curiosity, however, was satisfied. The first group had left an impression on our mind we would gladly have avoided, and would willingly have effaced. The crowd dispersed—the vehicle rolled away with its load of guilt and misfortune, and we saw no more of the Prisoner&#039;s Van.18351129https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Scenes_and_Characters_No._8_The_Prisoners_Van/1835-11-29_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No8_The_Prisoners_Van.pdf
103https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/103'<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 9, The Parlour'Published in <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (13 December 1835).Dickens, Charles<em>The British Newspaper Archive</em>, <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351213/001/0001" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000355/18351213/001/0001</a>. <em>Source is faded and illegible in places.</em><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1835-12-13">1835-12-13</a><p><em>The British Newspaper Archive. </em>Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</p><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+Story">Short Story</a>1835-12-13_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No9_The_ParlourDickens, Charles. '<em>Scenes and Characters</em>, No. 9, The Parlour' (13 December 1835). <em>Dickens Search</em>. Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-12-13_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No9_The_Parlour">https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-12-13_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No9_The_Parlour</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1835-12-13_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No9_The_Parlour.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Scenes and Characters, No. 9, The Parlour.' <em>Bell's Life in London</em> (13 December 1835).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EBell%27s+Life+in+London%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>Bell's Life in London</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=TIBBS">TIBBS</a>A snug parlour in winter, with a sofa on one side the blazing fire, an easy chair on the other, and a table in the centre, bearing a liquor-stand, glasses, and cigars, the whole seen to the greatest advantage by the soft light of a French lamp, which falls delicately on the curtains you have carefully drown to exclude the wind, and enable you to eye your damask with great complacency—a snug parlour under such circumstances is a temporary Elysium, and well deserves to be lauded by an abler pen than ours. A pair of parlours &quot;genteelly furnished&quot; for a single gentleman, with a French bedstead for one in the back parlour, and cane-bottomed chairs for six in the front—all for twelve shilllings a week and attendance included, have their charms also. A breakfast parlour&#039;s no bad thing, when you&#039;re spending a week with a pleasant family in the country; and an hour or two may be passed very agreeably in a dining parlour in town. But though each and every of the parlours we have just enumerated has its own peculiar merits and attractions, to no one among them are we about to make any further allusion. The question then very naturally arises, what kind of parlour do we mean?—and that question we will resolve at once. We had been lounging, the other evening, down Oxford-strewet, Holburn, Cheapside, Coleman-street, Finsbury-square, and so on, with the intention of returning by Petonville and the New-road, when we began to feel rather thirsty, and disposed to rest for five or ten minutes; so we turned back to a quiet decent public house, which we remembered to have passed but a moment before (near the City-road), for the purpose of solacing ourselves with a glass of ale. The house was none of your stuccoed, French-polished, illuminated palaces, but a modest public-house of the old school, with a little old bar, and a little old landlord, who, with a wife and daughter of the same pattern, was comfortably seated in the bar aforesaid—a snug little room, with a cheerful fire, protected by a large screen, from behind which the young lady emerged, on our representing our inclincation for a glass of ale. &quot;Won&#039;t you walk into the parlour, Sir?&quot; said the young lady in seductie tones. &quot;You&#039;d better walk into the parlour, Sir,&quot; said the little old landlord, throwing his chair back, and looking round one side of the screen, to survey our appearance. &quot;You&#039;d much better step into the parlour, Sir,&quot; said the little old lady, popping her head out at the other side of the screen. And on our looking slightly round, as if in ignorance of the locality so much recommended, the little old landlord bustled out at the small door of the small bar, and forthwith ushured us into the parlour itself. It was an ancient dark-looking room, with a sanded floor and high mantel-piece, over which was an old coloured print of some naval engagement, representing two men-of-war banding away at each other most vigorously, with another vessel or two oblowing up in the distance, and an interesting foreground of broken masts and blue legs sticking out of the water. Depending from the ceiling, in the centre of the room, were a gas-light and bell-pull, and on each side were three or four long narrow tables, behind which was a thickly planted row of those slippy shiny looking wooden chairs peculiar to places of this description. The monstrous appearance of the sanded boards was relieved by an occasional spittoon, and a triangular pile of these useful articles adored the two upper corners of the apartment. At the further table, nearest the fire, with his face towards the door at the bottom of the room, sat a stoutish man of about forty, whose short stiff black hair, curled closely round a broad high forehead and face to which something besides water and exercise had communicated a rather inflamed appearance. He was smoking a cigar, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and had that confident, orucular air, which marked him as the leading politician, general authority, and universal anecdote relator of the place. He had evidently just delivered himself of something veay weighty, for the remainder of the company were puffing away at their respective pipes and cigars, in a kind of solemn abstraction, as if quite overwhelmed with the magnitude of the subject recently under discussion. On his right sat an elderly man, with a white head and broad-brimmed brown hat, and on his left a sharp-nosed light-haired man, in a brown surtout reaching nearly to his heels, who took a whiff at his pipe and an admiring glance at the red-faced man alternately.—&quot;Very extraordinary!&quot; said the light haired man, after a pause of five minutes; a murmur of assent ran through the company. &quot;Not at all extraordinary—not at all,&quot; said the red faced man, awakening suddenly from his reverie; and turning upon the light-haired man, the moment he had spoken. &quot;Why should it be extraordinary?—why is it extraordinary?—Prove it to be extraordinary.&quot; &quot;Oh, if you come to that—&quot; said the light-haired man. &quot;Come to that!&quot; ejaculated the man with the red face; &quot;but we must come to that. We stand in these times upon a calm elevation of intellectual attainment, and not in the dark recess of mental deprivation. Proof is what I require—proof, and not assertions in these stirring times. Every gen’lem’n that knows me knows what was the nature and effect of my observations, when it was in the contemplation of the Old-street Suburban Representative Discovery Society to recommend a candidate for that place in Cornwall there—I forget the name of it.&quot; “Mr. Snobee, (said Mr. Wilson) is a fit and proper person to represent the borough in Parliament.” “Prove it,” says I. “He is a friend to Reform,” says Mr. Wilson. “Prove it,” says I. “The abolitionist of the national debt, the unflinching opponent of pensions, the uncompromising advocate of the negro, the reducer of sinecures and the duration of Parliaments, the extender of nothing but the suffrages of the people,” says Mr. Wilson. “Prove it,” says I. “His acts prove it,” says he. “Prove them,” says I. &quot;And he could not prove them (said the red-faced man, looking round triumphantly) &quot;and the borough didn’t have him; and if you carried this principle to the full extent, you’d have no debt, no pensions, no sinecures, no negroes, no nothing; and then, standing upon an elevation of intellectual attainment, and having reached the summit of popular prosperity, you might bid defiance to the nations of the earth, and erect yourselves in the proud confidence of wisdom and superiority. This is my argument—this always has been my argument—and if I was a Member of the House of Commons to-morrow, I’d make ’em shake in their shoes with it &quot;—and the red-faced man hit the table very hard with his clenched fist, by way of adding weight to the declaration, and then smoked away like a brewery. &quot;Well!&quot; said the sharp-nosed man, in a very slow and soft voice, addressing the company in general, &quot;I always do say that, of all the gentlemen I have the pleasure of meeting in this room, there is not one whose conversation I like to hear so much as Mr. Rogers’s, or who is such improving company.&quot; &quot;Improving company! (said Mr. Rogers, for that was the name of the red-faced man). Damme, you may say I&#039;m improving company, for I’ve improved you all to some purpose; though as to my conversation being as my friend Mr. Ellis here describes it, that&#039;s not for me to say anything about; you, gentlemen, are the best judges on that point; but this I will say, when I came into this parish, and first used this room, ten years ago, I don’t believe there was one man in it who knew he was a slave, and now you all know it, and writhe under it. Inscribe that upon my tomb, and I&#039;m satisfied.&quot; &quot;Why, as to inscribing it on your tea-chest,&quot; said a little dirty green-grocer, with a rather dirty face, &quot;of course you can have anything chalked up as you likes to pay for, so far as it relates to yourself and your affairs; but when you come to talk about slaves and that there gammon, you’d better keep it in the family, ’cos I, for one, don’t like to be called them names night after night.&quot; &quot;You are a slave,&quot; said the red-faced man, &quot;and the most pitiable of all slaves.&quot;Wery hard if I am,&quot; interrupted the green-grocer, &quot;for I got no good out of the twenty millions, anyhow.&quot; &quot;A willing slave,&quot; ejaculated the red-faced man, getting more red with eloquence, and contradiction, &quot;resigning the dearest birth-right of your children, neglecting the sacred call of Liberty, who standing imploringly before you, appeals to the warmest feelings of your heart, and points to your helpless infants but in vain.&quot; &quot;Prove it,&quot; said the green-grocer. &quot;Prove it,&quot; ejaculated the man with the red face. &quot;Bending beneath the yoke of an insolent and factious oligarchy: bowed down before the domination of cruel laws, groaning beneath tyranny and oppression on every hand, at every side, and in every corner. Prove it!&quot; And the red-faced man sneered melo-dramatically, and buried his indignation in a quart pot. &quot;Very true, Mr. Rogers, very true,&quot; said a stout broker in a large waistcoat. &quot;That&#039;s the pint, Sir.&quot; &quot;Ah to be sure,&quot; acquiesced divers other members of the company. &quot;You&#039;d better let him alone, Tommy,&quot; said the broker, by way of advice to the little green-grocer. &quot;He can tell wot’s o’clock by an eight-day, without looking at the minute-hand, he can. Try it on, on some other suit, you won&#039;t score nothing here, old feller.&quot; &quot;What is a man,&quot; said the red-faced specimen of the species, jerking his hat from its peg on the wall—&quot;what is an Englishman? Is he to be trampled upon by every oppressor? is he to be knocked down at any body’s bidding?&quot; (&quot;Decidedly not,&quot; from the broker). &quot;What is freedom?—Not a standing army.—What is a standing army? Not freedom.—What is general happiness? Not universal misery. Liberty is not the window tax, nor the Lords the people.&quot; And the red-faced man gradually bursting into a radiating sentence, in which the words &quot;oppression,&quot; tyranny,&quot; &quot;violence,&quot; &quot;misrule,&quot; &quot;dastardly Whigs,&quot; &quot;sanguinary Tories,&quot; &quot;Mr. Roebuck,&quot; &quot;depreciation of the currency,&quot; and &quot;voluntary principle,&quot; were most conspicuous, and finally left the room with an indignant bounce. &quot;Wonderful man!&quot; said he of the sharp nose. &quot;Splendid speaker!&quot; added the broker. &quot;Great power!&quot; said everybody but the green-grocer. &quot;Great ass,&quot; thought we—&quot;a very common character, and in no degree exaggerated. Empty-headed bullies, who by their ignorance and presumption bring into contempt whatever cause they are connected with: equally mischievous in any assembly from the highest to the lowest, and disgusting in all. There is a red-faced man in every &#039;parlour.&#039;&quot;18351213https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Scenes_and_Characters_No._9_The_Parlour/1835-12-13_Bells_Life_in_London_Scenes_and_Characters_No9_The_Parlour.pdf